me some houses she’s been-”
“Food it’ll be,” said Oliver.
Abrahams allowed the lobbyist to take his arm and guide him through a corridor, decorated on one side with framed photographs of the current members of Congress. They entered the spacious dining room, already nearly filled, and were shown to a reserved table next to the curved window overlooking the hotel’s lawn and garden.
As they were seated and given their menus, Oliver winked at Abrahams and said, “Best table in the room, Nat. Eagles Industries rates here, and so will you. Congressmen come and go, but Eagles stays on forever… What’ll you have?” He began recommending dishes, but Abrahams ordered only a small green salad and a mushroom omelet. Automatically Oliver ordered a steak. “We’re on an expense account, you know, Nat,” he reminded Abrahams.
“I’m on a diet,” Abrahams replied. “I’m at my best when I’m lean and hungry.”
“Good, good-” the lobbyist said absently, his attention again diverted by his recognition of familiar faces. He began to salute diners at other tables, calling out, “Hi, Mike… How you doing, Jim fellow?… Hello, Ruthie girl.” Then he excused himself, and for five minutes, cane in hand, he went table-hopping, ending each visit with an uproarious peal of laughter.
When he returned to Abrahams, who was eating his salad, he offered only an oblique excuse for his absence. “My trade consists of contacts,” he explained, “making them and maintaining them.”
“I’m not good at that, Gorden.”
“You?” said Oliver, with pretended horror. “We can’t waste a genius like yours on this sort of Rotary-Kiwanis activity. My rounds are the National Press Club, Burning Tree Golf Club, Metropolitan Club, and right here. That’s for me, not you. Avery Emmich wouldn’t be paying you what he is paying you-hell, my salary is picayune tip money beside what you’re going to get-for public relations. He’s hiring your brain, Nat, not your glad hand.”
“As long as that’s understood, that’s all,” said Abrahams.
The lunch proceeded into the entree, and Oliver spoke less and became preoccupied with his own thoughts. Abrahams searched the Caucus Room, trying to match faces to headlines he remembered, and then, finishing the omelet, he stared up at the rough yellow-and-white textured plaster ceiling and speculated on the reason for this lunch.
While the lobbyist was drinking his Sanka, Abrahams sipped his hot tea and decided to make certain that the meeting had nothing to do with the contract.
“Gorden, last night you said you wanted to see me about my first duties here in Washington, not about the contract. Are you sure?”
Oliver’s ruddy, weather-beaten Vermont countenance immediately offered an open expression of distress that his motive should even be questioned. “Nat, I told you, the contract is routine. It’ll be in final draft shortly. The delay has been caused by Emmich’s visit to Dallas for a speech before the National Association of Manufacturers.”
“Well, I’d like to be able to send Sue home and let her close up shop.”
“Send her, by all means, send her. But you’d better hang around here for the final reading of the contract and the signing. After that’s done, you can get back to Chicago for a week and turn over your keys.”
Glancing off, Abrahams caught the time on the wall clock. “Okay, Gorden. Then what did you want to discuss with me? I’ve only got fifteen minutes.”
Oliver blew across the rim of his cup, drank the Sanka, and then set the cup down. “Nat,” he said, “you heard the little speech Congressman Stockton made to you in the cloakroom.”
“About what? You mean the President dragging his feet on the minorities bill and Baraza? I sure did.”
“Well, I think he was really concerned about the minorities bill. That’s a big thing. Nobody gives much of a damn about that little African football field.”
“Soviet Russia does,” said Abrahams.
Oliver took his cane, which had been leaning against the table, and began unscrewing the top. “Oh, you know what I mean. The minorities bill is the thing that counts right now for the boys on the Hill. A wrong move can lose a lot of votes back home. That’s what matters to them.” He paused. “I know that Stockton got your dander up a bit, but he means well. He was only trying to tell you how the majority of both parties in the House feel.”
“Why tell me?” said Abrahams.
“Because he heard you knew the President and-” Then, as if to prevent Abrahams from interrupting him, Oliver went on more urgently, in a rush, “Look, Nat, listen, the boys on the Hill-forget the Southern bloc-the others, they’re not too worried about Douglass Dilman. He’s behaved well. He’s made it clear he’s standing on the Party platform and listening to T. C.’s best minds. Only one curious fact gives them pause. The single major legislation the President has made no private or public commitment on is this minorities bill, the very bill he should be behind hot and heavy. It’s the only pacifier we have to stop the racial unrest in this country. Once it is law, all rioting and demonstrations will cease. No more repetitions of what happened down in Mississippi today. The Negroes will be too occupied and prosperous to complain. We’ll have solidarity.” He considered Abrahams a moment, and then he asked, “Have you read the MRP Bill yet?”
“No,” Abrahams answered flatly. He felt vaguely irritated again and put upon. He had guessed, at once, what Gorden Oliver was leading up to, and he wanted to make it difficult for him. “No,” he repeated, “I haven’t. Should I?”
Oliver screwed the top of his brandy cane tightly, and leaned it against the table once more. “Only because it is a vital piece of public works legislation, and a great part of your job for Eagles Industries will be to advise Emmich on any new bills affecting his interests.”
Abrahams was more determined than ever to be difficult. He forced his eyebrows upward, ingenuously. “Is the minorities bill of that much concern to Emmich?”
Now it was Oliver who was irritated and trying to control his feelings. “Really, Nat, you must know what passage of this bill can mean to Eagles. There’s a seven-billion-dollar-
Abrahams was suddenly impatient with games. “I suppose I did know it. I guess I was leading you on a little, Gorden. I wanted to find out how involved you were in this legislation.”
“Then you have read the bill?”
“No, really, I have not. I know what it is about, generally, but I haven’t read it. I didn’t think I was on the payroll yet.”
“Well, you are, in a way you are.”
“Then I’ll get a copy.”
“You won’t have to.” Oliver patted his chest complacently. “I brought a copy for you.”
“So reading pending legislation is one of my first duties here,” said Abrahams. “Assignment one is the MRP, is that right? Okay. What am I to do after I’ve read it? Tell Emmich I think it’s great? He knows that. Tell him I think it won’t help him very much? He doesn’t want to hear that. Tell him what, Gorden?”
“You have to tell him nothing,” said Oliver uneasily. “He wants passage of the bill-of course. I think he’d like to know that you want it, too.”
Abrahams could feel the involuntary tension in the cords of his neck. “What’s the difference whether I want it or not?”
“Nat, you’re being tough on me.” Oliver was frowning down at the cane. He took it, laid it across his lap, and turned it several times before looking up. “Christ, we’re on the same team. We’re getting money from the same mint. We have our jobs to do.”
“I only want to know my job, I suppose.”
Oliver appraised Abrahams with a quick glance. “Harv Wickland, the Majority Leader, feels the Party can push the bill through the House. It’ll be landing on President Dilman’s desk any day. Dilman is the one worrying Emmich, all of us. He’s the only unknown factor.”
“You heard him say that he wants to read the bill in its final form.”
