Her inclination was to cast a “no.” While seeing merit in Saunders’ and Pritchett’s pragmatism, Laura Bo’s instincts about Davey Birdsong paralleled Priscilla Quinn’s. The trouble was, she didn’t particularly want to be linked with Priscilla Quinn—an undoubted snob, a society do-gooder forever in the social columns, married to old California money, and thus representing many things which Laura Bo abhorred.
Something else she was aware of: If she sided with Priscilla against the other two it would be a clear case of the women versus the men. Never mind that Laura Bo would not intend it that way and was capable of judging any issue irrespective of her sex, that was the way it would look. She could imagine Irwin Saunders, a male chauvinist, thinking; The damn women stuck together, even if not saying it aloud. Saunders had not been one of Laura Bo’s supporters when she was a candidate for the Sequoia Club chairmanship; he had backed a male contender. Now Laura Bo, as the first woman to assume the club’s highest office, wanted to show that she could fill that post as well and impartially as any man, perhaps a good deal better.
And yet … there was still her instinct that the Birdsong connection would be wrong.
“We’re going in circles,” Saunders said. “I suggest we take a final vote.”
Priscilla Quinn asserted, “My vote remains ‘no.’”
Saunders growled, “Strongly—’yes.’”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Quinn,” Pritchett said. “I vote ‘yes.’”
The eyes of the other three were focused on Laura Bo. She hesitated, reviewing once more the implications and her doubts. Then she said decisively, “I will vote ‘yes.’”
“That does it!” Irwin Saunders said. He rubbed his hands together. “Priscilla, why not be a good loser? Join the rest of us and make it unanimous.”
Tight-lipped, Mrs. Quinn shook her head negatively. “I think you will all regret that vote. I wish my dissent to be recorded.”
2
While the Sequoia Club committee continued its discussion in his absence, Davey Birdsong left the club’s headquarters building humming a jaunty tune. He had not the least doubt what the outcome would be. The Quinn woman, he knew, would be against him; he was equally sure the other three—for individual reasons—would see the situation his way. The fifty thousand smackeroos was in the bag.
He retrieved his car—a beat-up Chevrolet—from a nearby by parking lot and drove through the city’s center, then southeast for several miles. He stopped on a nondescript street where he had never been before but which was the sort of location where he could leave the car for several hours without attracting attention. Birdsong locked the car, memorized the street name, men walked several blocks to a busier thoroughfare where, he had observed en route, several bus lines operated. He took the first westbound bus which came along.
On the way from the car he had donned a hat which he normally never wore and also put on horn-rimmed glasses which he didn’t need. The two additions changed his appearance surprisingly, so that anyone used to seeing him on TV or elsewhere would almost certainly fail to recognize him now.
After riding the bus for ten minutes, Birdsong got off and hailed a cruising taxi which he directed to drive northward. Several times he glanced through the taxi’s rear window, inspecting other traffic following. The inspections seemed to satisfy him and he ordered the taxi to stop and paid it off. A few minutes later he boarded another bus, this time going east. By now his journey since parking the car had assumed the approximate shape of a square.
As he left the second bus, Birdsong inspected the other passengers getting off, then began walking briskly, turning several corners and glancing back each time. After about five minutes of walking he stopped at a small row house, then ascended a half-dozen steps to a recessed front door. He depressed a bell push and stood where he could be seen from the other side of the door through a tiny oneway peephole. Almost at once the door opened and he went inside.
In the small dark hallway of the Friends of Freedom hideaway Georgos Archambault asked, “Were you careful in coming here?”
Birdsong growled, “Of course I was careful. I always am.” He said accusingly, “You botched the substation job.”
“There were reasons,” Georgos said. “Let’s go below.” He led the way down a flight of cement stairs to the basement workroom with its usual clutter of explosives and accessories.
On a makeshift couch against one wall a girl lay stretched out. She appeared to be in her twenties. Her small round face, which in other circumstances might have been pretty, was waxen pale. Stringy blonde hair, in need of combing, spilled over a grubby pillow. Her right hand was heavily bandaged, the bandage stained brown where blood had seeped through and dried.
Birdsong exploded. “Why is she here?”
“That’s what I was going to explain,” Georgos said. “She was helping me at the substation and a blasting cap went off. It took off two of her fingers and she was bleeding like a pig. It was dark; I wasn’t sure if we’d been heard. I did the rest of the job in a big hurry.”
“And where you put the bomb was stupid and useless,” Birdsong said. “A firecracker would have done as much damage.”
Georgos flushed. Before he could answer, the girl said, “I ought to go to a hospital.”
“You can’t and you won’t.” Birdsong exhibited none of the affability which was his trademark. He told Georgos angrily, “You know our arrangement. Get her out of here!”
Georgos motioned with his head and unhappily the girl got off the couch and went upstairs. He had made another mistake, Georgos knew, in allowing her to stay. The arrangement Birdsong had mentioned—a sensible precaution—was that only he and Georgos should meet face-to-face. Davey Birdsong’s connection was unknown to the others in the underground group—Wayde, Ute and Felix—who either left the house or kept out of sight when a visit from the Friends of Freedom outside conduit—Birdsong—was expected. The real trouble was, Georgos realized, he had become soft about his woman, Yvette, which was not good. It had been the same way when the blasting cap went off; at that moment Georgos had been more concerned about Yvette’s injuries than the job in hand, so that wanting to get her away safely was the real reason he had hurried—and botched.
