Primary Colors

by Joe Klein

  "It'll out," she said.

  "Yeah, but when?" Stanton said. "Say he wins the nomination-and then it comes out. If it's there, the Republicans'll find it, that's for sure. They may already have it. Libby, we should at least know what they know. We should at least know what's there. Think of it as dust-busting for the Democratic Party, for all of us."

  "Don't patronize me, Jack. We've known each other too fucking long. . . . He cleaned your clock."

  "But you'll do it," Stanton said.

  "Oh, fuck you."

  "I knew you would. Henry, how would you like a nice Florida vacation?" he asked. "Nothin's happening around here till Sunday. And"--he was smiling now, playing with us--"you guys worked so well together on the phony tapes."

  If the handshake is the threshold act of politics, what can one say of oppo? It is the primal impulse, the headwaters of all tactics and strategy, the oldest and most dishonorable exercise linked to the Will to Power. The Greeks did oppo; they learned it from the gods. Cassius did oppo. Even our sainted FDR used the Internal Revenue Service to scope out his opponents. It is a foundation of the trade, the darkest tool, the inevitable destination; it is where the story always ends. It can be done elegantly or not--mostly not, in the late twentieth century. It can be done reluctantly or with relish, but it will always be done. And we would do it for Jack Stanton, Libby and I. We would do it as a ceremonial act, a genuflection to the origins of our craft, and as a release--our final service to the Stantons. We would do it almost ironically, standing at a distance from ourselves, curious about where we were going, how far we'd be willing to go. Without Libby, I wouldn't have gone--it was clear that her impulse was the same as mine, that she was propelled by the desire for symmetry, the need to tie up all the loose ends, to see it through.

  "We are in limbo now, Henri--in every sense of the word," she said as Jennifer Rogers drove us to the airport in Libby's red Jeep Cherokee. She was sitting up front, her left hand massaging Jenny's neck. I sat in the back. "We are . . . outside the (nainstream. We are . . . in purgatory. We are . . . lost. We are . . . testing our limits. You remember the stupid song, 'Limbo Rock'? You remember the words? 'How /000000wwwwww can you g00000000? That's us, Henri. We are moral submariners. We dive down into the shit, hoping for a shit-balm, hoping for a cure."

  "Libby, let me ask you," I said. "How did you know Jack wasn't the father of that child?"

  "He was the father of the mother's ignorance," Libby said, deep into cryptic limbo mode.

  "In English, Libby?"

  "He gave in to the bandies on sex education," Libby said. "He wouldn't fight that fight. So the girl didn't know her vagina from the mailbox. Her folks sure as hell didn't tell her much. I had to run a goddamn sex seminar for the poor kid. She actually thought the first guy who got to you after menstruation planted the seed. In this case, the happy farmer turned out to be the second guy who got to her that particular month--Jarone Dixon, who sat next to her in sixth period, social studies. HOO-HAH! Seventh period was a study hall. Jarone Dixon and Loretta McCollister studied biology in a broom closet two days after she ovulated. Jarone, I can assure you, will make an entirely incompetent father."

  "And the first guy who got to her that month was Jack Stanton?" I asked.

  "We'll never know for sure, will we?" Libby said. "But your suspicion is as good as mine."

  The Gold Coast Time-and-Tides was a narrow storefront in a seedy strip mall on one of Fort Lauderdale's long, flat east--west boulevards. We arrived after hours, but it didn't appear to be the sort of place where much business was transacted at any time. There was a classified-ad counter up front, then a single row of three desks; there were maps of Fort Lauderdale and vicinity on the walls above the inevitable, battered buff-colored file cabinets. Judy Lipinsky sat at the rear desk, smoking a very long cigarette. She was wearing what appeared to be a Little Orphan Annie fright wig. (It was, however, her own, actual, hyperpermed hair.)

  "Hey, Lips," Libby called out.

  "Hey, tongue," Judy replied, in what appeared to be a ritual greeting. "Who's the mascot?"

  "Henry Burton, deputy manager of the very nearly defunct Jack Stanton for President campaign."

  "Meetya," said Judy Lipinsky, standing now to shake hands. She was short, stacked, butchy--a feminine version of David Adler, it seemed--all shoulders and breasts and bravado. She was wearing a black-and-white polka-dot sheath, white Minnie Mouse shoes and lots of very red lipstick.

  "How's Ralphie?" Libby asked.

