Capable of Honor (50 page)

Beth laughed.

“You look rather like one, too, as a matter of fact. But a nice one.”

“Thanks so much,” Crystal said, giving her an affectionate peck on the cheek as she went by. She opened the door for her husband and the Secretary of State, both of whom looked alert and a lot more rested than they would in twenty-four hours—or forty-eight—or seventy-two—or whenever it all ended. “O.K., boys. The girls are ready!”

They were at the Mark Hopkins, too, or almost. Patsy was trying on orchids, and having discarded a cerise, three whites, and a purple, was now experimenting with a deep yellow flecked with green. Selena, gin and tonic in hand, was standing by the window staring down at the crowds that swarmed atop Nob Hill. Here, too, a band could be heard, faint shouts and celebrations ascended, the whole great hotel seemed to vibrate with excitement. Valuela sat on one of the sofas, surrounded by newspapers: KNOX-JASON CONTEST DOMINATES CONVENTION ON OPENING DAY, the
New York Times
said. JASON AIDES CLAIM VICTORY ON FIRST BALLOT, the
San Francisco Chronicle
announced. JASONS, KNOXES ARRIVE; PRESIDENT DUE WEDNESDAY, the
San Francisco Examiner
reported. KNOX-JASON DEADLOCK COULD OPEN WAY FOR DARK HORSE, the
Washington Post
advised. Herbert, looking rather morose, sat in a rocking chair and read
Time
: his nephew and the Secretary faced one another on the cover against a background of campaign banners, Goroto assegais, and the Panama Canal. In the next room a murmur of voices indicated Ceil and the Governor, busy with their dressing. In the hall outside other voices gave evidence of adoring supporters, the few interlopers who always manage, by dint of much pleading and assistance, to get past the first barrier of guards to stand chattering excitedly before their hero’s room.

“Val,” Patsy said in a sudden explosive voice, “you’re the artist. Will you PLEASE tell me WHAT color orchid to wear with this dress?”

“Darling,” Valuela said with a lazy smile, tossing aside the
Chronicle
and surveying her niece from head to foot, “with that dress you could wear anything. Who gave it to you, Joseph?”

“Patsy’s noted for her clothes,” Selena said spitefully. “I read about them all the time in the New York papers. ‘Señora Labaiya, in a startling combination of green and magenta,’ or, ‘Señora Labaiya, as usual trying to outdo the rainbow.’ Good Lord, girl, you have the money. Why haven’t you ever learned how to dress?”

“I do know how to dress,” Patsy said, “and you’re certainly no example, Sel. Just look at you! A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair—”

“Worth fifty million dollars,” Herbert spoke up with a sudden chuckle. “You can get away with quite a lot with that kind of backing—”

“And you shouldn’t talk,” his niece told him sharply. “If that suit has been pressed in the last three weeks, I’ll eat my hat. The shabby Jasons! We’re a fine lot for a presidential—vice presidential—candidate to have for a family.”

“At least
I,”
Valuela said, “am presentable”—and she did look stunning at sixty-three, in a sleek black sheath, enormous rhinestone earrings, an upswept hairdo, a slash of brilliant lipstick, and a Spanish comb, also alive with rhinestones. “Anyway, Pat, I think we make up in shock value what we lack in couture. I’ve already been tagged for sixteen interviews in the next three days. How are the rest of you doing?”

“I’m doing all right, too,” Herbert said, his pop-eyes puckish beneath their crown of frizzly white hair. “I’ve been invited for ten or so, plus a scientific round table under the auspices of the University of California which for some reason, probably attributable to my presence, is, I understand, to be rather extensively covered by the press.”

“Lord!” Patsy said. “I pity those poor reporters stuck with an assignment like that just because you’re there.”

“But who knows,” Herbert said blandly. “I might blow up something. Or commit Ted to overthrowing the government by force and violence. Or something equally astounding.”

“Now, THAT,” Patsy said severely, “is exactly the sort of levity we can’t have. I do hope you and Sel will try to act halfway sensible this week.”

“Pet,” Selena said, running a hand through her hacked-off hair, turning her perennially startled eyes upon her niece with a blandness equal to her brother’s, “that is the last thing you have to worry about. Bert and I have nothing more in mind than picketing Knox headquarters with ban-the-bomb banners. No one will notice that.”

“Oh, stop it,” Patsy said, suddenly no longer amused. “This is so serious for him, and for all of us—for the whole country. Now, do stop it, PLEASE! He’s
got
to win, and we’ve got to help him in every way we can. Now, please.”

