At ten o’clock the morning of October 13 in his suite in the Madison Hotel in Washington, Donald Cubbin was being subjected to a merciless interrogation by a team of experts led by Peter Majury. Others included Charles Guyan, Oscar Imber, two union economists, and the union’s highly paid legal counsel, who at the last moment had decided to abandon his neutrality and back Cubbin.
For two hours they fired questions at him and when they didn’t like his answers, they told him what he should have said. They went into the Federalists Club affair, into his drinking, his personal political philosophy, his home life, his religion, his stewardship of the union, past, present, and future, and finally, why should an old man like you who’s past sixty still want to clutch at power? They were bitter, cynical, extremely knowledgeable questions, and Cubbin answered most of them surprisingly well.
Over in Sammy Hanks’s campaign headquarters at 14th and K Streets, Mickey Della was subjecting Hanks to a similar inquisition, except that the questions that Della and his crew asked were even nastier than those put to Cubbin. After two hours of it, Della signaled a halt, turned to Hanks and said, “You’ll do.” Mickey Della never liked to praise anyone too much.
At a quarter to one, Coin Kensington was waddling back and forth in his hotel suite between the kitchenette and the coffee table, laying out the snack that he planned to munch on during the interview program and the game that followed.
It was going to be a long afternoon and Kensington didn’t want hunger to make him miss anything exciting so he had decided to set out an ample supply. Arranged on the coffee table were half a pound of kosher salami, a pound box of Sunshine soda crackers, three half-pound chunks of Swiss, cheddar, and Monterey Jack cheese, two containers of Sara Lee Brownies, a pint of stuffed olives, an immense bowl of potato chips, a can of Planter’s mixed nuts, half a loaf of sliced pumpernickel, a plate of fried chicken, and a quart container of potato salad. Kensington’s final trip to the refrigerator was to get a quart of buttermilk and a jar of dill pickles.
At ten minutes to one Kensington went to answer a knock at his door. Standing there in a blue, double-breasted cashmere jacket, dove-gray trousers, and figured silk shirt was Walter Penry who, Kensington decided before he said hello, had sure come a hell of a long way from the FBI.
“Come on in,” Kensington said, “I was beginning to wonder if you’d be late.”
“Not a chance,” Penry said.
“Got a little something to eat here, if you get hungry,” Kensington said, making a vague wave toward the laden coffee table.
“No, thanks.”
“Got beer in the icebox.”
“I’ll take a beer,” Penry said.
“You mind getting it? I been up on my feet all day.”
“Sure,” Penry said and took a can of beer from the refrigerator, deciding against a glass because he knew Old Man Kensington would like to see him drink it from the can.
He took a swallow of the beer and watched Kensington lower his immense bulk onto the sofa within handy reach of the coffee table. “If you’ll just turn up the sound, we’ll be ready to go,” Kensington said.
Penry walked over, turned up the sound on the 24-inch color television set, and then settled into a comfortable club chair.
“So you think it’s gonna be an interesting program?” Kensington said.
“It had better be,” Penry said. “We spent ten thousand bucks to make it one.”
In his Baltimore living room, Truman Goff switched on the television set and went back to an article in The New York Times that was a wrapup of the battle between Cubbin and Hanks and ended with a paragraph describing how each candidate would cast his vote on Tuesday, Cubbin in Pittsburgh at Local Number 1 where he still maintained his membership, and Hanks in Washington at the Headquarters Local. Goff tore the article out and put it in his wallet.
His wife came in from the kitchen carrying two cans of beer. She handed one to Goff and said, “You gonna watch that talky program?”
“I thought I might.”
“All they do is scream at each other.”
“It gets pretty hairy all right sometimes.”
“What time you leaving tomorrow?”
“I don’t know,” Goff said. “About ten.”
“Well, be sure to tell your mother hello for me when you get down to Lynchburg.”
“Okay. You need some more money?”
“No,” his wife said, “you already give me plenty.”
Donald Cubbin used the union-supplied limousine to drive out to the network studio in northwest Washington. Fred Mure drove with Kelly beside him. In the rear with Cubbin were Oscar Imber and Charles Guyan. On the jump seats were Peter Majury and Ted Lawson.
Mickey Della drove Sammy Hanks out to the studio in Della’s five-year-old Ford Galaxie. “You’re going to make Cubbin feel like a shit if you don’t bring along a big crowd,” Della said.
Hanks and Cubbin met face to face for the first time in two months on the steps of the studio. They looked at one another warily, each suspicious of the hidden knife, until Cubbin growled, “Hello, Sammy.”
“How are you, Don?”
“Who you betting on?”
Hanks looked slightly surprised, but grinned hastily and said, “Me, of course.”
“I meant the ball game, stupid,” Cubbin said and brushed on past.
Mickey Della fell into step with Peter Majury. “I’m surprised that you decided to crawl out of the woodwork where the light can get at you,” Della said.
“Ah, Michael, it’s good to see you up and about,” Majury whispered. “I’d heard you were in a rest home.”
Neal James met his two guests, shook hands with them, and then sent them off to makeup. The girl who worked on Cubbin told him that he looked like an actor. After he caught the one who was assigned to him biting her lip, Sammy Hanks said, “What do you say we try a paper bag?”
After Cubbin came out of makeup, Charles Guyan drew him aside. “Just one word of advice, Don. Keep your answers short and don’t let them needle you.”
“What about making a little joke when I’m introduced? You know, something about since I’ve been accused of spending most of my time at country clubs, maybe I should have brought along my golf clubs.”
Guyan couldn’t keep the pained expression from his face. “No, Don, please. No jokes. Just be dignified.”
“You don’t think it’s funny?”
“No, I don’t think it’s funny. Sorry.”
“Yeah, sure,” Cubbin said and decided to make the joke anyway if he got the chance. It would help ease the tension, he thought.
Peter Majury sidled up to Cubbin and tugged him away from Guyan. “Be kind to Sammy, Don,” he whispered. “Don’t be too hard on him.”
“What do you mean don’t be too hard on him? I’ll be as hard as I can on the son of a bitch.”
Majury smiled sadly. “Just remember what I said, Don, please. Be kind. Compassionate.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Majury shrugged and again smiled sadly. “Just remember what I said.”
After Cubbin was ushered onto the set, Ted Lawson moved over to Peter Majury. “You give him the word?” Lawson said.
“I told him as much as I could.”
“It’s sure as hell an iffy thing.”
“It’ll work,” Majury whispered, as though trying to convince himself. “I just know it’ll work.”