Primary Colors

by Joe Klein

  We arrived there in late afternoon. It was different from the other houses in the neighborhood, which were small, low, painted in Caribbean pastels, teeming with children and music and immigrant optimism. The halfway house was older, and more austere; all the windows were closed and the shades drawn. It was a large house, two stories, white shingles and a tin roof--a remnant from an earlier time.

  The dirt yard had been carefully raked; there were no footprints. There was a sign above the door, EL CAMINO AL PARAISO. We rang the bell and were buzzed in. It was cool inside, over-air-conditioned, with a heavy institutional disinfectant smell. The entrance hall ceiling was painted--remarkably--in dark blue, with small stars and subtle, discretely placed angels. There were two posters on the walls: a flowery "One Day at a Time" and a more militant photo of a gay pride march, with the words "We're Here . . . Get Used to It."

  A chunky Hispanic woman sat in the office, reading a novela. She directed us upstairs, to the sun porch, "That's where Renzo usually hangs."

  We walked through a common room filled with secondhand furniture, dominated by a big-screen color television. Three men sat watching a Spanish soap opera. One had the distinctive purplish festers of Kaposi's sarcoma, another was bundled in a sweater, glassy-eyed and coughing; the third was tethered to an intravenous pole. Upstairs was a narrow, depressing hallway, studded with doorways on both sides. The porch was at the end of the hall, through an aluminum storm door. It was enclosed by screens, pleasant--warmer than inside and feathered by a slight breeze. Lorenzo Delgado was alone there. He was a small, thin man, sitting on a chaise, smoking a Marlboro. "You're Renzo?" Libby asked. He nodded. "We'd like to talk to you about Freddy Picker."

  "Oh, I've been expecting you. You're from the campaign, right?" he asked, but rattled on before we had a chance--God forgive us--to say which campaign. "Well, you can tell Freddy he has nothing to fear from me," he said in a hoarse, gravelly voice. "Nothing. You understand? This happened . . . after. I fucked my brains out in jail, not much else to do there--and there were so many boys who spent all day in the gym, working on their bodies."

  Libby and I didn't dare look at each other, much less say anything. We flanked him in aluminum lawn chairs. "I like this porch," he said, "but I can't do it all the time. Depends on the weather. It's strange--my body temperature is always off, one way or another. Too hot or too cold. It never feels just right. Sometimes the tiniest breeze can set me off, shivering--and I can't do anything about it, can't turn it off, just have to ride with it."

  I still hadn't said anything, hadn't introduced myself-and Remo suddenly fixed on me. He appeared to check me out, a salacious glance, then he smiled and asked, "So, are you Freddy's friend now?"

  "000000000-EEEEEEE," Libby said, as we headed for the airport. "You just knew it was gonna be GOOD! You just knew it was gonna be IRRESISTIBLE. And this has EVERYfucicingTHING: SEX! DRUGS! CORRUPTION! And NONE of it-none of it, Henry, my man-NONE OF IT is clear-cut venality. It's all kind of . . . human and lovely and luscious. It's weakness, not evil. I LOVE THIS GAME."

  "What are you talking about?" I asked.

  "When doing a social experiment," Libby said, going into a high-pitched Julia Child impersonation, "you do not want to stir gently. You WANT TO ROIL THE FUCKER. You want conditions right, you want it to be really tempting, y'know? You want it luscious. THIS is dripping with lusciosity."

  "But I don't-"

  "Understand? Ohhhhh, Henry! Of course you understand. We've been on the same fucking page from the start-if you hadn't been, I'da told you to stuff it, stay home, be a lackey. So don't play dumb with me. THIS IS A TEST. Of us and them. Actually, of us and them and us again. We just passed the entrance exam. We got the dirt. We're fucking unbelievable-you know that? We're no good we're . . . lucky." "Libby, what are you talking about?" I asked, but I kind of knew. "What are we gonna do with this shit?"

  "It ain't US! It ain't what we're gonna do. It ain't about US!" She slammed the horn on "US." "It is now about THEM! We are going to do what we do: we bust dust and tell all. The question is, what are Jack and Susan going to DO with it? Inquiring MINDS want to know! I mean, little buddy, isn't that really what we're both after here? I mean, after twenty fucking years, I get to see what THEY're about-not just hypothesize, not just HOPE. This is it. Graduation day. They graduate or I do. Tell the truth, Henry," she said, and dived to an intense whisper, staring at me with wild blue eyes, instead of at the road, "isn't this what you're really after, too?"

