What It Takes (107 page)

And that’s why he kept looking for a Big Guy ... to run it! He was
ready to hand it over
! ... But it had to be a
Big Guy
.

(It hadn’t quite worked out with his Big-Guy-of-Choice, John Sears—not after that Christmas meeting, where Keene put the kibosh on the Sears deal. So Dole had installed his friend Bob Ellsworth as chairman. They called a press conference and rented half a hotel ballroom for the announcement—and Ellsworth did fine, explaining to the big-feet how Dole had changed, he was ready to be organized ... despite a competing press conference conducted, ad hoc, by Keene and Devine, just outside the ballroom doors—mostly to leak how the deal with Sears had fallen apart. ... So, Dole’s continuing talks with Sears had to be semisecret, so as not to lose Keene and Devine—Dole had
Ellsworth
wooing Sears ... but it wasn’t much of a secret, what with Sears and Keene pissing on each other’s legs, in the papers. ... So Dole opened quieter negotiations with other Big Guys—Drew Lewis, Don Rumsfeld, Bill Brock—Cabinet-rank, one and all ... but each had his own ideas and his own price, so Dole hadn’t reeled in anyone yet ... what the hell, a few months of negotiation wasn’t unusual with Big Guys!)

It all went with Dole’s Washington-Watergate-Town-Car-Brooks-Brothers persona. He would send a
big signal
on the capital tom-toms ... show all the columnists, political observers, lunchers at Joe and Mo’s,
everybody
who was
in-the-know
:

Dole was going big-time—he could pull in first-class talent!

Dole would have a manager of size,
gravitas
—his own Jim Baker!

Dole had mellowed—he was ready to do things right!

Hands off! ... just the candidate! ...
Presidential
! ... Dole would
listen
!

Well, yeah, sure.

But that didn’t mean a Big Guy—or any guy—was going to tell Bob what to
say
.

Why would they? Why should they? It was working! Dole could smell the wind out there. (Must feel kinda hot on Bush’s neck!) ... Dole was closing the gap all over the country. During the August Senate recess, Dole
was
everywhere in the country. He started in Ohio—Dayton, Columbus, Cleveland ... then Red Bank, New Jersey, Manahawkin ... Cheyenne and Casper, Spokane, Yakima, Vancouver, Portland, Denver, St. Louis, Mobile, Charlotte ... back to New England—Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, Massachusetts ... back to Chicago, then Iowa—a dozen towns ... Kentucky, Arkansas, New Orleans ... then straight into Texas—Houston, Dallas, San Antonio ... straight up Bush’s wazoo!

That was just two weeks.

In one month, he hit and made news in seventy cities, twenty-nine states, D.C., and Puerto Rico. (Not to mention Nicaragua, Honduras, and Costa Rica.) He traveled light—one or two staff, no press on the borrowed corporate jet. There were no votes back in Washington—nothing to slow him down. Sun was out. Dole was making hay.

Hey! New polls showed Dole the most “electable” Republican (the one with support among Democrats and independents—still a majority in the nation). Dole had lower “negatives” than Bush. Dole had a slim lead in Iowa—in fact, across the Midwest. He’d cut Bush’s lead in California by half, pulled ahead in Idaho, Colorado, maybe Washington State. North Carolina was solid for Elizabeth ... and
¡caramba!
Dole troops even hijacked the Partido Republicano in Puerto Rico! ... Nationwide,
The New York Times
reported, Bush’s ten-point lead was “shaky.”

And it wasn’t just cold numbers—Dole was hot! He’d hit a town, the press was waiting at the airport (and maybe the editorial board was waiting downtown). Dole knew the smell of ink—liked it! ... In a dozen states he had a committee of bigwig supporters to announce—his “leadership team.” (Dole liked a stage filled with pooh-bahs. In every state, he’d demand of his field staff: “Are we organized?” That meant he wanted to see a list of names—big names, like Senators, atop them all.) In another two-dozen towns, he’d be whisked from the airport to a “presale meeting.” That was for his committee-to-be, or people who were going to put on fund-raisers. Back in D.C., he’d demand of his money men: “What about St. Louis—z’at guy gonna make it? ... New York—that’s supposed to be a million?” Dole still could not believe that money wasn’t a problem.

