The Porkchoppers Read online

  Because of his looks, some of his colleagues referred to Jack Barnett as the Ronnie Reagan of the labor movement, which didn’t bother Barnett because he found his appearance to be a useful political tool, especially since nearly half of the members in his union were women. Most of his detractors, and there was no lack of them, claimed that he had screwed his way into his job, but that had never lost him any votes either.

  He had a few fetishes. He lived on fruits and nuts and raw vegetables and refused to eat meat. He did sixty-five push-ups every morning followed by one hundred sit-ups. When in Washington, he ran two miles to his office in a gray track suit. He had quit smoking and drinking on his fortieth birthday, although he had never done very much of either. He would not ride in a car manufactured by the Ford Motor Company. He bought all of his clothes from Sears, sometimes ordering them from the catalog by phone at three o’clock in the morning. He believed that someone was trying to kill him and always traveled with a bodyguard, even on his morning runs. He was a convinced socialist and a bitter anti-Communist. He liked children and had nine of his own although he wasn’t a Catholic. And he hated Donald Cubbin and sometimes wished that he would get hit by a truck.

  They had been friends once back in the early days of the CIO when they had both been young, handsome, and still a little awed by how far they had come so fast. There was no one incident that had caused the rift. As they both had acquired power and prestige, they gradually grew suspicious of each other’s maneuverings and jealous of each other’s triumphs. They were simply natural rivals for some never defined prize.

  On September 12, a Tuesday, at three minutes till eleven, Donald Cubbin, accompanied by his son and chauffeured by Fred Mure, arrived in a black Cadillac limousine at the front entrance of the Barnett Building.

  Cubbin got out first followed by Kelly. “You got everything?” he asked.

  “It’s all in here,” Kelly said, indicating the attaché case that he was carrying.

  “I mean everything.”

  “I’ve got that, too.”

  “Okay, Fred, you wait for us.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  “No, I don’t want you to come with me; I want you to wait right here.”

  “Okay, Don, okay,” Mure said.

  In the lobby of the Barnett Building was a mural that portrayed some hard-hatted workers doing something or other with cables and wires and gigantic wrenches, although one couldn’t be sure whether they were building a bridge or stringing a highline. There were some women in the mural, too, and about the only thing that distinguished them from the men was that they wore no hard hats. Kelly thought the mural was awful; his father didn’t even notice it.

  After making their way past a tough-looking blond female receptionist with a deep, stern voice, father and son rode the elevator up through the layers of union bureaucracy, past the floor where the computerized membership records were kept, past the department of research and economics, past the education department and the public relations section, past the bookkeeping division where they counted the dues money, past the publications section and the department of organization, past personnel, pensions and welfare, past the legal department, and past all the sections where the union’s hard work was done and up to the twelfth floor, as high as the building went, where all the decisions were made.

  It’s just like a business, Kelly thought, except all that they have to sell is labor and if they don’t get enough for their product, then they take it off the market for a while until the price goes up, and there you go oversimplifying again.

  The twelfth-floor corridor was carpeted and the walls were paneled in some imitation plastic that looked a little like walnut, but not much. Another receptionist, this time pretty enough to have had a job with some trendy ad agency, smiled pleasantly at them and asked how she could be of help.

  “Where’s the men’s room?” Cubbin said.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the pretty girl asked.

  “Not with the men’s room, sweetie,” Cubbin said. “With Barnett, but if I don’t find the men’s room, I might pee all over that fancy rug of his.”

  “It’s just down there to your left.”

  “Let’s go, kid,” Cubbin said as he turned and headed down the hall.

  Kelly grinned at the girl. “Just think, that man’s my dad.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Come on, Kelly,” Cubbin called.

  “Next week he starts going all by himself,” Kelly said as he turned toward Cubbin.

  Inside the men’s room, Cubbin put a finger to his lips and then knelt down to peer under the doors of the stalls. By the time he rose, Kelly had the half-pint open. “Here you go, chief,” he said, “a drop of the best.”

  Cubbin drank, sighed, and handed the bottle back. “Well, since we’re here we might as well use it. Go when you can, they say.”

  As father and son stood in front of the urinals, Cubbin said, “This reminds me of something about Barnett I’d almost forgotten.”

  “What?”

  “He’s piss-shy.”

  “So?”

  “You can never trust a guy who’s piss-shy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because most of them are nances.”

  “I never heard of one with nine kids,” Kelly said.

  Jack Barnett looked up from something that he was writing when Cubbin and Kelly were shown into his office. Then he looked back down and said, “What do you want? Hello, Kelly.”

  “Hello, Jack,” Kelly said.

  “Well, take a seat someplace,” Barnett said as he continued with his writing. Kelly took one of the chairs in front of Barnett’s desk. Cubbin selected one farther away so that Barnett would have to turn his head to see him.

  Kelly had been in Barnett’s home countless times because three of the Barnett children were about his age and they had all spent nearly as much time in each other’s homes as they had in their own. Even when the feud had reached its most bitter point in the mid-fifties after Barnett had helped finance Cubbin’s opposition, neither of the fathers had ever objected to their children’s choice of friends.

