Someday the Rabbi Will Leave (12 page)

“It's a wonderful principle. Thank you again.”

There was no need to tell Miriam for she had been standing at his side. “Oh, David, isn't it wonderful! But I feel awful after what I said about him, because I'm sure it was all his doing.”

“Yes, I'm sure it was.”

She eyed him searchingly. “Yet, somehow you don't appear terribly pleased.”

“Oh, I am, believe me, except …”

“Except what?”

“Except that I'm not sure I haven't just been co-opted into being one of the president's men.”

18

For the week before the primaries, Laura persuaded Scofield to stay away from his law office in Salem and devote himself full-time to the campaign. Early every morning she had him down at the railroad station—either in Revere or Lynn—distributing cards to the commuters going in to Boston. He would approach them on the platform with hand outstretched and say, “Hello. I'm Jack Scofield, candidate for the Republican nomination for state senator. I'd appreciate your support.” Then he'd give them one of his campaign cards with his picture and the slogan underneath, “Let's keep things the way they are.”

Most of the time, the people addressed merely nodded or mumbled something and took the card, only to drop it surreptitiously when they thought he wasn't looking. At first he found it disheartening, when the train pulled out, to see how many cards were littering the platform. But he got over it after a while.

And sometimes, someone would say, “I was planning to vote for you,” in which case he would give the hand a little squeeze and say, “Thanks, and please tell your friends.” On rare occasions, someone would say, “Sorry, but I'm voting for Cash (Or Baggio).” In those cases, Laura had taught him to say, “He's a good man. As long as we get a Republican in. That's the main thing.”

“If he says he's a Democrat, don't argue with him,” she instructed. “Just offer him the card and say, ‘In case you change your mind, I'd appreciate your support,' and let it go at that. Whatever you do, don't argue. You won't change anybody's mind and you'll be wasting time, losing the chance to speak to someone else. And keep moving. Don't stand in one place waiting for people to approach. Go after them.”

After that, they went to the supermarkets and shopping centers. Here, the technique was a little different. “They'll be mostly women,” she pointed out. “So you don't hold out your hand unless they offer theirs. You just give them the card. And try to approach them as they're entering the store, not when they're leaving and loaded down with bundles. And for God's sakes, keep moving. Don't get stalled.”

“What do you mean, stalled?”

She gave him a curious look. “Some of these gals can be on the hungry side—emotionally.”

Scofield was tempted to say—lightly, jokingly—that he himself was on the hungry side emotionally, but he hesitated and the opportunity was lost. The truth was that he was a little in awe of her. She was so assured, so self-possessed, so—so rich. He thought of the girls he had taken out at school or picked up in bars, as chicks or broads, and his interest in them was primarily sexual. But Laura was a lady. Laura was class. Of course, if he were to win the election …

The first couple of days she chauffeured him around in her car just to make sure he got there, and to watch and then give her opinion of his performance. In the evenings she scheduled meetings for him, sometimes two or three for the same evening. These were brief visits to people's houses, where he would make a little speech, answer a few questions, and then, in response to a signal from her, say, “I'm sorry, folks, but I'm on a tight schedule.” He would smile and nod in her direction, “The boss is signaling me and I've got to run.” He would drive to those meetings in his own car with the sign on the roof because, as she explained, “It does a lot of good to have your car seen outside some of these homes.”

As the campaign drew to a close, Scofield was concerned about their lack of an organization. “These other guys, they've got people to stand around each of the precincts to hand out cards, and to drive people to the polls.”

“Well, so have we,” she assured him.

“We have? Where'd we get them?”

“I was able to sell the Barnard's Crossing Republican Committee a bill of goods,” she replied airily. “I pointed out the obvious, that you were the only local person running. In theory they're supposed to be neutral until the Republican candidate is picked in the primaries, but I convinced them that it would be to their advantage if you should win. I also contacted Josiah Bradley, the former senator, or rather his people, and they contacted some of their supporters. Don't worry, we'll have troops to man the precinct stations.”

