“Hell,” said George.

“Amen to that,” said Verena.

“This is really bad news. A serious racist is going to be one of the two presidential candidates.”

“Maybe it’s good news,” Verena argued. “Could be all the sensible Republicans will vote Democrat to keep Goldwater out.”

“That’s worth hoping for.”

The phone rang and George picked up the bedside extension. He immediately recognized the Southern drawl of Skip Dickerson, saying: “Did you see the result?”

“Fucking Goldwater won,” said George.

“We think it’s good news,” said Skip. “Rockefeller might have beaten our man, but Goldwater is too conservative. Johnson will wipe the floor with him in November.”

“That’s what Martin Luther King’s people think.”

“How do you know that?”

George knew because Verena had told him. “I talked to . . . some of them.”

“Already? The result has only just been announced. You’re not actually in bed with Dr. King, are you, George?”

George laughed. “Never mind who I’m in bed with. What did Johnson say when you told him the result?”

Skip hesitated. “You won’t like it.”

“Now I have to know.”

“Well, he said: ‘Now I can win without the help of that little runt.’ I apologize, but you did ask.”

“Damn.”

The little runt was Bobby. George saw immediately the political calculation Johnson had made. If Rockefeller had been his opponent, Johnson would have had to work hard for liberal votes, and having Bobby on the ticket would have helped him win them. But running against Goldwater he could automatically count on all the liberal Democrats and many liberal Republicans too. His problem now would be securing the votes of the white working class, many of whom were racist. So he no longer needed Bobby—in fact, Bobby would now be a liability.

Skip said: “I’m sorry, George, but it’s, you know, realpolitik.”

“Yeah. I’ll tell Bobby. Though he’s probably guessed. Thanks for letting me know.”

“You bet.”

George hung up and said to Verena: “Johnson doesn’t want Bobby for his running mate now.”

“It makes sense. He doesn’t like Bobby, and now he doesn’t need him. Who will he pick instead?”

“Gene McCarthy, Hubert Humphrey, or Thomas Dodd.”

“Where does this leave Bobby?”

“That’s the problem.” George got up and turned the volume of the television down to a murmur, then returned to bed. “Bobby’s been useless as attorney general since the assassination. I still push on with lawsuits against Southern states that prevent Negroes from voting, but he’s not really interested. He’s also forgotten all about organized crime—and he was doing so well! We got Jimmy Hoffa convicted, and Bobby hardly noticed.”

Shrewdly, Verena asked: “Where does that leave you?” She was one of only a few people who thought ahead as fast as George himself.

“I may quit,” George said.

“Wow.”

“I’ve been treading water for six months, and I’m not going to do it much longer. If Bobby really is a spent force I’ll move on. I admire him more than any man, but I’m not going to sacrifice my life to him.”