Gay Place (9 page)

“Where’ll we
go
?” Huggins insisted.

“Giffen’s?”

“He’s got no whiskey. Only sherry.”

“How about my hotel room?” Earle Fielding said. “They gave me a whole suite of rooms.”

Someone laughed. “Earle owns the goddam hotel.”

“Only half interest,” Earle said. “How about it? I got a case of whiskey there. We can talk about the tennis tournament and our civil rights conference and electin’ Alfred to the Speakership and the next revolution. How about it?”

Most of them looked pleased. They were on their feet almost immediately, ready to move on, laughing and talking around the unpainted tables, the garish lights from the bar and restaurant reflected on their innocent pink faces. They began to walk slowly toward the parking area. Ouida held Roy’s arm, but reached out to get Earle’s attention.

“Should I tell Earle Cummins you’re home?” she said.

Her husband considered this for a moment.

“You coming with us to the hotel?” he said.

“I’ve a baby sitter to relieve,” Ouida said. She held on to Roy’s arm in the darkness of the parking lot.

“Well, hell — I wish you would,” Earle said. “I’ll call later …”

“When? I hope not in the middle of the night. Or what’s left of it.”

“In the morning. I’ll call in the morning. Tell little Earle I’ll be by to see him in the morning if I can’t get home tonight … You got a ride?”

Ouida said she would get a ride with George Giffen or Roy. Earle clapped Roy’s shoulder and said: “How you doin’, Roy? You castin’ some good votes?”

Roy said he was only interested in bad votes.

Giffen had been walking behind them, and now he came up even. “Hey,” he said, “I hear you say you needed a ride home?”

Ouida gripped Roy’s arm and tried to ignore the question. Earle turned back to them. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Roy — why don’t you go with George in that hot rod and I’ll take Ouida home in your car. Meet you both at the hotel — here’s the key. I’ll take Ouida. That way I can talk to her a few minutes.”

Roy backed off but then changed his mind. He told Earle he thought he would probably go on home but would be happy to lend him the car for the night. Earle said that wouldn’t be necessary; he’d get Alfred Rinemiller to drive them. Earle wandered off looking for Rinemiller. Giffen stood around for a moment. While he stared at the others, Ouida kissed Roy and urged him in a whisper to come by later. Before Roy could answer, Fielding and Rinemiller returned and led Ouida to one of the automobiles. He would have to call her later and run the risk of Earle’s still being there, possibly even answering the phone.

There were some noisy exchanges: giggling conversations between the others, grouped round their cars: half-muffled laughter and catch-phrase goodbyes blended with the grinding of gears and the sputtering of radios being tuned in on the single after-midnight station. Giffen said goodbye to Roy and went off in a loping stride toward the others, trying to catch, up. Willie, Ellen Streeter, the new girl, Huggins — all had vanished from sight. Cars moved past; occasionally someone would dangle an arm out a window and whoop at him. Roy climbed into his own car and sat for a moment, lighting a cigarette, fooling with the radio, fidgeting, wondering how much longer he could go without sleep. Or release. His stomach rumbled; his eyes burned and his mouth felt numb and shrunken from the drinks. He wondered just how much Earle Fielding knew — and if information was necessarily limited this first day back, how long it would be before he did know something? He wished Ouida would explain, but she wasn’t talking — couldn’t or wouldn’t; it was never quite clear which. Roy knew only slightly more about the Fielding marriage than the others. Perhaps Ouida in her confusion knew even less.

He got the car started and drove slowly through the darkened streets. Heading west, toward the lakefront, he passed Ouida’s apartment and noted Rinemiller’s car parked in the drive. He moved toward his own place. On the radio, an announcer hawked a product: genuine cultured South Sea Island pearls …

A
RTHUR FENSTEMAKER CHEWED ON
a cold cigar and dribbled whiskey down the front of his silver dinner jacket. He paced about the second-story front gallery of the mansion, humming to himself, a little off key. He snapped his fingers, grunting, humming, sniffing the midnight air. He reached down inside his trousers and adjusted his undershorts. His assistant, Jay McGown, sat nearby, looking out over the city. Across from Jay, a large gray-haired man sat with hands folded, watching the Governor.

The butler brought them drinks. There was dance music coming from a group of Latin musicians belowstairs, and out front the guests in evening clothes wandered back and forth across the grounds and lounged on the whitewashed steps.

