He drank again, then said, “You know what you’re doing, pal? You’re getting us both … what’s that word?”
“Maudlin,” Nim said, having trouble pronouncing it.
“You got it! … maudlin.” Harry London nodded solemnly as the cocktail bar pianist began playing As Time Goes By.
PART TWO
1
Davey Birdsong, who had been inspecting the Sequoia Club’s impressive headquarters, inquired cheekily, “Where’s the chairman’s private sauna? And after that I’d like to see your solid gold toilet seat.”
“We don’t have either,” Laura Bo Carmichael said, a trifle stiffly. She was not entirely at ease with the bearded, portly, jesting Birdsong, who, though a naturalized American for many years, still exhibited some of the rough outback manners of his native Australia. Laura Bo, who had met Birdsong a few times previously at outside meetings, equated him with the “Jolly Swagman” in Waltzing Matilda.
Which was ridiculous, of course, and she knew it. Though Davey Birdsong seemed to make a point of sounding uncultured and dressed the same way—today he wore shabby, patched jeans and running shoes with string for laces—the Sequoia Club chairman was well aware he was a scholar of stature, holding a master’s degree in sociology, as well as being a part-time lecturer at the University of California at Berkeley. He had also put together a coalition of consumer, church and left-wing political groups which called itself p & lfp—or, power & light for people. (The lower case initials were, in Birdsong’s words, “to emphasize we are not capitalists.”)
The declared aim of p & lfp was “to fight the profit-bloated monster GSP & L on all fronts.” In various confrontations so far, p & lfp had opposed rate increases for electricity and gas, had fought licensing of a nuclear power plant, had objected to GSP & L public relations activities—“ruthless propaganda unwillingly paid for by consumers,” was how Birdsong and p & lfp described it—and had urged a compulsory takeover of the power company by municipalities. Now, Birdsong’s movement was seeking to join forces with the prestigious Sequoia Club in opposing the latest GSP & L expansion plans. That proposal was to be reviewed at a meeting with top club officials, due to begin shortly.
“Geez, Laura baby,’ Birdsong observed, his gaze still roaming the imposing paneled boardroom where they were talking, “I guess it’s real soul-inspiring to work in a ritzy layout like this. You should see my dump. Compared with what you got here it’s a bum’s nightmare.”
She told him, “Our headquarters was deeded to us many years ago as part of a bequest. A condition was that we occupy the building; otherwise we would not receive the substantial income which accompanies it.” At certain moments—this was one of them—Laura Bo Carmichael found the stately Cable Hill mansion, which the Sequoia Club occupied, something of an embarrassment. It was once a millionaire’s town house which still bespoke wealth, and personally she would have preferred simpler quarters. To move, however, would have been financial madness. She added, “I’d prefer you not call me ‘Laura baby.’”
“I’ll make a note of that.” Grinning, Birdsong produced a notebook, unclipped a ball-point pen and wrote something down.
Putting the notebook away, he regarded the slight, trim figure of Mrs. Carmichael, then said reflectively, “Bequests, eh? From dead donors. I guess that, and those big live donors, is what keeps the Sequoia Club so rich.”
“Rich is a relative word.” Laura Bo Carmichael wished the three of her colleagues who were to join her for this meeting would arrive. “It’s true our organization is fortunate in having national support, but we have substantial expenses.”
The big bearded man chuckled. “Not so many, though, that you couldn’t spread some of that bread around to other groups—doing your kind of work—which need it.”
“Well see. But,” Mrs. Carmichael said firmly, “please don’t assume we are so naïve that you can come here posing as a poor relation, because we know better.” She consulted some notes she had not intended to use until later. “We know, for example, that your p & Ifp has some twenty-five thousand members who pay three dollars a year each, collected by paid door-to-door canvassers, which adds up to $75,000. Out of that you pay yourself a salary of $20,000 a year, plus unknown expenses.”
“Fella hasta make a living.”