When the girl had gone, Birdsong said, low-voiced, “Just make damn sure—no hospital, no doctor. There’d be questions and she knows too much. If you have to, get rid of her. There are easy ways.”
“She’ll be all right. Besides, she’s useful.” Georgos was uncomfortable under Birdsong’s scrutiny and changed the subject. “The truck depot last night went well. You saw the reports?”
The big man nodded grudgingly. “They should all go that way. There isn’t time or money to waste on bummers.”
Georgos accepted the rebuke silently, though he didn’t have to. He was the leader of Friends of Freedom. Davey Birdsong’s role was secondary, as a link to the outside, particularly to those supporters of revolution—“drawing room Marxists”—who favored active anarchy but didn’t want to share its risks. Yet Birdsong, by his nature, liked to appear dominant, and sometimes Georgos let him get away with it because of his usefulness, particularly the money he brought in.
Money was the reason right now for avoiding an argument; Georgos needed more since his earlier sources had abruptly dried up. His bitch of a mother, the Greek movie actress who had supplied him with a steady income for twenty years, had apparently hit hard times herself; she wasn’t getting film parts any more because not even makeup could conceal the fact she was fifty, her young goddess looks gone forever. That part Georgos was delighted about and hoped things would get progressively worse for her. If she were starving, he told himself, he wouldn’t give her a stale biscuit. Just the same, a notification from the Athens lawyers—impersonal as usual—that no more payments would be made into his Chicago bank account had come at an awkward time.
Georgos’ cash needs involved current costs and future plans. One project was to build a small nuclear bomb and explode it in or
near the headquarters of Golden State Power & Light. Such a bomb, Georgos reasoned, would destroy the building, the exploiters and lackeys in it, and also much else around—a salutary lesson to the capitalist oppressors of the people. At the same time, Friends of Freedom would become an even more formidable force than now, to be treated with awe and respect.
The idea of creating an atomic bomb was ambitious and perhaps unrealistic—though not entirely. After all, a twenty-one-year-old Princeton student named John Phillips had already demonstrated in a much-publicized term paper that the “how to” details were available in library reference materials to anyone having the patience to assemble them. Georgos Winslow Archambault, steeped in physics and chemistry, had obtained all the information he could about Phillips’ research and had built up a file of his own, also using library data. One non-library item in the file was a ten-page handbook put out by California’s Office of Emergency Services and directed to police agencies; it outlined ways of dealing with atomic bomb threats and that, too, had provided useful information. Georgos was now close, he believed, to creating a detailed working drawing. However, actual construction of a bomb would require fissionable material, which would have to be stolen, and that would take money—a lot, plus organization and luck. But it just might be done; stranger things had happened.
He told Birdsong, “Since you’ve brought up time and money, we need some long green now.”
“You’ll get it.” Birdsong permitted himself a wide smile, the first since coming in. “And plenty. I found another money tree.”
3
Nim was shaving. It was shortly after 7 A.M. on a Thursday in late August.
Ruth had gone downstairs ten minutes earlier to prepare breakfast. Leah and Benjy were still sleeping. Now Ruth returned, appearing at the bathroom door with a copy of the Chronicle-West.
“I hate to start your day off badly,” she said, “but I know you’ll want to see this.”
“Thanks.” He put down his razor and took the newspaper with wet hands, scanning the front page. Below the fold was a single-column item:
GSP&L
Rate Hike
Disallowed
Electricity and gas rates are not going up.
This was revealed yesterday afternoon by the California Public Utilities Commission in announcing its turndown of an application by Golden State Power & Light for a 13 percent increase in gas and electric rates which would bring the giant utility another $580 million annual revenue.
“We do not see the need for an increase at this time,” the PUC stated in a decision arrived at by a 3–2 vote of the commissioners.
At public hearings GSP & L had argued that it needs more money to offset rising costs due to inflation and to raise capital for its construction program.
High officials of GSP & L were not available for comment, though a spokesman expressed regret and concern for the future energy situation in California. However, Davey Birdsong, leader of a consumers group—power & light for people—hailed the decision as …
Nim put the newspaper on the toilet tank beside him while he finished shaving; he had learned of the decision late yesterday so the report was confirmation. When he went downstairs Ruth had his breakfast ready—lamb kidneys with scrambled eggs—and she sat opposite him with a cup of coffee while he ate.
She asked, “What does that commission decision really mean?”
He grimaced. “It means that three people, who got jobs because of politics, have the right to tell big corporations like GSP & L and the phone company how to manage their affairs—and do.”
“Will it affect you?”
“Damn right it will! I’ll have to revamp the construction program; we’ll cancel or slow down some projects and that will lead to layoffs. Even then there’ll be a cash bind. Long faces this morning, especially Eric’s.” Nim cut and speared a kidney. “These are great. You do them better than anybody.”
