Death Shall Overcome Read online

  “Oh, I’m really just a wife and mother,” said Mrs. Crane, with a steely smile.

  A corporate shudder gripped the room.

  Carruthers took one look at Hugh Waymark, who was unnerved by the appearance of female auxiliaries, and twitched the reins of control from his hands. He introduced his colleagues, offered CASH Nat Schuyler’s liquor and suggested that everybody settle down to the business at hand.

  “Good,” said Simpson, accepting a Scotch and simultaneously flicking the conversation from Carruthers. “We have to get to the dinner meeting of our executive board.”

  “Yes,” said Carruthers.

  Nat Schuyler, carefully crossing spindly legs, looked amused. Before Carruthers could continue, Simpson said:

  “You want us to abandon our legitimate protest against the segregationist policies of Wall Street.”

  He spoke more in sorrow than in anger.

  Surprisingly, it was Vin McCullough who protested.

  “We won’t make any progress that way,” he said baldly. “Let’s get some facts straight. Mr. Schuyler and I are supporting Ed Parry’s nomination. We’ll do all we can do to push it. So it doesn’t help to call all of Wall Street segregationist.”

  His emphatic voice brought an impolitic look of surprise to Hugh Waymark, and another smile to Nat Schuyler.

  Dr. Ford, the sociologist, nodded. “Yes, we want to be scrupulous about that, Dick.” Mrs. Crane simply pursed her lips.

  Unrepentantly, Simpson replied, “I stand corrected. We admit that Schuyler & Schuyler is an honorable exception. But you cannot deny that there are racist forces . . .”

  He had underestimated Stanton Carruthers. While not precisely denying the existence of racist forces, Carruthers managed to point out that the Stock Exchange was exhausting itself in efforts to be fair.

  “Ha!” said Mrs. Crane, causing Hugh Waymark to bridle slightly.

  “Owen Abercrombie,” added Dr. Ford more specifically.

  Hugh Waymark blustered into speech; Stanton Carruthers continued his stately and measured comments on the New York Stock Exchange. Dr. Ford contented himself with sardonic little interjections and Richard Simpson, nettled by Stanton Carruthers’ practiced fluency, commenced a moving word picture of the plight of the Black stockholder in America.

  Helping herself to another drink, Mrs. Crane joined Nat Schuyler, who was looking on with vast satisfaction.

  Under the cover of three, if not four, conversations, Thatcher spoke to Vin McCullough.

  “I’m glad you said what you did, but I expected it from Nat, not you.”

  McCullough smiled wryly. “Because I wasn’t crazy about losing money if we took Parry in? Hell, it’s too late for that. I’ll be damned if I’m willing to dance to the tune of that wild jackass Abercrombie. Do you know, he called me up and tried to threaten Schuyler & Schuyler? Well, nobody pushes Schuyler & Schuyler around—at least not while I’m there. We’re going to get Parry a seat on the Exchange if we have to use a cannon to do it.”

  “That’s the spirit!” cried Mrs. Crane, who overheard his remarks. “Fight force with force.”

  “You’re right,” said Vin McCullough somewhat grimly.

  “Good boy,” Nat Schuyler called, sending a knowing glance at Stanton Carruthers.

  Who was the idiot who had suggested that Nat Schuyler might be prevailed upon to cooperate? Or Richard Simpson, for that matter?

  Simpson, chin up toward nonexistent television cameras, had risen.

  “That must be CASH’S position. No, gentlemen, peaceful demonstrations and the legitimate use of economic might to further the human betterment of the American Black cannot be stopped simply because we may embarrass some elements of the community, who prefer to ignore one of the crying shames of this city, and of the whole United States.”

  His breath control, Thatcher conceded, was remarkable.

  “No,” said Simpson, although no one had spoken. “We shall persist until the glaring inequities which exist upon Wall Street are eradicated forever. We hope and pray that they soon will be.”

  Mrs. Crane rose to join him. Filling an alarming bosom with a preliminary breath, she spoke vibratingly.

  “In this, his hour of peril, we shall stand by Edward Parry.”

  Dr. Ford also rose. He issued no clarion calls, but contrived nonetheless to loose a blockbuster.

