Read Online Primary Colors by Joe Klein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joe Klein
Tags: Fiction, General, Political, Presidents, Political Fiction, Political campaigns, Election, Presidents - Election
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just a misunderstanding. No big deal. Okay. Thanks. See you up here. 'Bye."
Stanton closed the phone and heaved it deep into the forest. "Get Susan," he said. "Richard, Arlen, Fergie, Lee, Arthur Kopp. Who else? Get them up here."
Yeah, except I needed a phone for that. I started into the forest. "Henry," he said, exasperated, "forget about that. Mitch, can you get us to a Dunkin' Donuts?"
We met at midnight that Saturday, in Stanton's suite at the Holiday Inn in Manchester. Jack and Susan sat next to each other on the couch, the governor positioned so that he could keep an eye on a late-night football game from the coast. "Whatcha got there, chief?" Richard jemmons asked, "Mormons versus Africans?"
He was close. "Utah State versus San Diego State," Stanton said. He took his college football very seriously. "You ever see this tailback they got at San Diego?"
Richard stretched himself out on the floor over by the wet bar. Everyone else was in those ugly, low-backed Holiday Inn "comfortable" chairs, except for Howard Ferguson, who had pulled the desk chair over and was leaning forward, dangling copies of Manhattan magazine and The Wall Street Journal JerryRosen's column with Ozio's attack on Stanton, and the "Washington Wire" item--over the coffee table. Howard ran the show: "So: Orlando Ozio," he said, playing with the alliteration, making the whole thing seem trivial. He was wearing a wrinkled gray suit and burgundy cable-stitch pullover, with his trademark Liberty flower-print tie loosened a bit, as if he'd just come from the office. He was a very cool customer. "Anyone have any brilliant suggestions?"
"Take him on," said Arthur Kopp immediately, and to no one's surprise. Arthur was the founder and director of Moderate Democrats of America. He was short, chesty and brush-cut; he went through life with the bearing and subtlety of a noncommissioned officer from the Deep South, a corporal perhaps--a brilliant piece of theater on his part, since he was a rabbi's son from Minneapolis. No one liked him much, but MoDems had been a useful podium for the governor--he always gave a good speech at their national conference and made a splash with the national media. Kopp's presence now was a subtle, interesting call: he wasn't part of the inner circle--he wasn't a Stanton kind of guy; the chemistry wasn't there (with Susan, especially, who worked overtime to steer clear of him)--but if it was going to be war with Ozio, we'd need to mobilize the moderates in the party. Of course, if it didn't turn out to be war with Ozio, Kopp would be faded back into the chorus.
Stanton was quietly obsessed about whether it would be better or worse, long-terns, to run against Ozio. "Figure it this way," he'd said on one of our small-plane trips that fall. "If Ozio's in, we run straight up the middle--which makes it easier in the general election, if we beat him. And if we beat him, we'd be a monster, a giant killer--right, Henry? 'Course, we may not beat him. Though if we ran up the middle, and lost, he'd almost have to pick us for number two. 'Course, if he ever did pick us for number two, and we had the misfortune of winning, I'd spend the next four years pullin' stilettos out my back. I mean, whut's the word for pincushion in Italian?"
The question was modulation. How sharply to distinguish yourself from Ozio, how tough to run. These were issues that did not dent Arthur Kopp's consciousness. "This is a contest between the future and the past of this party, and Ozio ain't the future," he said. "If you take him on now, you can raise your profile, define yourself as the anti-Ozio, separate yourself from the crowd."
"You don't want to define yourself as too anti-Ozio," Arlen Sporken jumped in, the anti-Kopp. Sporken--Mr. Crisco, Richard called bins--would have been loath to draw too sharp a distinction even if his media consulting firm didn't represent some of the deepest, stiffest old-left interests in the party (who doubtless figured his
Stanton closed the phone and heaved it deep into the forest. "Get Susan," he said. "Richard, Arlen, Fergie, Lee, Arthur Kopp. Who else? Get them up here."
Yeah, except I needed a phone for that. I started into the forest. "Henry," he said, exasperated, "forget about that. Mitch, can you get us to a Dunkin' Donuts?"
We met at midnight that Saturday, in Stanton's suite at the Holiday Inn in Manchester. Jack and Susan sat next to each other on the couch, the governor positioned so that he could keep an eye on a late-night football game from the coast. "Whatcha got there, chief?" Richard jemmons asked, "Mormons versus Africans?"
He was close. "Utah State versus San Diego State," Stanton said. He took his college football very seriously. "You ever see this tailback they got at San Diego?"
Richard stretched himself out on the floor over by the wet bar. Everyone else was in those ugly, low-backed Holiday Inn "comfortable" chairs, except for Howard Ferguson, who had pulled the desk chair over and was leaning forward, dangling copies of Manhattan magazine and The Wall Street Journal JerryRosen's column with Ozio's attack on Stanton, and the "Washington Wire" item--over the coffee table. Howard ran the show: "So: Orlando Ozio," he said, playing with the alliteration, making the whole thing seem trivial. He was wearing a wrinkled gray suit and burgundy cable-stitch pullover, with his trademark Liberty flower-print tie loosened a bit, as if he'd just come from the office. He was a very cool customer. "Anyone have any brilliant suggestions?"
"Take him on," said Arthur Kopp immediately, and to no one's surprise. Arthur was the founder and director of Moderate Democrats of America. He was short, chesty and brush-cut; he went through life with the bearing and subtlety of a noncommissioned officer from the Deep South, a corporal perhaps--a brilliant piece of theater on his part, since he was a rabbi's son from Minneapolis. No one liked him much, but MoDems had been a useful podium for the governor--he always gave a good speech at their national conference and made a splash with the national media. Kopp's presence now was a subtle, interesting call: he wasn't part of the inner circle--he wasn't a Stanton kind of guy; the chemistry wasn't there (with Susan, especially, who worked overtime to steer clear of him)--but if it was going to be war with Ozio, we'd need to mobilize the moderates in the party. Of course, if it didn't turn out to be war with Ozio, Kopp would be faded back into the chorus.
Stanton was quietly obsessed about whether it would be better or worse, long-terns, to run against Ozio. "Figure it this way," he'd said on one of our small-plane trips that fall. "If Ozio's in, we run straight up the middle--which makes it easier in the general election, if we beat him. And if we beat him, we'd be a monster, a giant killer--right, Henry? 'Course, we may not beat him. Though if we ran up the middle, and lost, he'd almost have to pick us for number two. 'Course, if he ever did pick us for number two, and we had the misfortune of winning, I'd spend the next four years pullin' stilettos out my back. I mean, whut's the word for pincushion in Italian?"
The question was modulation. How sharply to distinguish yourself from Ozio, how tough to run. These were issues that did not dent Arthur Kopp's consciousness. "This is a contest between the future and the past of this party, and Ozio ain't the future," he said. "If you take him on now, you can raise your profile, define yourself as the anti-Ozio, separate yourself from the crowd."
"You don't want to define yourself as too anti-Ozio," Arlen Sporken jumped in, the anti-Kopp. Sporken--Mr. Crisco, Richard called bins--would have been loath to draw too sharp a distinction even if his media consulting firm didn't represent some of the deepest, stiffest old-left interests in the party (who doubtless figured his
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