‘Which social issues?’ exploded from several mouths at once, but another, more insistent voice carried above all others. ‘What about the article you published in the Dartmouth Review criticizing affirmative action and minority set-asides? Do you today find them to be, as you wrote, “mere windfalls for the black middle and upper-middle class that tend to diminish the hard, honest work of black students and businessmen by casting doubt on the means by which their success is obtained”?’
Fein couldn’t help him there. A voice from deep inside Gordon screamed that he didn’t need help — that he shouldn’t need help — because these were the questions that should be asked and answered. Another part of him — a larger and growing part of the public animal that he was becoming — sensed danger. ‘I do not remember my exact words from that article.’
Fein stepped in now, smiling apologetically and holding up his watch to Gordon. ‘Sorry, folks,’ he said loudly, stepping between Gordon and the press and ushering Gordon to the open limousine door. The questions erupted from behind him. ‘Are you against any other civil rights laws?’
When the door slammed closed, the noise level dropped to utter silence. Gordon, Fein and Daryl sat in back by themselves as the car pulled past the mob of reporters.
‘Well,’ Fein said, ‘I think we need to talk.’ Fein’s eyes remained fixed on Gordon’s.
‘I thought you were some media guru,’ Daryl jumped in. ‘Some expert who never lets things get out of control’ Gordon frowned — feeling himself to be at fault. He hadn’t let Fein do his job. He’d made Fein look bad and might have done himself some harm in the process. ‘Did you know, Gordon,’ Daryl continued, ‘that Arthur here used to be a marketing executive at Pepsico? That’s right, isn’t it, Arty? Before you started selling people, you sold soda pop?’
‘I was Vice President of Marketing at Pepsico,’ Fein confirmed — not taking his eyes off Gordon.
‘And that makes him eminently qualified, don’t you think? I mean, soft drinks — Vice President of the United States — what’s the difference?’
‘What kind of damage are we looking at?’ Gordon asked Fein. Daryl fell silent — stung.
‘From the pot thing — nothing,’ Fein answered. Daryl shoved papers into his file folder and turned to stare out the window. ‘From the Dartmouth Review piece…?’ Fein began, then shrugged.
‘Did you know about it? About me smoking pot? About the article?’
Fein just smiled, then leaned forward. ‘You’re a complicated package. Usually, with the Veep, we just want one dimension. People get overloaded with too many messages, so we want one solid, consistent image coming out of the lower half of the ticket so as not to overburden the electorate with detail.’
‘Jesus, Gordon!’ Daryl snapped. ‘Are you listening to this shit? Are you hearing the same bullshit I’m hearing? “Overburden the electorate with detail.” That means talking about the fucking issues! God forbid you do that!
‘In your case, however,’ Fein continued without so much as a glance at Daryl, ‘you are obviously a ticket balancer. The Party has a conservative platform. We’ve nailed down the right wing of the electoral spectrum. Now, we can’t let Governor Bristol creep too far toward the left…’
‘Toward the fucking center!’ Daryl interjected bitterly.
‘… without risking alienation of our core. They won’t vote for Marshall, but they could just stay home. And that core represents not only votes, of course, but probably a hundred million dollars or so in campaign contributions that we expect to roll in between now and the election. But you give us a very interesting opportunity. It’s really never been tried before. We’ve got some computer models which project that for every right-wing voter we lose with you, we pick up two, and some models even project three or more black or liberal voters. Now that’s within certain ranges of tolerance. We can’t move you too far to the left for risk of engendering internal dissension in our camp. But what we’re trying to do is to poach some of the Democrats’ traditional base by positioning you — within limits — to the left of Bristol. It requires delicacy, but it promises a potential two- or three-to-one payoff.’
‘Is this what you want, Gordon?’ Daryl asked calmly. ‘Poaching, positioning, trading off one voter for another?’ He leaned forward. ‘What about the things that you really believe in? Ask him what you’re supposed to do about those. Where do they fit in? Are they inside the program’s parameters or not?’
Gordon already knew the answer. Fein had been up front with him from the beginning. In a campaign, it doesn’t matter what he truly believes. What matters is winning the election. Then he could act on those beliefs from high office.
‘So you’re saying the pot thing could actually help? Gordon asked. ‘We might lose the redneck vote — assuming they’d vote for a black man anyway — but it could make me appeal to the baby boomers who make up the more populous center?’ Fein nodded sagely — a twinkle in his eye. Daryl sank deeper into the plush leather seat. ‘But what about the affirmative action article?’
Fein shrugged. ‘That’s what makes this an art, not a science. It’s impossible to predict. But I do know one thing. If we let this become a big issue — set you up as the anti-civil rights candidate — we’d be hounded straight to the gates of hell by the very people whose votes we’re after.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Gordon asked.
‘That article was written before your appointment to the Senate,’ Fein replied. ‘You were a relatively young man. You’ve learned a lot of things since entering national politics.’ He shrugged again.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Gordon!’ Daryl burst out. ‘Just disavow the whole Goddamn article.’ He leaned forward. ‘Oh! Oh! I’ve got it!’ He held his hands out to keep everyone quiet and looked back and forth between Gordon and Fein. ‘We can tell them you were stoned when you wrote the article.’ He clapped his hands together and sat back — crossing his arms and smiling in a sarcastic pantomime. ‘Isn’t this great? You’re too Goddamned conservative for the Republican Party! Don’t you get it?’ he said — backhanding Gordon’s knee. ‘You’re not just their token black, you’re their token liberal too! A two-fer!’
Gordon stared at Daryl in silence. He wasn’t angry — as he should have been — but sad. For he realized now what had to be done. What he had to do. It would be the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. Daryl was his best friend. They’d made every step together. Every step but this last one.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gordon could sense Fein looking at him. He turned to Fein. There was a hardness in his eyes. He knew what Gordon was thinking, and the Party approved.
There was a loud rapping at the door of Kate Dunn’s apartment. She and Woody looked at each other over the early dinner he’d brought with him from the central television studios. The loud tapping of knuckles quickly turned to a closed fist pounding on the door. It stopped.
A violent crash sent wood splinters flying across the room. The door flew open to admit a half-dozen men in dark suits. Woody grabbed his film bag. They headed straight for Kate. She tried to dodge their outstretched arms and weave past them for the door. But she ran headlong into the clutches of a burly man with a meaty and close-shaven head. The man wore a well-tailored suit, but he smelled of days-old sweat.