  “Coming, Mr. Schuyler? We’re going to have to hurry.”

  “Eh? Oh yes, yes,” said Schuyler, busy playing the aged totterton as he got spryly to his feet.

  “Just sitting in on this CASH dinner tonight,” he explained airily. “Help yourself to the drinks.”

  With something remarkably close to a strut, he accompanied CASH to the door, paused for the parting civilities, then left.

  The door closed on a stunned and indignant silence.

  “Well, I must say!” Stanton Carruthers began. “And what’s funny?”

  For John Putnam Thatcher and, after a moment, Vin McCullough were laughing heartily.

  “The old so-and-so,” said Thatcher with approval. “Did you know about this, Vin?”

  Still chuckling, McCullough shook his head.

  “Nat is one surprise after another.”

  For a moment he leaned back in an attitude of complete relaxation, then determinedly gathered his forces. “I’d better get along. I’m carrying Art Foote’s work at the office until we can get Parry in. And moving house on top of it. So, if you don’t need me . . .”

  Within five minutes, the Committee of Three was again in executive session.

  “So much for that idea,” said Thatcher. “Let me make a suggestion. Our one function appears to be that of wasting the time of many people–including ourselves. We can’t do much to protect the McCulloughs of the world, but we can save our own necks. Instead of acting as body, why don’t we split up?”

  While it was too much to say that the profound good sense of this suggestion cheered his companions, it did appear to be persuasive.

  “Mmm,” said Waymark. “But we’ll meet for progress reports from time to time.”

  “If you they’re necessary, ” said Thatcher ambiguously. “But not at the Sloan. ”

  “Or Carruthers, Broadside & Pettigrew,” said Stanton Carruthers hastily.

  “Or Waymark & Sims.” Waymark was mildly regretful. “We sent out forty thousand empty envelopes, by mistake, this afternoon.”

  Silence descended.

  “I suppose you’ve heard about Lee Clark,” Waymark remarked idly. “He’s preparing a complaint to the SEC accusing Schuyler & Schuyler of simply using Barry to harm Clovis Greene’s Harlem business. Says that Nat doesn’t have any real intention of getting Parry a seat.”

  Stanton Carruthers considered this. “A possibility, I suppose. Clark is pretty bitter, I understand. He’s joining forces with Abercrombie, as well.”

  Again silence, then Hugh Waymark produced a small notebook. “Here are some of the public events the Board

  would like us to attend . . .”

  “We’ll toss for it,” said Thatcher, seeing the light of endless discussion in his eye.

  Three minutes later, Hugh Waymark said, “You’ve won the ADA tomorrow night.”

  “What do you mean, won? I’ve lost.”

  “Stan gets the John Birch Society, and I get the Committee to Clean Up Wall Street.”

  “Like Richard Simpson,” said Thatcher. “I stand corrected. We’ve all lost.”

  Chapter 10

  No Duty Is Too Lowly

  BY THE NEXT DAY the press had surpassed itself in idiocy.

  Statements from prelates, the Civil Liberties Union, senators, and Black Muslims abounded. Everybody disapproved of the present situation, for one reason or another: it was too violent, it wasn’t violent enough, the target was too specialized, nothing could be accomplished without open war between the races. A wealthy church in the downtown area had proposed a solution to the problem which involved dividing Wall Street in much the sam
e manner as Berlin, complete with the introduction of checkpoints and the disarmament of bankers. The Police Commissioner’s comment on this plan was a model of fiercely controlled emotion.

  In the Bronx, an elementary school which preened itself on its model racial mix, 30% Black, 30% Hispanic. and 40% white, burst into print with a smug analysis of its own virtues. It sent a high proportion of its unending stream of graduates to the Bronx High School of Science, the High School of Music and Art, the High School of Performing Arts, and Hunter High School, and took this occasion to congratulate itself on its unfailing wisdom in confronting racial problems that made weaker people blanch.