“A remarkably good one, I’d say.” Laura Bo continued reading. “In addition there are your university lecture fees, another fixed salary from an activist training organization, and payment for articles you write, all of which is believed to bring your personal income as a protester to $60,000 a year.”
Davey Birdsong, whose smile had grown broader while he listened, seemed not in the least taken aback. He commented, “A right nifty job of research.”
It was the Sequoia Club chairman’s turn to smile. “We do have an excellent research department here.” She folded the notes and put them away. “None of the material I have quoted is for outside use, of course. It’s merely to make you aware of our awareness that professional protesters like you have a good thing going. That mutual knowledge will save time when we get down to business.”
A door opened quietly and a neat, elderly man with iron-gray hair and rimless glasses entered the boardroom.
Laura Bo said, “Mr. Birdsong, I believe you know our manager-secretary, Mr. Pritchett.”
Davey Birdsong put out a large, meaty hand. “We met on the battlefield a time or two. Hiya, Pritchy!”
When his hand had been pumped vigorously the newcomer said drily, “I hadn’t considered environmental hearings to be battlefields, though I suppose they could be construed that way.”
“Damn right, Pritchy! And when I go into battle, especially against the people’s enemy, Golden State Power, I fire every big gun and keep on firing. Tough ‘n’ tougher, that’s the prescription. Oh, I’m not saying there isn’t a place for your kind of opposition. There is!—you people bring a touch of class. I’m the one, though, who makes headlines and gets on TV news. By the way, did you kids see me on TV with that GSP & L prick, Goldman?”
“The Good Evening Show,” the manager-secretary acknowledged. “Yes, I did. I thought you were colorful, though—to be objective—Goldman was shrewd in resisting your baiting.” Pritchett removed his glasses to polish them. “Perhaps, as you say, there is a place for your kind of opposition to GSP & L. Possibly, even, we need each other.”
“Attaboy, Pritchy!”
“The correct pronunciation is Pritchett. Or, if you prefer, you may call me Roderick.”
“I’ll make a note of that, Roddy old man.” Grinning broadly at Laura Bo, Birdsong went through his notebook routine once more.
While they were talking two others had come in. Laura Bo Carmichael introduced them as Irwin Saunders and Mrs. Priscilla Quinn, the remaining members of the Sequoia Club executive committee. Saunders was a balding, gravel-voiced lawyer who handled big-name divorce cases and was frequently in the news. Mrs. Quinn, fashionably dressed and attractive in her late forties, was the wife of a wealthy banker and noted for her civic zeal, also for limiting her friendships to other wealthy or important people. She accepted Davey Birdsong’s outstretched hand with reluctance, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and distaste.
The chairman suggested, “I think we might all be seated and get on with business.”
The five grouped themselves near one end of a long mahogany table, Laura Bo at the head.
“We are all concerned,” she said, “about recent proposals of Golden State Power & Light which the Sequoia Club has already decided would be harmful to the environment. We will actively oppose them at forthcoming hearings.”
Birdsong thumped the table loudly. “And I say: three bloody cheers for the Sequoia mob!”
Irwin Saunders appeared amused. Mrs. Quinn raised her eyebrows.
“What Mr. Birdsong has suggested in connection with that opposition,” the chairman continued, “are certain liaison arrangements between our organization and his. I’ll ask him to describe th
em.”
Attention swung to Davey Birdsong. For a moment he eyed the other four amiably, one by one, then plunged into his presentation.
“The kind of opposition all of us are talking about is a war—with GSP & L the enemy. To regard the scene otherwise would be to court defeat. Therefore, just as in a war, an attack must be mounted on several fronts.”
Noticeably, Birdsong had shed his clown’s veneer and the earlier breeziness of language. He proceeded, “To carry the war simile a stage further—as well as doing combat on specific issues, no opportunity should be lost to snipe at GSP & L whenever such an opening occurs.”
“Really,” Mrs. Quinn injected, “I’m aware you advised us it was a simile, but I find this talk of war distasteful. After all …”
The lawyer, Saunders, reached out to touch her arm. “Priscilla, why not let him finish?”