  "Gettin' on," Judy replied.

  "Ralph is Judy's husband, a former statie," Libby explained. "She left me for him. She never told me if it was his gun or his badge." "Or the fact that he ran the North Miami barracks and gave good copy," Judy said, to me. "Libby never did dig my ecumenicism. She didn't believe me when I told her my motto was 'Different strokes for the same folks.' "

  "She didn't believe me when I told her that penetration is violation," Libby replied. "So, Lips, what've we got here?"

  "State Senator Orestes 'Rusty' Figueroa," Judy said. "He used to work out of Miami, but he retired and settled in up here."

  "Dem or GOP?"

  "Cuban," Judy said. "GOP, of course."

  "That means old Jackie's right," Libby explained to me. "Whatever this is, the Republicans probably already have it. That's also why it probably hasn't hit the papers yet."

  "Well, there may be another reason," Judy said. "Rusty isn't what might be called an unimpeachable witness. He had a 'For Sale' sign on his door and got caught eventually--his retirement included a suspended sentence."

  "So why should we believe him?" I asked.

  "Because he was a crook, not necessarily a liar," Judy said. "Anyway, Lib, your instructions were anything on Picker, right?"

  Rusty Figueroa lived in a fine, sprawling ranch on one of the manmade islands in the Inland Waterway. He had silver hair and mustache but was still slim--no paunch distended his pale yellow guayabera. He welcomed us into his living room, which was elegant, subdued--a first-class hotel lobby: pleasant but undistinguished watercolors of tropical scenes sparsely rationed on stark white walls, Persian rugs and a beige sectional couch, curving around a low, oval teak coffee table, facing a large flagstone fireplace.

  "You ever use that thing?" Judy asked.

  "Occasionally--when I have to burn documents," Rusty said. He enjoyed being a rogue. A young woman servant brought a tray with iced tea, lemonade, Coke, Perrier and a lone bottle of Bacardi. "I assumed you wouldn't be interested in alcohol," he said. "The world has become a much less interesting place over time. Even journalists and politicians eat well and exercise--a pity. But if any of you would like to join me in something stronger? Rum and Coca? No? Oh well." We sat down on the couch, Libby and Figueroa facing each other catercornered, Judy and I farther down. Libby was controlled, businesslike--very Sam Spade. She conducted the interrogation. "So, Freddy Picker offered you a bribe to vote for this project?" she asked. "Not a bribe," Figueroa said. "I never said bribe. I said contribution." "How much?" Libby asked.

  "A thousand," he said. "That was the going rate in those days." "The going rate?"

  "Well, there were a lot of projects going up, a lot of roads and sewers being built. Progress, you might say, was my most important profit." He was enjoying this.

  "Do you have any record of it, any way to prove it?" Libby asked. "Well"--he laughed--"I didn't keep a little black book, but if you go back into my campaign committee records, you'll see contributions there from the Sunshine folks."

  "That's his brother-in-law's company," Libby said.

  "His brother-in-law's company." Figueroa laughed. "And his wife's a director. And his brother, Andy, is the executive vice president. So whose company is this really, right?"

  "But who approached you? Was it Picker himself?"

  "Oh come on now! And you claim to be active in national politics?" Figueroa said. "The game has fallen on hard times."

  "Did you deal with Picker at all on this?" Li
bby asked.

  "No," he said. "Not on this. You'd see him around, though. Down in Miami. He made the scene."

  "He made the scene?"

  "Well, Toni's family was into everything good, if you know what I'm saying--and Freddy and Toni, you'd see them around in the mid-seventies, together and apart, sometimes very much apart." He chuckled appreciatively.

  "Who was the other man?" I asked.

  He looked at Judy, then Libby, then me. "Oh, you mean the guy Toni left him for?" He said. "Some Anglo attorney up there, in Tallahassee." "And the governor, what was he like? How well did you know him?" Libby asked.

  "He was okay. He was smart, he could do the job. 'Course, he wasn't the saint you're seeing now--that's like, hilarious. But then, none of us were saints back then. And everybody's a saint now. At least, that's the way it looks. That's the style. I love how everyone's working so hard to be clean these days, and they're still getting scorched--and for what? For nothing, compared to what used to go on. This is a crazy business. Hard times for party animals. You should talk to Eddie Reyes, the brother-in-law. He knew Freddy real good." "Was he the guy you did business with?" Libby asked.

