Ross Thomas - The Seersucker Whipsaw

Duffy introduced me as the former famous foreign correspondent from the great state of North Dakota. I shook hands with the Chief, but his eyes were on Shartelle. I introduced myself to the big African who hovered at Akomolo’s side. He said his name was Dekko. “I am the Leader’s personal aide,” he said in a deep baritone. I told him I was glad to know him.

“And you must be Mr. Shartelle,” Chief Akomolo said. His eyes twinkled or glittered some more behind the gold- rimmed glasses. “Padraic has told me so many things about you.” He held out his hand and Shartelle shook it firmly and stared back into the Chief’s eyes.

“I consider it a genuine privilege to make your acquaintance, sir,” Shartelle said. I could hear Duffy letting his breath out.

The ordona of Albertia is made on the principle of a tent. It has a hole to poke the head through and the arms find their way out of the poncho-like garment by gathering its folds and throwing them over the left or right shoulder in a graceful, unconscious movement. I decided, as the Chief shifted his folds to his left shoulder, that it was much the same gesture that Roman senators must have used as they arranged their togas.

“You have a considerable reputation in your country, Mr. Shartelle,” Chief Akomolo told him. “My personal aide, Chief Dekko, has done a good measure of research on you. Some of your experiences are to be envied.”

Shartelle gave a courtly half-bow. “I am glad that you went to the effort to examine my credentials, sir.”

The Chief smiled. “It was not because I do not believe my good friend, Padraic, I assure you. He spoke most highly of you and your capabilities. It is only that in an undertaking of such import, I must know my allies and their capabilities. For you see, Mr. Shartelle, I consider myself not a statesman, but more of a politician. As a statesman, I could afford to make mistakes. As a politician, I cannot.”

“A fine distinction, and one which has the ring of experience,” Shartelle said. He walked over to Dekko and offered his hand. “I’m Clint Shartelle, Chief,” he said and gave the huge young man the Shartelle smile.

Dekko’s impassive face did not change. He shook hands with Shartelle and made a small bow. “I am honored.”

“Now, then, everybody’s met everybody,” Duffy said. “Shall we have a drink before lunch?”

Chief Akomolo smiled. “You know my preference, Padraic.”

“Lemon squash. Right?” The Chief nodded.

“You, Chief Dekko?”

“Bristol Cream sherry, if you have it.”

Padraic gave him a speculative glance. “Bristol Cream, of course.” There was no tone in Duffy’s voice. It was just that the young man had made a mistake. He suddenly knew it and almost lost his placid expression.

“How about you, Clint? Martini?”

“Bristol Cream sherry,” Shartelle said blandly.

Before my better nature took over, I said: “Martini on the rocks. Make it a double.”

Duffy pushed a button and the agency waiter came in and took the drink orders. We stood in a group talking about the English weather and about the weather in Albertia. Duffy told us of his success in raising Poland China pigs and Chief Akomolo expressed interest in the possibility of raising heat-resisting Brahma cattle in Albertia.

“We drive our cattle four hundred miles down from the north to the abattoirs of the south. Many of them die along the way. All of them lose weight.”

“How many head in a drive usually?” Shartelle asked.

“Five hundred to a thousand.”

“And you walk them?”

“Yes, along the roads. It causes a traffic hazard, the cattle get sick, the drovers desert. It is a very haphazard business. We should come up with a new program.”

They talked on and I listened. It was much like the talk at the pre-luncheon session of the Lion’s Club on Wednesday. The Chief talked about his country’s economic problems, particularly the cocoa crop. Duffy talked about the eccentricities of a rival’s client. Shartelle commented here and there, but spent most of his time in an unobtrusive study of Chief Akomolo.

After the lemon squash, and the Bristol Creams, and the martini we sat down to lunch at the round table. Duffy sat on the Chief’s right; Shartelle on his left. The Chief sighed appreciatively as the bowl of groundnut broth was placed before him.

“Your thoughtfulness is sometimes overwhelming, Padraic.”

Duffy smiled. “I thought you might be growing weary of English cooking.”

“Not only of their cooking, but of the English themselves,” the Chief said. “In my heart, I try not to hate them. I try to live by the teachings of the Savior and my Baptist upbringing. Yet they are a cold people, Padraic, cold and unfeeling and vengeful. For three days now I have tried to get this matter of cocoa exports resolved, and for three days I have been going around and around in bureaucratic circles.”

“If I can be of any help—” Duffy began the offer, but was cut off by a wave of the Chief’s hand.

“You have done too much already. No, they must learn that I am no small boy. When we deal with the top, we have no difficulty. It is only with the minor functionaries that I run into this wall of veiled contempt and bureaucratic inefficiency. ‘Of course, Chief Akomolo,’” he mimicked, “‘what you seek does require a certain amount of time.’ That’s what they fail to understand. That I have no time. That right now time is my most precious commodity.”

The waiter came in and removed the soup bowls. He brought in a large covered serving dish of silver, placed it in the center of the table, and removed its lid with a flourish. The chief’s eyes sparkled behind the gold rims. “Padraic! Curried chicken.” He reached for the serving spoon and dumped a large portion on his plate, and began to eat hungrily, making small animal grunts and smacking his lips in appreciation. Dollops of brown grease and gravy spattered his blue ordona . Each of us served ourselves. I spooned a small portion onto my plate. As far as I was concerned it was paella with Tabasco Sauce. I shoved it around on my plate some and kept on drinking my martini, congratulating myself on the foresight that had caused me to order a double. Shartelle took a bite, chewed and swallowed. His mouth opened slightly and he reached for a glass of water. They had put all the peppers in. Duffy ate as hungrily as the Albertians. I decided he had no taste buds. Shartelle, I noticed, joined me in shoving his food back and forth across his plate.

The Chief mopped up the last morsel with a piece of bread, popped it into his mouth, and wiped his fingers on the table cloth. His napkin lay unused by his plate. He stretched and yawned hugely. “That was excellent, Padraic. Who cooked it?”

“A student at London University. From Albertia, of course.”

The Chief nodded his head. “Of course. The seasoning was just right. Did you enjoy it, Mr. Shartelle?”

“It has a distinct flavor, sir,” Shartelle said and smiled.

Duffy passed around cigars but nobody took one. The waiter brought coffee.

“Tell me, Mr. Shartelle, did you know the late President Kennedy?”

Shartelle nodded. “I knew him.”

“How well?”

The white-haired man smiled. “Well enough to call him Jack when he was a junior Congressman, Senator when he was Senator, and Mr. President when he was President.”

“Did you work for him in any of his campaigns?”

“Just in the Presidential, but I was more concerned with a Senator and a couple of Congressmen. I worked against him in 1956 at the convention when he went after the Vice- Presidential nomination. I was working with Kefauver.”

“He is dead now, too, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”