The Hellfire Club(11)
“With respect, sir, it wasn’t a stunt,” Charlie said. “Houdini did stunts. The Wallendas do stunts. I took a stand.”
Kefauver narrowed his eyes, and when he spoke again his voice had lost a degree of its earlier warmth, though he was still making an effort to sound casual. “Well, now, that’s a matter of interpretation, I suppose.” He smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Imagine that you’re a committee chairman who’s been here for decades, and some little pissant”—he saw Charlie about to object, so he amended his statement—“some freshly appointed congressman whom you perceive to be a nuisance comes along and objects to millions of dollars you’ve procured for an American company that provides thousands of jobs in congressional districts all around the nation,” Kefauver said.
“Right, I get that,” Charlie said.
“Those jobs belong to voters who are, of course, the ones who send us here,” Kefauver said. “They’re our bosses.”
“And surely our bosses would object to giving money to war profiteers who provided shoddy goods, risking and even costing the lives of our men,” Charlie said. “This is a fight I didn’t seek, sir, but to be frank, I’m stunned that any of my colleagues in Congress would challenge me on it.”
“Well, Charlie, I’m talking about the chairman of the committee and some others in leadership, and I’m quite certain they don’t think of you as a colleague. But of course you should fight for what you think is right. That’s an admirable trait, and too few of us possess it. Just know that this town isn’t built to reward it.”
“I’m starting to get that impression,” Charlie said.
Kefauver looked down at his glass. Charlie felt obliged to fill the slightly prickly silence.
“W. C. Fields,” Charlie said. “‘Always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite, and furthermore always carry a small snake.’”
Kefauver smiled. “What else shall we drink to?”
“To a real leader at the top of your party’s ticket two years from now,” Charlie said. Clink, clink. Kefauver downed the entire glass in one easy gulp.
The door to the conference room opened without warning and an older man walked in. His jowls sagged like a mastiff’s. Behind him stood one of the senator’s aides, who apparently had been trying to politely prevent the man from bursting in unannounced. Kefauver waved the aide off.
“Why, hello, Doctor,” Kefauver said, standing and extending a hand. “Congressman Marder, may I present Dr. Fredric Wertham.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, sir,” Charlie said, following Kefauver’s lead and standing to shake the doctor’s hand.
“This is the young congressman I told you about, Fredric,” Kefauver said. “His father and I are old friends.” He motioned for both men to sit down. “Charlie, I assume you’re acquainted with the groundbreaking psychiatric work Dr. Wertham has done at Bellevue and his philanthropic work with the colored people of your home city. The Lafargue Clinic—did I pronounce the name correctly, Doctor?”
“We’re in Harlem,” Wertham said, ignoring the question. “I set up the clinic just after the war, a project with Richard Wright and some others. You know Wright, I assume?”
“The writer?” asked Charlie.
“Of course,” snapped Wertham, as if it had been glaringly obvious that the only Richard Wright he might know would be the author of the acclaimed Native Son.
“Well, it’s not an uncommon name,” Charlie couldn’t help observing. “Anyway, I don’t personally know him, but the book was haunting. Could have done without the stage adaptation.”
“On that we are in agreement.” Wertham softened a bit. “In any case, Richard and I established a mental-hygiene clinic for the good people of Harlem who are unable to afford psychiatric care, not only because of the unjust capitalist system that keeps them impoverished but also because most psychiatric institutions do not admit Negroes.”
Wertham’s face had turned pink and his voice was rising. “How are we to solve the problem of crime in New York City without addressing the psychiatric needs of the very underclass committing the crimes!” He was only about three feet away from Charlie, close enough for Charlie to identify the smell on the gust of bad breath he exhaled. Tuna fish.
There was an uncomfortable silence, one Charlie filled when he suddenly remembered the first time he’d heard Wertham’s name.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Charlie said, “but weren’t you part of the defense in Albert Fish’s trial?”
Albert Fish was a child molester, a murderer, and a cannibal. He had been executed in 1936, when Charlie was sixteen.
“Yes, I testified in that trial,” Wertham said to Charlie. “What a travesty. The jury did not care in the slightest that Mr. Fish had no control over himself. His illness was just as real as if he’d had a tumor rotting his brain. And yet they punished him for his disease. The twelve boors on that jury had bloodlust just as bad as Mr. Fish’s—but their taste for flesh was the kind that society deems socially acceptable.”
“My father was on the defense team,” Charlie said. “Winston Marder?” Wertham looked at him blankly. “Anyway, admirable work for the people of New York,” Charlie said. “How can I help? What can I do?”