Coffee at the U.N.

FEW OUTSIDE the New York literary scene are familiar with the esoteric pleasures of the most elite of the intellectual circles, those New York Times reporter William B. "Willie" Weesel knows so well. The group of us convenes with Willie every Friday morning for brunch and coffee at the U.N. commissary to chat over the latest gossip--the rising hemlines, perhaps, or the plunging deutchsmark.

"I had a fascinating discussion with President Reagan the other day," Willie told us yesterday, as he dipped a donut into his Irish coffee. "He was telling me about the time when he was 12 and his dog ran away. He looked and looked all over town and couldn't find it anywhere. Then he came home and found the dog under his bed."

"Just goes to show you, the old man's memory is still pretty sharp."

"What did he have to say about the crisis in the Persian Gulf?" I asked.

"Well," said Willie, freshening up his cup with a jolt of hootch. "He said he thought the Egyptians had a right to the Suez Canal."

I took a nip off my hip flask and pondered that. "Well, at least he's talking," I said.

"Anyway," says Willie, "did you see the story in the Times? It seems for once we don't have the most embarrassing head of state around."

"What do you mean?"

"The Prime Minister of Greece, Andreas Papandreou, was caught in a sex scandal with a stewardess. It seems he got her a job on the state TV station and cancelled an appearance at an earthquake site to take a private cruise with her."

"Hey," says I, "I bet Mike Dukakis wishes our boy Ron could get involved with some pretty young sexpot."

"I'm sure Ron wishes he could, too," says Willie. "But some things are beyond the power of modern medicine."

ABOUT this time our good friend Buddy Commyovich, the Russian diplomat, comes sneaking up to the table wearing a trench coat and a touring cap pulled low down over his face. "Hey, guys," he whispers, "Spot me a cup of Joe?"

"How about a cup of Irish?" says Willie.

"What's an Irish?" asks Buddy.

"Irish coffee, hold the coffee," explains Willie, gesturing for me to pass my flask.

Before I can do anything, though, Ramon the headwaiter butts in. "Excuse me, Mr. Commyovich," he says. "If you wish to remain on the premises, you must pay your tab."

Commyovich goes white. "What, uh, does it come to, garcon?"

"Let me see," says Ramon, pulling out a calculator. "Your countrymen have been rather lax about their financial obligations to the United Nations. There's $28 million you owe for the regular budget--you know, for everyday items like tips, office supplies, kickbacks, and bribes; $172 million for peacekeeping in Southern Lebanon."

"Peacekeeping in Southern Lebanon? What peacekeeping?" Buddy interjects.

"It wasn't kept," explained Ramon. "I don't recommend U.N. proposals, sir, I just pass along the bill. And you also owe $25 million for miscellaneous peacekeeping expeditions."

Buddy is looking pretty flustered. It looks like he hasn't got the cash on him, and is dreading having to ask the waiter if he'll accept an Eastern Bloc credit card. "Let me see," he says. "How about the peacekeeping we've been doing on our own in Afghanistan? Don't we get some credit for footing the bill there?"

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," says Ramon, "But when different members of the U.N. are funding opposing forces in a conflict, the expenses must be billed seperately."

Buddy starts to stall. "Well, we'll be glad to pay our debts," he says, "But if do, will you let us join in on the...uh, peacekeeping...operations in the Persian Gulf?"

Ramon smiles, sensing the ruse. "Currently, sir, the affair in the Gulf is a private function. Just because the U.S. and all the European members of the U.N. are there, you oughtn't get the idea that it's open to the public. Should the general membership of the U.N. be invited, you will see a notice posted on the bulletin board in the foyer."

"Fat chance of that," says Buddy under his breath. He had the look of a defeated man. "O.K., Ramon, you win. Come with me and I'll get you a bank draft for your money."

"Thank you, sir," said Ramon as the pair walked away. "That will be $225 million. And remember--gratuities are accepted."

When they were out of earshot, Willie began to laugh. I asked him what for.

"It's a good thing the Russkies will be up to date on their debts," he says. "'Cause we still owe over $400 million."

"You're joking," I said. "So how come we Americans get to sit around the coffee shop and run up that kind of tab?"

"What are you, kidding?" he says. "We own the clubhouse."

Rutger Fury, former national political writer for The National Enquirer, is a close friend of Jeffrey J. Wise.