(4 of 4)
Strauss's admirers, famous and obscure, are as effusive as his critics are harsh. A receptionist in his Dallas office, Marie Hevle, near tears as she recounts the things he did when personal and family problems beset her, calls him the "greatest friend I've ever had." Says she: "I probably never would have made it without him." The owner of a Mexican restaurant in Dallas, whom Strauss helped get started, welcomes him with a hug when he comes for dinner. Comments Christian: "People get far more out of Strauss than he ever gets out of them."
If Strauss's ego is legendary -- "((Menachem)) Begin was intrigued, captivated by me . . . ((Anwar)) Sadat was crazy about me, and I him" -- it masks a rather touching insecurity and desire for acceptance. "What I've worked for," he says, "is to earn the respect of people I respected." Thus when a prominent Washington journalist once described him as a "fixer," Strauss fumed, "I detest that word, and I detest that son of a bitch for using it! It sounds cheap. It's not me. I don't know how to fix anything. Hell, I've never even fixed a traffic ticket . . .! What I do is help make the Government work."
Ask him to sum up Bob Strauss in a sentence, and he replies, "At peace with himself." Maybe. He has plenty of creature comforts: private planes, limousines, luxurious apartments in Washington, Dallas and Florida's Bal Harbour (where his neighbors include friends like G.O.P. Presidential Candidate Bob Dole and Reagan's chief of staff, Howard Baker). There is also a summer "cottage" in Del Mar, Calif., where he and Helen indulge their passion for gambling at the local racetrack. He's on five corporate boards, his law firm is among the most sought-after in Washington, and the Strausses' three children are grown.
But is he "at peace"? Not if ambition is a guide. When some of his close friends insist that instead of negotiating for others at a deadlocked convention, he should be the nominee, they are preaching to the choir. Strauss's rational side tells him that his age, his state and the fact that he is Jewish, to name only three factors, are insurmountable hurdles. Besides, he claims to doubt that the convention will be deadlocked and insists that if it is, New York Governor Mario Cuomo is a more likely nominee. "I told Cuomo the other day," he says, "that Texans don't like guys named Mario, or guys named Cuomo, or guys from Queens. And they don't like liberals. But you could carry Texas."
Still, Strauss dares to hope. "I would be a great President," he says. "I know how to move this country."
Late one recent evening, Strauss was flying in a private plane from Dallas to Austin. There he would deliver a lecture on politics at his alma mater and afterward attend a black-tie "roast" of himself and fellow Texan James Baker. Below was the black Texas prairie, ahead the glow of Austin, where his career began. It was nearly midnight; Strauss was tired. "Sometimes I feel old," he said. So why not retire? He shook his head almost sadly. "What would I do then?" It was as close to introspection as he ever gets. "I'd just shrink," he said. He looked out the window of the plane into the darkness and added, "You don't know how quickly the telephones can stop ringing, and the invitations stop coming."
Bob Strauss had just described his vision of hell.