Free Joe Steele by Harry Turtledove Page B

living. Like Carter Glass, though, they had their change of heart. With their loud new support, the nationalization bill passed the Senate by almost as big a margin as it had in the House.
    Joe Steele went on the radio to talk to the American people. “We are heading in the right direction at last,” he said. “Some folks make money when others are miserable. A few want to wreck all the progress the rest support. We almost had that kind of trouble over this bill. But I talked sense to a few men who didn’t see things quite the right way at first. Most of them took another look and decided going along would be a better idea. I’m glad they did. We need to get behind the country and push so we can start it going. If some push at the wrong end, that won’t work so well. We’re all together on this one, though. We are now.”
    Since he was speaking from the White House, no one on the program tried to tell him he was wrong. Hardly anyone anywhere tried to tell Joe Steele he was wrong at first. He was doing something, or trying to do something, about the mess. Herbert Hoover had treated the Depression the way the Victorians treated sex—he didn’t look at it, and he hoped it would just go away.
    That hadn’t worked for the Victorians, and it hadn’t worked for him, either. They were mostly dead, and he’d lost the election. For a politician, that was the fate worse than death.
    *   *   *
    E ven a reporter who came into Washington only every so often knew where the people who worked in the White House ate and drank. Charlie went to half a dozen of those places. He talked to more than half a dozen people who typed things and filed things and answered wires and telephone calls. And they all told him they didn’t know how Joe Steele got Carter Glass and the other Senators who’d opposed the bill that nationalized the banks to turn around and vote for it.
    He plied them with liquor. Even more to the point, he plied them with money. It was the Associated Press’ money, so he didn’t have to be chintzy with it. It didn’t help. They went right on telling him they didn’t know. Frustrated, he yelped, “Well, who the hell does, then?”
    Most of them didn’t even know who knew. Charlie knew what that meant: Joe Steele wasn’t just good at holding his cards close to his chest. He was terrific at it. One or two people suggested that Charlie might talk to Kagan or to Mikoian or to Scriabin.
    He could have figured that out for himself when the wells he drilled at lower levels came up dry. He pretty much had figured it out, in fact. Vince Scriabin still scared the crap out of him. Lazar Kagan’s moon of a face was as near unreadable as made no difference. That left Stas Mikoian. Of the President’s longtime henchmen, he seemed the most approachable.
    Chances were Charlie didn’t get a phone call from Mikoian completely by coincidence. “I hear you’ve been trying to find out a few things,” the Armenian said after they got through the hellos and how-are-yous.
    â€œDidn’t know that was against the rules for a reporter,” Charlie said.
    Mikoian laughed. Charlie judged Scriabin would have got mad. He couldn’t guess about Kagan, or about what the Jew’s reaction would have meant. Yeah, Stas was the most human of the three. “Why don’t you have dinner with me tonight?” Mikoian said. “We can talk about it there.”
    â€œSounds great. Where do you want to go?” Charlie asked.
    â€œThere’s a chop house called Rudy’s, across Ninth from the Gayety,” Mikoian answered. “See you there about eight?”
    â€œOkay.” Charlie eyed the phone in bemusement as he hung up. The Gayety was Washington’s leading burlesque house. Was Stas only using it as a geographical reference point, or was he human all kinds of ways? Charlie, of course, had never ogled a