  There followed interviews with three selected students: Julia, aged thirteen and Hispanic, intended to go to Music and Art for further study of the oboe before ultimate attendance at Juilliard. Snatching a moment from her arpeggios, she said that anybody who worked hard enough didn′t have time for all this nonsense. Howard, aged fourteen and Black, was going to Bronx Science to be a physicist. He felt that science offered opportunities for those facing discrimination in other fields. Sammy, a master chess player at the Manhattan Club, thought it was a mistake to let human passions intrude into any problem.

  Thatcher did not approve of encouraging self-satisfied teenagers, but he was forced to admit that their statements compared favorably with those of their elders. Including, he thought bitterly, his own daughter, who was militantly reacting to Edward Parry′s problems in a manner that would have won approval from Elijah Muhammad.

  A member of the Board of Education tried to refute accusations that racial minorities were deprived of educational opportunity with statistics showing that 98% of the graduates of all elementary schools in Chinatown went on to take doctorates. This discouraging vision of horn-rimmed young Orientals standing in ranks before something called Whirlwind xxv left Thatcher unreceptive to the counsels of the Chinese Merchants Association serenely prescribing absolute calm to members of the black and white races. In the face of this detachment, he found their references to “our Fair City” unduly proprietary.

  The article concluded its massive survey of turbulence and disorder with the announcement that attempts to gather the views of high city officials had been abortive since they were all vacationing out of the country.

  No day with such reading matter is a dead loss. Considerably invigorated, Thatcher slapped aside the last page of this comic relief and briskly proceeded to the task of leveling the gigantic pile of arrears accumulated on his desk.

  By five o’clock Herculean inroads had been made, Miss Corsa mollified by a day’s work which would have caused many a woman to hand in her notice on the spot, and Thatcher, supported by a sense of accomplishment, could anticipate the evening’s approaching agenda with unimpaired cheer.

  “Where is this ADA banquet I have to attend?” he asked the departing Miss Corsa.

  “At the Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf. Six forty-five,” she reported.

  “Good heavens, how very substantial.”

  When Thatcher arrived at the Waldorf to join the Americans for Democratic Action milling around outside the ballroom, he realized that his vision of political progressives was outmoded. This smartly dressed, gaily chattering crowd was indistinguishable from any similar gathering of prosperous reactionaries. On both the right and the left, Thatcher noted as he accepted the drink procured for him by a harassed chairman of the program committee, it was the ladies who sounded the most aggressive. He gazed around him with interest. On second glance, he could discern some differences. The ADA ladies were perhaps a shade more intense than the female conservatives of his acquaintance. And, unless he was mistaken, they tended to be a trifle thinner as well. They sported horn-rimmed glasses, not jeweled frames.

  He discovered that the chairman’s disjointed remarks had been addressed to him. “I was woolgathering,” he apologized, to be rewarded with the news that he had much to be thankful for. Unlike his confreres on the Committee of Three, he was not addressing a specially convened meeting. The ADA banquet had been scheduled many months earlier. A speaker from Washington was on hand.

  “And,” said the chairman with myopic earnestness, “time will be limited.”

  “Excellent,” said Thatcher.

  “So,” the chairman continued, “we’ve had to squeeze you in with the appetizer. I hope you understand.”

  Thatcher was sincerely delighted. When the assemblage finally trooped into the ballroom and settled down at the banquet tables set up there, his remarks on the Stock Exchange’s determination to maintain scrupulous impartiality in the case of Edward Parry’s application for a seat constituted an introduction to the shrimp cocktail. For this Thatcher was doubly grateful. In the first place, he was not intoxicated by the sound of his own voice. Any excuse to keep his statement brief was a source of pleasure. But in the second place, during cocktails he began to fear that the ADA— moneyed, academic and legal—was likely to know a good deal too much about the Securities and Exchange Act as well as the bylaws of the National Association of Security Dealers.

  This apprehension was confirmed during the question period following his short statement. References to section numbers and joint committee reports flowed from his hosts in abundance. Thatcher took due notice. When dealing with a pressure group, it is a wise precaution to learn precisely where the pressure is going to be applied. He could now report to the Exchange that the ADA would be camping on Washington doorsteps to demand more extensive federal regulation of the Stock Exchange if Edward Parry were denied his seat. That was not too bad, and, fortunately, hunger kept his audience from belaboring the point.

