He didn’t have to say “taxes.”
Michael looked like someone had punched him. He went into his hunch and he never came out till the lights shut down, the cameras were off ... and the election was lost.
In fact, it would have been kinder if he’d known it was lost. But he still couldn’t see ... even to primary day, and primary night, when the vote started coming in. Michael still would not believe. ... “Michael Dukakis Should Be Governor.” They’d had four years to see the Governor he was!
He held that hope through the night—the 57 Hotel. ... He thought maybe Pittsfield, out west, would turn out huge. He’d killed himself for Pittsfield! He’d saved that town from the dead!
He lost Pittsfield.
He lost to King by eighty thousand votes. Ackermann took sixty thousand—all from Dukakis. But he couldn’t blame her. He wouldn’t blame anyone—but himself. He told Geisser: “I lost this. You didn’t. I blew it. ... I blew it.”
People told him: “You’ll be back.”
He said: “Don’t be ridiculous.”
That night, he told Kitty: “I’m a has-been.”
Next morning, he was back in his office, 9:00 A.M. He gathered his people and told them: they were going back to work, for the next four months, to give the citizens of the Commonwealth the best government they’d ever had, to turn the government over to the next administration with the best transition the state had ever seen.
And three days thereafter, on a raw, gray, Saturday morning, he went out campaigning for a fair-tax amendment to the state constitution. South Station ... a whistle-stop train ... he met the organizer, a bright young man, John Sasso. They posed for a picture, both of them in rumpled raincoats, neither smiling ... like a couple of G-men.
That was the only picture Sasso ever had on his office wall.
97
Sasso
HE HADN’T SEEN MICHAEL for three months. Mike had not found occasion to have Sasso in the same room with himself. Or to call. ... Estrich would ask Nick Mitropoulos: “Did you get him to call John?” Nick would purse his mouth, shake his head. “I’ll get him to do it this week.”
Estrich stopped calling John. God knows, she could have used his help. She wouldn’t have been in that campaign if not for John—she’d signed on (without salary) to work with her friends, Tully, Corrigan ... and Sasso. But how could she call—if Michael would not?
Of course, John would not call. Sometimes, he wanted to know, wanted to talk, so badly, it was physical—this had been his life for seven years. But he would not call. If they wanted to do without him, so be it.
Then, he got the invitation: New Year’s Day, at Perry Street. John and Francine, and their kids, Robert and Maggie, would join the Dukakises for brunch—a family affair. John tried not to be excited. He was excited.
Well, it couldn’t have been nicer. Michael and Kitty served a lovely meal, in the dining room—you could see what effort had gone into it ... and there was so much warmth, with all the kids, the way Michael and Kitty were teasing Kara, who’d come home so late she’d just woken up—for brunch ... the way Michael was with the Sasso kids—he insisted little Maggie have an egg in bread, a Greek good-luck tradition, for New Year’s ... Kara and John Dukakis ran to the attic to rummage through Michael’s things (visiting pols get great gifts), and they brought down an Indian feather headdress for Robbie Sasso, who was seven, in heaven ... it was so nice.
And Francine Sasso was so grateful, for the kids, who’d seen their father on TV like a criminal, over and over, Sasso, Sasso, Sasso ... and they knew Daddy didn’t work anymore for the Governor—but they weren’t sure why ... why did the Governor turn on Daddy? So wrong! ... And it was so wrong, for three months, in the Sasso house, with John so sad, Francine on eggshells—sometimes, in the dark, at night, awake, she’d think, she’d dream, it was all just like it was before. That’s all she wanted, to be back ... like it was before.
So they were, that day. Michael asked Francine about her job at the AG’s office, and John told Mike about the new job he’d lined up at Hill, Holiday, the big ad agency. ... Michael talked about the State House, the way the legislative sachems buried his health-care bill. And Michael and Kitty talked about the campaign: how long it seemed, out in Iowa, the cold, the endless events, the people, the press ... the fights with the staff on Chauncy Street. The way the staff badgered Michael to say such-and-such about trade, to go after Simon, to talk about PACs.
