Big Money (65 page)

They ate in some confusion because Mr. Bingham kept sending back the dishes, and flew into a towering passion because the cabbage was overcooked and the raw carrots weren't ripe and cursed and swore at the waiters and finally sent for the manager. About all they'd had was potatosoup and boiled onions sprinkled with hazelnuts and peanutbutter spread on wholewheat bread, all washed down with Coca-Cola, when two young men appeared with a microphone from N.B.C. for E. R. Bingham to broadcast his eighto'clock health talk. He was suddenly smiling and hearty again and Mrs. Bingham reappeared from the bedroom to which she'd retreated crying, with her hands over her ears not to hear the old man's foul language. She came back with her eyes red and a little bottle of smellingsalts in her hand, just in time to be chased out of the room again. E. R. Bingham roared that women distracted his attention from the mike, but he made Dick stay and listen to his broadcast on health and diet and exercise hints and to the announcement of the annual crosscountry hike from Washington to Louisville sponsored by
Rugged Health
, the Bingham Products houseorgan, which he was going to lead in person for the first three days, just to set the pace for the youngsters, he said.

After the broadcast Mrs. Bingham and the girls came in all rouged and powdered up wearing diamond earrings and pearl necklaces and chinchilla coats. They invited Dick and the radio young men to go to Keith's with them but Dick explained that he had work to do. Before Mrs. Bingham left she made Dick promise to come to visit them at their home in Eureka. “You come and spend a month, young feller,” boomed E. R. Bingham, interrupting her. “We'll make a man of you out there. The first week orangejuice and high irrigations, massage, rest. . . . After that we build you up with crackedwheat and plenty of milk and cream, a little boxing or trackwork, plenty of hiking out in the sun without a lot of stifling clothes on, and you'll come back a man, nature's richest handiwork, the paragon of animals . . . you know the lines of the immortal bard . . . and you'll have forgotten all about that unhealthy New York life that's poisoning your system. You come out, young man. . . . Well, good night. By the time I've done my deep breathing it'll be my bedtime. When I'm in Washington I get up at six every morning and break the ice in the Basin. . . . How about coming down for a little dip tomorrow? Pathe Newsreel is going to be
there. . . . It would be worth your while in your business.” Dick excused himself hastily, saying, “Another time, Mr. Bingham.”

At the Shoreham he found J.W. finishing dinner with Senator Planet and Colonel Judson, a smooth pink toadfaced man with a caressingly amiable manner. The senator got to his feet and squeezed Dick's hand warmly. “Why, boy, we expected to see you come back wearin' a tigerskin. . . . Did the old boy show you his chestexpansion?” J.W. was frowning. “Not this time, senator,” said Dick quietly.

“But, senator,” J.W. said with some impatience, evidently picking up a speech where it had been broken off, “it's the principle of the thing. Once government interference in business is established as a precedent it means the end of liberty and private initiative in this country.” “It means the beginning of red Russian bolshevistic tyranny,” added Colonel Judson with angry emphasis. Senator Planet laughed. “Aren't those rather harsh words, Joel?” “What this bill purports to do is to take the right of selfmedication from the American people. A set of lazy government employees and remittancemen will be able to tell you what laxative you may take and what not. Like all such things, it'll be in the hands of cranks and busybodies. Surely the American people have the right to choose what products they want to buy. It's an insult to the intelligence of our citizens.”

The senator tipped up an afterdinner coffeecup to get the last dregs of it. Dick noticed that they were drinking brandy out of big balloon-glasses. “Well,” said the senator slowly, “what you say may be true but the bill has a good deal of popular support and you gentlemen mustn't forget that I am not entirely a free agent in this matter. I have to consult the wishes of my constituents . . .” “As I look at it,” interrupted Colonel Judson, “all these socalled pure food and drug bills are class legislation in favor of the medical profession. Naturally the doctors want us to consult them before we buy a toothbrush or a package of licorice powder.” J.W. picked up where he left off: “The tendency of the growth of scientificallyprepared proprietary medicine has been to make the layman free and selfsufficient, able to treat many minor ills without consulting a physician.” The senator finished his brandy without answering.