He looked at her in wonder. “You know, I never thought of that.”

“You're not supposed to,” she assured him. “That's what a campaign manager is supposed to do. All you have to do is run.”

“Like a racehorse with you as my jockey, huh?”

She smiled. “Something like that.”

On Saturday before election day, Laura received in the mail a leaflet issued by The Committee of Concerned Citizens. It showed a badly reproduced photograph of a group of six men, seated at what appeared to be the head table at a banquet. Five were named, and below each name was a note to the effect that he had been indicted or convicted of a major crime. The sixth, unmistakably Thomas Baggio, was not named but circled. Below the photograph ran the single line: “Do You Care?”

She drummed on the desk with her fingers as she studied it. When Scofield came in, she showed it to him. “Have you seen one of these? It came in this morning's mail.”

He looked at it and said, “That's Tommy Baggio, isn't it?”

“No doubt about it, and it's dirty pool. Have you ever heard of The Committee of Concerned Citizens?”

He shook his head slowly.

“Neither have I,” she said, “and if there were such a committee, I'm sure I would have. It's obviously a phony.”

“Who do you suppose put it out?”

“Maybe Al Cash's people.” She stooped to retrieve the envelope from the wastebasket. “Postmarked Revere. Or it could be one of Baggio's political enemies in his own town. With the election Tuesday, the poor devil can't do much about it, either. Even if he tries to arrange a press conference for his denial, it probably wouldn't get into the local papers until Tuesday. I doubt whether Boston papers would bother with it at all.”

“But it's a photograph, and pictures don't lie.”

“What difference does that make?” she demanded. “This was probably some sort of benefit or testimonial. Baggio is a pol. He must get invited to all kinds of affairs of this kind. Somebody says to him, ‘So-and-so just got out of the hospital, or is getting a new job on the West Coast, or has just been elected president of the Left-handed Salesmen Association, and we're giving him a benefit. Can you come and say a few words?' So he goes, says a few words of greeting, has his picture taken, and he leaves. From his point of view, there are people there who vote, and that's enough reason for going.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean.”

A sudden thought came to her. “Sa—ay, we should do something about this.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, we can't just ignore it. We've got to take a position on it. It might even do us some good. I tell you what, we'll repudiate it. You will issue a statement saying you deplore this kind of politics, and you believe—no, you are certain that Thomas Baggio is an honorable man. I'll call the local papers right away. Maybe we can get into the Monday paper.”

He considered for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, let's do it. Write up a statement and we can give it to them over the phone.”

19

Millie Hanson laid out half a dozen strips of sizzling bacon on a paper towel, placed another towel over them, and patted them dry. She put three strips on each plate beside the French toast, hesitated, and then transferred one of the strips to the other plate. Bacon was fattening and she had to watch her figure. She brought the two plates to the table and set the one with four strips in front of Tony.

“Thanks, Baby. Geez, I'm starved.” After spreading out his paper napkin, he reached for the bottle of maple syrup and liberally doused his French toast. “What time did you get in last night?”

“After two. You know Saturday nights.”

“Busy, huh?”

“Boy, was it! For a while they were running me ragged. Hey, I saw that guy. He was with a couple of other guys—”

“What guy was that, Baby?”

“You know, the guy whose picture was in the paper. You remember. You had a picture of a bunch of hoods at a banquet and one of them had his picture in the paper you said was running for something.”

“Baggio? Tommy Baggio?”

“Yeah, they were calling him Tommy.”

“You sure it was him?”

“Oh sure. He looked just like the picture in the paper.”

“Recognize anyone else?”

“There was a redhead they called Mike. He's been in before. That's the only one.”

“Kind of squinty eyes? That's Mike Springer, his campaign manager. Did you happen to hear what they were talking about?” he asked casually.