  But Kelly had never been in Barnett’s office before and he decided that it was just the thing for either the president of a large labor union or the chief executive of a prosperous dog-biscuit company. None of them can escape that “Hey, gang, just look at me now,” appearance, Kelly thought. Barnett’s office had a thick brown carpet, walls paneled with real walnut, a big, neat desk, a console telephone, a brown leather couch, some comfortably upholstered chairs, a coffee table, and about two dozen framed and autographed photographs on the wall of prominent politicians from throughout what Barnett still referred to as the free world.

  Cubbin said nothing until Barnett stopped writing and turned to look at him. “Well?” Barnett said.

  “I want you to keep your fuckin nose out of my union,” Cubbin said, making his tone a calm growl.

  “Aw, shit,” Barnett said and flung his ball-point pen on his desk. He turned to Kelly. “Is he drunk again? I know he’s your old man and it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning, but I’ve seen him drunk before eleven.”

  “He’s not drunk, Jack,” Kelly said.

  “If you don’t get your fuckin nose out of my union, and keep it out, I’m going to have your ass,” Cubbin said, putting just a little more growly menace into his tone and enjoying every second of it because for once he was certain that he was absolutely in the right.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “You’re a goddamn liar.”

  “Who you calling a liar?”

  “You, you greasy little prick,” Cubbin roared, hugely enjoying himself.

  Barnett was up now, leaning over his desk at Cubbin, pointing to the door with his left hand, leaning on the phone with his right. “Out!” he yelled. “You got just ten seconds.”

  “Play it, Kelly,” Cubbin said, just like Bogart
and then smiled nastily at Barnett. “You’re gonna love it.”

  “Out!” Barnett screamed. “Get your ass outa my office!”

  “You’d better hear it, Jack,” Kelly said as he took the Sony tape recorder from the attaché case and placed it on the desk.

  “Hear what?” Barnett said.

  “Just listen,” Cubbin said.

  Kelly punched the play button and the tape recording started. Barnett was standing when the tape began. By the time it was over he was sitting in his chair, his hands folded on the desk, his eyes straight ahead. “It’s a fake,” he said.

  “Show him the rest, Kelly,” Cubbin said.

  Kelly placed on the desk pictures that had been taken by Ted Lawson of the interior of the motel room and of the two men leaving it. He also put before Barnett three samples of what the mimeograph machines had run off. Barnett looked at the pictures without touching them. He picked up a letter opener and used it to shove them to one side and to move the mimeograph sheets over so that he could see them better.

  “You don’t want to hear this again, do you?” Kelly said, indicating the tape recorder.

  Barnett shook his head. Kelly put the tape recorder back in the attaché case. “You can keep the pictures and that other crap,” Cubbin said.

  Barnett picked up the pictures and the mimeographed sheets and dropped them into his wastebasket. After that he turned slowly toward Cubbin and said, “So?”

  “So call ’em off.”

  Barnett seemed to think about Cubbin’s demand for a moment. Then he shrugged and smiled. It was the smile of a man who has just thought of something vicious to say and who knows that he will enjoy saying it. “They don’t matter now,” he said. “You’re already whipped.”

  “That’s your ass talking, pal,” Cubbin growled. “Your face knows better.”

  “In three weeks you’re gonna be a has-been. You’re gonna be ex-President Cubbin.”

  “Let me catch you just one more time,” Cubbin said, his voice rising, “and I’ll have you up on charges.”

  “You’re done, Cubbin. You’re finished! Through!” Barnett’s last word was a shout. He had risen and was leaning over his desk toward Cubbin who now was also up.

  “If I go down, I’ll take you with me!” Cubbin shouted.

  “Don’t threaten me, you son of a bitch!”

  “I’m not threatening you, you little cocksucker!” Cubbin said, roaring the words, “I’m telling you!”

  Barnett moved rather well for sixty-one. He was around his desk and the right that he aimed at Cubbin almost connected. Cubbin retreated, the back of his knees caught the edge of his chair, and he sat down hard, not hurt, but surprised and angry.

  “Well, goddamn you!” he yelled.

  “Get up, you old shit, and I’ll knock you down again!”

  Cubbin bounced up off the chair and with his eyes closed swung his right fist in the general direction of Barnett’s chin. Cubbin opened his eyes in surprise when his fist collided with something hard that turned out to be Barnett’s left cheek. Barnett staggered back a step.

  “Attaway go, chief,” Kelly called to his father, moving his chair around for a better view.

  Both men now had their fists up in what each hoped was a rough approximation of the boxer’s stance. Barnett was in far better shape and danced around on his toes as Cubbin, flatfooted, circled to meet him.

  “What’s a matter, fuckhead?” Cubbin panted. “You leave your fight in the gym?”

  Barnett led with a right again and Cubbin tried to duck, but it landed on his forehead. He roared some wordless cry and jumped at Barnett who blocked a right but forgot about Cubbin’s wildly swinging left that landed with a wet smack on his nose. Blood spurted from Barnett’s nose onto Cubbin’s white shirt. At the sight of blood, both men paused in their fight.

