The rebel, p.43
The Rebel, page 43
“Yeah, of course I do.”
“Well, pick me up right now. We got to talk and work up a strategy. Reagan is going to be at CBS in an hour.”
“You want me to prepare for a debate in an hour?” Jimmy asked the Colonel.
“We got no choice, son. I found out that he bought an hour of airtime and plans to debate an empty chair with your name on it. I tried to buy the next segment, so you could follow him, you know, but they basically told me to pee up a pipe.”
“Goddammit, I told you I wanted to debate him. This has hurt me, made me look like I’m afraid of him.”
“You know how hard we tried, Jimmy, but his people put so many rules into the deal that you wouldn’t’ve been able to say shit. He wouldn’t agree to any kind of reasonable format. You got a brain. You need more than a buzzword to express yourself. You—”
“Okay, Colonel, cut the bullshit.” Then, musing, castigating himself, “I should have just agreed to debate him in the first place, whatever the goddamn rules. Are you sure about this—this chair thing?”
“You just got to trust me, son. The Colonel’s got his ear to the ground. You’ll pick me up at my hotel, that right? You wouldn’t leave the Colonel by himself.”
“We’re on our way.”
“I have your word on that?”
“Yes, Colonel. You have my word.”
The Colonel grinned at his reflection in the living room mirror. This is going to be the greatest snow job ever.
JIMMY, THE COLONEL, CAROLINE, AND JIMMY’S BODYGUARDS ARRIVED at the studio three minutes before airtime, but the Colonel insisted that everyone stay in the car. “I’m going up there and debate him,” Jimmy said.
“Yeah, you are, but if you go up early, he’ll get rid of his empty chair with your name on it, and we’ll lose the advantage.”
“The idea is for me to be there to debate him,” Jimmy said, frustrated.
“The Colonel’s right, Jimmy,” Caroline said. “Let the press get some photographs of Ron shaking his fist at your empty chair.”
There was a knock on the window of the Rolls. The Colonel buzzed it down.
“Hi, Caroline. Hi, Mr. Parker. Hi, Jimmy.” Sandy Kahn, reporter from the L.A. Times, was holding a Nikon X camera and had a canvas knapsack on his back. It looked heavy. “You ready to do the debate?”
“I’ve been ready,” Jimmy said, and as they got out of the car, Sandy clicked one picture after another.
“Television crews all set?” Caroline asked Sandy.
“The wolves are all hungry,” Sandy said, and Caroline nodded.
Once in the lobby, Jimmy was seen. A young man in a worn leather jacket called to his colleagues, and several television crews pushed toward him.
The elevator was crowded—his bodyguards, Jay and George, flanking him, pushing against him; the smell of aftershave, Vitalis hair oil, hair spray, lemon, sweat; cameras whirring; questions; commotion; Jimmy feeling sudden claustrophobia; answering questions, though, answering questions—
“Yes, I came for the debate. Mr. Reagan said he’d have an empty chair for me.”
“How did you know about this debate, Mr. Dean?”
“Call me Jimmy.”
The elevator lurched sickeningly, and the doors whispered open; then cameras were turning, lenses like curious, unblinking big black eyes; Jimmy noticed a bloody Band-Aid in the gray sand of the cylindrical ashtray beside the elevator doors.
“So how did you know about the debate, Mr. Dean? Did Mr. Reagan notify you, did—”
“How’d you know about it, boy?” the Colonel asked (and under his breath, “Who the hell’s side is he on, anyway?”), pushing forward, Jimmy and Caroline right behind, flanked by Jay and George.
Ahead stood a guard in a blue-black uniform with light-blue-braid epaulets; he was tall and husky, with crooked teeth, long, thin brown hair slicked back with pomade and tied with a red rubber band. He stood guard resolutely in front of a glass door, the door surrounded by more glass, a Plexiglas wall of great black lifting designs like wings.
“Mr. James Dean is here to debate Ronald Reagan,” the Colonel explained to the guard.
“I’m here to debate Mr. Reagan,” Jimmy said, cutting off the Colonel, speaking for the cameras going click click click.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t admit you, or anyone else.”