“Relax, child,” Valuela said calmly. “When did you ever know the Jasons not wanting to win? We’re going to help him, all right. I might suggest,” she added a trifle acidly, “that perhaps his biggest embarrassment may lie in the fact that his sister is still married to a man who so far seems to be leading a successful military action against the United States.”

“That isn’t fair,” Patsy said. “That really isn’t fair, Val. I’ve filed for divorce. It has to be done in absentia, obviously. That takes time, particularly with the Church involved. I don’t see how anyone can claim that I’m not doing all I can to clear it up.”

“I wonder what Felix will do to JM’s holdings in Panama,” Valuela said dreamily, “if he wins?”

“He won’t win,” Patsy said shortly. Her aunt looked surprised.

“But don’t Ted’s backers want him to win? Isn’t Ted the idol of all those who oppose the Administration’s attempt to stop him from winning? I think Ted is in quite a position.”

“He isn’t as long as he keeps his mouth shut,” Herbert said.

“My thought exactly,” the Governor agreed with an amiable smile, entering on the remark. “Are we ready, all?”

“We’re ready,” Ceil said in a noncommittal tone. She straightened her back, squared her shoulders, gave her glorious hair a toss, and grinned. “Once more unto the breach! Dear friends, we may be dead already.”

“Oh, CEIL,” Patsy said. “You’re always so—so—”

“Aren’t I, though?” Ceil said cheerfully. “Awful, isn’t it?”

“Here they come!” the crowds roared in front of the St. Francis, screamed in front of the Mark. Two families hurried out into the gorgeous blue day amid bursting flashbulbs, snapping cameras, microphones, reporters, shoving, clamoring, frantically eager people straining to see. ON THE ROCKS WITH ORRIN KNOX, a placard held by a grinning college boy summed up one view, at the St. Francis. HASTEN, JASON, GET YOUR BASIN, a placard held by another grinning college boy summed up the other view, at the Mark. At this point everyone was still happy, and everyone laughed.

Elsewhere, the mood grew grimmer.

“Bob,” the Speaker said in a worried voice from his room at the Hilton, “I’m going to Credentials Committee. Things seem to be getting out of hand a little bit.”

“Right,” the Majority Leader said from his room at the St. Francis. “They are in Platform Committee, too. I’m going there. How about meeting us for lunch at one-thirty in the room here, and we can call Harley?”

“O.K.,” the Speaker said. “See you.”

“Can I come, too?” Dolly asked. Senator Munson smiled.

“I thought you had to stay here and plan for your party tonight. Can you tear yourself away?”

“Everything’s ready,” Dolly said. “I can steal an hour: or two.”

“Be my guest,” her husband said. “It may be brutal.”

“What are you doing here?” Cullee asked in a pleased voice, bumping into familiar figures in the crush in front of the Palace. The Maudulaynes greeted him with beaming smiles and shook hands cordially with Sarah Johnson.

“Just observing,” Claude said airily.

“It’s so fascinating,” Kitty remarked. “This is our second, you know. We went to the last one, too.”

“Not under quite such dramatic circumstances, though,” Lord Maudulayne said, pointing to the
Chronicle
he was carrying. It had headlines on NEW LOSSES IN GOROTOLAND … AFRO-ASIANS AGAIN DEMAND UN INTERVENTION IN PANAMA … PRESIDENT REITERATES WILL TO STAND FIRM, NEGOTIATE, and a column by Walter Dobius entitled WHAT CAN THE WORLD’S COP DO NOW?, wrapped around four bloody (and of course not at all inflammatory, one-sided, or biased) photographs of GOROTO REBELS GET TORTURE TREATMENT FROM U.S. ALLIES. “What will happen on all of this?”

“I’m just on my way to Platform Committee to see,” Cullee said.

“Oh, that’s where we’re going,” Lord Maudulayne said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“It’s closed,” Cullee said. “There may be a more significant fight in Credentials, in terms of the convention. Why don’t you go there?”

“Can you get us in?” Kitty asked, and took Cullee’s arm. Sarah smiled.

“Looks like we’ve got some company,” she said with a smile as Lord Maudulayne offered her his arm. “If we can get through the crowd, that is.”

“You do things so much more quietly in your country,” Cullee told Kitty as he began gently but firmly pushing people out of their way.

“The blood flows,” she said cheerfully. “It usually seeps under the door instead of being splattered all over the hall. But it flows.”

“I only hope we can get through this without too much being spilled here,” Cullee said grimly. “I’m not too confident.”

