Haere finished with his tie before answering. After slipping the knot firmly into place, he said, “You could leave him.”
“Is that a proposition, an invitation, or what?”
“Both.”
“Then I’d never live in the White House, would I?”
“You won’t anyhow.”
She looked around the enormous room as if seeing it for the first time. Haere couldn’t tell if she thought what she saw was sad or only ridiculous.
“I could just move in here with you and dumb old Hubert, right?”
“Hubert’s not so bad.”
“But then I’d never meet the Queen or try out my Cajun French on Mitterrand or anything.”
Haere smiled slightly. The possibility of Louise Veatch’s meeting the Queen of England was one of their oldest private jokes. “We could get married,” Haere said, adding quickly, “and if you’re dying to meet Mitterrand, I could probably fix that up somehow.”
Louise Veatch stared at him for long moments before whispering, “What about the Queen?”
“I don’t think I can swing that.”
“You’re sweet.”
“But?”
“You know what we’d be in five years?”
“What — dull?”
“Never dull, Draper. Just quaint.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that? I’m sort of quaint already.”
She smiled. It was a melancholy smile of complicity and promise and love that almost convinced Haere he would never lose her. Then she was in his arms, and they were kissing frantically. When the kissing ended she said, “Aw, Jesus, Draper. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.”
“I had to ask.”
She leaned back to look at him. Her smile was still there and tears were now rolling down toward the corners of her mouth where he knew she would lick them away. She always did.
“You know what?” she said.
“What?”
“After you asked, I almost — for a second there — I almost said yes.”
Haere smiled, but only a little, and used his forefinger to mop up one of the tears. He tasted it. “Salty, like they say.” He kissed her again, this time on the tip of her nose. “You’ll like the Queen,” he said.
Chapter 23
The huge living room in which Baldwin and Louise Veatch did most of their entertaining, if scarcely any of their living, was minimally furnished and almost devoid of color except for a few curious paintings by some long-dead Mexican artist. The paintings hung near the tiled concrete staircase that swept down in an S-curve from the second floor. A wall of glass looked out over the patio, the pool, the tennis court, and a fine old stand of pines and eucalyptus. The trees should have helped. Instead, they only barred the sunshine and made the room gloomy and tomblike and even menacing. It was a room that caused guests to drink too much and talk too little at the infrequent parties that were held in it. Louise Veatch hated the room. Her husband, when he thought about it at all, which was seldom, found it only drab, but not drab enough to spend any money on.
The Mexican maid’s sandals slapped against the large square purplish tiles as she served drinks from a silver tray. There was only silence until the maid left. Then David Slipper raised his glass of bourbon and water and said, “Well, here’s to all of us.”
Slipper was seated in a cream-colored chair of boxy design. Draper Haere stared at him coldly and then shifted his gaze to the governor-elect, who was seated at one end of the long cream couch. At the other end was his wife. The governor-elect was fondling a glass of white wine. Louise Veatch had a glass of vodka on the rocks to her lips. She had the feeling she would need it.
“Okay, Baldy,” Haere said. “Let’s have it.”
Veatch met Haere’s cold gaze with a cool one of his own. His mouth, before he spoke, was drawn into a firm line. His big chin looked bold and resolute. It’s his hail-to-the-chief look, Haere thought.
“I’ve decided we should drop our little investigation before it goes any further than it already has,” Veatch said.
Haere nodded thoughtfully without shifting his gaze. “You’ve decided?”
“That’s right.”
Haere looked at David Slipper. “What’d you promise him, Slippery, besides the moon and the stars and the key to the vault?”
The white-haired man shrugged and smiled. “I never promise anything, Draper. You know that. I only mention... possibilities.”
Haere smiled sadly and turned back to Veatch. “Baldy,” he said, “let me ask you just one question. What the fuck makes you think you can call it off?”
Suspecting a trap, Veatch summoned his warmest, most lopsided grin. “I only meant, Draper, that my involvement, which you’ll have to admit has been minimal, will end.” He paused. The grin disappeared. “Forthwith,” he snapped.
Haere was seated on a chair made out of chrome tubing and leather. He leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees, both hands clasping his glass of beer. It was an earnest position and the same that most assume when seated on a toilet. “Baldy,” he said softly, “you’re up to your neck in it. It was your idea to begin with. Jack Replogle came to you first, not to me. But what you’ve boarded is a runaway train. You certainly don’t want to stay, but you sure as hell can’t jump either.”
“I say jump, governor,” Slipper said.
“Shut up, Slippery,” Haere said. To Veatch he said, “I’ve caught a glimpse of what this thing might be. Just a glimpse — somewhere out of the corner of my eye. I’m almost convinced it’s big, awful, and absolutely devastating, and I’m guessing — just guessing — that in the books it could fall somewhere in between Teapot Dome and Watergate. If I’m right, then I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to use it. You know. You could ride it right into the White House. Maybe even in ’eighty-four. But regardless of what you do, Baldy, I’m going after it — if necessary, all by myself. There’re plenty of other would-be Presidents out there who’ll know what to do with it — except I prefer you, God knows why. So what I’m offering you is your last best chance to go live in the White House. In or out?”
It was fifteen seconds before the obviously tempted Baldwin Veatch gave his one-word answer. “Out,” he said.
“Well, shit,” Louise Veatch said.
He turned to her, surprised, perhaps even hurt. “You don’t agree at all, do you?”
“I just think you’re dropping out too soon. You could wait, see what Draper comes up with, see if it’s really worth it, and then make up your mind.”
“That would be a bit too late, I’m afraid, Louise,” Slipper said from around the cigar he was carefully lighting. “The — uh — possibilities I mentioned to Baldwin are contingent upon his immediate, let’s say... disassociation.” Slipper smiled a comfortable, confident smile that seemed to signal he had nearly completed what he had been sent to do. Or maybe, Haere thought, he’s just found out that he can still matter after all.
Haere slowly got up from the chrome-and-leather chair and stood staring down at Veatch. “By next June, Baldy, they won’t even know who you are. By next July, even Slippery here won’t be taking your calls.”
“I’m out,” Veatch said.
Slipper came up quickly from the boxlike chair with a curious display of easy, fluid grace. He crossed over and stood searching Haere’s face for something he apparently couldn’t locate. “Draper, I’m fond of you. You know that.” He paused and then continued in a soft, almost pleading tone. “And I admire you. By God, I do. Now I’m begging you not to go through with this thing. Begging you. If I thought it’d do any good, I’d get down on my knees and beg.”