  "Everybody did business with Eddie," Figueroa said. "He was just a real public-spirited individual."

  "I need a SHOWER," Libby said as we headed south in the red Chrysler LeBaron convertible she had rented. ("Might as well live it up," she'd said. "This'll be paid off ten cents on the dollar by the defunct Stanton for President campaign.")

  "Not much of a scandal," I said.

  "Fucking sleazeball," she said. Her wild gray hair was blowing out behind her in the evening breeze. "I touched his hand. YUCK: COOTIES!"

  "So, we go to see Eddie Reyes, if he'll see us," I said. "Then what?" "Pottsie," she said. "Lipinsky's husband. Pottsie was a statie. Staties know everything. We'll have a nice quiet dinner with the PotterLipinskys tomorrow night."

  Libby had made mom reservations at a place called L'Afrique, an Art Deco hotel on the ocean in South Beach--which, it was immediately clear, had gotten high marks from Libby's favorite gay travel guide. It was a fabulous place, a carnal theme park: the bellboys were choice beefcake--dressed as native bearers, bare-chested, in loincloths and sandals (this being a politically correct theme park, they came in all colors). The lobby was fantastic, way over the top Neo-Bwana style, all palms and rattan furniture with mud cloth cushions sitting on a giant leopard-print rug. There were trickling fountains and rainforest vegetation and zebra skins, masks, spears and thatch on the walls. The lobby bar had waiters wearing pith helmets and sarongs; other servants wafted about offering party favors and waving palm-frond fans. The piped music--very low and seductive--was Olatunji and his Drums of Passion; everyone seemed to be moving to the beat. "BUMMMERRR," Libby stage-whispered.

  "Too sedate, Lib?" I asked.

  "I was expecting something more . . . bicoastal," she said as we followed a snaking slate path toward the registration desk. "At least, that's what the guide said."

  "How disappointing," I said. "So, do we have to stay here?"

  "It's late, I'm wiped," Libby said. "And this is going to cost the Stanton campaign a shitload of money. They charge whorehouse rates in this joint."

  The rooms were something of a comedown after the scene in the lobby. Mine was pink and bare, with fifties motel furniture--another conceit, obviously--and jalousie windows facing the ocean. I flipped on the television, lay down on the bed and felt antsy. I called Daisy, got her phone machine and didn't leave a message.

  I went for a walk. On a side street off the ocean I saw a crowd of young people--men and women, young and pretty, carrying pastel drinks in plastic glasses--spilling out from a club called the Awful Surge. I went inside and stood at the bar, which was bathed in cherry light and decorated with driftwood and seashells. I ordered a margarita with a double shot. A bar band wearing Hawaiian shirts was playing Beach Boys loud enough so that when you talked, you had to yell directly into the other person's ear.

  The ear I chose belonged to a woman who would have been one of my classic thermonuclear-holocaust fantasies on the E train. Her name was either Claudia or Gloria. She was Latino, copper-skinned, wearing an aquamarine halter top and black bicycle shorts. She smiled at me; I smiled at her. I bought her a drink. We chatted, rudimentarily. She worked in a hotel. She asked me what I did. "ESTATE SALES," I yelled. "WHAT?" she asked. "I SELL DEAD PEOPLE'S PROPERTY," I said. "YOU FROM HERE?" she asked. "New York," I said, less confidently. "You want to dance?"

  We danced: "Little Deuce Coupe" and "Surfer Girl." I am not a big Beach Boys fan--they'd always seemed an apotheosis of Caucasian dorkiness--and "Surfer Girl" may well be the stupidest song ever written, but it is very, very slow. And Claudia-Gloria snuggled close, her hands up my neck; and I put my hands down by the small of her back, just where her hips flared, touching the soft skin between her halter top and bicycle shorts. "Where you staying?" she whispered, her lips and a tiny hint of tongue on my ear.

  "Uhhh . . . L'Afrique," I said.

  "That's the faggot hotel," she said, pulling back, looking at me. "Are you?"

  "No," I said, "And I can prove it."

  I proved it, then promptly fell asleep. And awakened in the darkness, Claudia-Gloria sleeping softly, facing me, her mouth slightly open, a complete stranger. I shoved back, toward the edge of the bed, and stared at her, searching for signs of familiarity. There were none. I was wide awake now, feeling slightly freaked--not quite guilty, but alone, and the aloneness was a physical state, a dull ache--and claustrophobic, too, in that bed.

