A Helluva Guy

By A.K. Daniels

When Stan Cassidy, a reporter on The Gazette, is assigned to write a memorial piece on the recently deceased Harold C. Springer--Congressman, Senator, former Ambassador to France, Secretary of Labor, local-boy-made-good--everyone he interviews ends up telling a story about Springers best friend, MacAllister Davis. The stories follow Mac from his college days as a football star when he supplemented his scholarship by running rum during Prohibition, through his stint as a New Deal politician, to his OSS service in World War II. Mac was a mans man, every womans hero, and A Helluva Guy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 16, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462827893

A.K. Daniels

A. K. Daniels is a native of Pennsylvania. After ten years working at The Pennsylvania State University, A. K. moved to New York City. A spare time writer, A. K. is currently a United Nations representative for a Non-Governmental Organization.

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CHAPTER ONE

1985, Capitol City, The Assignment

I walked to the office because it was a beautiful spring day. The path through the park brought me to the plaza in front of the State Capitol Building. It was a magnificent example of late nineteenth century Beaux Arts architecture that always managed to take my breath away.

Workmen were taking down the scaffolding that had been hastily erected late yesterday afternoon. Now the main entrance was draped in black bunting.

Harold Curtiss Springer, Congressman, Senator, former Ambassador to France, Secretary of Labor, local-boy-made-good, had died. The whole town, and most of the state had gone into official mourning.

All over Capitol City, flags were flying at half-staff, on private lawns as well as public properties. The mayor proposed, and the city council concurred on, a motion to rename the landscaped riverfront walk Harold C. Springer Promenade.

Harold C. Springer meant nothing to me personally, although he had spoken at my college graduation. My memory of the ceremony is a vague collage of black gowns against a background of sun-tinged leaves. He was tall, with finely chiseled features, blue eyes, white hair, and an impressively strong voice.

Now he was dead, and I had been assigned to write a feature article on him. After three years of covering arraignments, high school sports, ladies association luncheons, and boring legislative debates, what my editor called paying your dues, I’d gotten the cover story in the Sunday supplement—a memorial tribute to Harold Springer.

Ed Norris, city editor of The Gazette, had called me into his office, a corner space partitioned off from the rest of the newsroom. Ed, somewhere in his fifties, wore his still dark hair in a short WWII Navy crew cut. He was a large man with huge shoulders and a barrel chest. Often he would discuss their assignments with his reporters, and in the three years I’d been on The Gazette, I’d learned a lot.

Five hundred in advance and five hundred for expenses, he’d said. You might have to travel from one end of the state to the next. With any luck, some of these guys are still walkin’ and talkin’.

He handed me a typed sheet. It contained fifteen names, addresses—some marked last known—with telephone numbers.

You know what we want, Ed said. Standard reminiscences—first time met, last time seen, some special memory—that kind of thing. Lots of color. See what you can turn up that no one else is gonna have. There’s a copy of the obit for reference.

I flipped open the manila envelope he handed me.

"About six years ago, TIME did a profile on him, but we want something different—something local, something special—for the old home town, you know."

How do you want me to slant it? I asked.

Hell, Ed said, running his hand over his head. Find out what you can, then write it down. You won’t need a slant. Everyone will have a story to tell about Hal Springer. He’s the most important person this burg ever produced.

After leaving the office, I went to the coffee shop in the American Hotel. Situated on the corner across the park from the capitol, the coffee shop was very popular with state personnel, and, therefore, a good place to hang out and pick up political gossip.

It had been the first soda fountain in Capitol City, and still retained much of its original decorative flavor. The spindly-legged wrought iron chairs, dark wood paneling and marble floor were from the early twenties. The counter had a marble top and a dark wood base. Behind it was a huge beveled glass mirror. The recently-installed steel-column stools at the counter with their vinyl-covered seats looked out of place.

I usually sit at the counter, but today I chose the booth in the back, next to the hotel lobby entrance. I wanted the extra space to spread out and work.

Tuna salad on white, fries and a coke, right? asked Beverly, the coffee shop’s only waitress, in a tired voice. She’d been working here a long time—thirty, maybe forty years. She knew all the regulars and, if they ordered the same thing every day, she remembered.