“Bowie,” said Colonel Judson, reaching for the bottle and pouring out some more. “You know as well as I do that the plain people of your state don't want their freedom of choice curtailed by any Washington snoopers and busybodies. . . . And we've got the money and
the organization to be of great assistance in your campaign. Mr. Moorehouse is about to launch one of the biggest educational drives the country has ever seen to let the people know the truth about proprietary medicines, both in the metropolitan and the rural districts. He will roll up a great tidal wave of opinion that Congress will have to pay attention to. I've seen him do it before.”

“Excellent brandy,” said the senator. “Fine Armagnac has been my favorite for years.” He cleared his throat and took a cigar from a box in the middle of the table and lit it in a leisurely fashion. “I've been much criticized of late, by irresponsible people of course, for what they term my reactionary association with big business. You know the demagogic appeal.”

“It is particularly at a time like this that an intelligentlyrun organization can be of most use to a man in public life,” said Colonel Judson earnestly. Senator Planet's black eyes twinkled and he passed a hand over the patch of spiky black hair that had fallen over his low forehead, leaving a segment of the top of his head bald. “I guess it comes down to how much assistance will be forthcoming,” he said, getting to his feet. “The parallelogram of forces.”

The other men got to their feet too. The senator flicked the ash from his cigar. “The force of public opinion, senator,” said J.W. portentously. “That is what we have to offer.” “Well, Mr. Moorehouse, you must excuse me, I have some speeches to prepare. . . . This has been most delightful. . . . Dick, you must come to dinner while you're in Washington. We've been missing you at our little dinners. . . . Goodnight, Joel, see you tomorrow.” J.W.'s valet was holding the senator's furlined overcoat for him. “Mr. Bingham,” said J.W., “is a very publicspirited man, senator, he's willing to spend a very considerable sum of money.” “He'll have to,” said the senator.

After the door had closed on Senator Planet the rest of them sat silent a moment. Dick poured himself a glass of the Armagnac. “Well, Mr. Bingham don't need to worry,” said Colonel Judson. “But it's going to cost him money. Bowie an' his friends are just trying to raise the ante. You know I can read 'em like a book. . . . After all, I been around this town for fifteen years.”

“It's humiliating and absurd that legitimate business should have to stoop to such methods,” said J.W.

“Sure, J.W., you took the words right out of my mouth. . . . If you want my opinion, what we need is a strong man in this country to
send all these politicians packing. . . . Don't think I don't know 'em. . . . But this little dinnerparty has been very valuable. You are a new element in the situation. . . . A valuable air of dignity, you know. . . . Well, goodnight.”

J.W. was already standing with his hand outstretched, his face white as paper. “Well, I'll be running along,” said Colonel Judson. “You can assure your client that that bill will never pass. . . . Take a good night's rest, Mr. Moorehouse. . . . Goodnight, Captain Savage. . . .” Colonel Judson patted both J.W. and Dick affectionately on the shoulder with his two hands in the same gesture. Chewing his cigar he eased out of the door leaving a broad smile behind him and a puff of rank blue smoke.

Dick turned to J.W. who had sunk down in a red plush chair. “Are you sure you're feeling all right, J.W.?” “It's just a little indigestion,” J.W. said in a weak voice, his face twisted with pain, gripping the arms of the chair with both hands. “Well, I guess we'd better all turn in,” said Dick. “But, J.W., how about getting a doctor in to take a look at you in the morning?” “We'll see, goodnight,” said J.W., talking with difficulty with his eyes closed.

Dick had just got to sleep when a knocking on his door woke him with a start. He went to the door in his bare feet. It was Morton, J.W.'s elderly cockney valet. “Beg pardon, sir, for waking you, sir,” he said. “I'm worried about Mr. Moorehouse, sir. Dr. Gleason's with him. . . . I'm afraid it's a heart attack. He's in pain something awful, sir.” Dick put on his purple silk bathrobe and his slippers and ran into the drawingroom of the suite where he met the doctor. “This is Mr. Savage, sir,” said the valet. The doctor was a greyhaired man with a grey mustache and a portentous manner. He looked Dick fiercely in the eye as he spoke: “Mr. Moorehouse must be absolutely quiet for some days. It's a very light angina pectoris . . . not serious this time but a thorough rest for a few months is indicated. He ought to have a thorough physical examination . . . talk him into it in the morning. I believe you are Mr. Moorehouse's business partner, aren't you, Mr. Savage?” Dick blushed. “I'm one of Mr. Moorehouse's collaborators.” “Take as much off his shoulders as you can.” Dick nodded. He went back to his room and lay on his bed the rest of the night without being able to sleep.

