The Porkchoppers Read online

  If Jobbins knew how to ask questions, he also knew how to listen. In fact, he may have been one of the world’s great listeners, a skillful user of the long silence and the sympathetic, understanding nod that seemed to say, “I know, I know, God, how well I know,” as his guests stripped themselves of their last shred of dignity, reveling, it often seemed to Jobbins, in their self-abasement.

  But immolation paid because “Jake’s Night” commanded a large and loyal audience that actually bought the books and records and went to the shows that the writers and singers and actors crucified themselves to tout. As one publicity man put it, “Christ, after you see some poor slob strip himself bare you feel so sorry for him that you go out and buy his record just to cheer him up.”

  This would be Donald Cubbin’s third time on “Jake’s Night.” When he had first appeared on the show three years before, Jobbins had been unable to penetrate Cubbin’s formidable dignity and the show had been dull. The next time Cubbin had unbent a little and admitted that yes, he thought that Jimmy Hoffa was a thief and that the late Walter Reuther had been a damned fool to take his auto workers out of the AFL-CIO and besides that Reuther had been a smart aleck who never knew when to shut up. As for the war in Vietnam, George Meany could say whatever he wanted to say, but Cubbin thought it was senseless, tragic waste and Cubbin had said so since sixty-four and would go on saying so even if a cut in defense spending would throw his members out of work. Furthermore, Cubbin felt that if Hubert Humphrey hadn’t sold his soul to be Johnson’s nominee and had come out against the war when he should have, back in sixty-six or even sixty-five, he’d be the most popular man in the nation today instead of a has-been. And no, Cubbin wasn’t worried about becoming an alcoholic although sure, he took a drink every now and then, but who didn’t?

  If Jobbins’ second interview with Donald Cubbin hadn’t been too revealing personally, it had at least produced enough pungent remarks to make the wire services move a seven-paragraph story on it. This time Jobbins had a little more material to work with and almost before Cubbin could seat himself, Jobbins began.

  “The last time you were here, Don, you called Hubert Humphrey a has-been among other things. Now that’s what a sizable portion of your membership is calling you. They say that you’ve lost touch with them. Why do they say that?”

  “The man who wants my job says that, Jake. The members don’t say it.”

  “I checked with a couple of Chicago bookmakers this afternoon and they’re willing to lay eight to five that you won’t get reelected.”

  “You should have bet five; you’d make yourself some money.”

  “Let’s get back to this charge that you’re losing touch with your membership. You belong to some rather exclusive clubs around the country, don’t you?”

  “I belong to some clubs; I don’t know how exclusive they are.”

  “But not everyone can join them, right?”

  “Not everybody would want to.”

  “You belong to one in Washington called the Federalists Club, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I belong to that.”

  “And hasn’t it been called the most exclusive club in Washington?”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Well, not many of your members belong, do they?”

  “No, I don’t think they do.”

  “Could they join, if they wanted to?”

  “If they were invited and if they could afford the dues. I sometimes think that I can’t.”

  “If they were invited, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who belongs to the Federalists Club?”

  “Mostly men who have an interest in politics and government, and in the arts and sciences.”

  “And in business?”

  “Yes, certainly. Business.”

  “Big business, you mean.”

  “All right. Big business.”

  “And one has to be invited?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were invited?”

  “Yes, I was invited.”

  “Isn’t it true that you asked to be invited?”

  “No, that isn’t true.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No.”

  “I have a copy here of a letter from you to a Mr. A. Richard Gammage. Mr. Gammage is president of Gammage International. You’ve heard of Mr. Gammage and Gammage International?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, I suppose you would have since Gammage International owns about half of Cleveland and some thirty thousand of your members work for that concern.”

  “I know Mr. Gammage.”

  “Yes, apparently you do. In fact, you seem to know him well enough to call him by his first name.”

  “I call a lot of people by their first names.”

  “Of course, Don, we all do. Well, in this letter you call Mr. Gammage ‘Dear Dick.’”

  “So?”

  “So I’m just going to read a paragraph. Just one. This is a letter from you to A. Richard Gammage whom you call ‘Dear Dick.’”

  “Yes.”

  “Before I read it, I suppose it should be mentioned that Mr. Gammage is one of the principal negotiators when you conduct your industry-wide bargaining, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s one of them anyhow.”

  “In fact, he might be called the chief negotiator, mightn’t he?”

  “I said he was one of them.”

  “Well, he’s sort of your counterpart in industry, isn’t he, Don? I mean you’re the principal negotiator for your union and Mr. Gammage is the principal negotiator for industry, isn’t that roughly it?”

  “Roughly.”

  “In other words, just to simplify things, it’s Mr. Gammage and you who finally decided just how much your members are going to get in take-home pay?”

  “That’s a gross oversimplification.”

  “But there’s an element of truth in it, right?”

  “Just barely.”

