Charles Anderson: A city manager with steel-belted self-control.

Meanwhile, Dallas City Manager Charles Anderson hawks an exasperated sigh and massages the top of his eyes with the thumb and second finger of his left hand. The gestures are the only symptoms of pressure, the only visible signs that Anderson is aware of the chaos around him.

In front of the council bench, four uniformed security officers grapple with an irate citizen whom Mayor Starke Taylor wants ejected from the public meeting. Cameramen and reporters scramble for position to witness the spectacle. Somehow, a sheaf of documents is launched into the air as the tussle gets rough. Leaves of paper zigzag crazily to the chamber floor.

Behind the long, half-moon desk separating the city’s elected de-liberators from the fracas, a tableau even more bizarre unfolds. Councilman Al Lipscomb leans into a three-point stance and shouts at the officers to let the man be. Taylor roars, “Sit down, Al,” and springs savagely from his seat. For a tense moment, it looks as though the mayor means to physically resettle the councilman, his frequent adversary. Then, something changes in Taylor’s eyes. He seems suddenly to remember that he is mayor and it won’t do to punch Lipscomb’s lights out in the midst of the weekly council session. The two face off, screaming like petulant kindergartners.

“I want to see you in my office right now, Al,” the mayor bellows. “I said now!” In a rare, un-Dallas-like display of naked power politics, Taylor adds, “If you don’t come to my office right now, Al, you’ll be sorry!”

Anderson’s thin lips twitch in what might be the shadow of an impish smile. He crosses his legs and adjusts the knot in his paisley-on-mauve tie as City Secretary Robert S. Sloan intones, “Council stands adjourned for ten minutes at 1:57 p.m.”

Since 1981, when he stepped up from assistant to replace longtime city manager George Schrader, Charles Anderson has become notorious for his steel-belted self-control. Though his smile is quick and, apparently, sincere, it is virtually the only sign of emotion that invades the craggy neutrality of his blocky face. Perhaps his wife and two teenaged sons know a warmer, more revealing Charles Anderson. But those who encounter him only on the job say the city manager is as hard to read as the concrete pillars of City Hall.

In fact, Anderson’s icy facade helped provoke the melee some 150 Dallas residents observed in the council chamber. The man who was dragged out, Roy Williams, had been grilling the city manager, suggesting there might be corruption in the police department.

Rather than proffer explanations that might allay Williams’s suspicions, however, Anderson coldly issued one-word responses. “No,” he said. “No.” At the same time, he alerted security officers to remove Williams.

Perhaps it would be painting Anderson as too Machiavellian to suggest that he deliberately brought about bedlam in the council chamber, but even a casual observer could see that his terse responses agitated Williams. And the events soon brought results that suited Anderson’s purpose.

When councilmembers reclaim their seats after the recess, Councilman Craig Hol-comb apologizes for objecting to proposed rules to enforce decorum during public meetings. The rules, strongly backed by Anderson and Taylor, would bar residents who cause disturbances from future council meetings. Holcomb’s shift of position assures the new rules will pass handily.

As the meeting settles back into its dull routine, the council disposes of the major business of the day. A resolution merging the city’s park patrol into Biily Prince’s police force passes six to four (Councilman Dean Vanderbilt is absent). Anderson claims the move, which eliminates some thirty administrative jobs, will trim as much as $780,000 from the city budget.

During a workshop session earlier in the day, Anderson carefully stage-managed the resolution. He asked for authority to build the merger into the city budget and listened quietly as each coun-cilmember remarked on the proposal. The straw poll stood at five to four when it was the mayor’s turn to comment. It’s likely that even Anderson didn’t know which way Taylor would go. If the mayor had opposed the merger, tying the count, Anderson would have let the matter rest until the full council was present. But when Taylor reluctantly supported the merger, Anderson knew he had won. He asked for an official vote in the afternoon session.

“I don’t really see why we need a formal resolution,” Taylor said several times during the work session.

“I think it would be helpful to have a vote,” Anderson responded repeatedly. “I’d like to have it.”

By 3:30, the resolution dissolving the park police is safely in hand. The council completes the action agenda and prepares for a tedious series of public hearings, mostly on zoning questions. Anderson relinquishes his seat to an assistant whose job it is to sit quietly and try not to yawn.

“I have to meet with a couple of developers,” Anderson explains, “This is a confidential meeting, something for the council to discuss in executive session.” For the next hour, as coun-cilmembers listen restlessly to homeowners objecting to development, the city manager confers with the money men over yet another project.

Later, he and his top assistant. Camille Gates Barnett, huddle to thrash out personnel questions. Their discussion results in departmental consolidation and the demotion of two city executives by the end of the week.

For a few minutes, Anderson shuts himself up alone in his sparse office. Perhaps he sheds his jacket and flings himself onto the homely, electric blue couch. Maybe he seeks wisdom in the pages of The Prophet, the only book in the room that does not deal with management, government, or power. A glance over the trophies and certificates of appreciation may reassure him that the daily grind is not in vain. It is a personal time, the only one of the day.