In the morning when Dick went in to see him J.W. was sitting up in bed propped up with pillows. His face was a rumpled white and he
had violet shadows under his eyes. “Dick, I certainly gave myself a scare.” J.W.'s voice was weak and shaking, it made Dick feel almost tearful to hear it. “Well, what about the rest of us?” “Well, Dick, I'm afraid I'm going to have to dump E. R. Bingham and a number of other matters on your shoulders. . . . And I've been thinking that perhaps I ought to change the whole capital structure of the firm. What would you think of Moorehouse, Griscolm and Savage?” “I think it would be a mistake to change the name, J.W. After all J. Ward Moorehouse is a national institution.”

J.W.'s voice quavered up a little stronger. He kept having to clear his throat. “I guess you're right, Dick,” he said. “I'd like to hold on long enough to give my boys a start in life.”

“What do you want to bet you wear a silk hat at my funeral, J.W.? In the first place it may have been an attack of acute indigestion just as you thought. We can't go on merely one doctor's opinion. What would you think of a little trip to the Mayo clinic? All you need's a little overhauling, valves ground, carburetor adjusted, that sort of thing. . . . By the way, J.W., we wouldn't want Mr. Bingham to discover that a mere fifteenthousandayear man was handling his sacred proprietary medicines, would we?”

J.W. laughed weakly. “Well, we'll see about that. . . . I think you'd better go on down to New York this morning and take charge of the office. Miss Williams and I will hold the fort here. . . . She's sour as a pickle but a treasure, I tell you.”

“Hadn't I better stick around until we've had a specialist look you over?”

“Dr. Gleason filled me up with dope of some kind so that I'm pretty comfortable. I've wired my sister Hazel, she teaches school over in Wilmington, she's the only one of the family I've seen much of since the old people died. . . . She'll be over this afternoon. It's her Christmas vacation.”

“Did Morton get you the opening quotations?”

“Skyrocketing. . . . Never saw anything like it. . . . But do you know, Dick, I'm going to sell out and lay on my oars for a while. . . . It's funny how an experience like this takes the heart out of you.”

“You and Paul Warburg,” said Dick.

“Maybe it's old age,” said J.W. and closed his eyes for a minute. His face seemed to be collapsing into a mass of grey and violet wrinkles as Dick looked.

“Well, take it easy, J.W.,” said Dick and tiptoed out of the room.

He caught the eleveno'clock train and got to the office in time to straighten things out. He told everybody that J.W. had a light touch of grippe and would be in bed for a few days. There was so much work piled up that he gave Miss Hilles his secretary a dollar for her supper and asked her to come back at eight. For himself he had some sandwiches and a carton of coffee sent up from a delicatessen. It was midnight before he got through. In the empty halls of the dim building he met two rusty old women coming with pails and scrubbingbrushes to clean the office. The night elevatorman was old and pastyfaced. Snow had fallen and turned to slush and gave Lexington Avenue a black gutted look like a street in an abandoned village. A raw wind whipped his face and ears as he turned uptown. He thought of the apartment on Fiftysixth Street full of his mother's furniture, the gilt chairs in the front room, all the dreary objects he'd known as a small boy, the
Stag at Bay
and the engravings of the Forum Romanorum in his room, the birdseyemaple beds; he could see it all sharply as if he was there as he turned into the wind. Bad enough when his mother was there, but when she was in St. Augustine, frightful. “God damn it, it's time I was making enough money to reorganize my life,” he said to himself.

He jumped into the first taxi he came to and went to “63.” It was warm and cozy in “63.” As she helped him off with his coat and muffler the platinumhaired checkgirl carried on an elaborate kidding that had been going on all winter about how he was going to take her to Miami and make her fortune at the races at Hialeah. Then he stood a second peering through the doorway into the low room full of wellgroomed heads tables glasses cigarettesmoke spiraling in front of the pink lights. He caught sight of Pat Doolittle's black bang. There she was sitting in the alcove with Reggie and Jo. The Italian waiter ran up rubbing his hands. “Good evening, Mr. Savage, we've been missing you.” “I've been in Washington.” “Cold down there?” “Oh, kind of medium,” said Dick and slipped into the redleather settee opposite Pat. “Well, look who we have with us,” she said. “I thought you were busy poisoning the American public under the dome of the Capitol.”