Primary Colors

by Joe Klein

  "That's why I'm here," Billy said. "See: I don't believe that for a second. I figure you're gonna pull this out somehow, and I want to see it personally, for myself, and tell the grandkids. I want to see how you handle this, case I ever find myself runnin' statewide."

  "You won't be in a hole this deep."

  'Jack, don't go tellin' no nigger about the depth of holes in Alabama. Just put me to work."

  "Henry, tell Brad to put the attorney general here in charge of something, somethin' we can monitor, see if he's gotten any better at politickin' over the years."

  And so it went, each time we walked into or out of the palm and plastic lobby of the hotel. It seemed a slow-motion version of This Is Your life, and it caused great buggy *effusions from Jack Stanton. We were all, in fact, on the edge of tears, anger--exhaustion. But the candidate seemed to feed on it. He used the exhaustion and emotion to become a still more extravagant version of himself; he campaigned wonderfully. He was running on sheer willpower now; he was not entirely sensate, and the ceremonies of the stump--meeting, greeting, talking, walking--were performed reflexively, relentlessly, but brilliantly. He could not make strategic decisions, he could not deal with staff, but he could lock in on any crowd, answer any question. He was getting sick again; his face was flushed and he was coughing--and he had to be aware of the pounding he was getting from the scorps. It had reached the point of disgust. They didn't understand why he wouldn't just quit. Didn't he know he was history? Everyone had written it. An entire industry existed to analyze such things, a universe of scorps, talking heads, pollsters, consultants, free-range wisemen and gurus--and they had all taken up residence in Manchester now They filled the lobbies and saloons, rented all the cars--there were crowds everywhere, at all hours. It was instinctive, habitual; a quadrennial homing ritual. There was a liturgy; there were myths, patterns and ceremonial offerings. Jack Stanton had now been designated a ceremonial offering. It was a familiar role, reassuring to the tribe--he was George Romney, Ed Muskie, Gary Hart, the favorite who turns out to be Humpty-Dumpty. His fall would be an occasion for portentous false humility among pundits, for ruminations on the hubris of conventional wisdom prematurely arrived at; he would become a cautionary tale, remembered in years to come, and chuckled over. What was her name again? Cashmere McLeod! There would be ritual pleasure in watching him fall; there would be analysis of the quality of the splatter. If only he'd just get on with it.

  The late-night saloon chat at the Wayfarer, Richard reported Friday morning, had drifted into the next phase: speculation about who might rejoin the campaign when Stanton dropped out. Ozio, Larkin (yes, there was talk about my old boss, I was amazed and disheartened to learn), some other hero. "It's wounded pride, y'knowhattamean?" Richard said. "They told the world he's dead, they want him to fuckin' die already."

  "So what do you tell them?" I asked. We were sitting in the bedroom of Brad Lieberman's suite, waiting to do debate-strategy prep; in the outer room, muffins were husding the phones. It sounded like a real, live campaign.

  "I tell 'em we stopped sinkin'. I tell 'em we're still in second. I tell 'em Lawrence Harris is a favorite son. We'll clean his clock down south." Richard eyed me. "Don't worry, Henri. I'm still on board. I'm even about one quarter believin' the motherfucker'll figure some way out of this box. In fact, put me down as believin' that all this door-to-door retail shit he's been doin' might be clickin' on some half-conscious level. Shit, no one else's goin' anywhere. And I have never seen anybody work this hard. Yesterday, you shoulda seen him. He's standing in a mall in Nashua, midafternoon, just standin' there, y'knowhattamean? Standin' there, patient, answering the stupidest fucking questions from civilians that I have ever heard. Answering questions like, How can we get a stop sign over at the corner of Forest Lane? And, Can you help get my tax assessment lowered? Stone selfish, stupid people. And he's just patient as can be, explainin' this and that, the answer man. Hey, we blow this, we can open a string of Friendly Government Centers, servicing mall-rodent idiots. 'For a small fee, Governor Stanton will solve your problem.' "

  "Fuck you."

  "Yeah, you got that right-fuck me," Richard said. "Tell you one thing, though. He is a horse. Got two busted ankles, someone ought to put him down-but he's gallopin' down the stretch. You can only imagine what he'da been like runnin' whole. He'da been fuckin' Secretariat. We'd be plannin' the convention by now. Instead, we're-Hey, Henri, what are we gonna do next Tuesday night?"

  "What are we doing tonight?"

  "We are going to gang-rape Lawrence Harris." A distinctive-and surprisingly welcome-voice, boomed. "I am talking ANAL VIOLATION in extremis."

  "Oh hi, Libby," Richard said. She stood in the doorway, darkening the sun. "You get a weekend pass? This work release or somethin'?" "SCUMBAG," she said. "You are lucky to be fucking ALIVE, flashing your pathetic, wrinkled wiener at my darlin' Jenny. If it'd been me, you'd be a member of the Vienna Boys Choir by now What the fuck have you brought this campaign anyway? You gonna save Jackie's ass with your brilliance this weekend? Oh," she said, spotting me, and diving an octave: "Hel-lo Hunnn-rah."

  "Hello, Big Bopper." I said.

  "Excuuuuse me, Henri," she crooned. "Elegance will not CUT it. We're up against it now We are in the shit."

  "Okay, Libby," I said. "What would you do tonight?"

  "Watch my ass," she said. "Watch that mangy fucker Charlie Martin. Can't do much about Harris, but that mangy fucker wantsa move up on us."

  "Not bad for a lunatic," Richard said. "Speaking of which-" Lucille came in, followed by Howard Ferguson and Leon Birnbaum. "Pollster!" Richard saluted. "Whatcha got for us?"

  "Bupkis." Leon jiggled. "No movement."

  "Bowel movement," Libby said. "We gotta make it move."

  "Can't do that by just watchin' our ass," Richard said. "Waitaminute, waitaminute, Olivia Holden-I am discernin' something here: could it be heinie-mania? You walk in, wanting to gang-rape Lawrence Harris. Your debate strategy is watch your ass, you talkin' bowel movements. Is there some sort of message here? You got the gripes? You stricken, or what?"

  "Jemmons, stow it," Lucille said. "We've got business. Where's Daisy?"

  "Cutting radio spots," I said.

  "What?" Lucille asked. "Whatwhat?"

  "You know what," Richard said. "What we said, what we agreed on-the veteran guy on Vietnam, that surgeon from Laconia on health care."

  "What about the greenie?"

  "We said no to the greenie," Richard said.

  "We did not," Lucille insisted. "This is a huge enviro state." "The fuck it is."

  "In the party it is."

  "And Larry Harris got every last fucking one of them with his Natural Forces bullshit." Richard was up, shouting, taking it out on her. "Lucille, you are the stupidest-"

  "ALL RIGHT WE KNOW THAT," Libby intervened. "What we need to figure out is what we DON'T know."

  "We don't know how to win this thing," Richard said. "You got any ideas, honey?"

  A muffin at the door: "Henry! You better come. I got the editor of the Nashua paper. Sounds serious."

  It did sound serious, in a ridiculous sort of way. The Nashua paper had an "exclusive." One of our spare drivers, a Lithuanian emigre who'd subbed for Mitch for a couple of days, was trying to make himself famous: he had heard Jack Stanton making racial and sexually charged statements, or so he said. He was intent on going public with this information now--the weekend before the primary--because the governor had promised to make the removal of Russian troops from Lithuania a major foreign policy theme, but he'd never delivered. "Get out of here," I said. "You're kidding, right?"

  "No, I've spoken to the man myself," the editor said.

  "Sounds to me like a disgruntled former employee," I said, putting a finger in my out ear, trying to block the noise in the room, trying to concentrate.

  "Sometimes disgruntled former employees tell good stories," the editor said.

  "Oh come on," I said. "You're not really gonna go with this, are
you? This is horseshit. Totally unprovable. Totally undisprovable. What is it the governor supposedly said?"

  "He called Luther Charles an ugly, mean-spirited nigger. And he allegedly called Harriet Everson a stupid woman with great tits. There were some other interesting tidbits, but those are the headlines." It sounded half true, the Harriet Evergreen half. So I said, "That's completely fucking outrageous. Don't you have any standards at all? I mean, did the driver provide you with any supporting evidence? Did he have a tape?"

  "Well, no. But he does have a track record."

  "The driver?"

  "No, your boss."

  "Give me a break," I said. I had spent the past few weeks wondering what rock bottom would feel like. This seemed about right. "Let's say for a moment, just for the sake of argument, that everything you've heard about him is true. It isn't, but so be it. Let's say he was involved in a violent protest against the war twenty-five years ago, then used connections to skip out." I began to hesitate because the argument I was intending to make suddenly sounded weak, defensive--stupid. I was halfway along now, and trapped. Oh well. "Let's say he had an affair. What is it about that 'track record' that makes him a racist, or someone who'd make sexist remarks about your leading environmental activist? Is it just that he's fair game now-any accusation against him is presumed true?"

  Silence. Maybe my argument wasn't so stupid after all-no, he was taking notes, letting me talk. "This is just bullshit, and you know it, Mr. Breen. We don't know whether this alleged disgruntled former employee even worked for us. He certainly wasn't anyone central to the campaign. You haven't even told nie his name."

  "Tibor Lizickis."

  "Who?" But I did remember, vaguely. He drove for a few days in January, when Mitch had the flu.

  "Tibor Lizickis. Lives in Derry. He's an engineering major at Merrimack."

  "Look, you're going to have to give us some time to check this out. Who knows if this guy is actually telling the truth?"

  "My reporter says he has confirmation that-"

  "You can't give us a day to check him out?"

  He gave a day, which took my day. I spent the rest of Friday on this, making calls, locating Tibor Lizickis, having him brought in. It wasn't something I had to do-I could've turned it over to Libby for dustbusting-but I guess, on some level, I couldn't bear to be part of the debate prep or any other aspect of the campaign. There was nothing to plan anymore. There would be no strategic breakthroughs. There was only the candidate, and he was moving on the moment, doing whatever felt right. He had stopped listening to us.

  So I spent the day on Tibor Lizickis, and I suppose a good part of it was that someone would have to deal preemptively with the Reverend Luther Charles-and I was best equipped for that particular task. Indeed, there was a morbid fascination to it. I had spent much of my childhood listening to the grown-ups talk about what a pain it was for them to deal with Luther, whom they called the Fallen Angel, the member of Reverend Harvey Burton's Charmed Circle who had fallen from grace. I left a message for him at the People's Empowerment Party (PEP) office in Washington; he called back late afternoon.

  "My, my, my," he said. "Is this the Henry Burton? Henry the white man's Burton? 'S'appenin' my brother? Lookin' for work?"

  "Not yet, Reverend," I said. "But I do need your help on something."

  "You need my help on some thang," Luther Charles's first move, of course, would be to try to race sm. He had done well for himself, playing King of the Negroes-but he knew that his reputation among those who had actually been there would never be what it was among those who'd come later. The old-timers maintained a discreet silence when asked about him, especially when asked by white journalists. "If you need my help," he went on, "must be something awful big, awful big. I can't imagine that you would need my assistance with the community up there. Not many brothers up there in the White mountains. Henry-whatever could it be?"

  I told him. "Ahhh," he said. "Foreign affairs. Lithuania." He massaged every word. "Henry, tell me: all them honkies gone plumb crazy? Takin' down your boy for pussy?" He said "pussy" with the same resonant portent as the word "community"-he didn't have a great preaching voice; it was mid-level and sort of scratchy, but he did have all the preacher's tools. "Imagine: them pale scrawny crazy Puckers rulin' the world and us doin' the laundry-it just don't figure. Why ain't they doin' our laundry? It's science, Henry. They do technology. That's their voodoo. And that's about all they got. If you need to invent something, call a European. If you need to lead or love or lift someone, phone a brother. Though I would guess Mr. Stanton is not deficient in the love department. Just like your grandpappy, Henry. In fact, just exactly like your grandpappy. I understand the governor likes his ladies. . . . melanin-enriched."

  That stopped me. He couldn't know about the McCollister girl. I had to say something-and fast, before he picked up on my hesitation. "Better full-strength," I said, "than melanin-deprived. My daddy always said that you personally were the reason why blondes had more fun."

  "Your daddy said that? He should talk. Your sickly paleness is testimony to his own proclivities. You hear from him, Henry?"

  "Sure. He writes."

  "I miss the sonofabitch-I could always identify with your pop, prodigal son and all," he said. "I have a weakness for prodigality, boy. If you want to consider a return to the fold, there might be room in my rainbow for a staffer of your shade."

  Imprisonment. For an instant, I wondered if the penalty for picking a disgraced contender would be slow time in interest-group hell. I felt sick, and terrified. "Reverend, let's talk about Lithuania."

  "He called me a mean-spirited nigger?"

  "A disgruntled temporary driver with an ax to grind says the governor called you a mean-spirited nigger."

  "You work for a guy goes 'round callin' people mean-spirited niggerm? What's he call you?"

  "Reverend, you think I'd work for someone like that?" A set-up line: what an idiot I was.

  "Anything to pretend you ain't what you is."

  "Oh Jesus, Luther. Get over it. Are you gonna make a fool of yourself yet again, blowin' up this bullshit into a racial incident? There's no leverage for you here. We're losing. You could, just for once, do the right thing. Bank it. Then you'd have this tiny decency deposit to draw on next time you feel the need to be an asshole."

  "All right, Henry," he said. Just like that. "I won't bust your chops no more. But this is a debit in your own bank, a withdrawal from your Luther account. Cost you someday, plus interest."

  Stanton came in about five, steaming. I told hint I'd taken care of Luther. He grunted. "Where's the shitbird?" He asked.

  "In your suite."

  We walked down to the end of the hall. People said hello along the way, but the governor didn't respond. All the varnish was off now. "I can't fucking believe, in the midst of all this shit, I gotta massage this fucking creep. Who hired hint anyway? Where'd he come from? I'm gonna kill Lieberman, fucking murder him."

  We walked into the suite. Susan was there, talking quietly with Tibor Lizickis. He was pale and jittery, with light brown hair and a wispy mustache; a pathetic specimen. "Jack," Susan said, sensing his mood immediately and knowing what to do, "Tibor was just telling me about how the Russians took his father away. He was a bus driver. He had an accident, and they just--took him . . . away."

  Stanton shed his overcoat. I could see that he'd sweated through his shirt. His eyes softened. "And you never saw him again?" He asked. "No, Gowherenaw," he said. "They take him Siberia."

  "And how old were you?"

  "Six year."

  Stanton moved toward him. There was a logistical problem. Lizickis and Susan were sitting on the couch, facing each other. The governor wanted to get in as close as possible--touching range--but he couldn't usurp Susan's position and he couldn't crouch next to Lizickis because there was a flimsy glass coffee table in the way. The coffee table would be hard to push aside; it was surrounded by comfortable chairs and a wall. He measured all this as h
e moved forward, making rapid geoemotional calculations. It was Jack Stanton's vision of hell: desperately needing to make a connection but locked in a no-touch zone. He came in behind Lizickis and crouched down, propping himself on the arm of the sofa; the Lithuanian, now a Stanton sandwich, half turned toward the governor and away from Susan. "That must have been awful for you," Jack Stanton said. "Just awful. And I can understand why you'd be so intent on wanting to raise this isssue."

  "Russians are pee-igs," Lizickis said, reddening. "Pee-igs." Stanton, somehow, reached his right hand around the arm of the sofa and patted Lizickis on the shoulder. "I know, I know and I will do something about this. I just haven't had the chance. You know all hell has broken loose in this campaign."

  "Oh, yess, Cashmere--I hear about."

  Susan rolled her eyes.

  "But I promise you, Tibor," Stanton continued. "And this is a solemn promise--that your father will not be forgotten. If the voters of New Hampshire allow me to continue in this race, and if, in their wisdom, the American people elect me president--I will liberate Lithuania."

  "But you no mention now?"

  "I will mention now. Tonight. I promise. But if I do, you will tell the newspaper editor that ion were mistaken, that you were angry and were acting out of pique?"

  "Out of what? Pee-ig?"

  "You were very angry."

  "Oh yes, wery angry."

  He had Tibor up now, and was shepherding him toward the door, hand on his arm, soothing him. "I know what it's like to lose a father, Tibor, but not the way you did. I can't imagine your loss, your sense of rage. You must understand it's difficult for Americans-we've been so lucky. We have so much to learn from you. I really appreciate your coming. I really appreciate your bringing this to my atten- Henry, see that Mr. Lizickis gets home okay. 'Bye. . . ."

  He slammed the door.

  The last debate of the New Hampshire primary was held at a Catholic girls school. It would be an auditorium debate, with a live audience-good for us. Stanton always worked better to people than to cameras. There were greenrooms for this one, but no one used them. The candidates gravitated toward the brightly lit cinder-block hallway. This would be their last group appearance. They knew one another now, were fascinated and disgusted by each other; they would look back on this as a period of intensity and absurdity, sort of like a brief, disastrous marriage. There would be a bond. They would always have New Hampshire.