Primary Colors (31 page)

"Say Adler took Harris on, how would he play it?" the governor asked. He was intrigued by this turn.

"High road-inspirational shit," Richard said. "A nation in crisis, looking for a different kind of politician. David's made his money. He wants to go out a saint. Anyways, he doesn't need to go low road-not so long as he's runnin' against, ah, you. Right, Leon?"

Leon shrugged, embarrassed. "Leon?" Susan asked.

"You don't want to know," Leon said. "Okay-two numbers, nationally. Among Democrats. Is Jack Stanton trustworthy enough to be president: thirty-eight percent say no."

"Well, that's not so bad," Lucille said.

"Thirteen percent say yes," Leon continued. "The rest don't know."

i 0

The governor, color rising, tried to snag a bowl of popcorn on the floor with his cowboy boot but knocked it over. He looked down, debating whether to squat down and get it. "Amazing those damn things don't just float up in the air, so little to 'em." He looked up, "Okay, Leon, don't keep us in suspense-what's the other number?" "It's on a series of personal qualities, head-to-head against Harris. `More thoughtful on the issues,' two thirds haven't got a clue, but the other third, he clobbers you-twenty-four to eight."

"Only eight percent of the American public think I'm thoughtful on the issues?" Stanton asked, a deep red now.

"Only eight percent of Democrats," Leon said. "But your comeback in New Hampshire hasn't really registered yet, and Harris has got problems, too: he's nowhere down here. He's at three percent in Georgia, six in North Carolina, thirteen in Florida-approval, that is. Name rec, he's not much more than a third."

"So, Richard, you're him-what do you do?" Susan asked.

"Play regional. He's probably got Maine this weekend. Win Massachusetts, try and establish myself out west-Colorado may not be a bad state for him. Hope to survive Super Tuesday by pulling a Dukakis-picking off enough in south Florida to seem plausible, then pray for a split in Illinois and Michigan. And nail us in the big states back east-New York and Pennsylvania."

"He's not gonna play in Illinois or Michigan," Brad Lieberman said. "You imagine him sellin' auto workers on a gas tax? You think he's ever met a black person?"

"We've got to stop him before that, down here," Richard said. "It's not a question of stopping him," the governor said. "It's a question of starting us. I mean, if this is a fair fight, a normal campaign, we can take him out easy. Arlen and Daisy probably got the silver bullet in the can already-am I right?" Arlen nodded, started to speak, but Stanton put up a hand. "But that's not our problem. Our problem is, the American people think I'm an airhead. Now, Arlen, you tell me how we correct that in thirty seconds?"

"Issues spots?"

"Spots are spots," the governor said. "They're like this shitty cardboard popcorn. They don't fill you up. We need to figure out some more basic way to connect."

"You could try some speeches," said Ken Spiegelman, his first foray on our turf "You could give a series of speeches, real thoughtful speeches, lay out the differences with Harris on taxes, foreign policy . ."

"No one would cover them," I said, maybe a little too abruptly. "Actually, it'd be worse than that. The scorps would ignore the substance and use the fact of the speeches against us, as a failed ploy, part of the horse race-Stanton trying to compete with the intellectual Professor Harris."

"Anyway, you're not gonna win that cohort, the MacNeil-Lehrer tribe," Leon said, so matter-of-factly that it almost seemed cruel. jack and Susan glanced at each other quickly, then both, simultaneously, stared down at their hands. "You've got some promising grazing land farther down the ed and income scales-and those folks aren't going to respond to elegant policy formulations."

"So tell me," the governor asked. "How do we move this thing from retail to wholesale? How do we do the stuff we did in the malls and the union halls the last few weeks, how do we do that if we're hopping from tarmac to tarmac in a big plane, shut off from the folks by Secret Service? Except, of course, for the folks we touch up at fund-raisers? How do we reach the folks 'down the ed and income scales,' half of whom think I'm just that bozo in the National Flash? . . . How do you do politics in a country that hates politicians? How do we show 'em who I really am?"