What he could believe, what he couldn’t miss, were those events—those crowds! It wasn’t just the turnout, though that was startling (Gwinnett County, Georgia, eleven hundred people—at four-thirty in the afternoon!) ... it was who they were. They weren’t political types. They were working people, farmers, small businessmen, homeowners, solid citizens ... they told him they’d never been to any meeting—not for President ... school board, maybe, years back. They told him they came because they saw him on TV, and something he said ... or they had an uneasy feeling, where the country was headed—maybe Bush wasn’t tough enough ... or they had to let him know how much they
admired
Elizabeth and him. ... But they didn’t really have to tell him. He could see it, the way they wanted to believe. They were looking for someone—it was
their
hope, on him. If it was him and Elizabeth, that was something else. It was beyond hope, it was ... adulation. The Doles would speak, then hustle to the exits to shake hands as people left (“Agh! That’s how we Methodists do it—we get the
dorrs
!”) ... and the look in people’s eyes when Elizabeth had them ... well, it was the look that movie stars see.

More and more, if they showed up together, Bob would want Elizabeth to introduce him. He never gave her warning ... drove her nuts. She’d just find herself at the microphone—a bit breathless—“Whah, that
husband a-mine
!” ... But then she’d do the Bob Dole story, including the parts that he still couldn’t talk about ... and by the time he said word one, that crowd was locked on.

More and more, he gambled his political star-power on the lessons he took from that story ... a message Republicans hadn’t heard for years:

There was a deficit—real money!

And debts come due—all Americans would have to pay.

Dole was the only Republican with the guts to point out this dirt under Reagan’s carpet ... something a poor boy from Russell couldn’t ignore.

But he’d also insist that he wasn’t about to go Reagan one better and get the money from the poor, the helpless ...

People had real problems!

Government had to respond.

That was the other half of the message—apostasy in the Temple of the Gip!

“I think we also have to be sensitive to the needs of a lot of people out there—some in this area—who may be white, some may be black, some may be brown, some may be poor and old, or poor and young, or disabled. ... What we call vulnerable groups in America sometimes need a helping hand—sometimes, they can’t find help. So what’re you gonna do? I hope you’d agree, there’s a responsibility for the federal government to step in.”

The pinker and more prosperous the crowd, the more Dole insisted that “conservative” didn’t have to mean “callous.” He told a convention of Young Republicans in Seattle: “I’d like to see fifty wheelchairs in this audience. I’d like to see fifty black faces, fifty Hispanics, fifty Asian Americans. ... The bottom line is how you treat others. We have a responsibility to open up the doors of this Party!”

The amazing fact was, the YRs started cheering.

Maybe Dole didn’t have a vision. (He said that’s why Sears wouldn’t take over the campaign: “Agh, I guess I wouldn’t go to the
mountaintop
, come back with a
vision,
you know ...”)

Dole didn’t trust visions, or visionaries. Seen too many: they screwed up everything.

What he had was a stubborn recognition of facts. He’d long since seen through the hole in Reagan’s silkscreen: Morning in America ... the Shining City on the Hill ...

Dole understood what the people understood: If we’re all, for Christ’s sake, Standing So Tall ... why am I getting screwed? Dole knew what it was to make a mortgage, tuition for the kids ... he knew voters saw the bankers getting richer, collecting interest on their debt—a hundred ways. The car loan, the mortgage, the credit card, the national debt ... bleeding them all.

“We were in the
basement apartment
...” Dole would tell his crowds. “Had to
rent out
the top of the house. We didn’t know where the next mortgage payment was coming from ...”

Those were facts.

In Dole’s hands that August, facts
were
message ... and a link to the common millions that George Bush would never have.

Even schedule was message.

There was, first, the existence of a schedule, published in advance for the next six weeks. That was a
big
message on the capital tom-toms. Dole was being managed like the big boys. He wasn’t going to sit in his plane with a map on his knees ... and land anywhere he saw a crowd.

This was the first time anyone could recall that Dole checked off on weeks of a schedule, hit his marks—showed up where they told him to go—and never said a word about it. (At one point, he did call his Scheduler, a Russell, Kansan, Judy Harbaugh, who went back with him twenty-five years, but just to tell her: “This is the best week of campaigning I’ve ever had in my life.”)

Then, too, there was the content of the schedule: nine states
in the South
,
which Bush was claiming as his fire wall, his fortress. And then, straight into Texas—Dole didn’t have to spell out that message. On one level, the contest between him and Bush came down to (as the Texans say) ... who had the
cojones
.

Dole went into Houston, did a businessmen’s breakfast, did both papers, one-on-one ... then, an energy meeting with oilmen, twenty-five top guys. After that, an open lunch. They’d done some mailing and calling—figured seventy-five folks, at the Hyatt. They fed three hundred and five people.

