politician?”
“I’m more of a shadowy figure who moves behind the scenes, a faceless manipulator grasping at the levers of power. If you want more, there's a fat FBI file on me nearly four inches thick that goes back almost thirty years to when I was a kid.”
“We know,” Yarn said. “It's been coming in over the telex all evening.”
“So long, pussy,” Tighe said as he gently dumped Hubert to the floor, rose, and gave Haere's enormous room another curious glance. “Much money in politics?”
“Not if you’re halfway honest.”
Still looking around, Tighe nodded as if what he saw spoke of total probity as well as dubious taste. Yarn was also up now, and they both moved toward the door after thanking Haere for his cooperation. When they reached the door, Yarn turned.
“About Mr. Meade,” he said.
“What about him?”
“He seems to have disappeared.”
“Vanished,” Tighe said.
“Into the usual thin air, I suppose,” Haere said.
Yarn nodded. “Where else?”
“Well,” Haere said and for some reason looked down at his bandaged hands. Tighe noticed.
“They still hurt?” he asked.
“No,” Haere said, “not much.”
After they had gone, Draper Haere stood by the door, still staring down at his bandaged hands. He then turned, crossed to the phone, looked at his watch, picked up the phone, and dialed the number of Baldwin Veatch, the governor-elect.
CHAPTER 7
They met for breakfast the next morning at 7:30, the three of them: Draper Haere, Baldwin Veatch, and his wife, the former Louise Guidry of Crowley, Louisiana, where in 1967 at age eighteen she had been crowned queen of the annual rice festival. Two years later at Berkeley she had been one of the firebrands leading the march on People's Park. After being graduated in 1972, she had gone to work in Sacramento for Baldwin Veatch, then a newly elected state senator. They were married later that same year. In the fall of 1973 she and Draper Haere had begun their long, hopeless, and often acrimonious affair.
Louise Veatch sipped tea and her husband black coffee in the booth at Kenny's delicatessen-restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. Across from them, Draper Haere mopped up the last of his two fried eggs with a piece of rye toast. Two booths away sat a pair of state policemen who were the governor-elect's bodyguards. Both were in their late twenties and neither ever drank anything stronger than orange juice.
Draper Haere liked working breakfasts because he had found that most people were not at their best in the morning. It sometimes proved to be a slight, useful edge. He also liked Kenny's for its eavesdropping. Haere was particularly fond of psychobabble, and there wasa lot of it at Kenny's after 10:00 at night when the evening group-therapy sessions let out.
“They want it then—whatever Replogle had,” Veatch said.
“Who?”
“The FBI.”
“I think they’ve already got what he had,” Haere said. “What I suspect they’re trying to do is put the lid back on and make sure nobody else gets it.”
Louise Veatch looked at her husband. “Draper's right.”
Veatch nodded. “Perhaps.”
“The question is,” Haere said, “what do you want to do about it?”
The Veatches continued to stare at each other. They were an unusual political couple, Haere often thought, even remarkable. Louise Veatch had kept all of her beauty-queen looks: still a blue-eyed, black-haired Cajun lovely with a touch of the wild about her. Veatch himself was a tall lean angular blond with calculating gray eyes, a disarming, lopsided grin, and the perfect political personality that all its life had struck up conversations with strangers at bus stops. She was the smarter of the two, Haere felt, but Veatch was the wilier. Their ambition was evenly matched in that it was limitless. She often brooded, but he went to bed optimistic and woke up feeling even better. She had unassailable convictions, while her husband had to make do with mere
“I’m more of a shadowy figure who moves behind the scenes, a faceless manipulator grasping at the levers of power. If you want more, there's a fat FBI file on me nearly four inches thick that goes back almost thirty years to when I was a kid.”
“We know,” Yarn said. “It's been coming in over the telex all evening.”
“So long, pussy,” Tighe said as he gently dumped Hubert to the floor, rose, and gave Haere's enormous room another curious glance. “Much money in politics?”
“Not if you’re halfway honest.”
Still looking around, Tighe nodded as if what he saw spoke of total probity as well as dubious taste. Yarn was also up now, and they both moved toward the door after thanking Haere for his cooperation. When they reached the door, Yarn turned.
“About Mr. Meade,” he said.
“What about him?”
“He seems to have disappeared.”
“Vanished,” Tighe said.
“Into the usual thin air, I suppose,” Haere said.
Yarn nodded. “Where else?”
“Well,” Haere said and for some reason looked down at his bandaged hands. Tighe noticed.
“They still hurt?” he asked.
“No,” Haere said, “not much.”
After they had gone, Draper Haere stood by the door, still staring down at his bandaged hands. He then turned, crossed to the phone, looked at his watch, picked up the phone, and dialed the number of Baldwin Veatch, the governor-elect.
CHAPTER 7
They met for breakfast the next morning at 7:30, the three of them: Draper Haere, Baldwin Veatch, and his wife, the former Louise Guidry of Crowley, Louisiana, where in 1967 at age eighteen she had been crowned queen of the annual rice festival. Two years later at Berkeley she had been one of the firebrands leading the march on People's Park. After being graduated in 1972, she had gone to work in Sacramento for Baldwin Veatch, then a newly elected state senator. They were married later that same year. In the fall of 1973 she and Draper Haere had begun their long, hopeless, and often acrimonious affair.
Louise Veatch sipped tea and her husband black coffee in the booth at Kenny's delicatessen-restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. Across from them, Draper Haere mopped up the last of his two fried eggs with a piece of rye toast. Two booths away sat a pair of state policemen who were the governor-elect's bodyguards. Both were in their late twenties and neither ever drank anything stronger than orange juice.
Draper Haere liked working breakfasts because he had found that most people were not at their best in the morning. It sometimes proved to be a slight, useful edge. He also liked Kenny's for its eavesdropping. Haere was particularly fond of psychobabble, and there wasa lot of it at Kenny's after 10:00 at night when the evening group-therapy sessions let out.
“They want it then—whatever Replogle had,” Veatch said.
“Who?”
“The FBI.”
“I think they’ve already got what he had,” Haere said. “What I suspect they’re trying to do is put the lid back on and make sure nobody else gets it.”
Louise Veatch looked at her husband. “Draper's right.”
Veatch nodded. “Perhaps.”
“The question is,” Haere said, “what do you want to do about it?”
The Veatches continued to stare at each other. They were an unusual political couple, Haere often thought, even remarkable. Louise Veatch had kept all of her beauty-queen looks: still a blue-eyed, black-haired Cajun lovely with a touch of the wild about her. Veatch himself was a tall lean angular blond with calculating gray eyes, a disarming, lopsided grin, and the perfect political personality that all its life had struck up conversations with strangers at bus stops. She was the smarter of the two, Haere felt, but Veatch was the wilier. Their ambition was evenly matched in that it was limitless. She often brooded, but he went to bed optimistic and woke up feeling even better. She had unassailable convictions, while her husband had to make do with mere
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