No one had a clue.

"So, am I a pumpkin?" Daisy asked. It was one in the morning. I was asleep. "Are you asleep?"

"Unh."

"Sorry."

" 'Sokay . . ."

"I can't believe you're back down there-and I'm up here," she said. "It's like what happened to Lloyd Bridges when he surfaced too fast on Sea Hunt. My stomach hurts, like someone's wringing it out. My arms and legs hurt-and you're asleep, and pissed at me now, because, I mean, after all: don't you have a right to get some sleep?"

"Don't worry about it. How're you? What's new?"

"You tell me. Am I a pumpkin?"

"Huh?"

"Well, they have the first big post--New Hampshire meeting down at the Mansion. Half the known world is there. Arlen is there. Lucille is there. I'm not invited. What gives, Henry?"

"Nothing. It probably doesn't mean anything." But I had wondered about that. "Everyone's still a little foggy. Nothing happened at the meeting, except Howard's campaign manager now--"

"Howard the Furtive Cipher? That should straighten things right out. What else happened?"

"Richard said Harris's probably gonna hire David Adler."

"That's old news--Hotline this morning. I heard it was gonna be Paul Shaplen."

"Who?"

"Old labor guy--used to work for the Mine Workers, ran a couple of the reform campaigns. I think maybe the one where the guy got killed. Works out of Louisville. Guess Harris figured this guy could help with two colors--blue-collars and rednecks. Not a bad move, if he's any good. But this isn't an easy game."

"Tell me about it," I yawned.

"I'm sorry, Henry," she said. "For waking you, and for being paranoid after hours."

"No, it's okay. Wish you were here."

"I'm thinking about it, thinking what it's like there right about now--the silence of that place, the river, your orderly refrigerator, your warm little body."

"Could be warmer," I said.

"This is even more pathetic than campaign sex," she said. "Phone sex."

"Are you doing something I should know about?"

"No, but I may after I hang up," she said. "Night, sweetie."

I met Howard the Furtive Cipher at campaign headquarters in mid-

morning. He was in his usual costume--rumpled gray pin-stripe
d s
uit, flower tie. He offered a thin, ironic half-smile. "You're not reall
y m
y deputy," he said immediately. "And I'm not really the campaign manager. We do what we always did."

"React calmly in the face of utter turmoil?"

Another thin smile. "Whatever they want us to do," he said. "Let's go. You know the way. You drive."

We took his rented white Taurus. I thought about engaging him along the way, but I was too nervous. Howard was as ever-calm, pale, ultra-energy-absorbent. He stowed a battered brown-leather briefcase in the backseat. He sat next to me, staring straight ahead. He was a Irian who never seemed curious, who never fidgeted.

It was a fine, sunny day, and Fat Willie was outside, taking down the heavy plastic windbreak, preparing his place for spring. He was wearing a fresh white shirt and pants, and a red "M
. E
Boosters" baseball cap. He started a smile when he saw me, but stopped when he saw that the white man getting out of the car was not Governor Stanton. "'Mornin'," he said, tentatively.

Howard did not introduce himself. He just stood there. "Willie," I said, "this is Howard Ferguson. He works with the governor too." Willie eyed Howard. Howard nodded, offered a hand, said hello. "Well," Willie said finally. "What can I do for you?"

Howard said nothing. This was going to be awful. "Willie, could we sit down and talk a minute?" I asked.

"Sure 'nuf," he said. "Can I get y'anything? Coffee?"

"No thanks," I said. Howard said nothing, but shook his head-no. Willie led us to the picnic tables just to the side of his kitchen trailer shack, an area still protected by the plastic windbreak. He sat down facing us. Howard put his attache case flat on the table in front of him, clicked it open, took out a yellow legal pad and what looked like court papers, then clicked the case shut and stowed it. Willie watched all this very carefully-which, of course, had been Howard's intention: intimidation. Willie glanced at me; I gave him nothing back.

