Chapter 8

In a ten room apartment just off Fifth Avenue on 65th Street, Mr. Phelps Phelps was leaning forward to touch his wife's chin with the fingers of his right hand. Mr. Phelps was standing and Mrs. Phelps was sitting just in front of him. Mr. Phelps wore a dark suit, a gray silk tie, a white handkerchief in the left breast pocket of his jacket. Mrs. Phelps wore a red silk dress with a large bow at the lowest point of the neckline.

Directly behind Mrs. Phelps was a large rubber plant and beyond that the tall windows overlooking Sixty-fifth Street.

Mr. Phelps moved his forefinger back and forth under his wife's chin. "Don't look so sad."

"I never see you any more."

"Darling, you know how busy I am. Always on the run and all that. Busy busy."

"Even the children miss you."

"I'm always thinking about them. And thinking about you too."

"Promise?"

"You know it's true. Just wait till after the election. We'll have a lovely little vacation, just the two of us. Won't you like that?"

Mr. Phelps Phelps was the grandson of the late William Walter Phelps, the U.S. Ambassador to Germany from 1885 to 1893. Phelps Phelps was originally named Phelps von Rottenburg. His father was a Count von Rottenburg whom his mother met and married while living with her father (the Ambassador) in Germany. Then there came the war between the United States and Germany in 1917 and a divorce between the Rottenburgs. The Countess von Rottenburg chose to assume her maiden name of Phelps and her son's name was therefore changed from Phelps von Rottenburg to Phelps Phelps. This name or that name, the Count von Rottenburg subsequently died and left his American son an income of $70,000 a year. Mr. Phelps Phelps was known to be suave, generous, and shrewd. The rumor was that after his election to the U.S. Congress he expected to eventually become the Republican boss of Manhattan and maybe New York State. "I intend to serve the interests of New York City in Washington," Mr. Phelps said. "I think my entire life up to this point has been a preparation for this momentous job."

Mr. Phelps Phelps was no longer on 65th Street. He was now on West 52nd Street with another gentlemen and a young lady. Both men wore top-hats and white silk scarfs and black overcoats with white carnations in their left lapels. The young lady was dressed in a long evening gown, an evening coat over the gown, a white stole wrapped twice around her shoulders and neck so that nothing of the bosom of her dress could be seen. They stood in the small space at the side of a stone stairway, at a basement entrance shielded by a large black metal door. Mr. Phelps Phelps stood back with the young lady as the other gentleman leaned forward toward the hole that appeared in the door, toward the bright light and the face in the square hole.

"You got a card?"

"A card? Yes I do have a card, don't I? Now where is it? Well here it is. Is this what you need?"

He showed the card to the face in the hole. A moment later the door swung open. The gentleman with the card stood aside to allow the young lady to enter. Then he waved an arm at Mr. Phelps Phelps.

"You go on, Phel."

Mr. Phelps Phelps clapped him on the back. "I wish I had your girl tonight. She's a beauty."

"Oh no you don't. Not tonight you don't."

They laughed together as they walked one after the other through the open door. In a moment the door slammed shut and the space in front of it was once again in darkness.

A few days later Mr. Phelps Phelps was making a speech. He stood in front of a small lectern in a large room in the Ritz Tower Hotel on Park Avenue. He wore a dark blue pin-stripe suit and a dark blue necktie with diagonal white stripes. A carefully folded white handkerchief protruded from the left breast pocket of his jacket. His right hand was raised, his fingers extended in a gesture to the audience.

"Let there be no mistake about my attitudes. I'm running for Congress on the Republican ticket in support of Herbert Hoover. It's clear to me, as it's clear to many of you, that Herbert Hoover is a great example of the manhood of America. The more I see of the national campaign, the more I feel that his election is of supreme importance to the country. I want to be there in Congress to help Herbert Hoover solve the problems we're going to face during the next few years. I assure you that if I'm elected you'll have a man in Washington who knows what's good for his district."

The audience applauded. Mr. Phelps smiled. The applause continued and he smiled again.

At the Ritz Tower Hotel Mr. Phelps Phelps was now at the reception following his speech. He stood with Claire Belfield, but she hadn't yet introduced herself. She wore a cloche hat with a narrow brim and a large feather attached to the hat on the right side, a long graduated glass bead necklace and long suede gloves. Her blue silk dress had a square neckline.

Mr. Phelps was leaning forward slightly, the bulk of his figure tilted toward Claire. Behind him was a wall covered with an ornate silk wallpaper, part of a gilt mirror that showed the crowd in the large room. The noise of the crowd, people chatting, laughing, the tinkling of refreshment glasses, rose and fell.

Mr. Phelps now had his eyes on Claire's bosom. "Can I offer you a cigarette?"

"Why yes, thank you."

He opened a silver cigarette case. Claire chose a cigarette, slipped one end of it between her lips and Mr. Phelps lit it with a silver cigarette lighter.

"Well I hope I can count on your vote."

"Oh yes. My husband and I will certainly vote for you. I don't like that Pratt woman."

Mr. Phelps chuckled. "She's a bit off the track sometimes."

"I think you might know my husband."

"Really? Who is he?"

"George Belfield. I'm Claire Belfield."

Mr. Phelps hesitated. "Well I might know him. He's in the insurance business, isn't he?"

Mrs. Belfield laughed. "Very much so."

"I'm certainly grateful for the support of your family."

"Oh yes, George and I will certainly vote for you."

"That's wonderful."

His eyes were on her breasts again.

On East 65th Street Mr. and Mrs. Phelps Phelps were about to retire for the night. Their bedroom had twin beds. They sat facing each other, Mr. Phelps on one bed and Mrs. Phelps on the other bed. Mr. Phelps wore blue silk pajamas and Mrs. Phelps wore a long white nightgown with a lace collar. Between the beds was a small table supporting a dim yellow lamp.

Mr. Phelps rubbed his neck. "Tomorrow's another full day. My God, I'll be glad when it's finished."

"Poor darling. I wish I could help you."

"If it wasn't for that Pratt woman I'd be in without any trouble. She's calling me a Tammany Republican now. What do you think of that? Me, a Tammany Republican."

"She's awful."

"She's too smart for her own good."

"Do you think it's because she's a widow? If she had a husband I expect she wouldn't run at all."

"I've got to win this damn primary."

"You will, darling, you will."

"What a lovely party," said Mr. Phelps Phelps.

There were thirty people in the room, but Claire Belfield ignored them. This was a West End Avenue political party, a West Side party, and no one in the room except Mr. Phelps had any idea who she was. She'd found the invitation on her husband's desk. On the East Side she wouldn't have dared come out to a party like this without George. But she'd had a week of sitting at home doing nothing while George was in California and she couldn't stand it any more. She told herself George would understand. Anyway she was already cockeyed. And if George didn't understand, the hell with him. No, that wasn't quite nice. If George didn't understand she would pray that understanding would come to him. Oh, you're drunk, she thought. She still had Frank Tucker to feel guilty about, didn't she?