  “Well, in this Dear Dick letter which is signed by you, you say, ‘I have done some checking around and if you and Arthur could resubmit my name, I am sure it would go through this time. I certainly do not want to embarrass you and Arthur again, but from what I have been able to learn, there should be no objection to my membership this time around and you know what it would mean to me.’ Does that sound like you, Don?”

  “I don’t remember writing it.”

  “No? Well, on September third, 1965, according to the records of the Federalists Club, your name was submitted for membership on the recommendation of Mr. A. Richard Gammage and Mr. Arthur Bolton. It received only one blackball at a general membership meeting and so on September fourth, 1965, a letter inviting you to join was sent by the club’s membership secretary. I should add here that Mr. Arthur Bolton is the general counsel to Gammage International. I should also add that the records of the Federalists Club show that on January ninth, 1965, your name was submitted for the first time by these same two gentlemen and it received three blackballs, which was one more than enough to keep you from being invited to join. Would you like to make any comment?”

  “No, I don’t think it deserves any.”

  “Well, do you have any idea of why you were black balled the first time?”

  “Apparently someone didn’t like me. Not everyone does.”

  “But why did you want to join a club that didn’t want you?”

  “There were only three members who didn’t.”

  “So you asked Mr. Gammage and Mr. Bolton to try to get you in again?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  “Why did you ask them?”

  “Because they were members.”

  “Are they friends of yours?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose they are.”

  “In other words, you negotiate the contracts for your union members’ income with your friends. Isn’t that all rather cozy?”

  “Friendship has nothing to do with the negotiations.”

  “N
othing at all?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “I see. So when you go up for the final negotiations on your new contract, which I believe begin next month and you see Mr. Gammage and Mr. Bolton sitting across the table from you, they’ll be just another couple of company men and not two close personal friends that you’re indebted to for having risked embarrassing themselves by putting your name up for membership in a club that rejected you the first time.”

  “They’ll be just a couple of men.”

  “You’re still a member of the Federalists Club, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve never thought of resigning?”

  “No.”

  “I see. What percentage of the membership of your union, Don, would you say is black?”

  “I don’t know what the percentage is. We don’t ask our members what color they are.”

  “But it’s a sizable percentage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Possibly fifty percent?”

  “I don’t know; possibly.”

  “How many black members does the Federalists Club have?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Isn’t it true that it has none?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you ever seen a black member in the club?”

  “Well, I don’t go there a lot. I never noticed.”

  “Isn’t it true that the bylaws of the club prohibit the membership of anyone who is of African or Oriental descent, as they so delicately put it?”

  “I’ve never read the bylaws.”

  “Well, that’s what they say. Do you remember a man called Austin Davies?”

  “No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Well, he’s a black man. He used to be an Assistant Secretary of Commerce.”

  “I recall his name now, but I don’t think I know him.”

  “Well, perhaps you remember in March of 1966, five months after you joined the Federalists Club, when several of its members approached you about supporting the membership of Austin Davies.”

  “Yes, I remember now that you mention it. I agreed to support him. Of course I did.”

  “Yes, I think you did. There were eleven members who sponsored Mr. Davies and you made the twelfth, right?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “As I remember, Mr. Davies’ membership application was rejected.”

  “By how many blackballs?”

  “I don’t know the exact number.”

  “But it was a large number, wasn’t it?”

  “I think so.”

  “There were fifteen blackballs, Don.”

  “If you say so.”

  “The committee of twelve who had sponsored Mr. Davies had discussed this possibility, hadn’t it?”

  “Yes, we’d talked about it.”

  “And what had you planned to do?”

  “I don’t think we planned to do anything except maybe resubmit Mr. Davies’ name at some later time.”

  “You planned more than that, Don.”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “You planned to resign as a body—in protest against the Federalists Club’s discriminatory practices. You remember it now, don’t you, Don?”

  “Well, there might have been some talk of it.”

  “There wasn’t just talk of it, you all made a solemn pact to resign in protest if Davies was blackballed. Well?”

  “It might have been like that. Like you said.”

  “And eleven of the twelve members on the committee did actually resign, didn’t they?”

  “It was—well—it was a matter of individual choice, I mean—”

  “Don.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you resign?”

  “Well, it seemed a pretty drastic step and—uh—I thought I could do more good by staying where I was and trying to change the rules from within you know.”

  “Don, have the rules been changed?”

  “No, not yet. At least I don’t think so.”

  “And you’re still a member?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “You’re still a member of a lily-white club made up of politicians and big-business types who refuse membership to any black. Now am I right?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “That’s all, Don. We’ve got to break for a commercial.”

  In the studio waiting room Oscar Imber and Charles Guyan watched the show with a kind of horrified fascination. Over and over Guyan kept saying, “Well, it’s not network, at least it’s not network.”

