Talk (30 page)

“Finn's a great American, Stan,” I heard from more than one caller to
Morning Power
.

Finally, three days later in Louisiana, Tobias made his announcement. And it was, as predicted, Congresswoman Davenport. I thought the timing might take away from Susan's prime time speech at the convention that same night, but it only seemed to create more electricity in the cavernous stadium when she walked out onto the stage and acknowledged his selection.

“My husband's not afraid to surround himself with women who have sound opinions,” she said to thunderous applause. It was a tip of the hat to Davenport, a bit self-congratulatory, and somewhat condescending toward Haskel all in one sentence.

I was at Delrios, of course, given that it was a Tuesday night. Like clockwork, I was standing at the bar with Carl and Clay as Ralph poured our kamikaze shots. It was hard to hear what exactly she was saying, but like everyone else, I was mostly interested in how she looked. Fabulous, was the answer. Beautiful
skin. Tight body. Gorgeous eyes. She looked extremely poised, despite the importance of the moment. The fact that we had fucked in a nearby hotel room just weeks earlier seemed even more surreal. Then, in what had now become a convention tradition, when her speech ended, Tobias walked out on stage to congratulate her while she acted surprised to see him. And just like they were watching a movie, the delegates suspended their belief and ate it up. She looked equally radiant that Thursday night after Tobias gave his acceptance speech, when the top of the ticket and all family members gathered on stage for an extended photo op while the balloons and confetti fell.

And then, at last, all eyes shifted to Tampa.

I got my first look inside the Tampa Bay Times Forum on Saturday morning. There was now a small army of Secret Service, Homeland Security and local law enforcement protecting the arena where I'd seen many concerts and had watched the Lightning skate. It looked nothing like what I was used to. All of the decoration and set-up had been concluded, and there would be 2,286 delegates arriving this weekend and about the same number of alternates. But more important to me, there would be 15,000 members of the media, each needing a quote, or a piece of sound, or a snippet of video to feed their respective beast. Every one of their outlets was already going to have audio and video of whatever happened in prime time; the reporters on the ground wouldn't have to lift a finger to get those feeds. So in order to justify their airfare, hotel and credential cost, every one of these journalists needed to send something back to the mother ship, namely some item of local interest from the ground in Tampa. The visibility I had commanded in the past few months, capped off by the
Real Time
and Reagan Library debate appearances gave me instant recognition and sufficient street cred for supplying a sound byte.

The purpose of my Saturday visit was just to get the “lay of the land” in advance of Tuesday night's roll call vote, and to meet with Jackson Hunter who'd asked that I call him after I cleared security. I was anxious to see where the Florida delegation was positioned and make sure I got the feel of the place before it was filled with delegates. Walking onto the floor, I saw that Florida was right up front, directly next to Texas. That Texas would be in poll position was no surprise given that it was Margaret Haskel's home state. But there was Florida, right next to Ohio, Colorado and Virginia, the other critical swing states. I also had a hunch that given Tobias' selection of Davenport, the Michigan delegation might get a seat upgrade here in Tampa, so that state's delegates would be in the camera frame for the important speeches as well.

I had a badge that allowed me full access to the floor but I didn't get very far. It wasn't the cops who stopped me, it was the members of the media. I ended up giving an hour's worth of spontaneous interviews to news outlets all across the nation. Once I'd finish with one reporter, there was another waiting to take his place. It was just as Phil and I had envisioned months earlier when we mapped out our plan.

“Stan, what are your listeners looking for from this convention?”

“Does Susan Miller help or hurt Tobias in the I-4 corridor?

“Stan, does Haskel have a shot against Tobias here in the general election?”

“Why do you think Haskel picked O'Malley?”

“Would she have taken Wynne James but for you?”

And there were a few like this:

“Why do you continue to raise questions about Tobias' faith? What is it that you think you know?”

If only they knew that was exactly what Tobias' wife kept asking me!

While I was chatting on camera with a reporter from Colorado Springs (a swing district not unlike the I-4 corridor) I looked up and saw Jackson Hunter listening to what I was saying. You'd think the press would be more interested in a young aide who was closer to the nominee than me, but he'd done a good job flying beneath the radar and doing on-camera interviews was not his role. He looked like an older choirboy in a Brooks Brothers suit, but this young guy played some serious hardball.

When I finished the interview, he motioned for me to follow him, which I did. Hunter escorted me into a super box that was serving as the Haskel command center. There were television monitors in the box that seemed to show every inch of the arena and a backstage area I had yet to navigate. As I surveyed the scene, he introduced me around and then asked that we be afforded some privacy.

“So are you ready for Tuesday? The governor is counting on you, Stan.”

I said nothing.

“Look, everyone else who speaks during the roll call is limited to 60 seconds. We control the audio right from this booth. We've told the state delegations that if they exceed their allotment, we will kill the mics just like an acceptance speech at the Oscars, not because we want to be pricks but because we cannot afford to have the evening run late. I'm not old enough to remember McGovern accepting after everyone had gone to bed but I surely know the story. We figure that the threat alone will keep everybody honest and we actually won't have to do it.”

I thought that was a funny expression—keeping people honest. There was absolutely nothing honest about what he was asking.

“But Stan, nobody is running a clock on you. This is where I will be on Tuesday. You take whatever time is necessary to cover your talking points. You will have the attention of the delegates and the nation for however long it takes.”

He extended his hand. I shook it without acknowledging what he'd said and walked out.

That night I took Debbie out for a couple of steaks at Backwater, right across from my condo in Sand Key. Lots of heads turned when we walked in the door, which used to be on account of her good looks. We both knew things were different now. Politics was on everyone's mind. After months of planning and hype, the convention had finally arrived and I had a profile akin to one of the candidates, at least in these parts. It's the sort of attention I had dreamed about but now felt embarrassed by, at least in Debbie's presence because it confirmed so much of what she'd been saying. But that didn't stop me from trying to convince her otherwise.