“Hey, there, boy!” Fred Van Ackerman cried, slapping LeGage Shelby on the back in the midst of the shifting, shouting crowd at the Palace. The chairman of DEFY winced and turned on him with a flaring anger.

“I’ve told you a million times,” he said savagely, “don’t ‘boy’ me. What do you want?”

“Look, pal,” Senator Van Ackerman said in a suddenly tight voice, while a dozen delegates, college kids, and reporters looked on with interest. “We’ve got to stand together on this, so don’t go flying off the handle every time I say hello to you, will you? Where’s that fat fool Kleinfert? Are his people ready to demonstrate?”

“They’ll be ready when yours are,” ’Gage said shortly, “and so will we. What do you hear?”

“I hear there’s a hell of a fight in Credentials Committee over the Ohio and Alabama delegations. What about you?”

“They tell me Jason’s got fifteen of the Illinois delegation and may get some from Michigan and Washington state by tonight.”

“Got any over-all figures yet?”

“Somebody said Knox was claiming 672.”

Senator Van Ackerman uttered a short cloacal expletive that made two elderly lady delegates from Massachusetts jump and exchange indignant looks.

“What Knox claims and what Knox gets will be two different things, boy. Yes, sir, two different things. Take care, now. You and Rufe keep in touch with us over at the Hilton. Drop in ‘The COMFORT Room’ and have a drink, when you get a chance. We’ve got a real live-wire bunch at work over there. Let us know when you want to demonstrate.”

“We’ll call you,” LeGage said, without much humor. “Don’t call us.”

“You’re a kidder,” Fred said, but he laid his hand on ’Gage’s arm with a grip that made him wince again and look furious. “Don’t forget this is damned serious business here. The world may depend upon it.”

“I don’t need you to give me lectures!” ’Gage said, his handsome face contorted with anger. He flung off Fred’s hand, and flung himself away.

“And that’s what we have to depend upon to help nominate the greatest leader this country’s got,” Senator Van Ackerman announced to their wide-eyed audience. “Jeeee—
zus!
”

“It would be my thought,” Walter Dobius said with a contemplative gravity to three eager young reporters who were hanging on every word at a table in the Garden Court of the Palace, “that what happens today in the Credentials and Platform Committees will indicate pretty definitely which way this convention is going to go. I’d keep an eye on them, if I were you.”

“Yes,
sir,”
they said, as fervently as though they had not read this prediction fifty times in every place including his own column in the past twenty-four hours. Coming from him, it sounded new and profound, somehow.

“Watch credents., pltfm.,” they scribbled.

It was sound advice.

Everybody was.

“The committee will now hear the distinguished delegate from the District of Columbia,” the chairman of Credentials (Old Joe Smitters from Ashtabula) said in the public conference room at the Hilton. “I believe the delegate is the chairman of the vice presidential campaign of the distinguished Governor of California, is he not?”

“I am,” Bob Leffingwell said, “and it is our position that of the two delegations purporting here to represent the great state of Ohio, the one headed by the distinguished former Governor of that state is the one that should be seated in this convention.”

“And that, of course, is the one favorable to your candidate?” Old Joe Smitters suggested with a knowing smile.

“I am not quite so charitable as to support one that didn’t,” Bob Leffingwell said, and all down the table—Mrs. Mary Buttner Baffleburg, National Committeewoman from Pennsylvania, Homer Amos Stanhope, National Committeeman from Massachusetts, Miss Lizzie Hanson McWharter, National Committeewoman from Kansas, and all the rest—they rocked and chuckled.

“Present your evidence,” Old Joe directed, and Bob Leffingwell leaned forward confidently.

“It is our contention, Mr. Chairman,” he began in a thoughtful, measured tone, “that certain illegalities existed in the selection of the delegation that purports to represent Ohio in the name of the distinguished Secretary of State.”

“Are you charging a ‘steal’?” Old Joe Smitters asked, thinking, That will make good headlines, that’s what they want, I have a hunch Jason is going to get this and if he does maybe I can get something out of it if I play it right.

“I will have to let the committee decide that,” Bob Leffingwell said smoothly.

“But you wouldn’t deny the term?” Old Joe asked, thinking. How clever I’m being.

“No, I wouldn’t deny it, if you prefer it, Mr. Chairman,” Bob Leffingwell said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Would you use it?” Old Joe pursued, his crafty little eyes narrowing, all the skill and shrewdness that had made him the biggest feed dealer in Ashtabula coming into his voice.