Citizen Hughes - Michael Drosnin [125]
So, at the end, it came down to that. After all the passion and hope and tragedy and turmoil of 1968, after McCarthy and his children’s crusade, after New Hampshire and Johnson’s abdication, after Bobby Kennedy and his assassination, after the riots and marches and demonstrations, after the siege of Chicago, it came down to that—a choice between the old Humphrey and the new Nixon.
Up in his penthouse, watching TV, Howard Hughes could not have been more pleased.
It was now a contest he could not lose.
“Rather than take the calculated risk of ‘picking the winner’ I think we should hedge our bets,” wrote Maheu, plotting the final drive. “There is no doubt in my mind that if the election were tonight the Republicans would enjoy a glorious victory. There is equally no doubt in my mind that in the sanctimonious confines of the voting booth there will be many Democrats who will have a tremendous struggle with their conscience and make an instantaneous change in their thinking.
“I have taken the liberty of hedging our bets and sincerely hope that you will agree with my judgement. I also believe that we should do substantially more for each since we are playing for such big stakes.”
Hughes agreed. He could hardly take his chances on sanctimonious voters acting out of conscience. Soon he would pass $50,000 to Nixon through Governor Laxalt and a second $50,000 to Humphrey through Dwayne Andreas, a longtime backer who had no official role in the campaign but handled the “sensitive” contributions.
“You may rest assured, Howard,” reported Maheu, “that we have taken all necessary steps to be in a good posture, whichever way it goes.”
It was not going well for Humphrey as he stepped to the podium in Chicago to accept his nomination on Thursday, August 29, the final night of the Democratic convention.
Indeed, poor Hubert had never looked worse than now, at his moment of greatest triumph. Weighed down by the war and LBJ and Mayor Daley, by all the dead in Vietnam and all the demonstrators beaten in Chicago, he seemed covered with blood, covered with shame, as irrevocably soiled as if he had had to crawl on his belly through the slime of the stockyards to get that nomination, and now that he finally had it, the prize seemed only to further befoul him.
Still he stood there with a frozen smile, slavishly thanked his cruel master Lyndon Johnson, and closed with words so obviously hollow they must have hurt: “I say to this great convention, and to this great nation of ours, I am ready to lead our country!”
It was past two in the morning by the time Humphrey made it back to his hotel. He was tired and battered but could not sleep. Obsessively immaculate and offended by dirt, he tidied up his room, busily emptying ashtrays and washing out half-empty glasses, as if by cleaning the suite he could also cleanse himself of the stain of Chicago. Then he sent a Secret Service agent to summon Larry O’Brien.
From three A.M. until past dawn Humphrey and O’Brien talked. The vice-president poured out his pain. He was desperate. He had no campaign money, he had no campaign plan, and now he also had no campaign manager. O’Brien had agreed to help Humphrey only through the convention. Now Hubert was on his own. O’Brien had other plans. He had never told Humphrey the details, but he had made it clear from the start that he was quitting politics to make some real money.
This was farewell. They sat together hour after hour in a room smelling of tear gas, with Humphrey, who cried easily anyway, close to tears, and all the while they could hear the angry shouts of demonstrators in the street below, even now in the middle of the night still chanting, “Dump the Hump! Dump the Hump!”
“Larry, do you hear those people down there?” wailed Humphrey, suddenly begging O’Brien to stay on and run his campaign. “Please, Larry, don’t leave me naked.”
O’Brien was not swayed. He was through with public service. He was through with the destitute Humphrey. He had a new job waiting. He was eager