“We were told that Ronald Reagan has an empty chair with Jimmy’s name on it, and—”
Jimmy cutting off the Colonel again, playing for the press. “Maybe Ron would prefer to shake his fists at an empty chair, but I’m right here, ready and willing to sit right down in my namesake chair and debate Ron on whatever issues he chooses. But we’re going to have a real debate. Ron can try on all the easy homilies that sound good at first but don’t make any sense when you think about it later. I’m going to discuss the issues that concern the ordinary working people of California. Now, will you please notify him that I’m here? Or would he really prefer to debate an empty chair?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do that. I can’t admit you. Mr. Reagan has purchased the time, and I have orders not to let anyone enter.”
“So you’re telling me that Ron’s alone in there with my chair?” Jimmy said, drawing a laugh from the reporters and television crew. “There are no reporters in there? Nobody but the technicians?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I have orders not to let anyone enter.”
Jimmy looked at his watch. “Well, Ron’s already started debating the chair. Can you at least get one of the studio technicians to let him know that I’m here?”
“Sir, I’m under strict—”
“Can you just ask someone?”
The guard spoke to someone on his walkie-talkie, and a moment later a man in his thirties, in a dark suit, starched white shirt, and Harvard tie, came through and said to Jimmy, “I’m sorry, sir, but the program in question is a paid political broadcast, and no one is allowed to enter.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jimmy said. “Well, can you just let him know I’m here.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but the show is in progress.”
“Okay, I understand. All I’m asking you to do is have one of the technicians stand in front of the window where he can see him and hold up a sign or something. All it needs to say is ‘Jimmy’s here.’ That’s not hard. That won’t put anybody out. If Ron knows I’m here, he’ll want to debate me—and he’ll be furious at you and your network if you don’t let him know.”
The man squinted, as if thinking very hard about this, and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m sure he’ll want to debate me. That’s what this whole goddamn charade he’s putting on with the chair is all about.”
“Jimmy,” Caroline said, warning in her voice.
“I’ll see what I can do, sir.” And the man left.
“Ten bucks he’s a lawyer,” the Colonel said.
“Ten bucks you’re right.”
The man returned in less than five minutes. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid we won’t be able to allow you into the studio.”
“You didn’t tell Ron I was here, did you,” Jimmy said; it wasn’t a question.
“Yes, sir, we did. I assure you.”
“You held up a sign for him to see?”
“He was notified, sir.”
“Well, if he doesn’t want to debate me, will you kindly tell him to remove the chair with my name on it from the stage.”
“As I reiterated, sir, Mr. Reagan is in the middle of a telecast.”
“Telecast?” Jimmy asked, laughing. “Let me guess—you’re a lawyer, right?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dean. I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”
Jimmy looked at the Colonel and smiled—more a frown. “Well, it does.” Playing to his audience again: “I’m willing to bet that old Ronnie is kicking the bejesus out of my chair in there. He’s probably giving it hell right now. And here I am, ready and willing, but locked out. But it ain’t over yet, folks. Let me know who wins. My bet’s on the chair.” With that, Jimmy turned around, pulling Caroline with him toward the elevator, George keeping close, Jay ahead holding the elevator door, barring everyone else but the Colonel from entering, then down, down, down, the Colonel chuckling, Jimmy angry, frustrated…suspicious.
JIMMY SAT ON THE COUCH IN THE LIBRARY. CAROLINE HAD FILLED IN the shelves where Pier’s dolls had been with leather-bound volumes and first editions; she enjoyed buying rare books at auctions. The room smelled of oiled wood, leather, and cigarettes. The only light came from a table lamp with a movable green glass shade. The shadows behind the green-tinged halo of foggy light were also green, and Jimmy remembered a poem from childhood, something his mother used to recite. How green, green is my garden…
Pier had loved the garden, loved to dig and plant.
“Do you like plants?” Jimmy asked Caroline.
“You mean houseplants?”
“I mean like working in the garden, that kind of stuff.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“That sounds like a no to me.”
Caroline laughed. “What made you ask?”