She shrugged. “Very well.”
“Causes are often lost, Mrs. Quinn,” Birdsong declared, “because of too much softness, an unwillingness to face the hard nub of reality.”
Saunders nodded. “A valid point.”
“Let’s get to specifics,” Pritchett, the manager-secretary, urged. “Mr. Birdsong, you referred to ‘several fronts.’ Precisely which?”
“Right!” Birdsong became businesslike again. “Fronts one, two and three—the public hearings on the announced plans for Tunipah, Fincastle Valley and Devil’s Gate. You people will fight on all of them. So will my gallant p & lfp.”
“As a matter of interest,” Laura Bo inquired, “on what grounds will you oppose?”
“Not sure yet, but don’t worry. Between now and then we’ll think of something.”
Mrs. Quinn seemed shocked. Irwin Saunders smiled.
“Then there are the rate hearings; that’s front number four. Any time there’s a proposal for increased utility rates, p & lfp will oppose them fiercely, as we did last time. With success, I might add.”
“What success?” Roderick Pritchett asked. “So far as I know, a decision hasn’t been announced.”
“You’re right, it hasn’t.” Birdsong smiled knowingly. “But I have friends at the PUC, and I know what’s coming out of there in two or three days—an announcement which will be a kick in the crotch to GSP & L.”
Pritchett asked curiously, “Does the utility know yet?”
“I doubt it.”
Laura Bo Carmichael said, “Let’s get on.”
“The fifth front,” Birdsong said, “and a mighty important one, is the annual meeting of Golden State Power & Light which takes place two and a half weeks from now. I have some plans for that, though I’d be glad if you didn’t ask me too much about them.”
“You’re implying,” Saunders said, “that we’d be better off not knowing.”
“Exactly, counselor.”
“Then what,” Laura Bo asked, “is all this talk of liaison about?”
Birdsong grinned as he rubbed a thumb and two fingers together suggestively. “This kind of liaison. Money.”
“I thought we’d get to that,” Pritchett said.
“Something else about our working together,” Birdsong told the Sequoia group. “It would be better if it wasn’t out in the open. It should be confidential, entre nous.”
“Then in what possible way,” Mrs. Quinn asked, “would the Sequoia Club benefit?”
Irwin Saunders said, “I can answer that. The fact is, Priscilla, anything which damages the image of GSP & L, in any area, is likely to diminish their strength and success in others.” He smiled. “It’s a tactic which lawyers have been known to use.”
“Why do you need money?” Pritchett asked Birdsong. “And what sum are we talking about?”
“We need it because p & lfp alone cannot afford all the preparation and people which are necessary if our combined opposition—on the table and under it—is to be effective.” Birdsong turned directly to the chairman. “As you pointed out, we have resources of our own, but not nearly enough for a project of this size.” His glance returned to the others. “The amount I’m suggesting the Sequoia Club contribute is fifty thousand dollars in two installments.”
The manager-secretary removed his glasses and inspected them for clarity. “You certainly don’t think small.”
“No, and neither should you, considering what’s at stake—in your case a possible major impact on the environment.”
“What bothers me in all of this,” Mrs. Quinn observed, “are certain implications of gutter fighting which I do not care for.”
Laura Bo Carmichael nodded. “I have precisely the same feeling.”
Again it was the lawyer, Saunders, who interceded.
“Certain facts of life,” he told his colleagues, “ought to be faced. In opposing these latest projects of Golden State Powers—Tunipah, Fincastle, Devil’s Gate—the Sequoia Club will present what we know to be reasoned arguments. However, remembering the climate of the times and misguided demands for more and more energy, reason and rationale are not certain to prevail. So what else do we do? I say we need another element—an ally that is more aggressive, more flamboyant, more calculated to excite public attention which, in turn, will influence the regulators who are only politicians once removed. In my view Mr. Birdsong and his whatever-he-calls-it group …”
“Power & light for people,” Birdsong interjected.
