The Hellfire Club(90)
“It’s okay, Senator, I can answer the question,” Charlie said, secretly delighted that Gaines had taken the bait. Knowing of Gaines’s membership in the local NAACP and his outspokenness against the proposed General Kinetics plant, Charlie had had a feeling the comic-book publisher would bring a conversation about chemicals right to this very place.
“You don’t need to, Charlie,” said Kefauver.
“It’s fine, Senators. Mr. Gaines: Many of us have been working hard to prevent construction of the General Kinetics plant proposed for Harlem, precisely because of the concerns you just raised.”
Gaines was clearly unprepared for his bombshell to be defused so swiftly. He said nothing.
“In fact,” said Charlie, “as long as we’re holding this hearing to protect the well-being of the American people, I should note that I recently came into possession of a dossier that once belonged to a friend of mine, the late Congressman Chris MacLachlan.” He reached into his briefcase as the senators at the main table conferred with one another, powerless to stop Charlie given the presence of the television cameras providing live coverage. “The dossier details a number of pesticide-producing chemical plants from Maine to Utah, from California to Florida, that are either controlled or owned by General Kinetics and around which local populaces over the previous twenty years have experienced unusually high rates of cancer, nerve damage, and other severely debilitating illnesses.”
The three rows of reporters covering the hearing were fiercely taking notes while citizen observers began buzzing among themselves. Kefauver rubbed his forehead; Hendrickson’s face turned a shade of purple.
“MacLachlan was investigating this matter until he was tragically killed on March first, and on his deathbed he entrusted this information to me. This file contains memos and research proving that the pesticides being produced around the country to help this great nation grow its amber waves of grain—supported by taxpayer dollars via the farm bill I just co-sponsored—are poisoning Americans. Which explains everything from tumors in Mossville, Louisiana, to the thousands of dead sheep in Skull Valley, Utah.”
Kefauver grabbed the microphone. “Congressman Marder, I’m sure there is a more appropriate time and place for this disclosure.”
“No, sir,” said Charlie. “This is a good time, in front of these cameras, to provide the American people with the unfiltered truth.”
Hendrickson banged his gavel loudly.
“We’re going to take a break now; this hearing has veered wildly off course,” he announced. “Ten minutes. And when we return”—here he glared pointedly at Charlie—“we will address the issue for which this hearing was called.”
The audience groaned. “How is this not the people’s business?” shouted a reporter from the back bench. Hendrickson didn’t respond and stood to leave.
Charlie grabbed his papers and rushed through the crowd and out the door. Pale journalists sporting fedoras and loud ties hounded Charlie down the hall and out the courthouse door like dogs pursuing a fox, seemingly oblivious to the pouring rain, shouting after him for copies of the documents he had wielded, for more information about General Kinetics, for a second of his time for an interview. He ignored them all and hopped into a black sedan idling in front of the courthouse steps. The driver, his father’s chauffeur, smoothly and swiftly swerved away from the curb before the reporters could begin rapping on the windows.
Charlie took a moment. The first blow had been struck. Now he needed to figure out how best to release all the damning information MacLachlan had dug up about the chemical plants—and find a path to escape the retaliation that would inevitably be coming his way.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Wednesday, April 21, 1954—Afternoon
New York City / Susquehannock Island, Maryland
The White Horse Tavern stood at the corner of Hudson and Eleventh Streets in the West Village. Inside huddled beatniks and musicians, Columbia grad students and NYU coeds and self-styled working-class poets, all of them enveloped in a San Francisco fog of cigarette smoke. Each new arrival was announced by the ringing of a bell hanging above the door, followed by the sounds and winds of the thunderstorm barreling through Manhattan. The room reeked of soaking-wet clothing and hair. It was afternoon, but it might as well have been two a.m., given the carousing and degree of inebriation in the crowd. In the back, on a stage illuminated by one hanging lightbulb, a disheveled, hirsute young man in a corduroy jacket was reciting a poem he’d written; he paused to let the room appreciate his rhyme of ghetto and Geppetto.
Charlie was at the White Horse for one simple reason, and it wasn’t its bohemian chic: the tavern was a place where he could sit and chat with a black friend without any hostile looks or comments.
“Were you followed?” Charlie asked as Isaiah Street took off his wet hat and overcoat and hung them on a hook next to their corner booth.
“Not sure,” Street said. “I might have had company on the train.”
Charlie waved down the waitress, who promptly took their orders, two bourbons on the rocks, plus club sandwiches.
“Listen, I have some great news for you,” Street said. “I mean, really great.”
“What? God, I could use some great news. Or even mediocre news. Anything other than horrible would be welcome.”