  Fred Mure watched the show with them. As the two men sank deeper into their despondency, Mure said, “I don’t know what you guys are pissing and moaning about. I think old Don looks pretty good in there.”

  10

  Cubbin didn’t have to ask either Charles Guyan or Oscar Imber how he had gone over. He could see it in their faces. Fred Mure, on the other hand, was beaming. “You done real good, Don,” Mure said.

  “Just give me a drink, stupid.”

  “Sure, Don,” Mure said and handed Cubbin an opened half-pint bottle. Cubbin drank deeply, but didn’t hand the bottle back. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.

  Mure drove back to the hotel. Cubbin sat next to him in the front seat, nipping steadily at the bourbon. His dignity had deserted him now. He huddled against the right-hand door, his raincoat collar up around his ears, trying not to remember what had just happened, trying to make the whiskey make him forget.

  After they had driven for five minutes in silence, Guyan said, “Well, at least it wasn’t network.”

  “You already said that about fifteen times,” Imber said.

  “I should never have let you guys talk me into it,” Cubbin said, anxious to blame someone else for the horror that had befallen him. “I didn’t want to go on his goddamned show. The guy’s a louse. Everybody knows that. Everybody.”

  Guyan thought about reminding Cubbin of whose idea “Jake’s Night” had been, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good and might even do more harm. It had been Cubbin’s idea, of course. “I know how to handle Jake,” Cubbin had told Guyan. “Not everybody knows how to score points on his show, but I do. You just have to keep him a little off balance and keep coming up with the unexpected.”

  But Guyan couldn’t think of anything to say so he said what he had been saying. “Well, hell, at least it wasn’t network.”

  “Don’t give him that crap,” Imber snapped. “Tell him how bad it really was. Tell him what an ass he made of himself.”

  Cubbin twisted around in the front seat to look at Guyan. His blue eyes were wide and almost pleading. The son of a bitch is going to cry on us, Guyan thought.

  “Was it really bad?” Cubbin said, his face imploring Guyan to tell him that it wasn’t.

  Guyan looked out of the car window. “It was bad,” he said after a while. “I know what I’d do with it.”

  “What?” Imber said. “Tell our leader here what you’d do with it.”

  “I’d use it on the blacks. That’s where it’s going to hurt you, with the blacks. The whites don’t give a shit whether you resigned or not from some fancy club because it wouldn’t let some spade in. In fact, it might even win you a few points with some of them, maybe all of them, I don’t know. I don’t know what whites think about blacks anymore. But the blacks aren’t going to like it. That’s for damn sure.”

  “Sammy Hanks will have a transcript of that show in the mail special delivery to every local by noon tomorrow,” Imber said. “That’ll be just the start. Sellout’s going to be the issue. Sammy’11 tell the blacks that you’re ready to sell them out for membership in some snotty club. He’ll tell the whites that you pal around with the bosses and how can you expect a guy who sucks up to the bosses to know anything about the needs of a working stiff. Christ, Don, you’ve just handed him his whole campaign on a silver platter.”

  “Country-club unioni
sm,” Guyan said in a musing voice.

  “Huh?” Cubbin said, lifting the bottle to his lips again.

  “Country-club unionism. That’s what I’d call it.” A true professional, Guyan grew mildly enthusiastic about a good idea, no matter that it could wreck his client’s hopes. “Christ, I’d dig up every picture I could find of you with a golf club or a tennis racket in your hand. ‘What Kind of Deal Will This Man Make for You on the Seventeenth Hole?’”

  “That’s not bad,” Imber said.

  “It wasn’t a country club,” Cubbin said weakly.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Guyan said. “All Sammy had before was some vague kind of charge that you’d lost touch with the rank and file. Now he can pinpoint where you lost it.”

  The liquor had begun to come to Cubbin’s rescue. His face had taken on a deep flush. “Look, fella, you’re working for me—not Sammy Hanks. So instead of sitting there shelling out ideas about how he can beat me, why don’t you come up with a few for our side? That’s what I’m paying you for and I’m getting pretty goddamned sick and tired of listening to you tell me what a wonderful campaign you could do for Sammy Hanks.”

  “I was just trying to anticipate what he’s going to do.”

  “Well why don’t you try anticipating what I’m going to do?”

  “Because you’re on the defensive, Don. You’re the incumbent and to get your job Sammy has to attack and you have to defend. If you know how he’s going to attack, then you not only defend, but you also counterattack.”

  “You sound like some goddamned general.”

  “You’re the general, Don,” Guyan said, “I’m just a lieutenant colonel a little overage in grade.”

  “Yeah, well, Colonel, you’d better come up with something that’ll make Sammy—uh—sound a retreat, that’s what.”

  “I’ll work on it.”

  Cubbin emptied the half-pint into his mouth. “Give me the other one,” he said to Fred Mure.

  “That’s all there is, Don.”

  “Don’t give me that shit, just give me the other bottle. I can still count.”