  "Drive, Libby, goddammit!" I said.

  "Well, isn't it?"

  "I guess," I said, but I knew. "What if they react the wrong way? What if they flunk the test?"

  "Then it's OUR turn at bat again," she said. "Hoo-HAH! Then we get to see what we're made of, and we gotta hope it ain't green cheese." "Libby," I said. "I know this is hard, but I've seen you do it before. Could you please possibly get fucking sane for a minute and tell me what you're getting me into?"

  "NO!" She said and swerved the car onto the shoulder, slamming the breaks, stopping with a lurch.

  "Jesus!" I said.

  "Henry," she said, staring at me--perfectly calm, perfectly sane. (I had done it.) "Do you remember the rules we set the day we vamped on that scumfucker Randy Culligan? Do you remember how we're sitting outside his law office and I told you I was about to do something crazy? And you could be in or out, but ask no questions?" I nodded.

  "Well, sweetie," she said, taking my chin in her hand, "we're back there now. Faith or nothing. You on?"

  "You're not gonna shoot the Stantons, are you?"

  "Not quite," she said.

  "No violence of any kind."

  "Don't chivvy me, Henry," she said. "You on or no?"

  I nodded yes, my chin still in her hand. And she kissed me on the cheek.

  The Sunday morning papers had Freddie Picker being endorsed by the governor of Pennsylvania and most of the state's congressional delegation. I read it as a civilian might, without a twinge. There had been days, months, when I could soar or dive on the hint of a nuance in a one-paragraph item buried in The Washington Post; that had been my life. But the campaign was over for me now I called Daisy that morning and got her machine again. "Daisy, please," I said. "I flicked up. But does one fuckup mean that I'm cast into the outer darkness for all eternity? I miss you."

  Libby called later that morning. "We meet at five at the Mansion, just before the other meeting, which is--you're never fucking going to BELIEVE this--a dinner meeting. And Fat Willie is CATERING! I guess Jack figures, if he's goin' out, might as well go out with a full belly."

  "Did he ask you anything?"

  "Does a woodpecker have a long, sharp nose?"

  "And"

  "Oh ye of little faith."

  "Well, what did you say?"

  "He said, 'Any luck?' I said, 'Depends on what you mean by luck.' He said, 'Did you find anything?' I said, 'Depends on what you mean by anything.' He said, 'C'mon Libby, don't fuck with me.' I said, 'I don't fuck, I make love. You aren't gonna risk another moment of passion now, Jack, after all the shit your wiener's gotten you into, are you?' . . . So, the question is: He call you yet?"

  "No," I said.

  "He will."

  He did, about ten minutes after I got off with Libby.

  "So how was Florida?" He asked.

  "Humid," I said.

  "Oh come on, Henry. Not you too?"

  I didn't say anything.

  "I need to know if there's any hope," he said.

  I carefully considered what I said next. "It depends," I said, "what you mean by hope."

  "Henry, goddammit, who are you working for?"

  "Governor, I'm working with Libby," I said. "We figured it would be best if we made our report together. See you at five."

  I spent the next few hours taking inventory of my aparmsent, trying to figure how much there would be to pack, how long it would take to leave. Then I went for a run and, afterward, sat on a bench next to the river, which had sw
ollen with the spring, leaving the grassy banks soggy. Of all the things I had seen and done and experienced in Mammoth Falls, I would remember the river most vividly. It was the closest I'd ever come to a natural thing. I lived next to it, ran alongside it, sat by it, slowly learned its moods--and there were times that I could put myself in a half-trance, and imagine its swift current emptying my mind, carrying my worries off downstream. I never really stopped to consider the transcendental power of the river-I'm not very mystical, I guess-but I do find myself sitting in that spot, in my mind, from time to time, especially when I'm looking to get calm.

  Howard and Lucille were with the Stantons in the study when I arrived-which was a matter of some concern. Howard telegraphed one of his furtive little ironic smiles; Lucille glared. Susan stood, gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, "What, you didn't us bring back any jelly?" She turned to Jack and asked, "Hey, did I ever tell you about this? Whenever my folks came back from Florida, they brought a package-three glass globes, globules-of jelly. One was orange, another orange-pineapple, another cher-"

  "OUT!" It was Libby, pointing a finger-casually and from above, like God in the Sistine Chapel-at Lucille. "YOU ARE OUTTAHERE, you slimetudinous sack of snail wuzzle. AND YOU TOO-YOU ESPECIALLY TOO," she said, whirling on Howard. "Life is too fucking SHORT to even have to think about your sorry ass. OUT!" Neither moved. Howard looked to Jack; Lucille, Susan. "OhhhKAYYYYY," Libby said and turned toward the door.

