Free Primary Colors by Joe Klein

all-American blond hair and soft Mississippi drawl gave them publi c c over, made them seem Middle American). "Remember, you're gonna want to have Democrats voting for you in these primaries. You're gonna want to lead this whole party, not just MoDems." "But you can't just let him take you apart like this," Kopp came back. "First, he cuts you up in Rosen's column. Then he has you beg-gin' him for a place on the ticket in the Journal."
    "He's makin' me look like a wuss," Stanton agreed. "How's this playin' with the New York money, Fergie?"
    "He may be overplaying his hand," Howard Ferguson replied. "I mean, why's he so interested in cutting you up? Makes you look a little stronger."
    "You'd look stronger still if you took him on," said Arthur Kopp, relentless, artless, obnoxious. "You can make this thing into a two-man race right now. You take Orlando Ozio on and you'll see the world open up to you--the media, the money guys. I called Bill Price in Chicago, Len Sewell out in California--they're looking at you and Charlie Martin, they're waitin' to see who's going to come out of the gate as the real New Democrat. There are-- , "No, no," the governor was shouting, "--throw it, throw it. Shit! You see that? You were saying?"
    "The money guys don't vote in primaries," Sporken said. The governor's football interruption had worked, subtly, against Kopp, whose passion for MoDem money was clashing, spiritually, with the governor's African rooting interests. It was one of Stanton's more endearing qualities: he always, reflexively, pulled for the brothers. "Governor," Sporken continued, "you've spent all this time working the teachers, the geezers, the party's natural base--they like you, but they love Ozio. You don't want to risk that. You've got the Mods, you need to solidify the base. And what if Ozio doesn't get in? You want to get into a pissing match with him now, when you may need him later?" Kopp and Sporken went on, fiercely: two unsubtle fat boys, whipping each other, while the rest of us watched them the way the governor watched sports--following it, but not too closely, waiting for the next thing to happen. Sporken, I realized, was getting the worst of it, hurting himself merely by engaging Kopp, marginalizing himself--becoming a spokesman for one wing of the party, just as Kopp was. In a situation like this, you wanted someone with perspective as you r m edia guy, someone who could make a case without becoming it: the inner circle had to transcend all arguments. I realized then, with some reFef, that Sporken might not have all the wheels and gears necessary for his role. He might have to be . . . augmented, or paved over, before it was done. (I had a sudden, slightly orgasmic tingle: Was this the way Stanton was seeing it? Was I really beginning to think like him?) I looked over at Richard. He had snagged some couch pillows and was lying flat out, head on the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, deeply into his opaque mode, eyes closed behind his thick glasses. He hated them both, of course--Sporken and Kopp. He hated Sporken's buttery glad-handing; he hated Kopp's lack of irony and grace. At that moment he probably was hating Kopp a bit more, because he knew he was going to have to agree with him, and he couldn't stand the idea of having to side with anyone so unsubtle.
    Howard Ferguson was sitting back, a slight smile on his face, not doing all that much to control this, perhaps figuring--although you could never really be sure with Howard--that if Sporken and Kopp killed each other off, we'd be rid of both. The governor hadn't raised any objections. (It was a pretty good football game.) But it was getting late and nothing was happening. Susan, finally, took the next step: "You with us, Richard?" She asked. "Or is it past your bedtime?" "Ma'am?" Richard asked, raising an eyebrow.
    "Your thoughts, Richard?"
    "Pollster!" Richard said, up on an elbow, addressing Leon Birnbaum, who had been sitting quietly, a thick looseleaf