“I got to settle this in a hurry,” Fenstemaker said, biting on the cigar. The gray-haired man offered a light, but Fenstemaker waved it away. “They don’t let me smoke,” he said, “but they didn’t say nothin’ about chewin’. I invent new vices ever’ day.” He spit into a potted palm and went on: “Just got few minutes … Let’s get this business over with.”

He took hold of his drink and put it to his mouth, swallowing hard. Then he handed it to the butler. “You get me a better one, Jimmy? Like you’d make for yourself?”

“Miz Fenstemaker said half jigger.”

“I know all about that,” the Governor said. “But goddam! All it’s doin’ is makin’ me drink twice as much and I end up goin’ to the bathroom all night long.”

“Miz Fenstemaker …”

“She ain’t here, Jimmy. Now’s our opportunity.”

“How ’bout three-quarter jigger?” the butler suggested.

“All right.”

The colored man moved off with his empty glasses.

“Looky heah!” Fenstemaker said, and the gray-haired guest jumped perceptibly. The Governor stopped, thinking for a moment. He turned to Jay McGown. “You see that, Jay? That three-quarter jigger stuff? That boy’s already learned somethin’ about effective accommodation and compromise!” He laughed loudly and told the gray-haired man all about the butler being elected captain of his precinct over in niggertown. The guest, now totally mystified, jumped once again when Fenstemaker repeated the exhortation: “Looky heah, now …”

“Yes sir?”

“You want to take this business to the District Attorney?”

“I don’t know, Governor. I just don’t know. That’s why I’ve come to you. I thought —”

“I’ll get the D.A. on the phone right now — he’s a personal friend of mine. I’ll get him over here right now to listen to this damn thing, you give the word.”

“Governor … I …”

“You wanna set little trap, instead? You had some good practice, it seems. You got some money, marked bills? Might even try it on the District Attorney. Just for practice.”

Fenstemaker had his face down next to the gray-haired man’s, their noses nearly touching. The visitor was pressed against the leather chair. “Governor,” he said, “I keep telling you I just … don’t … know. This never happened to me before. That’s why I come to you for advice.”

Fenstemaker straightened up and talked over the fellow’s head. “Knew enough to tape-record that conversation. That’s knowin’ somethin’. That’s knowin’ more’n I know … You even made him count out that goddam money right out loud so it would get on the tape. Why hell, man!
You know.
Don’t give me that stuff. That old dog don’t hunt no more — that cow’s been bred and milked and damn near slaughtered.”

The visitor, looking holy, determined to keep the conversation on a high plain, shook his head from side to side and laid his hands open. “Governor … I …”

“How many others you bribed?”

“Governor …!”

“You give me some names? Just like to know myself out of curiosity. I deal with these people every day, understand.”

“Governor … I never in my life …”

“You must’ve dangled somethin’ a-front of him first conversation you had to make him go for the bait that way.” Fenstemaker examined the end of his cigar, as if it were a foreign object only recently extracted from his throat. He went on: “What in hell you say to him to make things develop the way they did?”

“I talked to him about the legislation. That’s
all.
We went out and had a drink. We got friendly. You know? — maybe I bragged on him some. We got us a couple dates for the night. You know?
Friendly.
Then he starts talkin’ about runnin’ in a statewide campaign and how he needed money for a race like that and how he could sure use a contribution from us. That was the first indication, Governor.”

“So actually all you did is make a little contribution to his campaign … That’s about all it boils down to.”

The guest sat up straight in the leather chair and crossed his legs, looking resolute. “I think you’d agree that, under the circumstances, it amounted to considerably more than that, Governor.”

Fenstemaker was silent for a moment. Then he said: “I think I just might dump this right back in your lap … Really none of my business.”

“Sir? You wouldn’t just …”

“Jay — go get me that reel of tape off that machine,” Fenstemaker said.

The visitor was on his feet, following Fenstemaker and Jay McGown across the old pine floor. “Governor, I just come to you for advice. I don’t want a lot of bad publicity. I don’t want any scandal. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I just want a fair shake before that committee. And I don’t like a shakedown racket of any sort …”

Mrs. Fenstemaker appeared at one of the jalousied doors. The Governor looked up, smiling. “Sweet Mama …?”

“They’ll all be leaving soon downstairs, Arthur, and I thought …”

“Be right down,” the Governor said. Mrs. Fenstemaker nodded and moved off toward the stairs.

