“Somebody shortstopped it,” I said.
“Yeah. Not intentionally, but nevertheless it fell between the cracks somewhere. Well, I started getting a howl from here and a squeal from there and so I asked our guy who’s supposedly our liaison with labor what the hell’s going on. He fished the kid’s report out from between the cracks, dusted it off, and tried to pass it off to me as being freshly written. Well, it looked grim, but what the hell, everything looks grim in a campaign like this. But something about the report bothered me so I asked to see the person who’d written it.”
The Candidate ran a hand through his hair that had a lot more grey in it than it did eight years before. “Well, the kid comes in and despite the fact that nobody’s encouraged him to, he’s prepared an update on his previous report. And the update doesn’t look grim, it looks like the blueprint for an unmitigated disaster. If the kid’s information is right, the public employees of ten of the largest cities in the country will go on strike during the first week in September which I don’t have to tell you is just two months away from November second, a date that’s of some importance to me and mine. How’s that jibe with what you’ve got, Harvey?”
“Pretty well,” I said, “except that I think it’s going to be twelve cities rather than ten.”
“Christ,” the Candidate said. “What’s your source?”
“I just got in from St. Louis. There’s going to be a strike in St. Louis unless I’m very much mistaken. They’ve locked themselves into their position and they won’t budge. Or so I’m told.”
“What do they want?”
“For starters, a four-day week. For dessert, a twenty percent pay raise.”
The Candidate looked at Corsing. “Did you know about this?”
Corsing nodded. “Some of it,” he said. “Not the details though.”
“What about elsewhere?” the Candidate asked me.
“There seems to be a pattern. After Arch Mix disappeared the union hired two hundred new guys and gave them International Organizers as their title.”
“Two hundred?”
“Two hundred,” I said. “They fanned out over the country and the first thing they did was dump the local union leadership in the dozen big cities that I mentioned. Money seems to be no problem. They bribed and bought where they had to and if that didn’t work, they used muscle. From what I saw in St. Louis, they’re a pretty mean bunch. Once they had the local leadership dumped, bribed, or intimidated, they took over the negotiations. Except that they don’t really want a settlement, they want a strike.”
The Candidate nodded. “You’re sure about the bribes and the muscle?”
“I’m positive about it in St. Louis. Somebody else is checking it out in Chicago, Philadelphia, New York and probably Baltimore. He’s due back tomorrow.”
“Do I know him?”
“Uh-huh, you know him. It’s Ward Murfin.”
The Candidate started to say something else, but before he could the door opened and a young woman of about twenty-two came in carrying a large tray that was covered with a white cloth. Shepherding her across the room was Jack, the pale young man with the slightly glazed look.
She set the tray down on the table and then spread a white linen cloth. The Candidate, ever mindful of every vote, said, “How’re you today, June?”
The young woman smiled and said, “Just fine, sir.”
She served the two beers to Corsing and me and the Tab to the Candidate. Then she whisked away the cloth that covered the tray. Lunch, I saw, was going to consist of three McDonald’s Big Mac hamburgers. With french fries.
The Candidate served us himself. Then he took a big bite out of his hamburger. Once he was chewing properly June and Jack left. I took a swallow of beer.
Before taking another bite of his hamburger, the Candidate said, “I talked to Meany.”
“What’d he say?” Corsing asked.
“He said it’s a question of autonomy. That was on the record. Off the record, he said that the AFL–CIO’s relations, meaning his, hadn’t been too good with the PEU when Arch Mix was there and now that he’s disappeared, they’re even worse. He said that there wasn’t anything he could do unless he received a specific complaint, which he hasn’t, and even if he did he wasn’t sure that he could do anything to keep them from going out.”
“If he did anything, the PEU might take a walk,” I said. “That would mean that the AFL–CIO would lose its fastest-growing union. Ninety thousand new members a year, the last I heard.”
“That won’t happen,” the Candidate said. “Well, after I talked to Meany I got hold of one of our guys who used to have pretty good connections with the PEU. Excellent connections, in fact. So he went down to see this new guy that’s taken over — the black guy — uh—”
“Gallops,” I said.
“That’s right, Gallops. Warner B. Gallops. Well, as I was saying, this guy who supposedly was in tight with the PEU went down to see Gallops to ask what the hell was going on and to point out that if they struck the ten biggest cities in the country, then I’m going to be stone cold dead on November second.”
“What’d Gallops say?” I said and took a bite of my hamburger. It was cold.
“Well, he said something and then he did something,” the Candidate said. “First — and I think I’m quoting accurately now — he told my guy, ‘It’s none of your fucking business what we do,’ and then he threw him out on his ass.”
“Literally?” Corsing asked.
“Close enough.”
I took a bite of one of my french fries. It was cold, too. “You’re in trouble,” I said.
The Candidate nodded, put what was left of his Big Mac down, wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, and took a folded sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket. He unfolded it and put on a pair of glasses. I noticed that they were bifocals. “This is the latest poll,” he said. “The private one. Right now we’re running forty-six forty-four with twelve percent undecided. I’ve got the forty-four. That means I’m up one percent from last week. They say we’re going to peak the last week in October. That’d be just about right, wouldn’t it, Harvey?”
“It would be perfect,” I said.
“But if Gallops pulls off these strikes, we’re not going to have to worry about peaking, are we?”
“No,” I said, “if he does that you can start writing your concession speech. Maybe something witty and poignant like Stevenson had in ’52.”
The Candidate stuck a fistful of french fries into his mouth and chewed rapidly. He seemed hungry or maybe he found food a comfort and a solace. Many do. Still chewing he looked at Corsing and then at me.
“I don’t have to tell you what the reaction to these strikes would be, do I?” he said and then went on before we could say yes or no. “I don’t have to describe how the voters feel about strikes by teachers and cops and garbage collectors and hospital workers and what have you. And I don’t have to tell you what frame of mind the voters are going to be in on November second if they haven’t had their garbage picked up in two months, or worse — much worse — maybe they’ve had a friend or relative die because there wasn’t enough help to go around in a hospital. Or maybe their kid, or the neighbor’s kid, got hit by a car at a school crossing because there wasn’t anybody there to help him across the street because whoever was supposed to be there was out on strike. I don’t have to tell you who they’re going to vote for if something like that happens, do I?”
“No,” I said, “you don’t.”
“I’ll tell you anyhow,” he said. “In the big cities they’ll vote us out and them in.”