Look away, look away, Dixieland
Mob Rule: Part 36
Jack lands in the heart of Klan land where the air smells of smoke and cordite, and the Civil War apparently never ended
By John Armstrong
It had been a long, hot muggy ride from Baton Rouge to Montgomery and by the time we arrived I felt like I might as well have swum. I could have wrung my shirt out like a bathing suit. Redcaps at the station loaded us into cabs and I climbed into one with Otis and Vanessa. When I gave the driver the name of our hotel he looked at me with saucer-sized eyes in the rearview mirror and said, “All y’all staying at the Hampton?”
“That’s right. Why?”
“’Cause your friend going to be the first colored to spend the night there.”
“Shit,” Otis said. “I wondered when Jim Crow was going to show up.” He said to the driver, “Thanks for telling us. Where would you suggest as an alternative?”
The driver pulled us out into traffic and said, “I favor the Hotel Sapphire. My sister works the desk and ...
Fear and Bloating
Mob Rule: Part 35
Breaking bread on the campaign trail leaves Jack with a stuffed gut and a deeper view of the divide between North and South
By John Armstrong
We left the ranch early the next morning for San Antonio by car with Lyndon, Vanessa, and myself together in one with Otis so he could coach me and fine-tune the speech for that night. We left so fast we took breakfast with us, coffee in jugs and tortillas and scrambled eggs and sausage in tinfoil packages. The cars had shown up that morning before sunrise and the line of black limousines made for a strange motorcade through the scrubby Texas badlands, like a funeral that had badly misread its directions to the churchyard.
It was about a four-hour drive and we made San Antonio well before noon, in time to nap and shower. It was going to be a long, hot day – in fact, it already was. We had a DAR picnic with one group at 2 p.m., a church supper at five and two speeches in different locations that night.
I read ...
Starting a church of one’s own down South
Mob Rule: Part 34
As the sweat pours down like a late summer thunderstorm, Jack realizes the South makes its own rules that may, or may not, be entirely legal
By John Armstrong
We got back to the ranchhouse in the early afternoon, already so hot you could feel drops of sweat pop up on your body, run down your skin and evaporate before they got to the bottom. Lyndon had lent us cowboy hats for the ride, and I felt a little silly wearing mine until I learned your brains would literally bake without one. I did try fanning myself with it but it was like trying to cool yourself off with the air from a blast furnace and no real relief at all. I fully understood the idea of the siesta now and all I wanted was to lie somewhere in front of a fan with as little clothing as possible. I didn’t even care if Vanessa joined me or not; the idea of anything more strenuous than a nap seemed preposterous.
But it was not to be. Bobby, Sydney, and Otis wanted Lyndon and I for a general ...
Texas hold ’em, then crush ’em
Mob Rule: Part 33
Jack ponders his place in the deck after a long ride on Lyndon B. Johnson's ranch that ends in a rickety shithouse
By John Armstrong
That night we slept in cool, fresh-ironed sheets while coyotes sang a lullaby through the open windows. I woke up with a smile, ready to eat again and go ride a bull, or perhaps just a horse to start with.
I got my wish. After breakfast Lyndon asked if we’d like to ride out with him and see the house he was born in. His wife, whose name really did seem to be ‘Bird” though the hands called her Miz Johnson unfailingly, packed lunches and filled thermoses with water and tea.
Vanessa was experienced with horses but I had some difficulty actually getting up onto the mine, a big bay named Baldy. Not that he lacked for hair; Lyndon said horses with a white patch on their face were commonly called bald-faced.
I’d never actually seen one in the flesh and it was something else entirely to stand beside one. Do you have any ...
Messin’ with the Texan
Mob Rule: Part 32
Jack drinks in acres of bluebells and the sight of expansive ranch lands as he chows down with Lyndon and Ladybird
By John Armstrong
The trip from Kansas to meet Lyndon in Texas was a long, dusty one. We’d done Missouri just before and I had to admire the way Sydney’s staff had finessed the speech writing. A Missourian who heard me talk in St. Louis, Independence, or Joplin would have had heart stoppage if he’d been at the fundraiser a few nights later in Kansas.
Missouri was a border state during the Civil War, never actually seceding but not quite supporting the federals either, and Missourians fought on both sides of the war or sat it out as best they could, as their consciences dictated. I danced around the state’s complex allegiances as much as the writers could manage, but in Kansas, firmly in the union, we made no bones about glorifying their forefather’s brave stand for truth, liberty, and freedom in the Great Conflict and exalting the ...