Then he blew into Dallas, did both papers, all three channels’ live-at-fives. He did a presale meeting with twenty-two couples who’d be holding a funder in November. And then the big one: the Dole campaign was planning a free reception for three hundred and fifty people at the Anatole Hotel. He drew fourteen hundred.

He spent the night in San Antonio. Van Archer, who was Reagan’s guy in south Texas, had a breakfast for Dole the next day. Archer was a total right-winger. He was shocked: “In all the years I did these things for Reagan, I never had a crowd like this.”

Dole was shocked, too: the acceptance of him, all that room to move ... in the state Bush called home! Even
this
was not locked down for Bush! There was no state in the country where Dole could not compete.

“Agh! Let’s
goooo
!” Dole was cooing that morning, with obvious goodwill toward the world. “Nnggh, car ready? ...”

He had a big speech after breakfast—American Legion, the national convention. For the first time, Dole would follow George Bush on the same stage.

“Yuuoooh, yut-dut-dut-dut-dah ...”

Dole was rasping out snatches of his march. The Legion! His crowd. Dole was winning Legion Halls when Truman was President.

“Bip-bip-bup-bah! Yut-dut-dut-dah!”

Mike Pettit, one of Dole’s staff on that trip, would recall: it was like riding to the heavyweight fight—with Muhammad Ali in the car.

T
HAT MONTH, AND STRETCHING
into September, George Bush spent twenty-five straight nights in his own bed, in his favorite bedroom, the big room with the windows looking out to sea off Walker’s Point, at Kennebunkport, Maine. Twenty-five straight mornings, he woke as he liked—5:15, maybe a few minutes later—and after a while, he’d throw on a robe, hair still standing straight up on his head, he’d go past the utility room to the kitchen, grab a coffee. He had the coffee thing set for 5:30. Then, it was back to the king-size bed with coffee and papers, which he and Bar would read while propped up on pillows against the white headboard with its built-in shelves, and the dog, Millie, would hop up on the bed, too, and, after a while, the grandchildren (the Grands, as Bush called them) would tumble on with Ganny and Gampy while their parents (George and Bar’s kids) sat in the armchairs for coffee and chat, as the fresh sun climbed above the trees and knocked the chill off the Maine morning, after which, Bush would stretch and throw on some sweats—6:30, maybe close to 7:00—to run.

Bush ran not by distance but by time, at a pace of nine or ten minutes a mile, with one Secret Service man running ahead, and one Secret Service man running behind, one big black car leading the way, and another, or two, big black cars purring behind, and more Secret Service struggling alongside, through the woods, over lawns, keeping up as best they could. Every so often, Bush would call out: “How long?” One of the Service men would call back: “Nine and a half minutes, Mr. Vice President!” Or, the next time Bush asked: “Sixteen minutes, Mr. Vice President!” When they’d call out, “Twenty minutes, Mr. Vice President!” ... Bang. Bush would stop and walk the rest of the way home.

After the run, it was shower, breakfast, out to the boat. Then a briefing. Then, maybe tennis—he’d be ready for some doubles. Or golf, if he could face it. (He just couldn’t understand—what’d happened to his putting?) Maybe shower up again, for lunch. Then, perhaps, he’d head for the office, do some reading, take some calls. Unless Bar’d had the court for her doubles that morning; in that case, it was his turn—maybe him and son Marvin, or Jeb, or whichever son was available to make a side for the match, a good match, competitive ... but likely to put the old man over the top, make him a winner. (Just before Labor Day, he ran a round-robin tournament for the Secret Service, to make match selection easier for the Ranking Committee.)

Late afternoon, it was back to the boat. Bush could be on that boat for hours, and never feel unease. He’d bring a friend, or a son, or a grandchild, but he wouldn’t say much. He’d run in open, featureless water, trolling, trolling, trolling for bluefish. He’d tell about days when he’d bring home a half-dozen bluefish, but there was, on that score, a suspicious lack of confirmation. Anyway, fishing wasn’t the point. Sometimes he’d hand over the wheel, busy himself with a screwdriver and a rag, fiddling, tightening, rubbing down that boat till it gleamed like a violin. And he’d be glowing, too. No one had a bigger, sleeker cigarette boat ... except the Secret Service—took one off a drug dealer, and it was faster than the Veep’s, which did sort of piss him off ... but they had to run theirs wherever he wanted. The Service boat had a helmsman and two guys in frog suits, and then, a half-mile away, there were two Coast Guard cutters, and on the hill overlooking his bay, a chopper ... not to mention the Secret Service man with a phone in the prow of Bush’s boat. That’s how he got away from it all.