by Joe Klein
"Henry."
"Yeah, okay. The truth is: I don't know. You can't tell with them. It sounded the way you said it happened--that you didn't realize it until halfway through. It was the hesitation that hurt."
"And then the silence," she said. "Conference calls are so fucking weird. It's like you're having a meeting in a cave."
"Look, Daisy," I said. "I can't tell you don't kill yourself over this, because I know you're killing yourself over this. But you've done great stuff for this campaign. The Stantons know that. And they're gonna need all the help they can get now."
"I'm a fucking idiot," she said. "I feel all--" She was about to say "alone."
"Don't," I said. "I'm here."
"You're there," she said, "down in the darkness, surrounded by The Great Books, with the river flowing outside your window." Her voice broke. "I need you here."
"We'll be together in New York by the end of the week," I said. "Looks like we'll be there for a while, too."
"Ugh, that means the ultimate horror: proximity to Mons," she said. "Henry, I'm gonna ask you a favor. An enormous, humongous, completely out-of-bounds favor. Will you let me take you home, have dinner with my mom?"
"Sure," I said. "Why not?"
"You'll see," she said. "And you've also got to promise that nothing said or done or implied by my mother will affect your feelings toward me, okay?"
I laughed. "Daisy," I said. "Don't worry about tonight, okay?" "Oh sure," she said. "You know I won't. Henry, look. I promised myself I wouldn't start saying anything, or even thinking it, until the campaign was over and we were, like, sane again, y'know? But there is something happening here with us, isn't there? I need to know." "Yes," I said, without hesitation.
"And we don't have to talk about it anymore now, Henry. Or say any of the words. We can wait till this is over and we can think clearly, but I'm really feeling kind of quivery and gelatinous over you. Oh, and one other thing," she quickly added, pulling back from the brink. "Freddy's not a stalking horse for anyone. He's better than Ozio or Larkin. And the blood thing was brilliant. You saw how Greenfield handled it. I knew Lucille had to be fucked up about the press reaction, as always. I mean, the way the guy said it, the ease, the humility-fucking fabulous. I wonder why he quit."
"So, Governor," Bryant Gumbel asked at 7:11 the next morning. "Why did you quit politics in 1978, and why are you back now?" The camera was too close in on Freddy Picker. He seemed squished into a corner, a leaf of the inevitable potted palm flopping over his shoulder. But he was cool. His black eyes were alive-they were naturally intense, but he could soften them to great effect and he did so now "Well, Bryant, I thought it was important to carry through on what Senator Harris was tryin' to get across," he said.
"And should we consider you an actual candidate for president or just a stand-in?"
"Well, we'll have to see about that," Picker said. "For now, I just want to give the folks a choice. It's been a while since I've done this, not sure I'll be any good at it."
"Governor, why did you quit in 1978?"
"It was a lot of things," Picker said carefully. "I was a lot younger man then, a lot less patient. Got frustrated with how long and hard you had to work to get anything done." He paused, for a carefully measured moment of time, and then said, "And there were some personal problems."
"Well, I suppose someone's going to have to ask this question, Governor," Gumbel said, trying--unsuccessfully--to sound remorseful about it. "What sort of personal problems?"
"Family problems." Picker said, then stopped. He was very disciplined. You had the sense that he was in complete control of the situation.
"I know this can't be easy for you to talk about."
"No, it isn't, Bryant. But I guess it's part of the game now, and so I'll be candid, in the hopes that people will respect the privacy of my former wife, who is not a public figure." He was looking straight at the camera, calm, clear-eyed. "What happened was I got too wrapped up in the business of being governor and began to neglect my family--and my wife fell in love with another man."
I think I heard Gumbel gasp. Or maybe it was just me. The simplicity and calm of the statement were breathtaking.
"I quit, in part to see if I could salvage my marriage," he continued. "But I couldn't. And so I did the next best thing, I resolved to be as good a father as I could--I tried to make sure the boys knew that they had two parents who loved them. And I think if you ask them, they'll tell you that we made it through okay. They're off in college now--and they were both big Lawrence Harris supporters, and when Mrs. Harris asked me to do this, they were very enthusiastic. I guess you could say I'm doing it for them."
"Awesome," Richard said. "As good as I've ever seen."
