What It Takes (38 page)

It all fit together so nicely—the wheels and gears of Michael’s wonderful machine—and it was not without power: to use another fine Greek word, it had synergy. There was strength in having a Governor who knew the price of milk. Price-gouging was one problem that would never sneak up on him. Michael didn’t need a meeting on maintenance of the mass transit system. He knew the T as well as any working stiff. The Governor didn’t need a staff report on the highways from Boston to Jinny’s (rent-free weekend retreat!) house on Cape Cod, or the routes to Harry’s (Tanglewood, rent-free!) place in the Berkshires. He lived in the state like a working man lived. The problems of his voters were his problems, too. And in his second go-round, after he lost and made his comeback, after John Sasso and his roundtable of wise guys managed to create Dukakis, the persona ... well, then, the synergy worked the other way, too. It got easier to screw a $100 million out of the legislature for job training—what the hell, the voters knew Dukakis wouldn’t throw money around. Ha! Sonofabitch was too cheap! When he cracked down on tax cheats, they knew he was playing fair and square: first business his G-men padlocked was a Greek restaurant!

It was beautiful, when it worked like that, it was mastery, that second term: Michael’s pistons pumping, Sasso greasing the wheels. After his first term, in ’78, the voters turned Dukakis out on the street because he wouldn’t listen; he wouldn’t even discuss anything. When you boiled it down, all he’d ever say was, he was right. He was right about this, right about that ... and anyone who knew
anything
would
see
he was
right
. Governor Asshole! Then, he had to raise taxes, and he was dead: the thing just blew up in his face. But it was different when he came back, in ’82. For one thing, he went around the whole state and apologized. He hadn’t listened. He’d been an asshole. Of course, that’s not how he said it, but he showed everybody what he meant. When he got back in, he scheduled meetings just to listen. He listened to the cops, listened to the teachers, listened to the doctors. ... When he set out to do something, he consulted: called in the legislative sachems and asked—what did they think? (Then he went ahead and did what he wanted.) Everybody ate it up. The papers started calling him Duke II, like he was another person, a total redesign, a fundamental improvement, like a solar-powered car. ...

Of course, the papers peddled the New Nixon, too. What human being in our own lives remakes his personality after age forty-five? We wouldn’t believe it of our own brother or sister, but for some reason, it sells with pols.

There wasn’t any solar-Duke II. What they saw was the same old Michael Stanley Steamer ... but with new valves, better lubrication. That was John Sasso’s genius. The legislators still couldn’t talk to Michael about what mattered to them: a new bridge on Route 464, or a job for a nice young man of good family ... Dukakis (I or II) would look at them like they’d brought dirt into his office. But with Sasso as Chief Secretary, they could come in, have a drink, a cigar, and a sympathetic chat; John would try to help, but, he’d add: “
You know how the Governor is ...
” Then, perhaps, John would call Fred Salvucci, the Transportation Secretary, or Nick Mitropoulos, the patronage chief, and take care of the matter. Michael never had to know. On bigger things, when Michael did have to know, John could slowly lead him to the deed, showing him, every step of the way, how this move would make possible another, and another, which led to the goal they had discussed, which was
exactly the right thing for the state
... exactly what Michael wanted to do. Still, there were afternoons in the State House when the Senate President, Billy Bulger, would travel back and forth to John’s office by means of the outside balconies—so Michael wouldn’t see. The funny thing was, they weren’t doing anything wrong! They weren’t getting rich, or defrauding the citizens. They were doing the state’s business, making the wheels turn. Don’t tell Michael!

The other funny thing was, Michael was now the master mechanic, explaining at the Conference of Governors how he’d learned to make the wheels turn. To be fair: he
had
learned some new tricks. In the second term, when he had another deficit, he didn’t cut programs, and he didn’t raise taxes. Instead, he called in his revenue guy, Ira Jackson, and told him: You figure out a way to get me more of the taxes that people already owe. So Ira came back in a matter of days with a plan for an amnesty and a crackdown: the carrot and the stick ... pay up now and no one gets hurt. If you wait, you’ll get busted, and you’ll pay more. Michael looked at the plan and said: Okay, do it.