  “You broke my fuckin nose!” Barnett screamed and looped a right that caught Cubbin on the shoulder. Cubbin staggered back and then both men moved in swinging wildly, their eyes tightly closed, all pretense of any knowledge of boxing discarded.

  “Keep your left up, chief,” Kelly called to his father whose right eye had just run into Barnett’s left fist. Cubbin was nearly exhausted, but he put everything he had into one final blow, a hard left that was something of an accidental hook. It caught Barnett flush on the chin and broke the third finger on Cubbin’s left hand. Barnett stumbled back, tripped over his own feet, and sat down hard on his carpet, blood still streaming from his nose.

  “Oh Jesus God, my hand!” Cubbin yelled as the door of Barnett’s office burst open and two men moved in quickly, but not before Kelly was up and out of his chair.

  “Throw that son of a bitch out!” Barnett yelled, still on the floor, but now mopping at his nose with a handkerchief.

  “Don’t try it,” Kelly said, positioning himself between his father who was sucking on his broken finger and the two men who had started toward Cubbin. “We’re just leaving,” Kelly said. “Come on, chief.”

  The two men stopped for a moment to assess Kelly. They were both young, in their early thirties, and they had that calm, slightly preoccupied look that most bodyguards have.

  “What the hell’s going on?” one of them said.

  “My old man just beat the shit out of your boss,” Kelly said.

  The bodyguard who had spoken stared at Cubbin. “He don’t look so good himself,” he said.

  “Your boss is on the floor,” Kelly said and moved over to Barnett. “Come on, Jack, I’ll help you up.”

  “Lucky punch,” Barnett muttered as he got up from the floor, his handkerchief still at his nose.

  Cubbin took his finger out of his mouth long enough to say, “Like I told you, buster, lay off.”

  “Aw, you’re already dead,” Barnett said. “You just forgot to roll over.”

  “Come on, champ,” Kelly said, taking his father’s arm.

  As they went past the two bodyguards, one of them asked Kelly, “What the hell were they fighting about?”

  “A woman,” Kelly said and winked.

  23

  After Sadie Cubbin slipped the dress on over her head she turned to Fred Mure and said, “You should have been with him.”

  Mure stretched and yawned in the sex-rumpled bed. “He wouldn’t let me. I asked, but he wouldn’t let me.”

  “It’s a wonder they didn’t kill each other.”

  “Two old goats like that?”

  “Well, Don broke his finger.”

  “It’ll teach him a lesson.”

  “You’re supposed to look after him.”

  “Look, I told you how it happened.”

  “You should have gone with him.”

  “Kelly was with him.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have left him,” Sadie said as she lit a cigarette.

  “You said he was asleep.”

  “He might wake up and wonder where I am.”

  “Kelly’s there.”

  “I think Kelly’s beginning to wonder.”

  “What about?” Fred Mure asked.

  “About Don and me.”

  “Not about us?”

  “He’ll get around to that, if we keep this up.”

  “Kelly’s a good kid.”

  “That’s why I don’t want him to find out.”

  Mure yawned again and swung his feet over the side of the bed. “You’ve only been gone an hour.”

  “Look at me, Fred.”

  Mure turned his head. “You look fine.”

  “This is important.”

  “What?”

  “What I’m going to tell you.”

  “All right, I’m listening.”

  “This is the last time. It’s over.”

  Fred Mure rose quickly and walked slowly over to Sadie. He was naked and conscious of the effect that it usually had on her. He shook his head slowly as he walked toward her.

  “It’s not over,” he said. “It’s just starting.”

  “No.”

  “I
told you why I never got married.”

  “It’s over.”

  “I never got married because I never met anyone that was like you. You’re it, Sadie. You might as well face it.”

  “Goddamnit, Fred, I’m trying to tell you that we’re through. No more. Never.”

  Fred Mure shook his head again. “We’re gonna get get married, Sadie.”

  “And what do I do with Don?”

  “You divorce him, just like we talked about.”

  “We never talked about my divorcing him. All we ever talked about was why I couldn’t.”

  “Well, you can now. You got plenty of grounds.”

  “I’m not going to divorce him, Fred.”

  “Sure you will.”

  “Fred, you’re a nice guy. I like going to bed with you. I like it better than anything I’ve ever done. But I’m not going to divorce Don. I like Don. I like being his wife. Who knows, maybe I even love him.”

  “He’s no good anymore.”

  “He’ll be all right after the election. He’ll stop drinking and it’ll be all right then.”

  “Sadie, you know he’s not going to quit drinking.”

  “He’s quit before.”

  “But he won’t this time.”

  “I’m not going to argue about it. I’m just telling you we’re through.”

  “You’ve told me that before.”

  “This time I mean it.”

  Fred Mure put his arms around Sadie, but she broke away from him. “No,” she said. “No more motel romance. No more chances.”

  “That’s when you liked it best,” Fred said, grinning. “You liked it best when he was right in the next bed snoring away. That’s when you really liked it.”

  Sadie crossed over to the dresser and picked up her purse. She turned and looked at Mure. “Fred, I want you to listen to me. I want you to listen carefully.”