“I can understand you’re busy,” the visitor said, still following Jay and the Governor. Jay picked up a reel of tape and handed it to Fenstemaker, who looked it over, balanced it in his palm, and held it out toward the visitor.

“Governor, you’re the only qualified man to judge.”

“Take it to the goddam District Attorney,” Fenstemaker said.

“I just didn’t want to cause any trouble. I thought it might all be handled without … I didn’t want to damage that boy’s career …”

“Damage!” the Governor hooted. “It’s plenty damaged already, mister. That boy’s ruined — one way or another — even if it never comes out in the open. I’ll see to that personally.”

“I think you ought to be the judge how it’s handled,” the guest concluded.

“Tell you what …”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Sir?”

“I’ll let you know, for Jesus sake. I’ll call you when I decide something.”

The gray-haired man smiled. “I’m deeply relieved that you …” His voice trailed off as Fenstemaker turned and left the room.

Downstairs, a half-hour later, Fenstemaker poked at Jay’s shoulder with his big hand, sipping a Scotch drink he’d managed to lift off one of the dinner guests. “Coonass is what it is, Jay,” the Governor said. “Real cedar chopper stuff. God damn it’s depressing.” He paused and gulped his drink. “You ever sell me, Jay, I hope to Jesus it’s for something big, something really important to you.”

“That fellow’s scared,” Jay said. “I don’t know which of them is worse.”

“Coonass,” the Governor repeated, shaking his head. “It’s like learnin’ everybody screws …”

At Earle Fielding’s hotel suite, at nearly the same hour, the young people sat in overstuffed chairs or flopped on the deep-pile carpet, holding on to each other, talking politics, discussing the weekend’s possibilities.

“You see the trophies?” Ellen Streeter asked someone. “Where are the trophies, Alfred?”

“Earle put them away somewhere,” Rinemiller said.

“Let’s see the trophies.”

“Wait for Earle,” Rinemiller said.

“He’ll never get back,” someone said. “Probably already jumped in bed with Ouida.” There was laughter round the room, and the fellow added: “Or maybe he’s set up a patrol outside his place to catch old Roy Sherwood sneakin’ in.”

Rinemiller got to his feet and went into Earle’s bedroom. In a moment, he returned with the tennis trophies, a half dozen of them, already engraved for the winners of championship and consolation brackets.

“They’re lovely and old-fashioned,” Ellen Streeter said, taking them from Rinemiller. “Little gold figures. Like Alice Marble and Don Budge.” She looked up at Rinemiller and some of the others and asked what they were doing. Rinemiller, Giffen, Huggins, and several girls were bent over a cardboard tournament chart, filling in names. “Seedings and pairings,” Alfred Rinemiller said.

“Seedings and pairings,” Ellen sang to herself. “Cockles and mussels …”

Harris and the girl named Cathryn sat across the room. Harris had his sleeves rolled up above the elbows, and Cathryn stared at his brown muscled arms.

“You’re gorgeous,” Harris said to her, making the muscles jump.

“You’re gorgeouser,” Cathryn said. She looked at his arms. Harris stared down her dressfront. “Where’d Willie go?” Cathryn said.

“You want Willie?” Harris said. His voice was high and careless. “I’ll go get Willie, you want him. I’ll
take
you to Willie, for God’s sake …”

Cathryn looked up in amazement. “Who’s Willie?” she said. “I don’t know any Willie.”

Ellen Streeter came over and sat with them. Harris shifted his attention to Ellen, wondering if he ought to attempt, one last time, to seduce her.

“Where’s Willie gone?” Cathryn said to Ellen Streeter.

“Yeah — where in the world is he?” Harris said irritably. “We’ve been worried nearly to death about where Willie’s gone.”

Ellen shrugged. Harris asked her who she was dating for the tennis tournament. She made a face, rolling her eyes, as if about to describe a female operation from which she was not quite fully recovered. “George Giffen,” she said.

“Tell you what,” Harris said. “You help me find Willie, and I’ll take you home tonight and even to the by-God tennis tournament. Okay?”

Ellen Streeter smiled, looking at Cathryn. Cathryn made a gesture of innocence. She said: “I only asked where Willie might have —”

George Giffen came upon her from behind and placed both hands on her bare shoulders. “Hah, honey,” he said. “You gonna be at that tennis thang?” He massaged Cathryn’s shoulders, making her wince.