And it worked. Even Ira never dreamed it like this: millions of dollars started coming in—hundreds of millions! And then a couple of businesses were padlocked, cars seized, boats, that kind of thing ... and more millions rolled into the state—$900 million in three years. People started to pay up. They knew about the new plan. It was called REAP, Revenue Enhancement and Protection. The important thing is, it had a name that people could remember, like all of Michael’s new programs, and a rollout, with posters, or TV ads, or, at the least, a ream of newspaper stories. Telling the story
was just as important as being right
! Sasso and his Boston wise guys would sit around, two Thursdays a month, and figure how to show it all in the best light, “to create the right climate in the state.” Then Sasso would synthesize, dis-aggrandize and memo-randize, and that would be the new plan for Michael to look at, next week, next month, next quarter of the year.

The stuff was good ... but this wasn’t subatomic physics. Most of these ideas had been around for years. The trick was to make the wheels turn. Welfare was the biggest budget in the state—even though unemployment was down, and you couldn’t
find
a worker to take an entry-level job. So Michael said: Why don’t these welfare people work? And the answer was, they didn’t have any education. So Michael said, well, let’s send them to school, and
then
find ’em a job!... But they’re mothers! What about their kids? Okay, we’ll do day care. ... Well, how are they going to get to the school? Uhmmm. ...
Give them money for the T!
So, they tied it all up into one package, and they called it ET (“You see, Michael, there’s this movie ...”) for Education and Training. And they rolled it out, they sold it and sold it, and ... it worked! Thousands of welfare women got training, and thousands got jobs (forty thousand in four years). And the jobs paid more than welfare ever did, and the women stayed in the jobs. And instead of getting welfare, they were paying taxes. And though ET cost money, it saved more money. And women’s lives were changed. And their stories were stories that Michael could tell.

So he told them, all over Massachusetts, and then to the other Governors at their conference, and he told the stories in Washington, where he testified about ET. That was another part of Sasso’s plan: the well-timed, well-planned appearances around the country ... along with Sasso’s quiet, friendly phone calls to the national columnists, the networks,
The New York Times. ...
Ever since the middle of Michael’s comeback term, since ’84, when Sasso took a leave to help run Geraldine Ferraro, he was thinking bigger, constructing a national reputation for Dukakis, the doer, the man who could make government work. What the hell, Dukakis was smarter, more able, than most of the national Democrats ... what about The Duke in ’88? So that’s what the Thursday night sessions turned into: Sasso and his guys were plotting a platform for a national campaign. Dukakis could offer a record, a litany of achievement, all wrapped up under one grand rubric—the boys made it up one Thursday night: the Massachusetts Miracle.

Hey, it was catchy! This could fly! The race was wide open. Hart could be beaten—John thought people were uneasy about him. And Dukakis would have a story to tell: the state was in the gutter—Taxachusetts—but he pulled it out, turned it around, changed people’s lives ... with government that worked!

God! It was
perfect
... don’t tell Michael.

Michael didn’t want to hear it. All through 1986, people tried to talk to him about President, and he’d duck his head into his shoulders and insist: “We’ve already
got
a campaign.”

That meant his reelection. He wasn’t going to get cocky and let the voters throw him out on his ear again. This time, he wanted ratification. This time, he wanted affirmation that he’d done the job, done it right. He wanted to win big.

It didn’t matter how good things looked. Michael didn’t want to hear that. “Nope. You know me ... steady as she goes. ...” That meant keep away from his face with predictions that he’d win in a landslide. He’d get that rueful little smile, and say: “You know how I feel about polls. ...” After all, he’d been fifty points ahead, back in ’78, before the roof fell in, and he lost the only job he’d ever wanted.

It didn’t matter that no Democrat filed against him—first time in thirty-six years when there was no primary: Who would take on a governor who’d already cut the tax rate and still had a $500 million surplus? ... It didn’t matter that the Republican candidate had to drop out of the race: his former coworkers said he spent his time sitting naked in his office, smoking cigarettes, talking on the phone—with no one on the other end. ... Then, the GOP put up a guy from the legislature who
hated
Dukakis. Guy was a killer! But lamentably, he lied in his campaign fliers about combat service in Vietnam. So, he dropped out, too. ... Finally, the Republicans put a third guy in the race who’d never run for
anything
. Nothing. No one knew him. And the guy was a Greek! Kariotis. (He and Michael would go head-to-head for that
crucial
Greek vote—fine piece of planning!) ... Didn’t matter. Michael didn’t want to hear about it. After all, back in ’78, he thought Ed King was a schmuck—a
bufo
, to use the nicer Greek word ... and King took the Governor’s chair away.