You got it. I smiled at her. Beverly was a good waitress, efficient, kind, not too inquisitive. She had reached that time in life when she was no longer young, but not yet old. Taller than average with a slim build, she wore her gray-streaked dark hair pulled back in a bun and covered with a hair net. Oh, and uh, I’ll have a piece of apple pie and black coffee, later.

Beverly raised her eyebrows. Apple pie! You celebrating something, Stan? she teased.

A big assignment, I answered, trying to subdue a grin.

Well, good for you, Sport. She gave my shoulder a congratulatory pat as she turned away.

While I waited for the sandwich, I looked over the list of contacts, and decided the first thing to do was verify addresses. There were four local people.

I went into the old wooden phone booth and checked the directory that was kept on a shelf below the phone, attached to the booth by a long metal chain. Although well used, with only an occasional missing page, it was current. All four men were still listed, so it was a good bet that they were still alive.

I knew one of them slightly—James Peterson. He had been in Labor and Industry since the days of the New Deal, and eventually worked his way almost to the top. I had met him when I first came to Capitol City. My uncle had given me a letter of introduction in the hope that Peterson could help me get a job. I wrote the number, one, next to his name.

There was another name on the list that I recognized—Charles B. Miller, Esq. He was a well-known corporate attorney. I figured it would be difficult to get an appointment with him, and put a question mark next to Miller’s name.

I read the biographical sketch Ed Norris had provided while I ate my sandwich. Harold Curtiss Springer may have been born in Capitol City, but he hadn’t lived here in a long time—not since shortly after World War II.

He’d come home a decorated hero, and had run for the state legislature. Before his term was up, he’d been appointed to fill an empty Congressional seat. It didn’t look like it’d be easy to get anything more than childhood or early adult memories from the locals.

After lunch, I made my calls. James Peterson’s wife asked me to call back after five o’clock. Charles Miller’s secretary said he was out of town until next week. I called John Kelley next, but there was no answer.

The last local person I called was a man named Larry White. He had an RD address which could be anywhere within a twenty-five or thirty mile radius of the city.

A crisp, enthusiastic female voice answered, White Meadow Farm.

This is Stan Cassidy of the Gazette. May I speak to Mr. White, please?"

Which Mr. White do you want?

Larry.

Hmmm. I guess you want my grandfather, Larry One, she said. Larry Two is my little brother. I can’t imagine what the Gazette would want to talk to him about.

Definitely, Larry One. I reached into my pocket, and started stacking dimes and nickels on the ledge under the phone. Is he there?

He’s down at the stable. I’ll transfer you.

Three dimes later, I had an appointment with Mr. White. Not only was he willing to talk about Harold Springer, he actually sounded eager. He invited me out to his farm for cocktails at six o’clock that evening.

There were still three hours to kill, so I went to the library, where they have copies of all the phone books in the state. I was able to verify six addresses and phone numbers. Two had been changed; three were not listed anywhere.

CHAPTER TWO

1985, Capitol City, Interview With Larry White

It was after six, when I drove through the entrance gates to White Meadow Farm. About a quarter of a mile farther, the dirt road forked. There was a post with two arrows pointing in opposite directions. The arrow pointing to the right read, House, Office, Guest House. I swung the car in that direction.

The main part of the house was built of gray stone with additions of white clapboard, and probably dated from the early 1800’s. The trim was painted white, while the paneled shutters and recessed double doors were painted black. The polished brass knocker reflected the rays of the setting sun, and almost blinded me. I was afraid to use it, remembering how the acid in my skin had tarnished the doorknobs in my apartment.

So I looked for a bell, and found a discreet black button set into the doorframe. I pushed, but heard no sound; not even a distant echo of a ring to let me know it was working. After twenty seconds, I pushed it again.

The right half of the door was opened a moment later by a woman in her early twenties. She had honey-golden, close-cropped hair, china blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles that ran in a line across her nose and cheeks. She wore a yellow polo shirt, brown jodhpurs, and a sunny smile that showed even, white teeth.

You the guy from the Gazette? she asked. You’re late. My grandfather’s waiting for you. We’re in the playroom—back here.