Courting the vote
Mob Rule: Part 31
The campaign begins to blur into a never-ending series of speeches, hotel rooms and handshakes until Lyndon B. Johnson offers Jack some Texas-style hospitality
By John Armstrong
It was just after ten when the phone rang. Personally, I had no plans to get up ever again unless forcibly removed at gunpoint. We were still in bed with a room service breakfast going cold on a tray; somewhere between the coffee and the first slice of toast it had been jettisoned in favor of more pressing activities.
I stuck a pillow over it and it stopped for second then began ringing again almost immediately. Ignoring it further would just bring someone to knock on the door, so I kissed her one more time and picked it up and was told my presence was required in Bobby and Sydney’s war room. I begged 10 minutes to shower and then had to drag a naked woman halfway to the bathroom before she let me go. I tell you, that kind of thing does wonders for a man’s self-image.
Two floors ...
Mob Rule: Part 30
Stealing from the Best
Finding his comfort zone halfway between holy roller and Hollywood hack on the campaign trail, Jack suddenly realizes it's not about who you really are, but who people want you to be.
By John Armstrong
It was a good thing I made my move when I did. The next morning we left for California.
We took off in more of the drizzling rain and grey skies that mean spring in Washington and arrived in the hard glare and 70 degrees-plus heat of early May in Los Angeles. The waiting limos took us down palm-lined streets to the hotel and I got right to work pacing the floor and chain-smoking, waiting for Vanessa to arrive.
Bobby and Sydney were in meetings all day in a room reserved for just that purpose and again I was largely unneeded, except when I was briefly trotted out for inspection by men whose names I forgot immediately after Bobby introduced us. I had given up on trying to keep such information in my head. It had become a blur of faces and names and even ...
Whistle-stops and White Houses
Mob Rule: Part 29
Now trapped in the travelling circus of politics, Jack tries to reconnect with the mob bosses and bring them up to speed without showing his real hand.
By John Armstrong
We’d flown to Philly for the first stop on the tour but after that we used limousines, at least for the East Coast. Nobody would see anything out of the ordinary in a convoy of big cars with no-see-‘em windows passing them on the freeway; people would assume it was just Family Business. Outside the Kennedy territory we ran the risk someone from the local ruling family would see us and wonder who was on their turf, but they’d be unlikely to stop us. If it turned out to be your own boss, it could seriously hamper a man’s career.
It was a calculated risk. We were too conspicuous using airports, given the size of the entourage. Bobby had a team of minions, Sydney’s inner circle had a dozen or so men (and women) to take care of the grunt work, there were bodyguards and gunmen and several ...
Kicking off the Campaign
Mob Rule: Part 28
Declaring independence while rewarding the patrons who put you in office is just part of an inherently duplicitous political process
By John Armstrong
We left the next morning for Philadelphia. Sydney and Bobby said it was important to kick the campaign off there, for symbolic reasons. It was a short flight. By time we were up in the air it was time to put the seatbelts back on and come down again.
The sign outside Independence Hall said “Closed: Private Function.” Inside the air was thick with smoke and voices, knots of men standing in groups waiting for the proceedings to begin and armed men guarding the doors and windows. Waiters circled the room like bees in a garden, making sure the glasses were kept full. I was kept backstage until it was time for my speech, Sydney and Bobby running over it with me line by line and making sure I knew where to wait for applause and which parts to hit hard on.
“What if they don’t applaud where you think they ...
Primed and preened for the Presidency
Mob Rule: Part 27
I felt like a prize poodle just before the big dog show. They clipped and razored and washed my hair a few times, applied something foul smelling to it... I shut my eyes through most of it and thought murderous thoughts.
By John Armstrong
When I say campaign, obviously we couldn’t do it in the traditional electioneering style, rolling up with brass bands playing and banners flying. This was going to be what Bobby called a “stealth campaign”; as one of the conspirators, a hardware chain tycoon from Des Moines put it, “like we’re coming into town on a wagon pulled by cats.”
Regardless, it was an all-out blitz to get out the vote. Bobby said, “We’ve got a comprehensive list of potential supporters in the key cities and what we need to do now is go out and meet them in person and lock them in,” he said. “We know who to approach, and who’s going to be receptive – or a good idea, anyway. What we have to do is convince them to get on board ...
