Ross Thomas: Missionary Stew

When MacAdoo came into the enormous room he looked around with frank appreciation. “Now, by God, this is something, isn’t it?”

“Coffee?” Haere said.

“Appreciate it.”

“Sit down.”

MacAdoo moved into the living-room section and took his seat in the Huey Long chair. His eyes roamed over the room and its eclectic furnishings as Haere poured coffee into two mugs.

“How do you take it?” Haere said.

“Black.”

Haere handed MacAdoo a mug of coffee. MacAdoo took it with his right hand and patted the arm of the chair with his left.

“Nice old chair,” he said.

“Belonged to Huey Long.”

“No kidding. The Kingfish.” MacAdoo sipped his coffee and smiled. “Now that’s good coffee.”

Haere said nothing.

“It’s been sort of your life’s study, hasn’t it, Mr. Haere? Politics, I mean.”

Haere only nodded.

“Your friend, Mr. Citron?”

Again, Haere nodded.

“In case you haven’t heard, he’s in Sri Lanka. With the Keats girl. Woman, I mean. Velveeta. Velveeta Keats. That is sort of pretty, isn’t it, if you forget about the cheese and all?”

“Very,” Haere said.

“You heard about Gladys Citron, I expect.”

“I heard she died in her cell in Kansas City.”

“Heart failure,” MacAdoo said in an almost sorrowful tone.

“Heart seizure,” Haere said automatically.

“What’s the difference?”

“Everyone dies of heart failure.”

MacAdoo thought about it. “You’re right.” He drank some more of his coffee. “I imagine you’ve pretty much got the whole picture by now, haven’t you?”

Haere nodded. The nod was a lie, but he saw no reason to tell MacAdoo the truth.

“You going to run with it?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“We’d like to dissuade you.”

“We?”

“Yes, sir. We.”

“Langley, you mean.”

MacAdoo smiled slightly.

“How do you intend to do that — dissuade me?”

MacAdoo frowned. “We don’t really know, Mr. Haere. That’s why I’m here. To find out what you want.”

“I don’t want much of anything,” Haere said, “except a new President in ’eighty-four. Can you guys handle that?”

MacAdoo sighed, put his coffee mug down, and rose. “I was afraid you’d say something like that. No way I can change your mind?”

Haere shook his head, rose, and walked MacAdoo to the door. The tall man opened it, turned, and examined Haere somberly. “Mr. Haere, I’m sorry, but I just don’t see how we’re going to be able to leave you alone.”

“Try,” Haere said.

MacAdoo nodded, turned, and went down the steps. Haere watched him go. When MacAdoo reached the street door, he opened it, and then held it for someone. Haere could hear MacAdoo’s polite, faint “Ma’am.”

Louise Veatch came through the street door carrying a small suitcase. She started slowly up the steps. When she arrived at the landing, she brushed past Haere and into the enormous room. He closed the door. Louise Veatch looked around the room.

“Which one of those closets can I have?” she said.

Haere stepped over and took her bag. “You left him?”

“I left him.”

“For good?”

“For better or for worse, anyway.”

“What’d he say?”

“About what you’d expect. He was still yelling when I went out the door.” She smiled. It was a sad smile. “Well, are you glad? You haven’t said.”

Draper Haere put his arms around her, drew her to him, and kissed her. It was a long, tender kiss, full of promise. When it was over, Haere made her the one promise he felt he could keep. “It won’t be dull.”

Louise Veatch smiled. “I know,” she said. “That’s probably the real reason I’m here.”

It took Louise Veatch more than an hour to translate aloud for Haere what Morgan Citron had written in the spiral notebook. When she was finished she looked at Haere and said, “Good God! Did you know all this?”

“A lot of it. Not all.”

“Are you going to use it?”

“What do you think?”

Louise Veatch thought about it for more than a minute before she answered. “Use it, Draper.”

He nodded, rose, and went over to the kitchen wall phone. “Get on the extension,” he said.

Louise Veatch waited until Haere dialed eleven numbers. She then picked up the other phone. It rang three times before it was answered by a woman’s voice with a hello.

“It’s Draper Haere, Jean. Is he in?”

“Yes, of course, Draper. Just a moment.”

The Senator came on the phone. “Hello, Draper.” He had a deep, almost harsh voice.

“I need to ask you a question, Senator.”

“Shoot.”

“How would you like to be President?”

Almost ten seconds went by before the Senator softly said, “Very much.”

“Then I think we’d better talk,” said Draper Haere.