Gorden Oliver dug an elbow into Abrahams’ rib. “Cagey, Nat. Your friend is playing it cool and cagey.”
For an instant Abrahams was irritated, but he contained himself and kept his eyes on the screen, where Flannery had nodded to someone off scene. On cue, the correspondent from United Press International called out, “Thank you, Mr. President,” and the first press conference was over. As the picture on the screen dissolved to one of the Presidential seal, Representative Stockton turned the set off.
The Colorado Congressman addressed Abrahams. “Mr. Abrahams, since you know our new President personally, you might do well to inform him for us-since nobody else seems to be able to get to him-that we hope he doesn’t drag his feet on this bill or on putting that Baraza President in his place. Tell him that’s what the boys in the back room are saying.”
“You tell him yourself,” said Abrahams stiffly. “I’m afraid I have no influence over the President.”
Gorden Oliver emitted a false, cackling laugh. “Aw, Nat, don’t take it so seriously. None of us are worried about Dilman. He’s pledged himself to the Party platform and T. C.’s policies. We know he’ll deliver… Say now, Nat, you’ve never been in this sacred sanctum before, have you? Well, have a gander down there, past those fourteen phone booths, and what do you see? A stretcher, yes, sir, and a first-aid kit. Know what? After those Puerto Ricans began holding target practice from the House gallery in 1954, wounded five of our members, the boys here became scared it might encourage more open-season hunting. Now they’re prepared… What say we have our lunch? I’m starved. I’ve a table reserved at the Hotel Congressional down the way… See you later, boys. I’ll tell Emmich you’re reading his breakdown.”
Gorden Oliver led Abrahams out of the cloakroom, through the rear of the House Chamber, still resounding to oratory on the Minorities Rehabilitation Bill, past Room H-209, which he pointed out to be the Speaker’s quarters, past the House Reception Room, and then downstairs.
They came out into the east front of the Capitol and started in the cold sunshine of midday toward the Hotel Congressional.
“It’s only a couple of blocks,” said Oliver.
But the few blocks, Abrahams soon realized, would take as long to traverse as a mile. Gorden Oliver knew everyone, and everyone knew him. It was not enough for him to greet each acquaintance with a wag of his metal brandy-filled cane. Each person met-a photographer for the Republican Party, a public relations man for the Democratic Committee, three Capitol policemen, two senators, four young giggling female secretaries going to lunch-was stopped, introduced to Abrahams, regaled with a warmed-over joke or bit of innocuous gossip, before being passed.
There was neither business nor political conversation between Oliver and Abrahams as they walked. The lobbyist’s eyes were scanning the pedestrians for more acquaintances, while he filled Abrahams with petty chatter about Washington and calumny about congressmen, past and present. According to Oliver, there was one congressman and his wife who, to save money, had set up and maintained living quarters in a corner of the House basement, until they were discovered and evicted. There was another who, to make ends meet, sold ready-made suits at a discount out of his office. There was a third who had enjoyed a reputation for hard work by staying on in his suite in the Rayburn House Office Building long after his colleagues had gone home, until it was discovered that he was using his suite to entertain call girls.
“Yet the work of government gets done,” said Oliver, as they crossed the street and entered the modest lobby of the Hotel Congressional. He halted, after waving his cane at the desk clerk and at two congressmen who had entered behind them, and he added, “I only wanted to show you, Nat, that you won’t be dealing with sacred cows but with plain, ordinary human beings, possessing their share of mortals’ frailties.” He poked his cane toward a sign to the right of the lobby, indicating the direction to the Caucus Room and the Filibuster Bar. “Caucus over food, Nat, or filibuster over drinks first?”
Abrahams held up his vest-pocket watch. “Sue’s picking me up here in an hour,” he said. “She wants to show 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 entrée, 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.”