“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-billion, mind you-Federal pie to be cut up among private industry. Eagles wants its share, and is ready to underbid all competition. And Eagles can do the job. We’re strong in the South, strongest there, where much of the money will be spent. We have the know-how and equipment to build those new vocational trade schools, those highways, those housing tracts, those factories. Sure we’re concerned, damn concerned. Nothing is more important to Emmich right now. I thought you knew that.”
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.”
“Come now, Nat, there won’t be many late changes. It’s in the open for everyone to read. Dilman has had plenty of time to read it and make up his mind. Really, Emmich is deeply concerned. He feels what Dilman does here is the test of him as the new President.”
“You mean the test of him in the eyes of Eagles Industries.”
“Well, whether he is for us or against us.”
Abrahams found himself appalled at this constricted, selfish vision of a piece of legislation which carried with it so many broader ramifications. “Perhaps Dilman feels there is more at stake than whether this is good or bad for big business.”
“I don’t know,” Oliver said. Then he added quickly, “Maybe you happen to know. Has President Dilman-after all, everyone is aware you’ve been in the White House with him pretty often-has he ever mentioned how he honestly feels about MRP? That could tell us a good deal. Emmich would be very grateful if he could get some inkling of-”
“Gorden, I don’t know whether the President is for or against that bill, but even if I knew, even if he had discussed it with me, I wouldn’t tell you about it. I’ve been visiting with him as an old friend, not a lawyer-lobbyist for Eagles Industries.”
“Touché,” said Oliver, with a twisted smile. “I’m nicked and I deserve it. But I’ve got my job, too, you know.”
Abrahams crumpled his napkin and threw it on the table. He pushed back his chair. “Gorden, I know what you’ve been trying to get at. The MRP is an Eagles Industries type of bill. You want to be sure that, once it has passed both Houses, the President approves it. You’d like me to go to him right now and find out if he’s intending to sign it. If he does, you’d like to know first, so you’d have the jump on your competitors when it comes to submitting bids. If he’s on the fence or negative, you’d like me to use my influence on your-okay, our-on our behalf. That’s the sum of it, of this lunch, isn’t it?”
Gorden Oliver almost beamed with relief. But then, aware of Abrahams’ taut face, he converted his smile to an appearance of moderate seriousness. His caution was obvious. “If you think Avery Emmich and I are asking you, as your first job for us, to go in and use your friendship with the President to make Eagles a few millions, you are mistaken. We’re not such fools, and we don’t favor using such tactics. No, that’s not it. All we want you to do is to study the MRP Bill, and then study a little homework we at Eagles have done on the bill, a sort of breakdown on its value to our economy and-and to domestic peace-” He reached inside his suit coat, and drew out one bulky document and one folded memorandum. He handed the bulky document across the table. “There’s the text of the MRP.”