Saunders waved a hand as if the detail were unimportant. “Both ahead of those hearings, and at them, he’ll add that missing element we lack.”
“TV and the press love me,” Birdsong said. “I give them a show, something to leaven and liven their stories. Because of that, anything I say gets printed and is put on the air.”
“That’s true,” the manager-secretary affirmed. “Even some outrageous statements of his have been used by the media while they’ve omitted our comments and those of GSP & L.”
The chairman asked him, “Am I to assume you are in favor of what’s proposed?”
“Yes, I am,” Pritchett said. “There is one assurance, though, I’d like from Mr. Birdsong, namely that whatever his group does, no violence or intimidation will be countenanced.”
The boardroom table quivered as Birdsong’s hand slammed down. “Assurance given! My group despises violence of any kind. We have issued statements saying so.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Pritchett acknowledged, “and the Sequoia Club, of course, shares that view. By the way, I presume everyone saw the report in today’s Chronicle-West, of more bombings at GSP & L.”
The others nodded. The report had described havoc at a GSP & L truck depot where more than two dozen vehicles were damaged or destroyed during the night—the result of a fire started by a bomb. Several days earlier a substation had been bombed, though damage was slight. In both instances the underground Friends of Freedom had claimed responsibility.
“Are there more questions for Mr. Birdsong?” Laura Bo Carmichael asked.
There were several. They concerned the tactics to be employed against GSP & L—“continual harassment on a broad public information front” was how Birdsong put it—and the use to which the Sequoia Club’s money would be put.
At one point Roderick Pritchett ruminated aloud, “I’m not sure it would be to our advantage to insist on a detailed accounting, but naturally we would require proof that our money was expended effectively.”
“Your proof would be in results,” Birdsong answered.
It was conceded that certain matters would have to be taken on trust.
At length Laura Bo Carmichael announced, “Mr. Birdsong, I’ll ask you to leave us now so that the rest of us can discuss your proposal privately. One way or the other, we will be in touch with you soon.”
Davey Birdsong stood, beaming, his big body towering over the others. “Well, cobbers all, it’s been a privilege and pleasure. For now—so long!” As he went out there was an awareness that he had slipped—like putting on a garment—into his bluff public role.
When the boardroom door had closed behin
d Birdsong, Mrs. Quinn spoke first and firmly. “I don’t like any of it. I dislike the man and all my instincts are against trusting him. I’m totally opposed to any linkage with his group.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Irwin Saunders said, “because I believe his diversionary tactics are exactly what we need to beat these new CSP & L proposals, which is the important thing.”
“I must say, Mrs. Quinn,” Pritchett remarked, “I agree with Irwin’s view.”
Priscilla Quinn shook her head decisively. “Nothing any of you say will make me change my mind.”
The lawyer sighed. “Priscilla, you’re being altogether too prim and proper.”
“Possibly that’s true.” Mrs. Quinn’s face flushed red. “But I also have principles, something that disgusting man appears to lack.”
Laura Bo said sharply, “No acrimony among ourselves, please!”
Pritchett injected smoothly, “May I remind everyone that this committee has authority to make a binding decision and, if it so decides, to expend the amount of money we’ve discussed.”
“Madam Chairman,” Saunders said, “the way I count the voting so far is two in favor, one against, which leaves the swing vote up to you.”
“Yes,” Laura Bo acknowledged, “I realize that, and I’ll admit to some ambivalence.”
“In that case,” Saunders said, “let me state some reasons why I think you should come to my view, and Roderick’s.”
“And when you’ve finished,” Priscilla Quinn told him, “I’ll argue the opposite.”
For another twenty minutes the debate went back and forth.
Laura Bo Carmichael listened, making a contribution here and there, at the same time weighing mentally the way her vote should go. If she opposed co-operating with Birdsong there would be a 2-2 stalemate which would have the same effect as outright rejection. If she voted “for,” it would be a decisive 3-1.