"Mr. McCollister, the governor is very concerned about this situation with your daughter and the possible damage it might cause to his reputation," Howard Ferguson began, his voice as small and hard as a bullet. Willie glanced at me; I gave him nothing back, God forgive me. "He wants to see it resolved. He wants paternity to be established, definitively, as soon as possible."

Willie was confined. Was this inan saying the governor wanted to admit paternity? "The governor's a-"

"He wants your daughter to have an amniocentesis performed so that paternity can be established," Howard continued, barging through whatever it was Willie was going to say. There were no wasted words, no wasted movements. This was the way black folks figured white folks did business-no grease, no grace, no emotions. Howard, who came from midwestern hard-sod stock, was the quintessential, lipless white man.

"A what?" Willie said. He wiped his brow. He looked at me. I stared at the table.

"It is a procedure, performed at the hospital. Amniotic fluid is drawn from your daughter's womb. Genetic material is analyzed. It can be compared with the governor's blood to determine whether or not he is the father."

"I don't-" Willie said.

"It's a common enough procedure," Howard said, more casually. He was talking down to Willie now. "It is used to determine the health of the fetus-and that is why you will say you want it performed, to make sure the baby is healthy."

"How do you . . . get the fluid?"

"A needle is inserted through the abdomen," Howard said. Willie didn't quite wince; he wiped his eye. "Don't worry, Mr. McCollister-this is a common procedure, and the governor insists that it will be performed by the very best people available. Your daughter will be treated at Mercy Hospital, which will also ensure confidentiality."

"Mercy, huh?" Willie said. Mercy was considered the white folks' hospital. "And the governor wants-"

"The governor insists," Howard said. "There are people, Mr. McCollister, who would like to destroy Governor Stanton. He doesn't believe you are one of them. He believes you are his friend. But he can't allow this. You can't allow this. I am sure your daughter is a fine young person, but she is a child, and children are impressionable-and there has been a lot of news about the governor in recent weeks. She hasn't said a word about this to anyone?"

Willie shook his head. "I tol' her," he said. "She's a good girl."

"Well, I certainly hope so," Howard said. "You wouldn't want to jeopardize your relationship with the governor and Mrs. Stanton. The governor wants to do everything possible to help you through this time. The Stantons are prepared to be very generous. This procedure will cost you nothing. The governor is prepared to cover all pre- and postnatal expenses. He will do this because he believes you are his friend. But you must cooperate. We must determine-to everyone's satisfaction-that he is not the father of that child. I'm sure you understand his position."

Without waiting for a response, Howard pulled up his attache case, put his phony papers back in it. He stood up, offered William McCollister his card. "Please call me at this number, and we will make all the necessary arrangements."

Willie nodded. He shook Howard's hand. He didn't shake mine; this time, he didn't even look at me.

We pulled away and I felt dizzy. Howard sighed. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"I can't believe she won't tell someone, tell a friend, and then we're fucked," Howard said. "Well, maybe not. Say she tells some friends, say it begins to get around-we can just say it's a copycat, a copycat Cashmere." He laughed-a thin, throaty heh-heh, the bloodless fuck. "There might even be a blowback from it, a sympathy reaction, work in our favor."

"They're good people," I said. "And if she doesn't tell anyone, doesn't that indicate she's probably making this thing up?"

"That she's pregnant?"

"No, about the governor."

"You believe that?" Howard asked.

I missed a red light and was nearly hit by a truck coming the other way. I pulled over to the side of the mad, sick to my stomach. I leaned out the door and vomited.

Howard just shook his head.

Our political family was splintered. Richard, Arlen and Daisy were back in Washington. Brad, Howard, Lucille and I were in Mammoth Falls. Susan worked her own schedule. And the candidate flew about, doing foolish, mechanical things. He did a lot of satellite interviews. These would happen around midday, in a television studio-inevitably a flat, nondescript building with satellite dishes, located in an industrial park. He would sit in a room alone, backlit in mentholated blue. He would have an earpiece and a glass of water. He would have a list of stations and anchor names: