Books

In the first year George W. Bush was governor, he was obsessed with one man: Bob Bullock.

"What's Bullock up to?" the governor would ask me. "What do you hear about Bullock?"

It was a constant refrain from the fledgling governor, acknowledgment of something fundamental in the calculus of state politics a decade ago: Mr. Bullock was the most powerful political figure in Texas, and without him, Mr. Bush would not – could not – succeed.

There is a moment in Bob Bullock: God Bless Texas, a very fine biography by Dave McNeely and Jim Henderson, that illustrates Mr. Bullock's odd and combustible character and Mr. Bush's effort to contain it.

Over lunch with the governor and House Speaker Pete Laney, Mr. Bullock suddenly and with terrifying fury began berating Mr. Bush, threatening to kill one of the governor's cornerstone issues.

Mr. Bush listened to the obscene rant, then stood, walked over to Mr. Bullock and kissed him.

The punch line, unprintable here, marked the moment you could see Mr. Bush on an upward trajectory to national office with the help of one of the strangest, most colorful Texas figures in the last century.

That Mr. Bullock amassed such power seems, in retrospect, impossible. He was the antithesis of the consultant-driven, poll-conscious, politically correct politician. He was married five times (twice to the same woman), an alcoholic, manic-depressive, given to firing staffers on the spot (and hiring them back the next day).

He carried a gun, which he once held to a waiter's head as a critique of the service. As a young legislator, he took money from the white supremacy lobby; as a bagman for Gov. Preston Smith, he laundered campaign contributions; as state comptroller he nearly got indicted for personal use of state airplanes; and as lieutenant governor, he ruled the Senate by intimidating force of personality.

There are thousands of stories about Mr. Bullock, who died in 1999. Some of them are in this book.

Mostly, though, the authors have told a story of redemption – greatness even, however flawed the vessel.

Mr. Bullock survived because what he did worked. He brought the state's tax-collection operation into the 20th century, reformed election laws, initiated a detailed review of state agencies, pushed through needed water policy, demanded excellence from state employees and saved Mr. Bush from disgrace when his 1997 tax-cut plan bombed (thereby helping the future president's future race for the White House).

In between, Mr. Bullock went to rehab – "drunk school," he called it. And he matured (he would have hated it said that he mellowed), using his considerable political talents for public good, not special interests.

The authors, veteran Texas newspaper journalists, have presented a complex portrait of power, balancing the good Bullock with the bad.

They tell how during his drinking days, Mr. Bullock once called a reporter aside at Scholz Garten, a favorite political watering hole in Austin, to talk privately on the patio. As soon as they sat down, he pulled a gun from his pocket and placed it on the table between them.

"I sometimes get so mad at you that I want to shoot you," he said, leaning into the reporter's face. "I just wanted you to know that."

Talk radio and the cable chattering class sometimes pummel our politicians as a conventional, blow-dried and scripted lot, too worried about voter approval to take any chances.

Now Mr. Bullock, that's an elected official Bill O'Reilly could love.

Dave McNeely and Jim Henderson

(University of Texas, $27)

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