“It's you they're looking at,” I offered lamely.

“Please Stan. Even at my law firm, you are all that people talk about. Everyone is speculating about what role you'll be playing this week. They're calling you ‘the Hatchet's hatchet.' ”

I scanned the restaurant and watched as a man who'd just entered with his wife nudged her and tried (unsuccessfully) to make a disguised gesture in our direction.

“I'm happy for you to get the notoriety. I just wish it were more authentic. And I worry about whether you will be happy when you get all you've been working for. So they roll you out all over the country and you have to keep spewing this stuff,” she went on. “No matter what they pay you, and how many heads turn when you walk into a restaurant, I doubt it will be worth it.”

But despite my misgivings, and those of Debbie, my callers were really stoked on Monday. Everybody was totally
into the convention. This was a great moment, they said, for Tampa/St. Pete, Republicans, and conservatives everywhere. Although ratings technology is always improving, there was still no way to instantly know how many people were listening to
Morning Power
. But the program felt different and the excitement lasted the entire week. No one waited for me to say anything. By the time the bumper music ended coming out of every break, all the lines were lit and they stayed that way for every segment. Rod had a spring in his step. Alex looked less than thrilled, but she was, nevertheless, a consummate professional. She'd made certain the entire week was booked with A-list political guests, all of whom were in town and anxious to speak on
Morning Power
. In prior years, it had always been a question of who we could get to do the program. Now, it was a function of who we wanted. This was in part an added benefit of my TV work; when Alex called or emailed their staffs, there was now a level of recognition that I had previously lacked.

The pitch used to be: “I was wondering if the senator would like to appear on Stan Powers' radio program which is called
Morning Power
and is based out of Tampa Florida?”

Those days were over.

“Stan Powers would love to have Senator Bullwinkle on as a guest,” was now all it took.

After the program on Monday morning, I was due back on the convention floor for another round of interviews. As I made a dash for the door, Alex handed me a phone message from Wilma Blake. Once again, the note was produced without comment. I tried to show no emotion which I am sure only heightened Alex's suspicion.

I was surprised to hear from Susan. With all the attention on the GOP for the next week, I figured Tobias and his family would grab their final week of vacation until November.

“Shouldn't you be on a beach somewhere?” I asked her.

“Who says I'm not?”

“You looked great last week.”

“Let's talk about this week, Stan. You know she plays dirty. They don't call her Molly Hatchet just because of her fiscal axe. I'd hate to see her use you.”

That was an odd word choice from someone I suspected of knowing a thing or two about using people. But she was obviously wise to the fact that I'd be playing a small role in the festivities.

“It's all over the Internet, Stan. Politico says you'll actually be the one to put her nomination over the top when you cast Florida's votes. That's a great honor
only
if you don't embarrass yourself.”

Since I was now fairly committed to what I would do, the only question was whether I should tell her. She was a friend, after all. Or was she? She'd used me as a fuck buddy back at Shooter's many years ago, which was fine for Stan Pawlowski. But I was now convinced she'd done the same with Stan Powers. Thinking it through, I saw no need to offer her anything. This was the last time I'd probably speak to Susan Miller.

“We could see more of each other after the convention is over,” she offered. “I'll be back in Florida a lot, you know.”

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

Since I wasn't biting, she tried one more approach.

“We all do things when we are young that we regret. You certainly know that, Stan.”

I took that as an admission. The Scientology link was real.

“Good luck, Susan,” I said.

“Do the right thing, Stan.”

Click.

•  •  •

I could hardly sleep on Monday night. It was a combination of excitement and dread. I'd worked for years to get to this position and had plotted with Phil for seven straight months as to exactly how to seize this opportunity. But it was coming at a high cost. It'd be bad enough if I just had to parrot talking points, many of which I didn't believe, but this was far worse. Because I'd shilled at the Reagan Library, I was being rewarded with the unseemly task of politically knee-capping a sitting governor one week after he'd secured his party's nod. What elevated my concern was what I detected in Phil's voice during our final call earlier that afternoon.

“You've reached the pinnacle, Stan. The circumstance doesn't really require anything more from you.”

“Too late,” I wanted to say, but I didn't.

Phil might have known many things, but he had not been in the advance loop about Governor James. It had been implied in my meeting with Jackson Hunter that I would never reveal the role of the Haskel campaign and I had honored that bond. Even if Phil had figured it out, best for all involved that these matters not be discussed. And it was the same with Tuesday night. Phil knew my role and he knew who put me there. But he did not ask exactly what I was going to say, nor did I tell him. And yet he did not waste either of our time mapping out remarks, which he had done so many times on the road that led to this. For as long as we'd been working together it was always Phil trying to take things up a notch. But not now. And that had me worried.

“Have you settled on what you are going to say?”

“I'm ready.”

“Are they your words?”

I wasn't sure how to answer that. I said nothing.

“Try to enjoy it, Stan. I got close myself once. When it's over, you'll have to tell me how it feels.”

I wasn't prepared for that dropping of his guard.

No barking. No edge in his voice. No condescension.

No “Don't be a pussy, Powers.”

Not even a final “Be conservative, consistent, and compelling.”

In that moment, I felt sorry for the man in Taos, sitting in front of an electronic board, programming everyone else's career but still regretful of the personal mistakes that had prevented him from fully realizing his own.

“Thank you, Phil.”

I'd never thanked him for his advice, and now I was grateful for him not giving me any. Maybe that should have been a sign all along.