I followed her down a long, wide passage, past the dining room, the kitchen, a room that appeared to be a study, and several closed doors, down a small step into a large walnut-paneled room. There were built-in bookcases on each side of a wide fieldstone fireplace, but no books. Each shelf was full of trophies, most of them silver. They gleamed as brightly as the doorknocker.

Standing by a wet bar in the corner was a tall, distinguished-looking man with white hair, and a dapper mustache. If he was a contemporary of Hal Springer, he would have to be in his eighties, but he looked no more than seventy. He was also dressed in riding clothes.

Mr. Cassidy? I’m Larry White, he said, extending his hand. What can I get you?

Plain tonic will be fine, thank you. I rarely drink alcohol, and never when I’m working or driving.

Larry White indicated that I should sit on the sofa. He nodded to the girl who had let me in, then sat next to me.

You’ve met my granddaughter, Leslie, he said with a majestic wave of his hand toward the girl who had gone behind the bar. I nodded at her, and she flashed me a big smile.

After serving the drinks, she sat in one of the wingback chairs by the fireplace, hitching it around to face us.

You said you wanted to talk about Hal Springer. What do you want to know? Mr. White asked. He had a deep voice with no regional accent.

We’re doing a special memorial feature on him. I’m gathering color—uh, background—for it. You can tell me anything you’d like. Do you mind if I tape this interview? Sometimes I get caught up in the story, and forget to make notes. If I record it, I won’t have to call you back to check on what you said.

He nodded, and I depressed the record button.

When did you first meet Mr. Springer?

Larry White took a sip of neat Scotch. I don’t remember. I knew Hal almost all my life. We grew up together, went to the same prep school. We were suite mates in college.

That was Essex Hall, I said, checking my notes. What kind of a student was he?

Mediocre. B’s and C’s. He played football—was captain of the team in his senior year.

When did you last see Mr. Springer?

The last time I saw him was at MacAllister Davis’s funeral three years ago. He stared blankly at the far wall. After a moment, he continued. There were only three of us there from Essex Hall. We’d all been suite mates, and spent most of that day reminiscing about Mac. He was a helluva guy. Good looking, smart in a savvy, non-intellectual way, loaded with charm—always had a sheba hanging around.

A what?

A sheba—an attractive woman. What your generation would call a babe, Mr. White explained, with a broad smile. Mac had a lot of girls in those days.

He was digressing, so I tried to get him back on track with a question. Can you tell me something about Mr. Springer’s football career?

It wasn’t spectacular. He sat on the bench most of the time. Of course, Mac eclipsed everyone on the team. He was a carrier.

Pardon?

Ah, yes. Mr. White raised his eyebrows and rubbed the side of his nose with his middle finger. The carrier would be the quarterback, but unlike today, he would run with the ball more often than pass it. Red Grange is a good example. You’re probably too young to know about him.

I assured Mr. White that I’d heard of Red Grange.

It was a different game then. In those days every one on the team played both defense and offense. Brawn wasn’t as important as brains and speed. Mac had both, plus a good deal of guts. There was one game….

He took a sip of his Scotch; the ice cubes shifted and clinked against the side of his glass. His eyes had a faraway look, and I wondered if he were hearing a distant cheer. Those were the days, he said, finally, coming back to the present.

Tell me about them.

Hmmm, let me see. Oh, yeah. We’d been doing pretty well in football our sophomore year. Princeton was our big rival, and we had an undefeated record going into the big game. We’d never beaten them, though, and it was pretty exciting. The score was tied 6-6 in the last quarter, when it began to snow. The field got slippery real fast. At times it snowed so hard it was almost impossible to see what was happening.

He paused for another sip.

Hal slipped and twisted his ankle so bad they took him out of the game. One minute left to play; Mac Davis had the ball; he faked a pass to Gus Borden. I don’t know if it was the snow or what, but the Tigers didn’t see the fake, and took off after Gus. That left an almost clear field for Mac. He started toward their goal; he was halfway there when the opposition realized something was up. This one guy was gaining on Mac. Three yards to go and Mac slips in the snow. He falls on his stomach, slides down field with his arms outstretched clutching the ball in his hands. Guess what happened?

I shook my head.

He stopped sliding halfway over the goal line. He made it. We won 12-6. He was one helluva football player.

