Primary Colors (39 page)

"Don't we have a thousand some-odd delegates already?"

"We're running at about fifty-five percent, depending on how we do tonight," Howard said. "And if we keep running at that rate, we're okay, by a little--even assuming most of the superdelegates hang back and take their sweet time making up their minds. We've got commitments from about two hundred fifty of the seven hundred sixty-eight super-D's now, mostly the ones from down here--though who knows how solid those are."

"Howard, we damn well better find out," Stanton said. "I want a list of names--no, I want to know every damn thing about every last one of them, what they want, what they need. I want you to set up a super-D squad, keep track of them--figure out ways to put me in touch with 'em. And I want to talk to each one of them in the next month. And I also want the word to go out, these seven hundred sixty-eight superdelegates are family now, you treat 'em like Momma. They say Fetch, you go fetch. Y'hear? Now, Howard, why is it you think we're in such deep shit?"

"Wel111 . . ." Howard said.

"Well what?"

"It's just, I know New York," Howard said. "Everything is driven by the tabloids there--the TVs make their news decisions off the tabs--so Cashmere was a bigger story than in most places, and Izzy Rosenblatt got played like a Mafia hit. I would guess we'd have a struggle on our hands there against anyone. And if we start losing primaries, all bets are obviously off."

"Leon, do we have New York numbers?" Susan asked.

"I don't," he said. "But the Marist poll has you at twenty-two with fifty percent or so undecided."

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"And the rest?"

"Harris was running at eighteen percent comatose, pre-Picker." "Sweet Jesus," Stanton said. "So what do I say tonight?"

Again, silence. Then, Daisy: "One thing is, you've got to be prepared for questions about Picker giving blood today."

"Why?" Stanton exploded. "What on earth do I say about that?" "Well, it was his big moment today. It's a great gimmick. You gotta figure it's gonna be an issue. You're gonna be asked about it. You're gonna be asked when the last time you . . . gave blood was." She hadn't realized what she was saying until halfway through the sentence.

There was a stony silence in the ether. Stanton, Susan, Howard, Daisy and I all knew when, and why, Jack Stanton had last given blood.

"Maybe you should go down to Mercy and give a pint tomorrow," Susan said, saving as all from the silence.

"It'll seem copycat-cheap," Lucille said.

"Better cheap than having a bunch of scorps all over us, asking whether or not you're gonna match Picker's pint, and if not, why not," Richard said.

"What makes you think they'll be all over us?" Lucille asked. "Reporters are cynics. They'll see the blood-giving for the cheap stunt it was. You don't want to look like you're panicking over this guy." "Well, aren't we?" Stanton asked.

I called Daisy after Nightline; various Washington talking heads had predicted that Fred Picker was just a stalking horse for Larkin or Ozio. Jeff Greenfield did the lead piece, which was filled with wonderful file footage-Picker, with long sideburns, wearing what looked like a tangerine leisure suit, brandishing a broom over his head as he ran for governor in 1974; there was also footage of the strange press conference when he dropped out four years later. "I thought I was gonna announce that I was running for a reelection, but I changed my mind," he said, eyes shifting about, bleary, nervous. Greenfield said that Picker's action had never really been explained, that he had lived quietly on a plantation just north of Tallahassee ever since, sharing custody of hi
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wo sons with his former wife, Antonia Reyes Cardinale--the daughter of a prominent Cuban emigre businessman. They had divorced soon after he left office. "There are always suspicions raised when a politician leaves office abruptly," Greenfield concluded. "No doubt, former governor Picker will have to deal with them in the days to come. For tonight, though, Fred Picker must be considered a significant, and formidable, new force in what has become an entirely bizarre presidential campaign. And I've got to say, Ted, that pint of blood was the first tangible thing we've gotten from any of these candidates this year." Daisy was a mess. "I am a complete fucking nincompoop," she said. "Henry, I swear to God I didn't realize what I was saying until I was halfway through the sentence. You think I'm dead?"

I thought she had hurt herself. But I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what she'd want: to be soothed, or to be told the truth. "You're as alive as anyone I know," I said, not very convincingly--and pissed at myself for being so awkward, so reticent, so sappy. "More alive than most."

"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
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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 Harle
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lubhouse, 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.