They wanted him to say this, or that ... why? What was it for?
Sometimes, he didn’t know what he was doing any of it for.
And John fell right into it ... he talked to Michael, earnestly, about how they started, with one simple idea—opportunity for all—how that fit, with the American dream, Mike’s own life, the kinda guy he was ...
“Remember, Mike, those numbers we looked at, a while back, the things people actually wanted, how ... modest it was? What they really thought was the dream? A little chance, a job, a home, a little better shot for their kids? ... Remember?”
And there was Michael. He was getting it, from John, again. “Yeah ... yeah ...” he said, nodding, eyes almost closed. “Yeah ...”
“That’s why you got into this race ...”
“Yeah ...”
“That’s what we tried to do ... that’s what it’s about, Mike!”
Francine did not attend the words. But she was so glad—John was talking to Mike again. Absently, she noticed her hands were twisting together. She’d been fighting this habit for months—her fingers fretting, twisting over one another till they hurt. She kept her hands under the table. She didn’t understand why her hands wouldn’t keep still.
She didn’t understand, in the car, why she felt so bad, so ... depressed. John didn’t say anything. The kids had a great time. It was such a wonderful day, a wonderful reunion—wasn’t it?
“Ahh, I don’t know,” John said. John could not have told her what it was—not then. It was only later ... he felt the hole in the middle—the way everything was perfect, all together (they acted like it was all together), except John and Mike—they weren’t doing anything together. It was only later, John felt so ... stupid, so used ... for falling in again, playing his role, acting the part, in some private play of Michael’s.
What did Mike want—for John to tell him he’d been right?
98
A Cornered Marmot
DICK GEPHARDT FLEW TO Iowa the day after New Year’s—five weeks to give it one more hard shot. His ads were on the air—they started the day after Christmas, and reaction was good. He didn’t know how good. (His vacation was four days’ skiing with the family, and Jane had docked his phone privileges—he only managed a few stealthy calls from the phone at the top of the chair lift.)
But as soon as he was back in the state, he could feel the ads. The trade ad hit the hardest. Voters came up to Gephardt and quoted the ad back to him—as if, maybe, he didn’t know and they had to tell him about this ad ... unbelievable! It said just what he’d been talking about!
So Gephardt started using the ad, almost word for word, in his speech:
“We make a car here called the Chrysler K-car ... costs about ten thousand dollars in the United States. Competes against the Hyundai. That costs about seven thousand dollars. So that’s the competition, and I accept that. ... But if we took a Chrysler K-car and tried to sell it in Korea, they put on nine different taxes and tariffs ... and when they’re done, that K-car that cost ten thousand dollars here would cost forty-eight thousand in South Korea. ...
“So, when I’m President I want to have a meeting with the South Koreans ... and I’ll say two things: first, we’ll keep our military commitments, because that’s the kind of people we are. We give our word, we keep it. But, second, I’m gonna ask them to take off the taxes and tariffs that we don’t have on their products. And if they don’t, they’re gonna leave that table wondering ... how many Hyundais are they gonna sell here, for forty-eight thousand dollars a copy!
<
br /> “They can bring the Mitsubishis, and the Toyotas, and the Mercedes-Benzes, and the Volvos, and the record players, and computers—all of it—I don’t mind it. But, by golly ... if they can bring their products here and sell them with ease, I want us to be able to take our products there—and sell them with EQUAL EEEASE! ...”
That’s what Dick was talking—equalese! ... And now, every time he gave them equalese, the crowd would halt him with cheers.
In a state hit hard by a slump in exports, where so many workers had lost their paychecks, lost their plants, as manufacturing moved overseas, the issue was a good one ... but, God knows, he’d been drumming Iowa with the Gephardt Amendment for years, and it got him ... six percent.
True, these words were better, as he wasn’t talking about his arcane bill, or the unfathomable billions in the national balance of trade. He was talking about two cars (that they knew) and one (unknown) set of menacing Asians ... and that lent focus, a target for ire. ... But why would this new example turn the tide when, for years, they’d watched their own factories shut down and their neighbors or kin put out of work? Were they confused before about what Gephardt meant?
