We also got lucky when we hooked up with the senator. His traveling press secretary turned out to be an old drinking buddy of Newton’s, and he booked Knocko for a one-on-one interview with the candidate that afternoon. This was something of a coup because the senator had been dodging interviews for more than a week. He had given a girl from one of the New York tabs an hour, and she wrote a piece that gave the distinct impression that he had put a move on her in his compartment in the plane.
“Couldn’t have been,” the press secretary told us. “He’s been nursing a bad back for weeks. By the time we get back to the plane after a day of rutabaga festivals and prize goat shows, he’s so beat he can’t get up on his feet, let alone anything else.
“And hey, Knocko. Don’t go getting me in trouble. I told him you would be asking him about the campaign. He strictly ain’t talking about his divorce, and he definitely ain’t talking about the ladies he’s been seeing since.”
“I’ll be the soul of discretion,” Newton replied. “You know you can trust me, buddy.”
That morning, the senator toured a lawn mower factory, trying to grin as he climbed up on the seat of the deluxe rider with automatic bagger, turbo-jet mulcher, and built-in six-pack cooler.
We got a few minutes to file at the airport after a couple more stops and then took off again for the other end of the state. When we got off the ground, the press guy came back, crooked his finger at Newton and led him and Whine up to the front of the plane toward the candidate’s sanctum.
When they left, Dick Clayton came over and sat next to me.
Clayton was one of the best known political reporters in the country—a dozen times a year on “Meet the Press” and the other Sunday gab shows—but he never acted like he was somebody special. I had watched him in other campaigns and, unlike some in the traveling national press rat pack, he made a point of spending time with the local reporters.
Clayton did it because he really was a nice guy, but he also got a dividend out of those chats. He had built a network of friends and admirers all over the country he could call from Washington when he needed a quick fill on some state or local political situation. Reporters who were reluctant to share information with their own editors fell all over themselves to accommodate Clayton. Hell, I once gave him the vacation phone number of our speaker, and I’m pretty sure I was the only person who had it besides his bookie. At least, that’s what the bookie said.
“Knocko got an interview with Himself.” It was a comment, not a question. I started to reply, but Clayton raised his hand. “No big deal. I know he’s been buddies with Jackie Corley from way back. Besides, not much is happening on this campaign to ask about. I’m switching to the general day after tomorrow.”
This time, Clayton waited for a response.
“We just left that campaign,” I said.
“So I heard from the press people over there when I phoned to make arrangements to join them. I didn’t get the picture of a very happy press corps this morning.” Clayton paused and gave me a long look.
“Bob, let me tell you something. I think, and so do a lot of others, that Knocko is beginning to lose his amusement value. Back in the seventies, he was fun to watch because he did and said and wrote wild stuff that the rest of us wished we could get away with or had the guts to try. But he’s trying to outdo himself every four years and it’s getting beyond funny. It’s getting sick and I think maybe dangerous.
“From what I hear, you’re pretty much stuck with him, and I know damn well nobody can keep him on the ground once he gets going. But don’t let Knocko leave you with a lap full of broken eggs. He’s going to leave after the primary, but you’ve got to work in this state. Just some advice—don’t play patsy for him.”
Clayton gave me a pat on the shoulder and went back to his seat. Just before the plane started its landing approach, Knocko and Whine returned. As they settled into their seats, Newton took something out of his pocket and shoved it into the shopping bag he carried wherever he went.
We did a couple of stops and the senator really looked like he was in pain. He had a thirty-minute break in midafter-noon and went through another three appearances without apparent discomfort, although he seemed somewhat distracted. Newton, who usually didn’t follow along close to the candidate in the mob scenes before, during, and after these campaign events, was right up with the TV crews and wire service people all day.
We were ending the day back in the city and planned to file from there. When we got back to the hotel and checked in, Newton called me from his room.
“Give old Ironpants Swift a call and tell him I’ll be filing in half an hour, will you, chief? Also, come on down when you can. I’ve got a ball-buster story and I may need you to dictate while I write.”
I was getting a little bit more than tired of being a copy boy, but Swift wasn’t likely to be sympathetic if I bitched. So I went down to Newton’s room and found him flailing away at the portable typewriter I’d brought on the trip. He handed me the first two pages and turned back to the keyboard.
The hair went up on the back of my neck when I read the lead:
By NAUGHTON NEWTON
Exclusive to The Capital Register & Press
Sen. Vernon Raglinton, a front-runriing candidate for the presidential nomination of hie party and a pillar of the Washington establishment, is under treatment for a mental disorder, The Capital Register & Press learned Tuesday.
“Are you nuts?” I shouted at Newton. “Not me, him. Read on, Bobby,” Newton said as he continued to type.
The senator, campaigning in the state for the primary next week, is being treated by doctors with a derivative of phenothiazine, a drug used to control psychoses, this newspaper learned.
The drug, sold under various trade names, is regarded as “a highly potent behavior modifier” and is widely used in mental institutions to treat patients whose extreme mood swings make conventional psychotherapy difficult.
The senator’s erratic behavior was observed firsthand by this reporter during a number of campaign appearances in the northern part of the state. He was seen to exhibit various symptoms of discomfort, nervousness, and inappropriate gaiety at early stops in his campaign swing, but later in the day appeared relaxed and somewhat disoriented.
This reporter was able during the course of the day to establish that the senator had a supply of the antipsychotic drug on his chartered Jet airplane. It was believed he used the medication during a rest stop, after his first appearances of the day and after which his behavior changed markedly.
“This is crazy shit,” I yelled. “You don’t know he’s on that drug!”
Newton turned from the typewriter. “The hell I don’t,” he said. He dug into the bulging shopping bag and came up with an amber plastic vial. He tossed it to me.
“Mellaril,” he said. “Used in the best laughing academies. That’s an empty I found in the trash bin in the head next to Raglinton’s compartment. You can be damn sure he has more in his luggage.
“Now let’s get going with the story. Call the paper and start dictating.”
“Not me,” I said. “You can’t call a presidential candidate crazy on what you have. I’m not going to have anything to do with this.” I all but ran out of the room.
I went down to the bar and had a beer. This was the worst yet. I could just imagine what Swift was going to do with this story. I thought of calling him and trying to talk him out of using it without some better documentation, but decided he’d just blow his top at me. But Clayton was right, I wasn’t going to be the patsy.
After a second beer, I took my bill and as I dug in my pocket for money, found I still had the plastic vial. Out in the better light of the hotel lobby, I read the label.