“They were talking kind of quiet-like, almost whispering. And when I'd come over to serve them their drinks, they'd stop talking. But then after they'd had a few, they weren't so careful, and once I heard this redhead say, ‘So how'd they get the picture?' And this Baggio character said, ‘I tell you it's a frame. I swear I was never even there.'”

“That's all you heard?”

“I told you we were busy. I was running back and forth to the bar. I had all the booths on the left and three tables, and they kept me hopping. I got snatches, mostly about some Election Commission. And once I heard Baggio say he was going to put the boots to his brother-in-law. Do you suppose that's the guy that framed him? His brother-inlaw?”

Tony raised his shoulders in expressive denial of any knowledge. “These Revere pols, who knows? They'd frame their own mother.”

A thought occurred to her. “You didn't have anything to do with it, did you Tony?”

“Me? What gave you that idea?”

“Well, there was that picture you took, and they were talking about a picture—”

“Listen, Baby”—Tony's face was hard—“forget about the picture I showed you. All right?”

“Sure. You know me. But—”

“No buts. Just forget you ever saw it.” He smiled. “It's like this. That picture, five or ten guys must have got it. I bet there were ten or twenty guys had cameras. I told you it was a strictly stag benefit and there was entertainment promised. So everybody expected broads and some of them came prepared. When they saw there were no broads, they began snapping pictures all over the place. So let's say one of these guys tries to put the bite on Baggio, or say he goes to someone who doesn't like Baggio and thinks the guy might want to give him the leg—”

“Not you, Tony. You wouldn't, would you?”

“Me? I don't play in a hick town like Revere.”

“Because working in a nightclub, you hear things. And I wouldn't want to spend all my spare time for the next few months taking care of some guy who's had both his legs broken.”

“Baby!” He spread his arms in token of innocence and candor. “You heard them say something about a picture. So, more like it was a picture of him taken in some motel with a floozie who wasn't his wife. It's got nothing to do with us. So, how's about you pouring me another cup of coffee and just forgetting all about it?”

20

“Can I have the car, Dad?”

The rabbi looked at his son in surprise. “On a Monday night?”

“He's got to see Alice,” Hepsibah volunteered. “She called him.”

“Ma!” Jonathon's protest manifested long-suffering annoyance.

“How many times have I told you, Hepsibah?” Miriam was plaintive rather than angry.

“It's not a date,” Jonathon explained. “It's like an assignment for my Political Process course.”

“What kind of assignment?” asked the rabbi suspiciously.

“Well, you know, it's the night before the primaries. So there's a couple of rallies downtown. And Mr. Cronin said we ought to go, and then we're going to talk about it in class, and maybe even have like a test.”

“I didn't realize the election was tomorrow,” said Rabbi Small. “Where are the rallies going to be held?”

“Well, there's the big one at the town hall. And then they put up like a platform at the end of Main Street. So I guess there'll be another one there.”

“That might be interesting,” said the rabbi. “Maybe I'll go with you.”

“I want to go, too,” said Hepsibah.

“No,” said the rabbi automatically.

“No,” said Miriam. “You've got homework to do, Sibah, and I want you in bed early. You were up late last night.”

“Nothing doing,” said Jonathon. “I'm not going to have that pest hanging on to me.”

So around half-past seven, the rabbi and Jonathon left their house on Maple Street. And in response to Jonathon's “Can I drive?,” the rabbi handed over the keys and took the passenger seat.

“Drive down Main to Foster,” he directed. “There's sure to be a space there. We can walk from there.”

They found a parking place and set out for the town hall, which was about a hundred yards beyond. But as they approached their destination, Jonathon said, “You want to go to the town hall, Dad? I figured on going to the other place for a while. Why don't I meet you afterwards?”

The rabbi hesitated. He assumed Jonathon had arranged to meet his friends at the rally on the platform. “All right,” he said. “But as soon as the rally there is over, you come to the town hall. Or better still, let's plan on meeting here at the town hall at ten—”