Sounds impressive, I said. Did Harold Springer have any interesting exploits that you can recall?

Well, there was this one time. He paused for more Scotch. Mac Davis had taken to staying out past curfew a lot. One night Hal decided to follow him, and I went along.

CHAPTER THREE

1929, Essex Hall College

It was an unusually bright fall day. The air was brisk, the sun warm; leaves covered the ground like a crazy quilt of orange, gold and red. Mac scuffled through them. He liked the crunching sound, and the earthy, pungent odor they gave up when disturbed.

He strolled across the common yard that was the center of Essex Hall’s campus. Gothic buildings of dusty red bricks faced the common with a watchful air. Just as Mac was about to cross the street that surrounded the common, a bright yellow roadster swung around the corner; its horn ahoo-gued at him.

Hal Springer was behind the wheel, his cheeks a ruddy color and his blue eyes shone. A tweed cap covered his blond hair. Next to him was Shirley Martin; her bobbed blonde hair was secured beneath a straw cloche. She looked up at Mac as Hal stopped, and gave him a curt nod keeping her icy blue eyes averted.

In the rumble seat, Larry White was squeezed next to Caroline DeForrest-Smith. She wore no hat, and her auburn hair was windblown, her cheeks pink. When she smiled, sunlight danced in her green eyes, and made them sparkle.

We’re going for a picnic at Lookout Point, Hal said. Want to come?

There isn’t any room, Mac said with a cordial smile.

Sure there is. You can sit next to me, and Shirley can sit on your lap. He turned to Shirley, and winked. You won’t mind, will you?

No thanks, Mac said. He knew Shirley was stuck on Hal, and his presence would encroach on the intimacy of their date. This was confirmed by the relieved smile she gave him.

Oh, come on, Caroline coaxed from the back. She arranged her lips in an appealing pout. Now here is a beautiful girl Mac thought. He’d had a thing for Caroline since the first time he saw her. He’d never asked her out, though. Not because he was shy, or afraid she’d say no, but because he knew she was out of his league. She came from a wealthy, socially prominent, New York family. It was a simple matter of mathematics—he just couldn’t afford her.

Honesty was Mac’s strong suit. Not the I cannot tell a lie brand of honesty, but the real gut-wrenching kind that didn’t let him lie to himself. He knew who and what he was. He also knew what the world thought about a man in his circumstances. In other words, Mac knew his place.

Instinctively, he knew that anyone who ignored the undeclared, invisible social boundaries would be thought of as pushy and undeserving of notice. He tested the limits from time to time, but he did it carefully, and with a discretion that never generated anger—or worse—scorn.

You take the cards you’re dealt, and play them the best you can. That was his credo.

Listen, Hal, Mac said, walking around to the driver’s side. As he leaned down, a lock of his straight black hair came loose and hung against his forehead. He half-closed his gray-blue eyes, and lowered his voice; what he had to say was for Hal’s ears alone. I’m going to be out late again tonight. Maybe all night. Will you cover for me?

Sure. You sly dog, Hal said with a knowing grin. What’s her name? Sooner or later, you know, we’ll get it out of you.

Mac didn’t respond to the innuendo. He just stepped away from the car, and said, Thanks.

He watched them drive off, his mood less buoyant than when they’d pulled up. He would have liked to have gone with them, but that wasn’t what disturbed him. Even though he knew Hal had only been kidding, Mac wished he hadn’t implied there was a girl involved—at least, not in front of Caroline.

She may have been out of his league, but he still didn’t want her to think he was involved with anyone. Mac was too young to know that already having a girl made him more attractive to other women.

MacAllister Mac Davis, Jr., was eighteen, and a sophomore at the prestigious College of Essex Hall. When he arrived as a freshman, he’d spent every day in awe of his surroundings—unable to believe his good fortune in being an Essex Man.

His father had died when he was eight years old; his mother had passed away when he was fifteen. After selling the house, there had been just enough money to bury her, pay for an added inscription on the double stone that marked his parents’ graves, and allow him to finish high school.

His mother’s sister had taken him in. Aunt Cady augmented her small income by renting out her extra bedroom. For an additional amount, she would provide dinner, do laundry and mending for her boarder—whom she always referred to as,