  "No, wait," Susan said, nodding toward Lucille, who began moving toward the door-then stopped, put her hands on her hips and said to Libby, "You are one sick puppy." "HAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAW," Libby said, throwing her head back and not laughing. "Out . . . OUT, out . . . OUT," she said, barking like a dog. Then, to Howard, "You too, teenie-weenie. Time to BOOK. You're leavin' on that midnight train to JAWWW-JAH! Out . . . OUT, out . . . OUT! I've had twenty fucking years too much of you."

  "Can I stay?" Susan asked, as Howard left, closing the study door behind him.

  "Always." Libby smiled. "Sweetheart."

  "Is all this really necessary?" Jack asked.

  "NO!" Libby said, then added with a sudden Scottish burr. "But it's what happens when you send a LUNATIC to do a mannnn's work. So here, Governor-feast your eyes," she said, tossing Stanton, who was sitting in his usual wing chair, a manila legal file with a metal clasp at the top. "You too, mlady." She handed a file to Susan, who was curled, barefoot, down the other end of the green couch from me.

  Then Libby handed site a copy, accompanied by a small sigh and a clear-eyed, here-goes-nothing glance. As we read, she paced the edge of the room, next to the windows, hands clasped behind her back, head down, riffling the gauzy linen curtains as she passed.

  The file was untitled. The first page said "Executive Summary." It had a row of bullets, setting off capitalized names: ORESTES FIGUEROA, EDGARDO REYES, REGINALD DUBOISE, LORENZO DELGADO-and a precise one-sentence summary of their "testimony." This was followed by more elaborate accounts of our interviews with the four, accounts that seemed entirely accurate-unhedged, unbiased-to me.

  Jack Stanton whistled and looked up. Libby said, "Henry, does this square with your memory of our investigation?"

  "Yes, absolutely."

  "Remarkable," Stanton said, shaking his head. "How on earth did he ever think he could get away with this?"

  "Well, he was running against YOU," Libby said.

  Stanton ignored that. "What do we do with this?" he asked.

  "The Times?" Susan said. "Or maybe The Wall Street Journal-more authoritative, in a way"

  Libby glanced at me. They hadn't even hesitated. Not an instant of doubt.

  "Through an intermediary," Susan said. "Someone not associated with the campaign."

  "I don't thMk so," Libby said.

  "What do you mean?" Stanton said, twisting around back toward a corner of the room behind the wing chair, where Libby leaned against a grandfather clock, positioning herself for his discomfort.

  "I don't think there's anything of use here," she said.

  "C'mon, Libby, you gotta be kidding," Stanton said. "At the very least, the Republicans already know about the Sunshine business, and the rest is eminently gettable, soon as people start looking for it."

  "Mebbe," said Libby, sliding down to the floor, knees up, palms on her knees, next to the grandfather clock. Stanton couldn't see her at all now. He had to get up and turn around, a knee on the wing chair. "But it doesn't meet my standards," she said.

  "What on earth do you mean, Olivia?" Susan asked sardonically. "I mean, madame, two things," Libby said, popping up, pacing again. "First of all, this is mostly bullshit. It's horseflop and innuendo. The Sunshine business looks bad, but I don't think Freddy had all that much to do with it. As for the rest, well, Reggie Duboise ain't gonna talk, God bless him. And Renzo," she said, stopping, staring directly at Susan, "you wouldn't . . . dare."

  She moved around the couch, directly behind me, put her hands on my shoulders. "Besides, legal eagles--point two is dispositive: Henry and I don't think the use of this material is proper. We have a moral objection. And I have a historical beef."

