Direction of the Deal

The warmly lit room was well decorated but the comfortable room was only comfortable to one man—and he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. A fire snapped and crackled nearby. A plate of small sandwiches sat undisturbed on a side table. Warren Harding had been sitting at the velvet octagon table for ten minutes and he had been president for over a year now.

Harding looked at his pocket watch. Only one minute had passed since he last looked. Harding held a single red poker chip between his index and middle finger. He lowered his middle finger so that the chip could move in between his middle and ring finger. He lowered his ring finger and then reversed the motion. The coin flipped and flipped over his knuckles back and forth. Harding noticed he was getting more graceful at this little finger dance. He never intended on having enough time to practice, but here he was.

Harding considered that these informal meetings with his cabinet were not working. They were all men of intelligence and patriotism. They all had important, unique and busy jobs, but they were also his friends. When they could get together for poker, Harding was convinced everyone was more comfortable, offered more truthful insight and become more politically creative.

These games were monthly early on but had since fallen off most people’s radar it seemed. Now Harding needed them back because the administration was beginning to flounder. Most pressing, Harding wanted to take everybody’s temperature on his own wishes to denounce the lynching in the South. Granted, Harding would only be embarrassing the Southern Democratic leaders, as lynching was already illegal, but Harding didn’t like his own silence on the issue. By not condemning it, he was ignoring it. By ignoring it, he was allowing it. But he couldn’t make his point until somebody, anybody, showed up.

Had Harding changed? Had his friends? Maybe life had just forced them apart. He hadn’t even seen Albert Hall in three months. But Harding didn’t feel unpopular. When he was around people he laughed and could make others laugh. He spoke well and never lost his temper or made enemies. Hell, most first-time women voters found him quite handsome. But maybe Hall just wasn’t a true friend after all.

But if Harding couldn’t count on Hall, how could he count on Charles Hughes, Andrew Mellon or Herbert Hoover? If they weren’t coming, why wouldn’t they have sent a message? And even then, why wouldn’t they come? They used to come. Harding had so many questions and the seven empty seats around him were not helping him come up with answers. How could the most competent and powerful men in the world not meet one night a month for a poker game?

The other politicians were now twelve minutes late and Harding became more convinced he didn’t have a true friend in the country. He had assistants, several siblings and a wife—but those just weren’t the same. Perhaps, he thought, one can not be a friend with subordinates. They didn’t want to be around their boss unless ordered to. So that’s what he’d do, he decided. Tomorrow morning everyone would need to be in his office or out on the street. He was going to—the door opened.

Harding looked up from his chips and smiled. His vice-president, Calvin Coolidge, closed the door behind him and walked over to the sandwich table. Coolidge put two White House-catered sandwiches on a plate and sat down across from Harding. It warmed Harding’s heart to think Coolidge could become president in another seven years or so.

“Thanks for coming, Cal. I don’t know where everybody else is, but I guess that leaves more sandwiches for us. More poker chips, too.” Coolidge nodded and kept eating, so Harding continued, “I guess I just want to make things like they used to be; politically and socially. But we don’t have to talk politics tonight. We could talk about whatever you want. Anything. Anything at all.” Harding paused a moment, letting Coolidge finish chewing before asking, “Mister Vice-President. Why did you come tonight?”

“Got to eat somewhere.”

Harding smiled. No doubt about it, Calvin Coolidge was a true friend.