Primary Colors (51 page)

"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 stoo
d i
n 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. And 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?"

Libby had tears in her eyes now

"It was a long time ago," Stanton said gently.

"Libby, you said it yourself," Susan said coolly. "We were young. We didn't know how the world worked. Now we know. We know that if we don't move on this Picker situation, two things will happen. The first is, we're dead. Everything we've worked for since Miami twenty years ago dies. And fast. It will die tomorrow The second thing that happens is, someday--someday soon--when the bloom is off the romance, when they've gotten sick of Freddy Picker's quiet, righteous act, when they want to pull his wings off, some enterprising journalist will stumble onto this. And if he doesn't, the Republicans will lead him to it, on their timetable, next fall. It'll be another Eagleton--only it'll be our fault this time, for letting it happen. Your fault, Libby."

This was, I thought, a pretty strong argument. Libby didn't. "Honey," she said, "you may be right, but it just ain't who we're supposed to be."

"Maybe," Stanton said, "we could leak part of it, the Sunshine stuff--we know the Republicans have that."

"Oh Christ, Jack," Susan said, angry that he was softening. "You don't think they're gonna have the rest soon enough? You don't think Eddie Reyes is gonna do a wh000ps with someone else--you don't think he's gonna spill it all? I mean"--she riffled through Libby's file--"Libby, he did call Picker a maricon cokehead, didn't he?" Libby and I exchanged a glance: yes, he had. We'd just dismissed it as another stray expletive at the time.

"So, you'd even give up the Renzo angle?" Libby asked. "What flicking difference does orientation make?"

"It'll mean something to the National Flash," Susan said. "Ohhh, Susie," Libby moaned. "You, of all people."

Libby caught my surprise. "Oh come on, Henry--you, of all people. Remember what Eddie Reyes said: you should always assume everyone did everything back then. And, Henry, surely you are familiar with Mrs. Stanton's need for physical solace in times of spousal despair."

Now it was Jack Stanton's turn to be shocked. He shot a furious look at Libby, who smiled; then at Susan, who was blushing; then at me, too stunned to blush. We had all betrayed him--and he, of course, us. Evidently, everyone still did everything.

"Children, children," Libby said, shaking her head, surveying the room. "Ain't we got fun."

"This has gone far enough," Stanton said. "We have to decide." "What's to decide?" Susan asked.

"Keee-RECT," Libby said. "There is NOTHING to decide. A decision has been made, by me and Henri. This dies here."

"I don't think so," Susan said.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Libby said, "but it does. And here's why." She dived down into her satchel again and pulled out another manila file, which looked very much like the first. "I won't distribute this one. . . . I didn't want to make copies," she said--nervously, I thought. "But I'll tell you what it is, and Jackie here can vouch for its accuracy. Silence, Governor, will signify assent."

Susan glanced at Jack--a what's-this? look. "I guess life is still simple in the small towns of America," Libby began, quietly. "A doctor's office isn't very hard to get into after hours. And, Susan, when you told me I was on the McCollister case, and when I heard that Jack had had his blood taken, I figured I had no choice but to investigate the matter fully."

Stanton paled; his right hand came up, he didn't know what to do with it, so he put it flat on top of his head. "Doc Hastings kept very detailed notes about your case over the years," Libby said. "I guess he had . . . a rooting interest. I mean, he was a full-service family practitioner, wasn't he? OH! I never thought to ask: Does Susan know?" Stanton nodded yes. "Well, then, it's only Henry--and he knows everything else, so why not this?" She turned to me. "Doc Hastings is Governor Stanton's natural father. Momma used that Kansas City nonsense as a cover, and it worked real good, since Will Stanton never came back from Iwo to say otherwise. Momma told Jack about it--when? Doc's records say that you and he had your heart-to-heart after you graduated college. And being thoughtful folks, ack and Momma kept it quiet--out of respect for Doc's wife and his two other boys. And also out of respect for Momma's reputation." Stanton stared at his lap. Susan stared at me. I stared into space. This was . . . Dogpatch. Libby read my mind. "Yeah, Henry: this is who we are, Jackie and me. Piney-woods pigpokers--right, Jack? Rule Number One: If it moves, shoot it. . . . Or fuck it, 'specially if it's family!
It's a wonder Momma wasn't Doc Hastings' cousin."

"Libby!" Susan said. "You're out of control."

"Yeah, yeahyeah," she agreed, taking a deep breath, calming herself. "I'm sorry. Where was I?" She moved forward and squatted directly in front of Stanton's wing chair. "So, Doc Hastings did have a rooting interest, didn't he? And root he did. Lord, Jackie! The machinations he went through to keep you out of the draft! But the part I like best is the most recent stuff: having Uncle Charlie take that blood test for you. I mean, would you actually have gone through with it--letting Uncle Charlie take the fall as the daddy? You think that would have been CREDIBLE? What kind of shit is that?"

Stanton moved his right hand from the top of his head to his brow, shading his eyes. He was embarrassed. I'd never seen hint like this before. He was always so unabashed, so aggressively in the world, dominating every conversation, every room, even when he was just listening. But Libby had punctured that. She was in control here; the governor was in full retreat. He appeared to squirrel down deeper into his chair, trapped--with Libby in hot pursuit, down on her knees in front of him, peering up, trying to make eye contact. "What kind of shit is that, ack?" she chided him gently, but with an edge of impatience. "Oh, excuse me--I forgot: it's the same old shit. There's always been a Doc Hastings or a Senator LaMott Dawson--or Uncle Charlie, or Susan--ready to fix your tickets whenever you flicked up. You have never paid the bill. Never. And no one ever calls you on it. Because you're so completelyficking SPECIAL. Everyone was always so PROUD of you. And me too. Me the worst."

She pushed him back, deeper into the chair, his knees jutting out. She leaned forward, rested her arms on top of his knees, rested her head on top of her arms. She perched at the edge of his lap, staring up at him, torturing him. "It just makes it a whole lot easier for me," she sighed. "I mean, it's totally depressing--What have I been doing this for, my whole pathetic fucking life?" She seemed to wait for him to say something. "Well," she said softly. "A situation like this does clear the sinuses now, doesn't it?"

And Stanton finally looked up, looked at her--pleading silently, but Libby wasn't buying. "So, here's the deal," she said. "You move on Picker, I move on you."

"You wouldn't," said Susan, whose eyes were red.