  I got up and went to the windows. They were locked shut. I fumbled about, trying to crank them open; no luck. I could see occasional ruffles of white along the inky beachfront: waves breaking. I couldn't hear the ocean; I was cut off from it. Each of Claudia-Gloria's breaths seemed to fill the room, pressing against me, pushing me out. I threw on my clothes and whipped through the lobby--mostly empty now, though several bearers and bwanas were engaged in heavy petting on the rattan couches in dark corners--and I went out to the ocean, tremendously relieved by the warmth of the air and the fact that I could now hear the waves. I took several steps out into the sand, but it was squishy and uncomfortable-too much of an effort-and so I retreated to a bench on the grass strip near the sidewalk, beneath the palms, and I sat there, watching the ocean, watching the dawn come, my mind frozen, except for thoughts of Daisy and the sudden, intolerable emptiness of being alone.

  Eddie Reyes was a very busy man, but he agreed to see us late that afternoon. Libby also arranged for us to have dinner with Judy Lipinsky and her husband, Ralph Potter, that evening, at Joe's Stone Crab. "So who was the girl?" Libby asked, as we drove across the causeway to Miami that afternoon.

  "What girl?"

  "Henry, you've known me for how long? We're fucking partners in crime. And you're still trying to GAME ME? For God's sake, little man-you sit:elflike sex. I got a nose for nookie."

  I looked at her.

  "Okay," she said. "I called your room this morning. She answered. She said, 'Tell your friend he's a nice guy, but it's only polite to say thank you and good-bye.' You booked on her, Henri? You fled?" "Do we have to talk about this?" I asked.

  "What else IS there?" Libby screeched. "You don't have much of a conversational repertoire, Henry. There isn't too much we can talk about-you don't know shit about music, I've never heard you discuss science or philosophy, or the wonders of East Asia. You're a stunted fucking little guy-politics, politics, politics. And there ain't much politics left for us now, is there? We are at the END of politics. So what you got without politics, Henri?" she said, suddenly quieting down-for effect. "You don't even have the courage to tell Daisy you love her."

  "Jesus, Libby," I said.

  "Pathetic, Henry."

  I would like to be able to report that Eddie Reyes's office didn't look like something lifted directly out of Miami Vice; I would like to report that it wasn't all angles and starkness. But I can't. It was, and so wa
s he. His bare rectangular desk, green marble on thin legs, stood in front of a dramatic isosceles triangle window; the room was irregularly shaped, acute and unpredictable--the art, clashing with itself elegantly on soft, charcoal-gray walls, was solid geometry: a tangerine circle, a cerulean rhombus, a royal purple square. The floor was highly polished onyx plastic. Libby, in a fuchsia-andchartreuse tie-dyed muumuu, fit this place perfectly. I felt lost and a little giddy. Had serious, sentient humans ever conducted business here? Then again, I imagined how we--Libby and I--probably looked to Eddie Reyes: several exits past serious, that was for damn sure.

  Eddie was wearing a white linen suit and a creamy white silk shirt, opened several buttons down, a gold cross nestled in his hairy chest; he had a slight paunch. His hair was dark and straight but not oiled; his sideburns were bushy and turning gray. He wore a Rolex with a heavy gold band, a wedding ring, a diamond stud earring.

  His secretary, a tall woman impeccably dressed in a white blouse, tight gray skirt (the color of the walls) and black heels, served us Perrier in triangular glasses. We sat in two very austere chrome-and-black leather chairs facing the desk; Eddie stood. There was no chair behind the desk. This was a room for audiences, not paperwork.

  "So," Eddie said, with the confidence of a man used to being the smartest person in a room. "Rusty Figueroa has spilled the beans. He once took a campaign contribution from Sunshine Associates. Shocking, don't you think? I hope you won't be too disappointed if I confess everything immediately. A terrible crime, giving campaign contributions."

  "It's not the money," Libby said. "It's who gave it. And why."

  "I gave it," Eddie said, "because I found Rusty Figueroa's philosophy of governance enlightened. Oh, there were some specific policy differences, but . . ."

  "You were in business with the governor's wife and the governor's brother," Libby said. "You were trying to get action on a specific project from the state."

  "Yes, I was in business with my sister and the governor's idiot brother," Eddie replied sharply. "As for the 'action,' prove it."