Yes, by God, that's right I've lived in George's shadow since we were little. Now I'm standing on my own feet at last, and here he comes again. I won't have it.
Stanley never said any of that. A few more steps and the men turned into the main entrance of Willard's. Cameron looked merry, Stanley miserable.
The hotel lobby and adjoining public rooms were packed with people, as they were at most hours of the day. Near a roped-off section of wall, one of the Vermont-born Willard brothers argued with a sullen painter. The place smelted of redecorating — paint, plaster — and heavy perfumes. Under the chandeliers, men and women with eyes like glass and faces as stiff as party masks talked soberly, laughed loudly, bent heads so close together that many a pair of foreheads almost touched. Washington in miniature.
Stanley recovered enough to say, "Of course it's your decision, sir —"
"Yep. Sure is."
"But I remind you that my brother is not one of your strongest partisans."
"He's a Republican, like me."
"I'm sure he remembers the days when you stood with the Democrats." Stanley knew George had been particularly infuriated by events at the Chicago convention that had nominated the President. Lincoln's managers had needed the votes Cameron controlled. The Boss would only trade them for a cabinet post. So it was with certainty that Stanley said, "He's liable to work against you."
"He'll work for me if I manage him right. I know he doesn't like me, but we're in a war, and he fought in Mexico — a man like that can't turn his back on the old flag. 'Sides — " the gray eyes grew foxy — "it's a lot easier to run a man when he's right under your thumb. Even setting aside his experience, I'd sooner have your brother right here than back in the Lehigh Valley where he might do me mischief."
Cameron quickened his step to signal the end of the discussion.
Stanley persisted. "He won't come."
"Yes, he will. Ripley's a stupid old goat ready for pasture. He's making me look bad. I need George Hazard. What I want, I get."
With his stick the secretary jabbed one of the swing doors of the saloon bar and passed through. Stanley lumbered after him, seething.
The businessman who had asked for the appointment, some friend of a friend of Cameron's, was a squat, pink-lipped fellow named Huffsteder. He ordered and paid for the expected round of drinks — a lager for Stanley, whiskey for Cameron — and the trio took a table just vacated by some officers. One recognized Cameron and nodded respectfully. Even Stanley drew an intense, almost startled look from a fat soldier at the bar. Cameron had no fears about meeting here. A good part of the time, the government operated from hotel bars and parlors. The smoke and the level of noise pretty well prevented close observations and eavesdropping.
"Let me come right to the point —" Huffsteder began.
Cameron gave him no chance. "You want a contract. You're not alone, I'll tell you that. But I wouldn't be sitting here if you didn't deserve — oh, call it an accommodation." His eyes met those of the other man. "Because of past courtesies. Let's be no more specific than that. Now, what do you sell?"
"Uniforms. Delivered fast, at the right price."
"Made where?"
"My factory in Albany."
"Oh, that's right. New York. I remember."
The contract-seeker reached into his coat for a square of coarse fabric dyed dark blue and laid the sample on the table. Stanley picked it up with both hands and easily tore it in two. "Shoddy," he said. It wasn't a judgment but the familiar name of material made of pressed wool scraps. Huffsteder said nothing. Cameron fingered one of the pieces. He knew, as did Stanley, that any uniform made of the material would last two or three months; less if the wearer happened to be caught in a heavy rain. Still, it was wartime; the actions of the rebel combinations dictated certain compromises.
Cameron quickly made that evident: "In procurement, Mr. Hoffsteder —" The contractor muttered his correct name, but Cameron ignored him — "the law's clear as crystal. My department obeys that law. Operates on the bid system — the bids are sealed if the contract's advertised. On the other hand, I have certain funds at my personal disposal, and I can disburse that money to authorized agents of the War Department for discretionary purchases not dependent on bids. You catch my drift?" Huffsteder nodded. "When our brave boys need overcoats or powder, we can't be too finicky about law. With the rebs right over there in Virginia, liable to swoop down any minute, we can't wait for sealed bids to come in, can we? So —" Cameron raised an eloquent hand — "special agents with special funds."
To be handed to special friends. After just a few months, Stanley understood the system well.
Cameron dropped his pose of eloquence. "Stanley, write the names and addresses of our New York State agents for this gentleman. See either one of them, and I'm sure you can do business."
"Sir, I can't thank you enough."
"But you already did." Again he fixed the nervous man with those gray eyes. "I recall the amount of the donation exactly. Handsome, handsome indeed. The sort of donation I'd expect from someone anxious to help the war effort."
"I'd better write our agents," Stanley put in.
"Yes, take care of it." Cameron didn't need to warn his pupil to use vague language; Stanley had written over a dozen letters of the same type. Cameron rose. "Well, sir, if you'll excuse me now, I'm off to have supper with my brother. He, too, is serving the cause. Commander of the Seventy-ninth New York. Mostly Scots, those fellows. But you wouldn't catch me in a Highlander's kilts. Not with my knees."
Cameron was away from the table by the time he uttered the jovial remark. Huffsteder remained seated, smiling in a dazed way. Stanley hurried after his boss, thinking a not infrequent thought. If some of the department's practices ever came to light — Well, he did his best to stay clear of the worst illegalities. He wanted to be in Washington, the center of power, and if the price was the risk of soiled hands, he'd pay it. Besides, Isabel insisted.
In the lobby, he made a final attempt with Cameron. "Sir, before you go — please reconsider about George. Don't forget he's one of those West Point peacocks —"
"And I don't like them or the institution any better than you do, my boy. But I reckon I've got to take the squall if I want the baby."
"Mr. Secretary, I beg you —"
"That's enough! Don’t you hear me?"
Several heads turned. Reddening over his outburst, Cameron grabbed Stanley's sleeve and yanked him toward an empty settee. "You come over here. James will be sore when I'm late, but I want to get something straight."
Oh, my God, he's going to discharge me —
Cameron's expression certainly suggested the possibility. He shoved Stanley down on the cushions. "Now listen here. I like you, Stanley. What's more, I trust you, and I can't say that about many who work for me. Quit worrying about your brother. I'll handle him. You'd be a damn sight smarter if you forgot about the past and took advantage of the present."
With a dull look, Stanley said, "What do you mean?"
Calmer, Cameron sat down. "I mean take a leaf out of the book of that thief we just met. Find an opportunity and capitalize on it. I run my department strictly according to the law" — Stanley was too upset to laugh at the absurdity — "but that doesn't mean I'm unwilling to see trusted associates prosper. Many little jobs must be done if we're to accomplish the big one."
It dawned then. "You mean I should seek a contract?"
Cameron slapped his knee. "Yessiree."