No, but now he’d become something palpable in their lives. He was on that screen, whence the great world came to them ... not once, but several times a night: he was a presence, a force, of size, he was ... bigger than Geraldo!
And just as angry.
And more serious, more important ... almost (dare one say?) noble ... because, in the end, he was not on TV for money, or ratings, syndication, selling soap, no ...
It’s Your Fight, Too!
He was ... for them.
And as TV validated Gephardt—made him larger than life, the size of celebrity (which is like in degree unto personage, or President)—so, then, his appearance in their town, their school, their neighbor’s home, or their own freezing barn, validated that enormous presence on TV. It was not just slick hoopla cooked up in Hollywood—or Washington. He was there ... and he said the same thing ... and they heard him, and cheered him, and they were, thereafter, linked to that huge figure on TV.
And the last shining strand of this gossamer pulled straight back through the heart of the web ... because their cheers (so loud, so many new people!) validated Gephardt in his instinct, his effort, to be that man on TV.
And when that happened (it was only a matter of days—Gephardt could just do that kind of thing) ... he was huge. He was coming like a freight train.
And he knew it. He called his killers in Washington and told them: “This thing is gonna happen. We can win.”
That’s when Shrum came out to listen to the new stump speech. If something was happening out there, he had to know. The next speech, the next ad, had to build from these new facts on the ground.
So they drove Shrummy out to a one-street town—just a car dealership and a Catholic church, way up north, by the Minnesota line, where the windchill could crack the skin on your face. It was Sunday, they had to wait for people to come from church. And the farmers stood in Sunday-best, in a shed with a concrete floor, while Dick climbed onto a wagon in front, with his own new shiny green seed jacket on, a tractor behind him ... and he was belting it out:
“Why shouldn’t farmers VOTE on the program? ...
“Why should BIG GRAIN COMPANIES TELL YOU THE PROGRAM?”
Shrummy tried to listen, but he had nothing on except a nice little corduroy jacket and a fine, white Italian scarf, and he was gingerly dancing on the concrete, where the cold ate through the soles of his Italian shoes, and ... well, he just couldn’t concentrate, with his feet, you know ... while he hugged himself for warmth and hopped on the cement, and he said: “No wonder these people are unhappy. S’not economic problems! It’s fucking cold here ... there’s not one decent piece of architecture, and no decent restaurants!”
That was about the time the pack decided it was Shrum who’d created this monster new Gephardt—laid him down on a marble slab and poured in that angry populist juice. ... Everybody knew Shrummy was a genius.
Had to be someone, see ... because the pack had written Gephardt off—the guy was a stiff! (Of course, they hadn’t watched him lately—who’s gonna watch a guy at six percent?) Then they’d gone home for Christmas, his ads went up ... and the first poll they saw when they drag-assed back to freezing Des Moines—the guy was even with Dukakis! (Their darling!)
It was a trick—had to be ... a stratagem ... which they’d have to ferret out.
Must be the ads—who did the ads?—Doak and Shrum! Those two sly desperadoes must have body-snatched ol’ Eagle-Scout-conference-committee-split-the-difference Dick ... and trotted him out for ’88 as a fire-breathing class warrior!
So the big-feet went straight to the source—Doak and Shrum—and what could the boys say? ... That the Hyundai ad was Trippi’s idea? That Gephardt had been saying this same stuff for two years? That, so far, they’d gurued the man to the point where his kids thought he was going to lose, he had promised his wife he’d hang up his spikes, he was facing total political extinction ... he was fighting like a cornered marmot?
No. Their man was on the move! This was their own shining shot—they’d be in all the books. Not to mention, this was their livelihood. (They’d grown to love those year-end ceremonies where they wrote each other million-dollar checks.)
So they talked about the ads—modestly, becomingly—and they made sure to mention, Dick had input.
And some of the press followed up on that tip, and rode along with Gephardt (he was so happy his herd was growing) ... and asked:
Who told him to talk so tough?
What happened to Gephardt, the consummate insider?
Wasn’t this kind of a transparent ploy? ...
