The Hellfire Club(42)
LaMontagne turned around without answering and walked away down the hall. Charlie shook his head in disbelief.
“What was all that about?”
Charlie turned; Isaiah Street emerged from around a corner of the hallway, where apparently he’d heard the exchange.
“You know how once you get this job, everybody wants something from you?” Charlie asked as the two proceeded down the four flights of stairs.
“You bet,” said Street. “Everybody from the Speaker to my aunt Estelle. So?” Street prompted as they both stopped on the second floor to light cigarettes. “What’s LaMontagne after you for?”
“He wanted me to provide the McCarthy Committee with some pretty damning information about one of his business competitors.”
“And is the competitor a Red?”
Charlie shrugged as he put away his German lighter. “Dunno. Maybe. I was supposed to give it to Bob Kennedy. Three weeks ago.”
“Just taking your time.”
“I don’t know why I was waiting so long.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Yes, I do.”
Cigarettes in hand, they proceeded down the stairs.
“Listen, speaking of requests, I was just about to make one of you,” Street said. “I want you to use your Manhattan connections to block permitting on a General Kinetics factory they’re trying to build in Harlem. Civil rights activists in New York are making this a national cause, so I’m getting heat back home too.”
“They want to stop it? They don’t want the jobs? I can’t imagine Congressman Powell trying to stop any employment opportunities in Harlem.”
“No, you’re right. Powell isn’t on board with me here.”
“So why are you and the civil rights activists opposed?”
“It’s a chemical plant, Charlie. Vinyl chloride.”
Charlie looked at him blankly.
“Have you ever heard of Mossville, Louisiana?”
“Where?”
The two exited the House Office Building, where tourists were gathering, many living up to their stereotype in gaudy and inappropriately casual dress, Pentax cameras hanging like albatrosses around the necks of the dads. In an apparent show of force in the wake of the shooting, two Capitol Police officers stood at the corner; they nodded at Charlie and ignored Street. A chill remained in the air, for which the coatless congressmen braced themselves, but the sun was blinding, and spring had unmistakably arrived.
They stopped at the crosswalk of Independence Avenue, where the driver of a red convertible Mustang honked at them. It took them a second to realize it was Strongfellow; he stopped his car even though he had a green light. “Hey, boys!” he shouted. “You coming tonight?” Other cars began steering around him on the four-lane road, some honking angrily. The Capitol Police ignored the transgression.
“How on earth can you afford those wheels?” Street asked him.
“Rights to my life story paid for it,” Strongfellow said. “What do you think of James Dean for the movie?”
“As the car?” Charlie quipped.
“Har-de-har-har,” Strongfellow said. A dairy-truck driver shook a fist out his window as he leaned on his horn, while more cars backed up behind him. Strongfellow maneuvered his way closer to the curb, making it only slightly easier for anyone to pass him. “I was going to call you, Charlie, to make sure you’re coming tonight.”
“To what?” Charlie asked.
“Party in Connie Hilton’s suite at the Mayflower. Invitation only. Black tie.”
“Hilton’s throwing a party?” asked Charlie. “What for?”
“Let me guess,” said Street, knowing that he wasn’t invited for obvious reasons. “For reauthorizing the Mexican migrant workers. So he can keep paying pennies to his hotel maids and kitchen staff.”
“Winner!” shouted Strongfellow, cheerfully oblivious to the traffic chaos he was still causing. A moving-van driver blared his horn, leaning out his window and cursing at Strongfellow. It was tough to make out every word of the explosive monologue but certain terms were loud and clear. Charlie wondered how long Strongfellow might sit there tying up traffic, since law enforcement seemed uninterested in the matter. Strongfellow ignored it all completely.
“Bill got through the Senate and is now on its way to Ike,” he said. “I’m not exactly sure who’s throwing the party. Some club that Carlin is a member of? Hey—did you hear Senator Lehman claimed that a hundred Commies cross the Mexican border every day?”
“A hundred a day?” asked Charlie as another car honked at Strongfellow; Charlie felt slightly embarrassed to be part of this spectacle of entitlement. “Where does a claim like that even come from?”
“One’s nether regions, I suppose,” said Strongfellow.
“And Humphrey backed him,” said Street. “He said the Reds have one of their strongest infiltration programs out of Mexico.”
“Mexico?” asked Charlie incredulously.
“Kennedy voted against the braceros bill,” Street said. “Kefauver too. Big labor flexing some muscle.”
A heavy-duty Mack truck pulled up behind Strongfellow, and its driver started pounding on the horn.
Strongfellow sighed as if to say, Impatient drivers will be the death of us all, and eased his car into first gear. “So nine p.m. at the Mayflower?” Strongfellow asked as he pulled away. “See you there, Charlie.”