Ruth hesitated, then said, “Could you get your own breakfast for a while, do you think?”
Nim was startled. “Sure, but why?”
“I may be going away.” In her quiet voice Ruth corrected herself. “I am going away. For a week, perhaps longer.”
He put down his knife and fork, staring across the table. “Why? Where?”
“Mother will have Leah and Benjy while I’m gone, and Mrs. Blair will come in as usual to clean. So it will just mean your having dinner out, and I’m sure you can arrange that.”
Nim ignored the barb. He insisted, his voice rising, “You didn’t answer my question. Where are you going, and why?”
“There’s no need for either of us to shout.” Beneath Ruth’s composure he sensed an uncharacteristic hardness. “I heard your question, but the way things are between us, I don’t believe I should have to answer. Do you?”
Nim was silent, knowing precisely what Ruth meant: Why should there be a double standard? If Nim chose to break the rules of marriage, have a succession of affairs, and stay out many evenings for his own diversions, why shouldn’t Ruth exercise similar freedom, also without explanations?
On that basis, her declaration of equality—which it clearly was—seemed reasonable. Just the same, Nim felt a stab of jealousy because he now was sure Ruth was involved with another man. Originally he hadn’t thought so; now he was convinced, and while he knew that give-and-take arrangements existed in some marriages, he found it hard to accept them in his own.
“We both know,” Ruth said, interrupting his thoughts, “that for a long time you and I have only been going through the motions of being married. We haven’t talked about it. But I think we should.” This time, despite an attempt at firmness, there was a tremor in her voice.
He asked, “Do you want to talk now?”
Ruth shook her head. “Perhaps when I come back.” She added, “As soon as I work some things out, I’ll let you know when I’m leaving.”
Nim said dully, “All right.”
“You haven’t finished your breakfast.”
He pushed the plate away. “I don’t feel like eating any more.”
Though the exchange with Ruth—jolting in its suddenness—preoccupied Nim during his drive downtown, activity at GSP & L headquarters quickly eclipsed personal thoughts.
The ruling of the Public Utilities Commission took priority over all other business.
All morning a procession of executives from the utility’s financial and legal departments, their expressions serious, hastened in and out of the chairman’s office. Their comings and goings marked a succession of conferences, each concerned with the essential question: Without any increase whatever in the rates it could charge customers, how could GSP & L carry out its needed construction plans and stay solvent? The consensus: Without some drastic and immediate cutback in expenses, it simply wasn’t possible.
At one point J. Eric Humphrey paced the rug behind his desk and demanded rhetorically, “Why is it that when the price of bread goes up because of inflation, or meat prices soar, or it costs more to get into a ball game or a movie—no one is ever surprised and it’s all accepted? But when we point out, truthfully, that we can’t produce electricity at our old rates because our costs have gone up too, nobody believes us.”
Oscar O’Brien, the general counsel, answered while he lit one of his inevitable cigars. “They don’t believe us because they’ve been conditioned not to—mostly by politicians trying to suck up to voters and looking for an easy target. Public utilities have always been one.”
The chairman snorted. “Politicians! They disgust me! They invented inflation, created it, worsened it, keep it going as they build public debt—all so they can buy votes and hang onto their jobs. Yet those charlatans, those obscurers of the truth, blame inflation on everybody else—unions, business—anyone, anything, except themselves. If it weren’t for politicians, we wouldn’t be asking for a rate increase because we wouldn’t need to.”
Sharlett Underhill, executive vice president of finance and the fourth person in the chairma
n’s office, murmured, “Amen!” Mrs. Underhill, a tall brunette in her forties, capable, normally unruffled, today appeared harried. Which was understandable, Nim thought. Whatever financial decisions were made as a result of the PUC turndown, they would inevitably be harsh and Sharlett Underhill would have to implement them.
Eric Humphrey, who had stopped his pacing, asked, “Does anyone have a theory about why everything we sought was rejected? Did we misjudge the profiles? Where was our strategy wrong?”
“I’m not sure our strategy was wrong,” O’Brien said. “And we sure as hell studied the profiles, and acted on them.”
Behind the question and answer was a common practice of utility companies—but also a closely guarded secret.
Whenever a Public Utility Commissioner was appointed, companies which would be affected by the new commissioner’s decisions began a detailed undercover study of the individual, including a psychiatric profile. The resultant material was pored over by experts in psychology who searched for prejudices to be guarded against or weaknesses to be exploited.
Later an executive of the utility would attempt to strike up a friendship in the course of which the commissioner would be entertained at the executive’s home, invited to play golf, share hard-to-get seats at sports events, or taken trout fishing at a Sierra hideaway. The entertainment was always pleasant, private, and discreet, but never lavish. During casual conversations some discussion might occur about the utility’s affairs, but no direct favors were asked; the influence was more subtle. Often the tactic worked in a utility’s favor. Occasionally it didn’t.
“We knew two of the commissioners would vote against us anyway,” the lawyer said, “and we knew for sure that two of the other three were in our corner. So that left Cy Reid’s as the swing vote. We’d worked on Reid, we thought he’d see things our way, but we were wrong.”