A businessman who opposes what you want to do is not necessarily a jealous rival.
There simply was no handle, Groff thought, by which you could get hold of the man. He was completely out of touch. Off in a kind of a dream. It was almost as if he was drunk; but that, of course, was impossible—liquor would have put him out on his feet in seconds.
Polly Chesbro said suddenly, "What did you want the radio truck for?"
Artie looked alarmed. "Now, honey, don't you get mixed up in—"
She said, "Artie, I know how your mind works. Did you think if you got on the radio and told them that you and the congressman were handling relief here, that would keep him from backing out? Did you think everybody in the country would be listening—at this time of the morning!—and that would make it official?"
"They're recording," Artie Chesbro said sullenly. "They're going to rebroadcast in the morning. I already talked to one of the men from the network."
Dick McCue said, "Mr. Chesbro, it's nothing to me one way or another. But there's a curfew, you know. You can't go running around out there tonight."
Artie Chesbro's expression was petulant. "Leave me alone, will you? I know what I'm doing!"
Polly Chesbro folded her hands and looked at him. "Artie, don't you ever learn?" Her expression was gentle, her voice was calm—even warm, Groff thought, with a sudden shock that was almost jealousy. "Remember the television station?"
Artie whined, "Honey, I told you a thousand times—"