Jimmy shrugged.
“You want a drink?” Caroline asked.
“I’d prefer a joint.”
“You’re not doing that anymore, remember? That’s all over.”
Jimmy nodded. “We don’t know each other very well, do we?”
She gave him a finger of Scotch in the heavy crystal glass he liked and sat down beside him. “We haven’t had much of a chance yet. But we know each other better than you think, probably. We just haven’t picked up on all the details. But we will, given time…providing that’s what you want.” She looked at him tentatively, and he laughed, took her hand.
“Of course that’s what I want. We can play twenty questions when we’re on our honeymoon. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
“The Colonel’s got me scheduled all over the goddamn state,” Jimmy said. “Have you seen the itinerary?”
She nodded. “I worked it out. I’ll be with you about half the time, Bobby the other half.”
“I thought we were doing all the gigs together.”
“Well, I guess not. Colonel probably figures it’s overkill. Anyway, I’ve got enough on my plate right here. Ron has finally gone quiet over all the debate business, though. We’ll see.”
“He still suing the network?”
“He’ll drop it, I’m sure,” Caroline said.
“I still wonder if he knew I was there.”
“The network claims they told him.”
“Then why didn’t the reporters Ron let inside the studio see anything?” Jimmy asked.
“They weren’t in the booth.”
“They’d have seen it if a tech held up a sign.”
Caroline laughed. “I don’t think they needed to hold up a sign.”
“I think the Colonel did something.”
“Like what? Caroline asked.
“Something,” Jimmy said.
“Well, if he did, it worked.”
“If he did, I’ll break his back.”
TWENTY-NINE
Bitch Luck Boogie-Woogie
LOS ANGELES: NOVEMBER 8, 1966
Jimmy had fallen into a deep, snoring sleep; Caroline wouldn’t wake him, not even for the Colonel, not even for Bobby.
After stumping around the state nonstop, Jimmy was exhausted and coming down with a cold. He was coughing and sniffling; that it was wet, foggy, and close—another filthy L.A. inversion—didn’t help. Caroline had turned on the air-conditioning, but that only seemed to make him choke. Jimmy and Caroline weren’t going to get to the Ambassador Hotel until after nine.
The polls had closed at seven.
“You should have woken me up earlier,” Jimmy said.
“You needed to sleep.”
“I can sleep for the rest of my life.”
She shrugged. “You would’ve looked like death warmed over.”
He grinned at her. “I do look like death warmed over.” He leaned forward, grasping the backrest of the driver’s seat, and said, “George, just drive around a little. I’m not ready to face the ravaging hordes yet.”
“Okay, boss,” George said. He was wearing his best suit. He and Jimmy had developed an easygoing relationship; Jay—who was sitting beside George—was too reticent and quiet, even for Jimmy. But that’s what Jimmy had asked for—gray-flannel-suit bodyguards, shadow people.
“So much for the Colonel and his system.”
“What do you mean?” Caroline asked, distracted. She was upset; her hands were trembling. But she looked beautiful tonight, Pier’s big eyes, Jackie Kennedy’s smooth, champagne charm and grace. She was wearing an Oleg Cassini evening gown made especially for her. It was conservatively off the shoulder but sexy, and the deep blue silk seemed to shimmer subtly and change hue whenever she moved.
“His system was to hold back public appearances,” Jimmy said. “That was supposed to make the fans clamor for a view.”
“Well, the fans are clamoring, I guess, and he felt it was time to give them a view. It’s steam-engine time. Seems to be working.”
“We’ll see.”
“Senior citizens, blacks and Hispanics, and most of the unions have all come out for you.”
“We’ll see.”
“You sound like a broken record,” Caroline said. “The networks are reporting that you’re going to win.”
“Not all—not ABC.”
Caroline shook her head. “Okay, not ABC, but Roger Mudd from CBS and Sander Vanocur from NBC are at your suite in the Ambassador, waiting for you.”
“They’ll interview me and then go back and see Ron.”