  As he left the rostrum, the chairman agitatedly thanked him and said that he was being placed at one of the smaller tables where, the chairman understood, he had acquaintances.

  To his surprise, Thatcher found himself joining Charlie Trinkam.

  “I didn’t know you were a member of ADA,” he remarked. If there was one thing noteworthy about Trinkam, it was not the prominence of his commitment to politics of the liberal variety.

  “I’m not,” Trinkam replied. “Barbara, here, arranged for us to come. Barbara, this is John Thatcher John, this is Miss Feathers–and Paul and Irene Jackson.”

  John Thatcher sat down and took stock of his surroundings, brightening as he did so. Any social occasion, however outré, which came about through Trinkam′s efforts promised some interest. And the trio with which he and Trinkam were joined was indeed strangely assorted. The Jacksons radiated money, gaiety, and knowledgeability. Paul Jackson, smooth-haired and stocky, was, it developed, a thriving criminal lawyer with an extensive and lucrative practice among the city’s less desirable citizens. His very attractive wife was a woman obviously deriving considerable enjoyment from life.

  Miss Feathers was an economist.

  Not for the first time, Thatcher was roused to admiration by the speed with which Charlie Trinkam, given any conceivable public or private problem, could attach himself to a woman with some claim to inside information. Nor were there any limits to his catholicity. Lovely women, social women, intellectual women, dedicated women, family women—all were a source of real interest to him.

  At the moment, it was an economist. They were discussing the main speaker of the evening.

  “He should have stayed at Harvard,” she said, stubbing out one of the cigarettes she was smoking in rapid succession. “But that’s the trouble with some of these intellectuals. Stanley is simply power mad.”

  Thatcher glanced at the head table. Stanley was small, partly bald and possessed of an irritatingly confident smile.

  Paul Jackson looked up from his cooling roast beef to remark in jovial accents that he had rarely enjoyed anything so much as Stanley’s address to the ADA on the eve of his departure for the White House.

  “It was called,” he chortled happily, ” ‘The Challenge to Intellectuals.’”

  Miss Feathers’ lips tightened as if she reserved to herself the right to criticize Stanley
—and all other intellectuals. With his usual soothing instincts, Charlie Trinkam inquired after the subject of tonight’s address.

  “‘Limitations Imposed on the Intellectual in Washington,’” Miss Feathers replied repressively.

  This unhappy, if natural, progression effectively dampened the conversation. The talk, therefore, became desultory, with Trinkam and Jackson exchanging mildly scandalous comments about several friends they had in common and Irene Jackson displaying lamentable frivolity in the face of a lengthy disquisition from Miss Feathers on the subject of the need for More Women in Politics.

  “Barbara,” said Mrs. Jackson finally, turning to Thatcher, “Barbara is on the ADA action committee to study the Parry situation.”

  “Oh yes?” said Thatcher. “What . . . er . . . action do you envisage? Apart from urging increased SEC legislation, that is?”

  “SEC legislation!” she said with contempt. “That’s all right when it’s a question of protecting investors. But this whole Ed Parry affair has triggered violence. Its brought out the lowest hoodlum element. The riffraff of the city.” She turned to her left and peremptorily broke in on Jackson’s exchange with Charlie Trinkam.

  “That’s right, isn’t it, Paul? You’re the one who knows all about criminals and violence after all.”

  Jackson, amused, denied her charge. “Now wait a minute, Barbara. My clients may go in for violence. I don’t get called until it’s all over.”

  Barbara Feathers dismissed this hairsplitting.

  “That’s not what I mean. But you know that we’re not dealing with speculators or defrauders–” she broke off and directed a look at Thatcher that made him wonder if she were including him in this select group “—we’re dealing with murderers!”

  Jackson was not shaken by her earnestness. “You mean those nut boys of Abercrombie’s? They’re not professionals, if you know what I mean. They talk big, but I don’t think they’re ready for anything more dangerous than eggthrowing.”

  With a quick look at Thatcher, Charlie Trinkam gave the ball a push to keep it rolling. “But somebody has already tried to murder Ed Parry—twice. That’s dangerous enough, Paul.”