"What do we do?" I asked.
lust stand around slack-jawed, playin' with ourselves and hope to fuck our eyes are deceivin' us," Richard said. "We're facin' a tidal wave with a sump pump."
The sump pump's name was Richmond Rucker, and he was the mayor of the City of New York. He had come out of the Harlem clubhouse, a formal, distinguished-looking man with a reputation for both kindliness and modest intelligence, neither of which was deserved: he was devious smart and vicious mean. He would endorse us because he and Howard Ferguson had been close for years-and because Orlando Ozio wouldn't. (Democratic governors and mayors of New York were famous for detesting each other and playing out their enmities obliquely, but obviously) Ozio would, of course, endorse no one. He was above that.
He would hint, though.
We assumed the hints would be devastating. And indeed, Ozio quickly-and very publicly-went to New York Hospital and gave blood the day after Picker announced.
The schedule that Howard and Lucille concocted, with the help of the Rucker organization, reminded me of the agenda Larkin and I had suffered through when he'd visited the Soviet Union in 1987, only in reverse: instead of happy peasants and Potemkin villages, this was-relentlessly-unhappy interest groups and urban devastation. There was no spontaneity, no contact with citizens who happened not to be members of some organized group with a specific grievance. Every last stop seemed synthetic and massaged; these were New York liberalism's stations of the cross.
"Is this going to get us there?" Stanton asked that afternoon, when Howard presented his plan at the kitchen table in the Mansion. "You go with what you got," Howard said. "This is what we have. Did you talk to Rucker?"
"He said he was happy that I was going to endorse UCSER," Stanton said. "What the fuck is that?"
"Urban Coalition Supporting Economic Recovery," Howard said. "It's this group of mayors Rucker pulls together every year or so. They want to goose urban spending."
"How?" Stanton asks.
"Who the fuck knows," Howard said. "They have a phantom piece of legislation-direct grants to cities."
"For how much?"
"Forty billion."
"A year?" Stanton asked. Howard nodded. The governor whistled. "You're kidding."
"He demanded it," Howard said.
"Howard," the governor started softly. "You and I have been buddies since forever. I love you like a brother. I don't trust anyone on this earth more. But you never, ever, ever commit to a money figure on my behalf," he said, banging the table so hard the coffee mugs were jumping. "Never! Do you fucking understand?"
"We need him," Howard said calmly.
"We can find a way to goddamn have him without his fucking blood money!" Stanton screamed. "This kind of shit is death in America. You won't get eighteen votes for it in the rest of the country--and now I'm gonna have to slip-slide my way out of it tomorrow."
"There's one other thing," Howard said.
"Whut?"
"Luther Charles wants to be part of the event at City Hall." Stanton looked at me. "Why?" I asked Howard.
"He said he wanted to begin 'the process of engagement.' " "Now, what the fuck is that?" Stanton asked.
"The mating ritual," Howard said.
"Henry?" Stanton said. He knew how I
felt about Luther, but this whole conversation was distasteful.
"Where is Rucker on this?" I asked, knowing the answer. "Deferential to Luther."
"Okay, I guess it's on me, then," I said. "I'll call Luther and--Governor?--set up a separate meeting? At the hotel?"
"After the news cycle," Stanton said.
I placed a call to Luther Charles when I returned to headquarters, and then sat idly, swiveling in my chair, waiting for him to respond. It was a darkish day; the giant plate-glass windows in our old auto dealership, so often blinding bright--and seducing a stubborn sunniness from the staff, even at the diciest times--now seemed wet and woolen, tamping down spirits. (The fact that the phones were just not ringing, that all politics seemed fixed on Picker, didn't help.) I found myself thinking about Daisy, thinking about how she looked in that kilt. The past few days, I realized, I'd been thinking as much about Daisy as about the campaign.
In fact, the campaign was feeling a bit foreign to me now-a first. The whole New York scenario was wrong, I knew that. It was the politics of reflex and obligation. You saw the obligatory groups, you made the obligatory promises-more money for the cities, an embassy in Jerusalem for the Jews, the release of a gun-running IRA terrorist for the Irish. But what worked for Jack Stanton had been less predictable, more spontaneous. Or maybe it was just that this was Howard's moment and I hated the son of a bitch. In any case, I took it out on Luther. I took some chances I probably shouldn't have.
