I told him about the curly-haired interloper but he didn’t seem too concerned. Still, he didn’t shoo me away. Instead, he said, “I need some space.”
He went out into the hall, which was largely empty, and I kept an eye on him but gave him plenty of room. He had gone from this morning’s easy grace to animal prowling his cage. He paced in thought, pausing to scribble notes about his speech on a little pad, tucking it away and then punching a fist in a hand repeatedly as he resumed his trip to nowhere.
Finally some reporters noticed him and gathered around. Bob leaned his back to the wall.
From one reporter came, “What do you think of the returns so far?”
“I can’t comment on that yet.” His arms were folded, his eyes on the carpet, his tone barely audible.
Another voice: “Looks like a long road ahead. How do you feel about having to deal with all the politics and politicians?”
His eyes came up and, surprisingly, brought a smile along. His voice picked up traction, too. “Oh, I like politicians. I like politics. Like to hear a favorite quote of mine and my father’s? ‘Politics is an honorable adventure.’ Know who said that? Lord Tweedsmuir. Anybody know who that is?”
No one did, me included.
Bob said, “He was a Scottish statesman who wrote under the name John Buchan — wrote The 39 Steps.”
They scribbled as he headed back to the Royal Suite and I fell in alongside him.
I said, “39 Steps. Isn’t that the old Hitchcock picture?”
“It is. You ever read Buchan?”
“No. I don’t read thrillers.”
“Oh?”
“I live them.”
He liked that. He was smiling and laughing and his hand was on my shoulder as we entered the Royal Suite.
Three
Time had ceased to have meaning. Our corner of the fifth floor of the Ambassador Hotel was like Las Vegas only not fun and you weren’t losing anything but your mind.
Bob would wander to 511 and check in with advisors and aides who clustered in intense little groups. He’d pace, chew gum and scribble in his notebook. Sit sullenly against the wall on the floor, then come to life when new information came in, all of it favorable and yet never favorable enough.
I tried not to dog his heels, keeping him in close sight but never breathing down his neck, and only getting snippets of conversations when he dealt with Mank and various advisors and aides.
The only place they could achieve privacy in this loony bin was the can, where for conferences Bob would sit on the sink counter, Mank take the lid-down toilet and whoever else was in there perch along the tub’s edge. Then they’d close themselves in and I’d just watch the door like the next frustrated guy in line for the facilities.
And of course those who actually had that need found themselves scurrying for standing room or immediate seating in either the press room or Royal Suite. This would have been comical if it hadn’t just added to this bizarre crawling along at a frantic pace.
Bob himself would move from 511’s political whirl to the Royal Suite’s festivities, only briefly nodding and bestowing a few words to the swarming celebrities before slipping into the master bedroom where he would again sit on the floor against a wall and maybe smoke a cigarillo and sporadically make more notes on his speech in progress.
On these Royal Suite visits, tagging after Bob, I’d send my eyes searching out Nita and she would smile at me and I would smile back and shrug. It was as if we were both wondering whether our brief time together was a continuation of, or the finale to, our Flamingo fling.
The two networks called the primary election for Bob at eleven. By then Bob was back in room 511, where I heard Mank say, “If L.A. County holds up, some of McCarthy’s team’ll be ready to jump ship. The nomination belongs to whoever can get to the undeclared delegates headed to Chicago. Time to call in Jack’s markers, Bob.”
Bob always looked uneasy when his brother was mentioned in terms of political capital, but he nodded. Grimaced a little, but nodded.
A crewcut bespectacled advisor said, “We need to get our guys off the media calls and onto phoning delegates. ASAP.”
Everybody nodded but me, the invisible man, but when Mank said to Bob, “We need to find somebody to type up that speech,” I materialized to chime in: “How about Nita Romaine?”
Mank and Bob looked at me as if Bob’s dog Freckles (who was among the Royal Suite guests) had spoken. The crewcut guy explained for me: “One of our staffers.”
“Hundred words per minute,” I said.
“Fetch her,” Mank said. Then to Bob: “Get your notes together. Be sure to thank everybody, Chavez, Schrade, Unruh, Rosey, Rafer. Hit the black vote hard. And talk about your admiration for Don Drysdale.”
“Who?”
Mank’s eyes flared. “Jesus, Bob! If America finds out you don’t follow baseball, we’re screwed. Drysdale pitched his sixth straight shutout tonight!”
Unfazed, Bob said to me, “Nate, have Miss Romaine add something to that effect. How we hope we’ll have as much good fortune in our campaign as Don Drysdale did tonight.”
The crewcut advisor was already on the move. “I’ll rustle up a typewriter.”
Mank took Bob by the arm and started gently hustling him out. “Time to do the network interviews. We’ve got both Mudd and Vanocur chomping at the bit.”
Roger Mudd was CBS and Sander Vanocur was NBC.
In the outer Royal Suite, Nita was in the middle of a conversation with Rosey Grier when I stole her away. I explained the situation and she got on board immediately, no qualms or nerves. Took a while for that advisor to organize a little portable typewriter, but then we were in business.
We soon had to ourselves the much-envied office space that was Room 511’s bathroom. Nita stood at the sink counter typing on a little electric Smith-Corona plugged into a shaving socket while I sat in a dignified manner on the lid-down stool, dictating from Bob’s hurried notes as best I could. Some whole paragraphs were crossed out, words substituted and phrases rewritten, but what was left seemed fine. I made sure Drysdale got a mention, even though I had almost as little interest in baseball as Bob. I was a boxing fan.
Her work completed, Rita handed me several sheets and said, “I kind of feel like we’re a part of history.”
“We are,” I said, “if Bob’s the next president. Otherwise we won’t rate a footnote.”
“Oh, he’ll win. I know he will.”
I was less convinced, but then she was Hollywood and I was Chicago.
In the Royal Suite, the good news had launched the cocktail party into the stratosphere. Nita re-upped while I went to the master bedroom to deliver the speech pages. I cracked the door and Bob was standing right there, getting into his suitcoat. It was a little startling. Apparently his interviews hadn’t taken any longer than us typing up his speech.
“You scared me, Nate,” he said lightly. “That’s not a bodyguard’s role.”
I slipped inside. He’d been at the full-length mirror on the other side of the door, making himself presentable. We moved a little deeper into the room. The crowd had cleared but for his son David, a little man in a striped tie, blue blazer and gray slacks, sitting on the edge of the bed watching his dad with glowing pride. The twelve-year-old had a few small Band-Aids on his face from this morning’s near tragedy.
Still at the mirror, Bob glanced over the pages. “This seems fine. Doesn’t need to be the Gettysburg Address.”
The door opened tentatively and it was Ethel, looking very girlish in her pink dress and white stockings.
“Even in my own bedroom,” she said with mock annoyance, “I can’t find a little privacy.”