54

The day after F. M. Heller was seen on the national evening news getting off the helicopter from Andrews Air Force Base, into which he had flown from Blister, Arizona, and being set down in the backyard of the White House, not saluting the Marine guard at the foot of the ramp or waving at anyone, whether they were there or not, he called Charley to set up a private lunch meeting in the family quarters for the next day.

Charley was ushered in, and he and the president were alone. “I don’t eat much for lunch,” FMH said. “How about you?”

“Usually some fruit and yogurt.”

The president nodded to a waiter. “That’s what we’ll have,” he said. He guided Charley to a sofa in front of a fireplace and sat himself in a large wing chair. He patted its arms. “I brought this fellow all the way from Little Germany, Wisconsin, twenty-two years ago, when I came to this town to enter the Senate,” he said.

“My dad had a favorite chair,” Charley lied.

“Barry Cooper wants to leave. He says the job is only good for two years but a sure burnout for four. He’s been here four years and he says he has to leave or lose his temper, which, for Barry, is about the worst crime on the books.”

“He’s a good man,” Charley said.

“He wants to take six months off, then use his experience with some big company. I thought you might help him.”

“I’ll put my best thinking on it. It’s got to be exactly the right job at the very top for Barry.”

“But that leaves Barry’s job to fill. I had an FBI check run on you, and you’re sound, Charley. And you have one helluva fine reputation as an organizer, I don’t have to tell you, so confirmation won’t be any problem. They respect you on the Hill.” The president gazed at Charley as fondly as it was possible for him to regard anything. He nodded his head. “You’ll make a great chief of staff. What do you say?”

“If I said yes right now, considering the size of the honor, sir, I wouldn’t be saying the right thing. It is just the most overwhelming opportunity anyone has ever had to serve his president and his country. Please let me sleep on it and give you my answer in the morning.”

The fruit salad under raspberry yogurt arrived. The two men chatted about the president’s health until the waiters left. “The central reason why I need you,” the president said, “is that I have to know that the White House and the country are running as smoothly as a watch because this term—my asthma is simply murder in this climate, Charley—I’m going to have to spend more and more time at Blister just to be able to stay on my feet.”

“I understand, Mr. President.”

“Frank.”

“Frank—I meant to say Frank.”

“You’ll have to run the mechanics of the country, Charley, if I’m to run its policies. What I’m saying is—I really need you.”

Charley put out his hand and the president took it. “When do you want me to start?” Charley said huskily.

“How much time do you need to make the move?”

“If I could have, say, about five weeks?”

“Why not? Until just before the inauguration.”

“I could live with that.”

“How are your two boys?”

“Fine, just fine.”

“None the worse?”

“Not at all.”

“They still haven’t found the money you paid over?”

“Not yet.”

“Thirty million?”

“Yes. But I was insured for most of that.”

“I have Justice, Defense, and the CIA to fill. Any ideas on that?”

“I will have, I think. But I’ll have to brood over that one.”

“Let that be your first official recommendation,” FMH said. “Your first official recommendation. And let me have it by Monday. They’ll be pressing me for announcements.”