  Stanton glanced at me; I gave him nothing back, the same cold void I'd once given Fat Willie on his behalf. "Awww c'mon, Libby," he said. "If you weren't gonna use it, why'd you go look for it?" "He could've been a real shit," she said, resuming her pacing. "I didn't think he would be, and he isn't, but he could have been. But Jackie, my dearest--you are off the fucking point. The point is: WE DON'T DO THIS SORT OF THING! Oh, I will be relentless busting dust and guarding your ass--I'd've even blown Randy Culligan's weenie off for you. Well, maybe I would have. But this is something else again. This is hurting someone else. This SUCKS. You want to know exactly why this sucks? Because YOU TOLD ME SO. You remember when, Jackie? Let me refresh your memory," and she dived into her leather satchel and produced three copies of an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo, which she handed to Jack, Susan and me.

  It was remarkable. Jack and Susan both looked pretty much the same, but younger, fresher. They were dressed in turn-of-the-seventies clothes. Jack's hair was long and curly; he was wearing a ruffled Edwardian shirt with a laced drawstring top, sort of like Errol Flynn, and bell-bottoms. Susan's hair was long, straight and brown; she was wearing a bikini top and very short cut-off jeans. Both Stantons were wearing sandals. The real revelation, though, was Libby--who stood in the middle, an arm around Jack and Susan, towering over both, smiling with proud, parental satisfaction.

  My first thought was, Why did Libby seem so tall? Then I realized: she was wearing heels. She was, in fact, very conventionally dressed and about a hundred pounds thinner. She had big hair (not yet gray) and was wearing a satiny sheath, and looked like a Kilgore Junior College Rangerette, or maybe one of Lyndon Johnson's daughters. "Henry, weren't they just gorgeous?" She sighed.

  "Yeah," I said, "but look at you."

  "You little shit," she said. "I TOLD you I used to have a waist." "Libby," Jack began.

  "Oh hush UP," she said. "Don't ruin it. You remember when this was?" She looked at Stanton. "You don't, do you."

  "The Miami headquarters in '72," Susan said.

  "Well, of course," Libby said. "Henry, this was taken just after the convention. I'll never forget that convention-I was already running Florida, and Gary Hart finds me in a trailer, on the phone, whipping my delegation. And he has-these guys. '0,' he said-he called me `0'-`l brought some reinforcements.' And it was like, wow. They were golden, y'know? A different life form. I mean, it was just clear as day as soon as they settled in. They were geniuses at this shit. We had a crappy old subtropical piece of shit office in downtown Miami-and the Stantons were . . . Well, this picture was taken the day they reported to work. God, they almost turned it into a real campaign. Jack was out, talking to groups-all these old Jews and New Dealers, none of whom wanted to support George McGovern and the Forces of Drugged Fucking Anarchy. But Jack could recite FDA's first inaugural by heart, bring a tear to their eye. An
d then he'd say, `The Democratic Party has given you a good life. Would you be here-would you be able to afford living here-without Social Security? Are you willing to gamble your future, your children's future, on the people who fought against Social Security and Medicare and the GI Bill and every other thing that has made your lives a little better?' " "Probably swung six or eight dozen votes," Stanton said. "And Susan-Map Woman!" Libby said. "She laid out the state, had every precinct organized, had the office running like a fucking harvesting combine. 'Course the Stantons brought along some seaweed and shit in their wake, Howard and Lucille--the Progressive Labor Party's Fun Couple of 1971--but, with the Stantons, the deal has always been: You take the bad with the spectacular."

  "Libby, for Chrissake," Susan said. "What are you doing? What's the point?"

  "The point is--EAGLETON," Libby said. "You remember, Jack? I must have known you--what, two days then? We hear about the electroshock, and it's weird: That was the first time I actually considered the possibility that we might lose to that fuckbrain Nixon. Before that, I was absolutely convinced we would win. I mean, who would ever vote for Tricky? No one I knew, 'cept the idiots I escaped from back in Partridge, Texas. Can you imagine, Henry? We were so fucking YOUNG. And this one, this one"--she nodded over toward Stanton--The takes me out, we go to this little open-air Cuban joint, and I've got my head in my hands. Life has ended. And THEY did it--the CIA. It had to be the CIA. I couldn't believe that Tom Eagleton would really be a nutcase. They had to have dragged him off and drugged him and made him crazy. It couldn't have been that McGovern was just--a COMPLETE FUCKING AMATEUR. No, they did dirty tricks. And I said to Jack, 'We gotta get the capability.' You remember, Jack? 'We gotta be able to do that, too.' And you said, 'No. Our job is to END all that. Our job is to make it clean. Because if it's clean, we win--because our ideas are better.' You remember that, Jack?"