So, people would come up to Michael and say: “I saw you got a nice mention from Mary McGrory ...” (Or George Will, or
The Wall Street Journal
, or
The New Republic
, even James J. Kilpatrick! ...) And Michael would hold up one dismissive palm: “I don’t want to talk about it.” When Michael didn’t want to talk about it, well, there was no one who’d make him talk. He said no. He meant no. ... Michael Dukakis was the King of No.

Even Kitty! Of course, she read every word. And there was no one who thought more of the idea: President Dukakis! But she wasn’t going to get into Michael’s face. So she’d ask Sasso: “What does he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Even to you?”

“I thought he’d talk to you.”

“Not yet.”

“He’s not there yet.”

Then, her son, John Dukakis, would call from D.C., where he worked for Senator Kerry. And Kitty would tell him: “He’s not there yet. ...”

John was eager for his dad to run, too. But he knew his mother wouldn’t blow it, let that out, and make Michael feel pressured. Kitty was the Queen of Don’t Tell Michael.

That’s how it worked for all those years. Michael thought a dress for Kitty cost—what, he never really thought about it ... fifty dollars? Well, that was twice as much as it
ought
to be, but ... what could he do? She looked, well ... terrific.

Of course, Kitty couldn’t buy a scarf for fifty dollars. But she worked. She made a little money of her own, and if she spent four figures on an outfit, well, there was no need to bother Michael with that. If there was some frock, an extra pair of shoes, that she couldn’t risk Michael asking about, well, there was always room in her father Harry’s closet. (More room than hers! Michael would never spring to build a walk-in closet on Perry Street, just as he never saw why a family of five could not get along
just fine
with one bathroom ... for two men and three women ... who all had to be dressed at the same time ... God! Sometimes she could just wring his neck!)

Smoking—same deal. Kitty smoked. Michael disapproved. So, Kitty smoked all day, and just before he came home, she’d air out the kitchen and wash the ashtrays.

Did he know? Of course he knew. Just as he also saw the gleam of Sasso-grease on the wheels of government at the State House. But that wasn’t the same as having his face rubbed in it.

The point was, he was right about the smoking. Terrible habit. Kitty knew he was right. But loving her entirely, he accepted in her certain ... weaknesses, breaches of discipline that he would never tolerate in himself. That was how it always worked: strong, steady, disciplined Michael
took care of
high-strung, fiery, fragile Kitty.

One night, in the ’82 campaign, he dragged her to some political dinner, some jerky fund-raiser, the kind she hated. But she did it, for him, and she sat there all night, and smiled, and talked—and, of course, she couldn’t smoke. She’d never smoke in front of him, like that, with a crowd around. So, finally, they got back to the car. The campaign had sent a kid to drive them. And Michael rode shotgun, and Kitty sagged into the backseat, fished in her purse, and lit up a cigarette. Right away, he’s on her: “
Katharine
...” In that little singsong scoldy voice he used sometimes: “
Kath
-ar-ine ...”

Kitty said through a mouthful of smoke: “Aw, fuck off, Michael.” The kid who was driving almost ran off the road.

But there wasn’t anything uneasy between them. They knew how far they could push. They both knew their roles in this long-running drama. They played it to the hilt: they could play it for laughs.

Once, when she led some friends on a trip to Japan, and they were coming back—terrible flight, across half the world, and then they had to land in New York, and take a
shuttle
up to Boston—Michael met the plane at Logan, and he stood there while a score of people got off, then fifty more, and all her friends were off, a hundred people came through that gate ... and no Kitty! She’d been sitting in the back row, smoking. He knew it! She was going to be the last one off! So he marched down the ramp and grabbed the microphone for the plane’s P.A., and he announced, to the crowd at large: