The Hellfire Club(33)
“Dr. Wertham is a good man. I had lunch with him last week in New York.”
“Sir, have you read this book?”
“Read it?” asked Kefauver. “I helped pay for it. Steered federal funding so he could diagnose this scourge. My God, Charlie, when Hendrickson and I started the Subcommittee on Juvenile Delinquency last year, we had Dr. Wertham in mind the whole time. Something has got to be done about this epidemic, even if we just shine a spotlight on it, like I did with organized crime.”
Charlie was silent. The muscle that kept him from expressing his thoughts and principles was getting quite a workout. Kefauver pointed at a framed magazine article hanging on the wall to Charlie’s right.
“Read that,” Kefauver ordered. “It’s from Life.”
Charlie obediently stood and examined it.
The week of March 12, 1951, will occupy a special place in history, the article read. The U.S. and the world had never experienced anything like it…Never before had the attention of the nation been so completely riveted on a single matter. The Senate investigation into interstate crime was almost the sole subject of national conversation.
“Impressive, sir,” Charlie said, “but—”
“Charlie, do you know how many people watched Frank Costello testify before my committee?” Kefauver asked. “Thirty million. That’s even more than watched your Yankees win the World Series.” He smiled, a big, goofy cornball grin, so wide and uninhibited that his molars were almost visible. “Now, you’re no Mickey Mantle, Charlie, but you might have a chance at becoming the next best thing!”
Chapter Ten
Saturday, February 27, 1954
Georgetown, Washington, DC
For the first time in weeks, Charlie found himself facing a Saturday and Sunday with no work plans—no receptions or cocktail parties, no hearing preparation or research—so he was determined to make the weekend enjoyable for him and Margaret. On Saturday morning he surprised her with breakfast in bed—toast, eggs, bacon, coffee—though her lingering morning sickness meant most of her bites and sips were in the name of love, not hunger. He settled next to her on the bed and opened up Friday’s Washington Star. “Should we see a movie?” In New York they saw films so often, it didn’t matter which one they picked on any given night since odds were they’d see another within the week. But since moving to Washington, they hadn’t been to the cinema once.
Margaret nodded but patted her still-small belly and said, “I’m asserting my right to pregnancy-veto.”
Charlie rolled his eyes playfully and checked the listings.
“How to Marry a Millionaire,” Charlie read.
“That’s with”—Margaret paused and then whispered breathlessly—“Marilyn Monroe?” She put her finger on her lips, widened her eyes: Baby girl so confused!
“All right, all right,” Charlie said, smiling, well aware of Margaret’s aversion to Miss Cheesecake 1951—an aversion he didn’t share, but now was not the time to press the issue. He glanced at the next ad. “Hondo, starring John Wayne.”
“Ugh,” she said. Two years before, Wayne’s Big Jim McLain depicted him as a heroic agent of the House Un-American Activities Committee, with cameos by actual HUAC members; ever since, Margaret had considered him a propaganda puppet of the more jingoistic drum majors in the U.S. Congress.
“The Wild One with Brando, that’s a no,” he announced. Charlie found Brando, and indeed the whole belly-scratching, teeth-picking Method-acting school, mumbly and contrived. “What’s A Lion Is in the Streets about? Cagney’s in it.”
“I think it’s about a crooked politician.”
“No politics, thank you,” Charlie said. “The Robe with Richard Burton?”
Margaret leaned closer to Charlie and looked at the ad. “Looks religious,” she said. “Let’s see something fun; we can do piety and suffering some other time.”
That left Roman Holiday, a romantic comedy with Gregory Peck and a newcomer named Audrey Hepburn.
Margaret was not only excited to get out of the house but touched by Charlie’s effort. Both on their best behavior, later that evening, after a lazy, comfy day at home, they walked hand in hand to the nearby cinema. They’d opted for the Calvert Theater, a classic movie house with luxurious and spacious seating. He put his arm around her as soon as the Paramount Pictures mountain logo appeared on the screen, and she accepted it, nestling into his chest.
He patted her tummy.
“I’m glad the rabbit died,” he whispered.
“That’s such a strange saying,” she whispered back. “The rabbit dies no matter what. They inject my urine into the bunny; a few days later they open the bunny to inspect her ovaries.”
“Bunny dies either way?”
“Bunny dies either way.”
They enjoyed the film, though they agreed that the what-might-have-been ending was unsatisfying. Charlie didn’t mention to Margaret that he’d grown a bit uncomfortable at the moral dilemma presented to the Gregory Peck character, who opts to do the noble thing; was Charlie choosing the same path? But he’d shaken off the discomfort and lost himself in the charm of the film. Afterward they retreated to Martin’s Tavern, a small Italian bistro on Wisconsin Avenue, where they ordered veal piccata and a carafe of Chianti.