principles. They were colleagues, even friends, but rarely lovers. Sex to Baldwin Veatch was an occasional afterthought. To Louise Veatch it was a primary reason for living, which is why she so long ago had jumped into Draper Haere's bed.
Haere had never once even bothered to ask Louise Veatch to leave her husband. It wasn’t that Haere didn’t love her. He did so desperately. Sometimes when they had been separated for a month or so, he would enter a room where she was and something strange happened to him. Something adolescent. He temporarily lost the power of speech. He had minor palpitations. He sweated. He suspected that he even blushed, although no one had ever said anything. But all DraperHaere had to offer Louise Veatch was love, politics, and a room over the store. If Louise Veatch had to live over the store, he realized she would just as soon do it in the White House.
The Veatches were still staring at each other, engaged in some kind of wordless communication, when Louise Veatch finally turned to Haere and said, “Okay. Let's do it.”
Haere nodded. “All right.”
“Can you handle it?” Veatch asked.
Haere shook his head slowly. “I don’t know how.”
“Who would?”
“A trained investigator, maybe a smart reporter, someone like that.”
Veatch frowned, obviously running a list of unacceptable candidates through his mind. “We don’t want to share this though, do we?”
“No.”
“Anyone in mind?”
“Not offhand,” Haere said.
Louise Veatch turned to her husband. “Give me some change.”
“Who’re you going to call?” he said, digging into a pants pocket.
“Craigie Grey. If somebody like we’re looking ffor's around, she’ll know. Craigie knows everything.”
Veatch rose to let his wife out. “Just don’t tip her off about—”
Louise Veatch interrupted him. “Baldy. Have I ever?”
“No,” he said. “Of course not. Never.”
The two men watched Louise Veatch head for the pay phone in what a feature writer had once called “a rhythmic slither.” They turned back to look at each other, and again Haere wondered if Baldwin Veatch knew he was being cuckolded. And as always, Haere came up with the same answer: Probably, but he doesn’t really care as long as it's discreet. Better me than someone else.
“How was he?” Veatch said. “Replogle.”
“I guess you’d have to say he was cheerfully resigned. The pain was getting to him.”
“You two went back a long way, didn’t you?”
“Ever since I was a kid. He and my old man were good friends. When they went after him for being a red back in ‘fifty-two, Jack was about the only one who stuck with him. He was like that. Jack, I mean.”
“You know,” Veatch said, “I could never understand all this nostalgia for the fifties. Talk about a low and dishonest decade.”
“I think it was Gable mostly.”
“Clark Gable?”
“Right,” Haere said. “If you closed your eyes when Eisenhower talked, he sounded exactly like Clark Gable. That must have been awfully reassuring to most people.”
They both looked up when Louise Veatch returned to the table wearing a pleased smile. Veatch rose to let her in. She slid into the booth, looked at both men, said, “Morgan Citron,” and waited for their reaction.
Haere was first. “The Chicago Daily News . A long time ago.”
“Not so long,” Veatch said. “Eleven years. Ten maybe.”
“How old is he now—fifty?” Haere asked.
Louise Veatch shook her head. “Craigie says forty or so—if that.”
“I thought he was older,” Haere said.
Baldwin Veatch looked up at the ceiling, his expression thoughtful. “There was something,” he said slowly, “something about a Pulitzer, wasn’t there?”
“He was nominated,” Louise Veatch said, “and everyone thought he was going to get it, but then they changed their minds, or something like that.”
“Why?” Veatch said.
“I don’t remember.”
“I remember his stuff, though,” Haere said.
Haere had never once even bothered to ask Louise Veatch to leave her husband. It wasn’t that Haere didn’t love her. He did so desperately. Sometimes when they had been separated for a month or so, he would enter a room where she was and something strange happened to him. Something adolescent. He temporarily lost the power of speech. He had minor palpitations. He sweated. He suspected that he even blushed, although no one had ever said anything. But all DraperHaere had to offer Louise Veatch was love, politics, and a room over the store. If Louise Veatch had to live over the store, he realized she would just as soon do it in the White House.
The Veatches were still staring at each other, engaged in some kind of wordless communication, when Louise Veatch finally turned to Haere and said, “Okay. Let's do it.”
Haere nodded. “All right.”
“Can you handle it?” Veatch asked.
Haere shook his head slowly. “I don’t know how.”
“Who would?”
“A trained investigator, maybe a smart reporter, someone like that.”
Veatch frowned, obviously running a list of unacceptable candidates through his mind. “We don’t want to share this though, do we?”
“No.”
“Anyone in mind?”
“Not offhand,” Haere said.
Louise Veatch turned to her husband. “Give me some change.”
“Who’re you going to call?” he said, digging into a pants pocket.
“Craigie Grey. If somebody like we’re looking ffor's around, she’ll know. Craigie knows everything.”
Veatch rose to let his wife out. “Just don’t tip her off about—”
Louise Veatch interrupted him. “Baldy. Have I ever?”
“No,” he said. “Of course not. Never.”
The two men watched Louise Veatch head for the pay phone in what a feature writer had once called “a rhythmic slither.” They turned back to look at each other, and again Haere wondered if Baldwin Veatch knew he was being cuckolded. And as always, Haere came up with the same answer: Probably, but he doesn’t really care as long as it's discreet. Better me than someone else.
“How was he?” Veatch said. “Replogle.”
“I guess you’d have to say he was cheerfully resigned. The pain was getting to him.”
“You two went back a long way, didn’t you?”
“Ever since I was a kid. He and my old man were good friends. When they went after him for being a red back in ‘fifty-two, Jack was about the only one who stuck with him. He was like that. Jack, I mean.”
“You know,” Veatch said, “I could never understand all this nostalgia for the fifties. Talk about a low and dishonest decade.”
“I think it was Gable mostly.”
“Clark Gable?”
“Right,” Haere said. “If you closed your eyes when Eisenhower talked, he sounded exactly like Clark Gable. That must have been awfully reassuring to most people.”
They both looked up when Louise Veatch returned to the table wearing a pleased smile. Veatch rose to let her in. She slid into the booth, looked at both men, said, “Morgan Citron,” and waited for their reaction.
Haere was first. “The Chicago Daily News . A long time ago.”
“Not so long,” Veatch said. “Eleven years. Ten maybe.”
“How old is he now—fifty?” Haere asked.
Louise Veatch shook her head. “Craigie says forty or so—if that.”
“I thought he was older,” Haere said.
Baldwin Veatch looked up at the ceiling, his expression thoughtful. “There was something,” he said slowly, “something about a Pulitzer, wasn’t there?”
“He was nominated,” Louise Veatch said, “and everyone thought he was going to get it, but then they changed their minds, or something like that.”
“Why?” Veatch said.
“I don’t remember.”
“I remember his stuff, though,” Haere said.
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