“Well, we’d probably better get over there, then. You shouldn’t keep your fans waiting.” She smiled at Jimmy, but he was gazing out the window into the drizzle-refracted lamplight; the world was wet and slippery, and Jimmy was unsure of everything, tense, frightened, and somehow angry. “I don’t want to see the Colonel.”
“Well, he’s going to be there, Jimmy,” Caroline said. “But this is your night—our night.”
“I don’t trust him,” he said.
“It’s a little late for that.” She took his hand, and he felt her tremble.
“You know something you’re not telling me, don’t you?” he asked.
“No, Jimmy, for the thousandth time.”
“The Colonel works for me.”
“I know, Jimmy.”
“I know something’s bothering you because your hand’s shaking. Are you okay?”
“Yes, Jimmy.”
“Look, I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m just a little anxious.”
“Yes, Jimmy, I know.” She didn’t want to go to the campaign suite either.
“If I win, if I beat Reagan, then I’m going to talk to your friend Budd.”
“Budd Schaap?”
Caroline looked nervously ahead. George and Jay worked with Budd. “Little pitchers have big ears,” she said in a low voice.
“I’m going to ask him…about what we talked about. She nodded, hoping he would drop the subject. “If I win, I’ll get a straight answer. You know why?” When Caroline didn’t respond, Jimmy said, “Because he won’t know if I’m having him bugged.”
“Are you stoned or what?” Caroline asked.
“Just stoned on love, darlin’.” Jimmy giggled and nuzzled his face against hers. “I don’t want to do this tonight,” he whispered.
“Well, we’ve got to. This is going to be the most important night of your life. The best night.”
He squeezed her breast, feeling the stiff wire bra. “That a promise?”
“George,” she said loudly, “we’d better get over to the hotel. ASAP.”
“Caroline, you’re still trembling.”
She laughed woodenly. “So are you.”
EVEN WITH THE AIR CONDITIONERS TURNED ON FULL BLAST, THE Royal Suite on the fifth floor—the campaign suite—was hot and humid from the press of too many people. Six portable televisions blared out poll results; televisions were on desks, tables, and bookshelves, and one was on top of a huge, engraved armoire. There was the constant chink-a-chink of glasses, bottles, keys; the swish of silk and satin, organdy and organza; the chatter of beads and bracelets; conversation like high-volume television static; perfume mingling with sour breath, alcohol, and food decaying between teeth; the lemon scent of expensive cologne and aftershave; and faces, faces laughing, faces concentrating, faces nodding, faces bobbing, aberrant shades of pink, flesh-pink balloons bobbing in the bright light and heat, coruscating light, flickering, flickering, as Jimmy shook hands and kissed balloon faces, everyone directed toward him like filings to the magnet, the magnet of the moment; and George and Jay and Jimmy and Caroline pushed through the well-wishers and party faithful, toward the safety and relative privacy of the bedrooms.
They found Bobby and Ethel, Ethel four months pregnant. Jimmy had expected to see Bobby at the party but was surprised to see Ethel. “My, you look beautiful,” Ethel said to Caroline, hugging her, then grinning at Jimmy; but even as he reached out to embrace her, the Colonel was practically on top of them, crowding them, taking up all the space, breathing all the air.
“Jimmy, I got to talk to you.” The Colonel was wearing a dark brown suit, western tie with a brass clasp, and a large-brimmed, white cowboy hat. The edges of the lenses of his glasses were misted over; he was sweating profusely. Behind him, affixed to the wall, was a poster blowup of the front page of the October 29 L.A. Times: Below the headline PLEASE KEEP OUT were two photographs: one of Reagan gesticulating to an empty chair, the other of Jimmy trying to get past the studio guard. “Hello, Bobby, and hello, little lady.” The Colonel bowed to Ethel, put his arm around Caroline, released her, and started to pull Jimmy away.
“Jesus, Colonel, give me a minute here. I haven’t even—”
“Just a word, son.”
“Excuse me,” Jimmy said and followed the Colonel to a private corner.
“You look like shit,” the Colonel said.
“That’s what you wanted to tell me?”
“You’re gonna need makeup or something before you go downstairs to make your victory speech.”