"Lit-tle bro-ther," Luther purred. "Why is it that I only hear from you in times of trouble? Sometimes I suspect the white politicians of this world look on old Luther as the Salvation Army, ready to help with the community in times of disaster. But I don't play that game. I ant the Salvation Liberation Army. I will saw their asses if they will liberate my people."
"Luther, this thing tomorrow isn't a good idea," I said, suddenly realizing that I'd made a careless mistake. I should have called Bobby Tomkins, Rucker's guy, and gotten him on board. Indolence is one of the perils of low morale, which is why it's so hard to turn around a campaign heading south-which was why Jack Stanton's New Hampshire performance had been so remarkable.
"Isn't a good idea?" Luther repeated. "What isn't a good idea?" "You showing up at the Rucker endorsement."
"The mayor say that?"
"No, I haven't talked to Bobby yet, but think about it," I said. "You think the mayor is gonna want to be upstaged by the Luther Charles Salvation Liberation Army Review? I know you worked this through Bobby, I know he's your guy-and you know Richie Rucker will kick the shit out of him, make his ass suffer, when the deal comes down, you hog the spotlight and the mayor turns out to be a bit player in his own endorsement of Jack Stanton. Now, why, Luther, would you want to cause Bobby such pain?"
He didn't answer. "Henry, your boy needs me," he said instead. "I am very big in the Apple-but I'm not gonna come cheap. He will have to negotiate for my services. The Salvation Liberation Army has staffing needs. And I'm gonna need a plane and a budget."
"Luther, get real," I said. "The governor will meet with you tomorrow night at his hotel. He's willing to talk. But don't make stupid demands."
"Do I use the servants' entrance?" He said. "Carter gave me a plane and a budget. Mondale gave me a plane and a budget. You sayin' Jack Stanton isn't interested in support from the community?"
"I'm sayin', Luther, that you are talking to me," I said. "And I know you can rouse the community to come out and vote-for you. I don't know how much good you can do us, or how much harm. The governor likes you, Luther-he enjoys your brand of bullshit. But the days when you could walk in and just demand a 737 and ten thousand dollars a week are over-and if you start in, showing up where you shouldn't, distracting folks at the Rucker endorsement tomorrow, Stanton isn't gonna have anything to say to you at all."
" 'Showing up where I shouldn't' "-Luther mimicked me. "If you're black, get back."
"Luther, give it up."
"I may have to have a discussion with Richmond Rucker about the viability of his endorsement," he said.
"Be my guest," I said.
"It would be embarrassing if he pulled back now."
"Yeah, it'd do wonders for his reputation for decisive thinking." "Henry Burton, my, my," he said. "Ain't you the stony-assed pol. You need to locate your soul vein. Mebbe you should give some blood, like ol' Freddy Picker-now, there's a white boy with soul. Though I 'specs he's got himself a microscopic Johnson, his wife runnin' off like that. You imagine, the dude just coming out and sayin' it to Bryant like that?" And Luther switched to a white man's voice: " 'My wife fell in love with another man.' " Then back again, leehoshaphat. The Caucasian Trustometer shot up into the ions-fuckingsphere. White folk love that shit. Black folk, they wonder about his willie."
"So, Luther, are we set for tomorrow night?"
"Fuck, no. I don't need to see your master right now, he gonna be like that. But I will do you a favor, Henry. I want to further your education. You gonna be stayin' your place?"
I hadn't thought about that. I did have a home in New York. I hadn't been there in months. "I'm not sure," I said.
"Yeah, the hotel life is contagious. Am I right, my brother? And a body man got to stay close to the body. But howsabout we meet up in your old nabe, the West End Bar?"
At which point, I sensed a great rush of air.
"HEY, AMNIO MAN! HEY, AMNIO MAN!" It was Libby, just barging in, doing a riff on the old "Hey, Culligan Man" commercial, waving a roll of brown wrapping paper in her hand. I began gesturing wildly, waving my arms, trying to shut her down. "HEY AMNIO MAN . . ."
"You there, little brother?" Luther asked. "Something happening?" "No. Yeah, the West End Bar. What's this about?"
"You'll see. Say, eleven?"
