Prologue : Part 1

The Running Mate
by Joe Klein

Acclaimed journalist and author Joe Klein returns with another brilliant and slyly subversive novel set in the gladiatorial arena he knows so well: politics in modern-day America.

U.S. senator Charlie Martin is a hot political property, dashing, honorable, irreverent - and a decorated Vietnam veteran. The Running Mate follows this brash hero on a wild, exhilarating ride through the minefields of politics as usual.

But as Charlie quickly learns, combat is a cakewalk compared with the battles waged by free men in pursuit of glory and power. For Charlie's political star is beginning to wane ... a bid for the presidency ends in failure ... a young campaign volunteer's father decks him - in front of the cameras ... a well-kept secret from Charlie's Vietnam days is revealed ... and a woman has entered his life - one who loves him but is appalled by his life's work.

Suddenly Charlie must confront the two greatest challenges of his life - a political opponent who has no scruples and a dazzling, unconventional woman who may force him to choose between love and politics. Charlie's dilemma is one that has come to haunt contemporary American politics: Is it possible to be a good politician and a good man?

The event at the Elks Club ended at dusk and they headed west, into the countryside. She was surprised by the drama of the terrain - the rolling hills were steeper than she'd expected, and perfectly proportionate; the chocolate soil fresh and fecund. The sun was setting between pilasters of clouds, which were less delicate than the casual coastal puffs she was used to; they were bigger, heavier, like the heroic thuds of mashed potato that had been deposited on their plates at the Elks. And yet, the sunset colors were as subtle as the clouds were dramatic; no pollution-induced fuchsias out here. There were streaks of canary and tangerine rising to a robin's-egg blue, then fading into a navy night.

"Great sky," she said.

"Why?" he asked.

Why? She turned to him, wrinkling her brow.

"I just want to see what you see," he explained. She brushed a hand along his cheek, which was sandpapery with early evening stubble.

"All you have to do," she said, "is look more slowly."

Just past dark they stopped at a picket fence, at the end of a long dirt road, after endless, rolling miles of corn and soy. Straight ahead was a simple white farmhouse, overilluminated by halogen crime lights; there was a red barn to the right, and corn all around. The senator slid open the minivan door and jumped out.

"I need to talk to you," he said, taking her by the wrist and, gently but firmly, leading her along the driveway path. She resisted, in part a visceral response to being tugged, but also a consequence of her khaki skirt, which was long and cumbersome. She was also wearing a white silk blouse and navy espadrilles - he didn't much like the espadrilles, but that was part of her allure: she challenged his predispositions.

He yelled a greeting - "Hey, Tom!" - in the general direction of an elderly, heavyset man in coveralls, who was ratcheting himself, with some difficulty, out of the rocking chair on the porch. "Take it easy, Tom," he quickly added, "we'll be right with ya," and he pulled her abruptly to the left, into the corn - several rows in, so no one could see them, although the lights from the house and the campaign minivan threw competing, smoky shadows through the leaves and tassels. He stopped, turned, put his hands on her shoulders; she sensed their unevenness in the dark - the right hand strong; the left a shadow of a presence.

"Okay," Charlie Martin exhaled. "Okay.... Will you marry me?"

"Marry you?" Nell Palmerston was suddenly breathless - and laughing. "Uhhh ... no?" She was, she realized, imitating her daughter, for whom every statement was a question.

"'Uhhh ... no?'" He imitated her imitation, expecting a response. But she was too stunned to say anything. "No? As in, for real - no?" Actually, he wasn't surprised. A simple yes would have been astonishing, perhaps even slightly disappointing. Nothing was ever simple with Nell. He knew he'd have to work at this. "Why the hell not?"

"Because," she said, catching her breath, "you're in campaign mode."

"Oh, come on," he said, trying to see her through the tasseled shadows, "I don't know what that means."

"Yes you do," she said. "At least, I hope you do. I mean, if you didn't - that would really be pathetic."

"I'm in the middle of a campaign," he acknowledged. "So what?" He was having trouble reading her in the dark. It was hard enough reading her when he could see her.

"You're completely caught up in this thing."

"Well, what did you think - "

"I didn't think," she said. "Sometimes I have a problem with that."

"Oh, come on," he said. "You knew. You think I invited you out here to help with the haying?"

"Well." She played a bit, regaining her balance. "Rhymes with haying..." He didn't laugh, and now she was disappointed: he didn't want to play? He wanted a serious response?

Copyright © 2000 by Joe Klein.

About the Author

Joe Klein, a journalist for nearly three decades, is currently Washington correspondent for The New Yorker. In addition to Primary Colors, his previous books include Payback: Five Marines After Vietnam and Woody Guthrie: A Life.