4. Prince Henry Demurs
Henry Armstrong twisted with irritation in the uncomfortable folding chair, struggling to keep the ennui from showing on his face. He pushed aside his plate of rubbery chicken. Would the tortuous speech droning into his ears never end? He consulted his Rolex, then glanced about the erstwhile bingo parlor trying to gauge the reactions of others in the audience. They all wore expressions of rapt attention.
Bunch of ass-kissers, he thought.
The Democratic Club president shot him a glance across the table; Henry parried with a polite little smile and nod.
Why yes, Henry’s gestures conveyed, I’m enjoying the hell out of this!
Again, he was struck by what a nonentity the club president was. The man’s droopy, plebian face, cheap clothes, and thinning hair hardly indicated a man of substance. Although, to admit the truth, Henry’s hair was also beginning to take its leave these days.
Except for the retreating hairline, he looked a lot like his father. Before they got to know him better, people assumed that he also possessed Frank’s dynamism and strength. But it didn’t take long before they concluded that Henry wasn’t quite the chip off the old block he’d seemed at first glance.
Not that Henry didn’t have his own capabilities, but they were of a more devious sort than his father’s were. Frank Armstrong had all the subtlety of a bulldozer; Henry believed more in the undermining approach and the flank attack. He was also a very capable, up and coming lawyer who, at age 32, was bucking for a full partnership at his firm.
Still, people regarded him as a much lesser man than his father. It was an impression he was working hard to dispel. His recent foray into local politics had been a move in that direction.
This Democratic Club luncheon was worse than usual with its bad food and keynote address by a labor union boss – a real mucky muck inside the Party who nobody dared to confront about his dreadful oratory.
Stirring exhortations issued nonstop from the speaker’s platform:
“Ours is the only true party of the people!” the union boss declared.
Screw ‘the people,’ already, Henry thought. I’m sick of hearing about them.
“The Democratic Party has never failed to promote the will of the average man,” the union boss intoned.
The average man is an idiot! Henry thought acidly, echoing one of his father’s pet sentiments.
Henry knew how much the union boss earned in salary and perks, not to mention the generous pension he’d be collecting down the road. Despite this ample remuneration, the guy wore a cheap, off the rack suit and a polyester tie. He was trying to prove his solidarity with the ‘average man,’ no doubt. Then again, if the guy was better dressed, he’d look even more like a Mafia don than he already did.
Henry felt distinctly out of place in his tailored power suit. This was not the correct attire, even for the inner circle attending the luncheon. The real ‘average men’ were out working for a living so that their dues could pay the fat salary of the union boss.
Why the hell did Henry join the Democratic Party, anyway? He’d had some vague idea of running for office, a judgeship maybe, becoming a mucky muck himself – be his own man and finally emerge from his father’s shadow. He resided in an affluent corner of a heavily Democratic district, so there was really only one place for a political newcomer to go.
But the move had really pissed off Dad, which wasn’t wise – even if tweaking the old bull’s ear had been amusing at first. Dad was a thoroughgoing right winger who sometimes made Ronald Reagan sound like a communist. But Frank Armstrong could astonish, too, acting in ways that seemed to belie his pugnacious demeanor. How much of it was show and how much genuine, Henry wondered? There was still a lot to learn about the old man.
At least Henry had learned something from his brief political experience.
He’d found out that money talked in the Democratic Party, as it did everyplace else, and that he just didn’t have enough of it. What he needed was a fast track into Dad’s wealth and connections, not membership in a political party that he actually loathed.
Well ... that could all change soon. If they could get the reorganization plan implemented and deal out that gold digger cocktail waitress, Henry’s star would truly begin to rise. It would be the best thing for Dad, too, who was getting older and was not in the best of health. It was time that father and son began pulling the load together.
One thing was certain – Henry’s days with the Democratic Party were at an end. He needed to get on his father’s good side, and ditching this socialistic gang would be a useful first step. Now, if he could just escape this damned luncheon without making a scene!
As if in answer to a prayer, Henry’s phone began tickling his ribs. He’d set it on vibrate so as not disturb these ‘important’ proceedings, but now he was desperate for any diversion. He pulled the phone out of his jacket pocket; the call was from his older sister, Patricia. The club president looked at him questioningly.
“Excuse me,” Henry said, “I need to take this.”
The president nodded and turned his attention back to the speaker.
“Hello, Sis,” Henry said in a low voice.
“Hello, Henny,” Patricia said. “Why so quiet – you at a funeral or something?”
He disliked the nickname Henny she’d given him when they were kids. It made him feel diminished, somehow, but he’d been unable to dissuade her from using it. At least she didn’t speak it often – just when she wanted to let him know who the real power sibling was.
“I just got a call from Debbie,” Patricia said. “Dad’s in the hospital.”
Heart attack, were the first words to enter Henry’s mind. He sat bolt upright and spoke too loudly.
“How is he?”
The president and the other attendees turned their faces toward him with raised eyebrows. The union boss skipped a beat in his oration.
“Not too bad, apparently,” Patricia said. “Just a broken wrist he got falling off a ladder.”
“Ohhh ... Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Henry chided. “You scared the hell out of me.”
He felt genuine concern for his father, and mixed in with this filial devotion was relief that Frank would not be checking out before the reorganization plan could be put in place.
“I’m on my way there now,” Patricia said.
“Belmont Hospital?”
“Yeah,” Patricia said, “if you’re going, can you give me a ride home?”
“Sure thing, Sis. I’ll see you there.”
Henry was on his feet now, taking leave of those at his table, making a perfunctory nod to the speaker. Then he was out the door and striding through the parking lot to his car.
He noticed that he was still wearing a campaign button on his lapel for a local Democratic candidate. With one artful motion, he pulled the button off and flung it over his shoulder. On the way out, he ground the thing under a tire.