"Right." I hung up.
"Hey, AMNIO MAN," Libby said. "AMNIO MAN, AMNIO MAN."
There were times when Libby just seemed crazy, ready for readmission. This was one of them. "For God's sake, Libby," I said. "You want the world to know?"
"Henry, my little bitry shitheel traitor motherfucker asshole," she said softly, sweetly. "They are going to know. I think, I suppose. They may."
I slumped in my chair. It felt like the eighth time someone had run over me that day. "Okay, Libby, what's up?"
"I'LL GET TO THAT," she said. "But first a word from our sponsor. 'Hey, AMNIO MAN! Hey, AMNIO MAN!' Henry, Henry, Henry-the girls' team thought you were simpatico, a fella we could do bidness with. And you go along with this SHIT?"
"Libby, what'd you want me to do?"
"NOT." She said, "NOT GO ALONG."
"I was under a direct order from the governor."
"Sieg FUCKING hell," she said. "Nuremberg for you, babycakes. Now, look at this." She unrolled the brown wrapping paper on my desk. It was a series of double boxes-seating charts, I realized. "These are all of Loretta McCollister's classes," Libby said. "She's the star pupil," pointing to gold stars marking her place in each class. "She wishes. But let me direct your attention to the green stars." Second and fourth periods, there were green stars next to Loretta's gold. "They represent the lithe young body of Kendra Mason."
Libby looked at me, to be sure I knew what was coming. I did, unfortunately. "Roger Melville-Jones paid her family a visit two days ago. That dimwit limey prick. She lives with her mother-and three half-whatevers by different daddies. And you know what? They are very interested in MOVING UP IN THE WORLD."
"Libby, be quiet, for Chrissake," I said. "So what did you do, take out your gun, go over there and shoot them?"
"HA FUCKING HA," she said, but then she did quiet down. "He offered them one hundred thousand dollars right there to be on Sex Lives of the Rids and Famous or whatever he calls that syndicated piece of cat-hockey."
"And the McCollisters?" I asked.
"Completely mortified," she said. "Fat Willie shut down the shack, took a 'vacation' for a couple weeks, slapped Loretta around for opening her mouth too. You know, Henry, those are fine people. Melville-Jon
es comes to the door and asks Willie, 'Is your daughter pregnant?' And he says, 'None of your fucking business-you don't get off my property, I'm gonna call the cops.' And shitheel says, 'Is the governor the father?' And Willie says, 'The governor is a friend of mine' and slams the door. I mean, Henry, how could you let Howard Pencil-Penis DO that to Willie, without stepping in that day?"
I let that pass. "So all Melville-Jones has is a girl who says another girl says the governor made her pregnant?"
"Henry, he doesn't represent The New York FUCKING Times." Libby said. "He also has a nondenial denial from the father of the bride."
"On camera?"
"He don't leave home without it," She said. "My guess, we hit Sex Lives of the Rich and Famous early next week."
"This is-"
"Uglier than a hairy ass," she said.
"Can we get firmer denial from Willie?"
"Henry, you really do take the fucking cake," she said. "He could make a fucking fortune off us, he's been stand-up throughout-and you're asking him to LIE for us?"
"Not lie," I said. "I don't know. I'm sorry. You're right. Anyway, anything he says'll be used against us. Where are they?"
"I don't know ill want to tell you, amnio man."
"Libby-"
"They're up in a fishing shack in Montgomery County I advanced for them. Nice trout stream. Willie can stand out there and cast all day, thinkin"bout the business he's losing," she said. "Oh, he'll have plenty of business when he gets back. This'll be good for business. Folks'll want to come around. Folks'll always remember who he is and what his daughter said the governor did. They'll come by, just to see if the kid has Jack's wavy hair and shit-eatin' grin. He will never just be Fat Willie again. I could fucking KILL Jack for this."
"He says he's not the father," I said.
"He's not," she said, crossing her arms and giving me a wicked look. "How do you know that?" I felt an adrenaline rush, a sudden exhilaration. "You got the results?"
"Not for a couple of weeks, says Dr. Sharon Wilkinson, O. B. G. Y. N. R. S. V. P. A. S. A. P," she was spinning out again, "PD. FUCKING Q." "Then how do you know?"