But Gephardt was no fun. He’d look them in the eye, and say, “No.”
He had the gall to insist: he meant what he said!
Of course, they didn’t believe that crap for one minute.
He went to dinner with the editors of the Register. The maximum boss, Jim Gannon, was host at his house, and he had his editorial chief, Jim Flansberg, and the publisher, a fellow named Charles C. Edwards ... and their wives all came ... Gephardt brought Murphy. Gannon had the thing catered—drinks and dessert in the living room.
It was a wonderful talk, a wonderful night. They liked him! Gephardt was sure. He’d been in politics twenty years. Surely, he could tell who liked him. Afterward, Dick called Carrick: “I think we really got to them. They caught on ... even the editors, I think ... they really listened!”
Yes, they did. The next editorial in the Register was entitled: HITTING THE WRONG NOTE.
“Actually, if you listen closely, Gephardt is not as protectionist as his stump rhetoric would indicate, but that’s not reassuring. It smacks of demagoguery, which may be his real problem.”
That was the same day Gephardt picked up The Wall Street Journal, and read: “The farm crisis is over.”
Gephardt leapt out of his airplane seat, waving the paper. “Look at this! This is the problem! Where do they get this stuff?” (Well, the Journal had an expert to quote: one James P. Gannon, editor of the Register.)
The next day, Gephardt gave a blistering speech—a new phase of the campaign, he called it. He said he meant to refocus the issues: American jobs, the family farm, our children’s educations, Social Security, Medicare—they were all in jeopardy ... and why?
Because the multinational corporations, the grain companies, the oil companies, the bankers, the Wall Street traders ... all of Reagan’s favored friends, were making money hand over fist by selling off America’s economic base! And what’s worse, the gray-suited savants of the boardrooms—and editorial boardrooms—insisted that American workers, farmers, old people, poor people ... must cut back their standard of living ... to compete!
Dick called this cabal “the Establishment.” (That was Shrummy’s word.) ... Of course, the forty-year-old big-feet-in-bud went nuts; they hadn’t heard that stupid word since they’d f
ailed to drive ROTC off campus!
Who’d this guy think he was?
Where was he in the sixties?
At that point, the well-known poop on Gephardt leaked off the editorial page and onto the front page:
GEPHARDT’S NEW TACTIC—ANGER
It was so obvious! ... Gephardt’s rage was just a creation of Doak, Shrum, Carrick, et al. ... Just as the Eagle Scout, door-to-door Dick was their creation before. ... In fact—everybody knew—Gephardt had been their creation since the start of the campaign!
That was the problem: the knowledge of this knowing claque reached back all the way ... to last February! ... Shrummy was try’na make this guy sound like Ted Kennedy!
How could they know ... what “Establishment” actually meant to Dick was “big shots.”
The way the big shots have it rigged, the little guy doesn’t have a chance!
Dick didn’t sound like a Kennedy.
He sounded like Lou Gephardt.
99
Hollywooood!
WHAT DOLE’S PACK COULDN’T credit: Bob was not mean. The press was always watching, with dread and fascination, for Mount Bobster to blow—never happened. There were a few puffs of smoke, around the turn of the year, when Bill Brock, Campaign Chairman, decided (five weeks before the voting began) that the time was right for his winter Caribbean vacation.
And there was a brief belch of ash when Dole actually found out what the Klingons were paying themselves: Skip Watts, for example, who used to be the volunteer chairman in Vermont, but now, in the Brock administration, was the Political Director, at, uh ... $11,000 a month—not to mention the cost of the Washington condo the campaign was renting for him and the weekly airline tix back and forth to Vermont, along with incidentals, like, you know, Skip’s dry cleaning. ... Well, Dole did note that Watts couldn’t organize Vermont. But he only said that in his car ... and he never tried to do anything about it. What could he do? ... He asked Bill Brock for a list of Klingon salaries, but Brock said real talent never came cheap—and he added: “I’m running the campaign.” Dole couldn’t pick a fight with his Big Guy ... which would only prove Dole could not be organized ... so, he dummied up.
What It Takes Page 117
