Jumping the Gun : Republicans May Insist a Bush Win in ’92 Is Only Order of Business in Houston, but Some Potential Candidates--or Their Backers--Are Already Jostling for ’96

Their lips may say “Bush 1992,” but that look in their eyes--that wink, that beseeching crinkle--says “Me 1996.”

Painful as it seems, the contest for ’96 is under way at the Republican convention--and amid the concentration on George Bush’s immediate dogfight, the gathering in Houston offers an intriguing glimpse of an election still four years away.

First, the facts.

In an Associated Press survey of half of the convention’s 2,210 delegates, one third said they favored Housing and Urban Development Secretary Jack Kemp in ‘96, while fewer than 10% wanted the heir to the throne, Dan Quayle. Running third was James A. Baker III, last of the Svengalis and soon-to-be White House chief of staff.

Others on the hot list are columnist Patrick J. Buchanan, Defense Secretary Dick Cheney, Govs. Pete Wilson of California, William F. Weld of Massachusetts, Carroll A. Campbell Jr. of South Carolina and former Delaware Gov. Pete Du Pont.

Of course, many political cognoscenti here argue that 1996 talk is ridiculous--empty, if not premature, speculation by a bunch of people (read “reporters and delegates”) with too much time on their hands. But the most obvious signs of the ’96 race have been the signs themselves--the placards, buttons and T-shirts. They’re everywhere.

And the signs tell the story of the moment: At more than one vendor in the Astrodome complex, “Kemp in ‘96” was outselling “Quayle in ‘96” by a 5-to-1 margin. Catching up to Quayle in this venue was Texas Sen. Phil Gramm, who has gotten nearly as much exposure out of the convention as the American basketball players got out of TV ads during the Olympics.

One vendor had so many requests for “Gramm ‘96” buttons that he quickly printed them up--and now they’re outselling Quayle buttons too.

Mostly, though, the men who would be king are involved in activities that would serve Bush well in November. They are making speeches about the party’s past successes; they are schmoozing with contributors; they are firing up delegates.

But clearly, they are serving themselves as well.

With the intensity of the faithful on pilgrimages to Lourdes, many of these men--and they are all men--have been courting delegates on the convention floor and at numerous parties. For their part, the delegates seem to enjoy watching the maneuvers of this bunch of Richard IIIs, plotting their way through brothers and nephews who also could be considered for the throne.

“Shakespeare would have loved all this elbowing and backbiting I’m hearing,” says Margaret Ledge, a housewife from Florida. “You’d think being President was a matter of life and death.”

So far, the New Hampshire and Iowa delegations--because those states play a key role in weeding out candidates during primaries--have been the most dined (by Gramm and Buchanan) and whined (in discreet calls from Quayle’s office).

Indeed, for evidence of who is working the hardest to wire the party for 1996, it takes only a few minutes on the convention floor:

On Tuesday night, for example, Du Pont--an also-ran in 1988--cleaved to the New Hampshire delegates like they were long-lost relatives. As seven delegates in matching American-flag jackets clustered around, he listened to their questions, nodded enthusiastically at their complaints--and all the while ignored Jack Kemp, who was speaking on stage behind him.

But Kemp was on at least one New Hampshire delegate’s mind: Helen Wilson, 72, gushed when questioned about her choice for ‘96, cooing, “Kemp.” Asked why she liked him, she blushed, then finally confessed that at one event this week “I’m sure he winked at me.”

Over in the Iowa section, John Freeland, a high school principal from Mt. Pleasant, said he Hwas impressed by the Mexican food and mariachi music at the party Gramm had thrown for his delegation. But he also liked Kemp’s speech. Still, he’s heard good things about Bill Weld.

“I’ll have to take another look this week at all these guys,” he concluded.

Steve Scheffler, a fellow Iowa delegate and member of his state’s Christian coalition, said he received a call from Quayle’s office even before he arrived in Houston.

“I was flattered to hear from the vice president,” he said. “I guess it was about ‘92--but it could be about ’96.”

But of all the men on the ’96 locomotive, Phil Gramm has served as the most intent cowcatcher trying to knock the others off the track. He has been the most aggressive--and, some would say, the most craven--in attempting to make a name for himself this week.

In Texas, they call it Grammstanding.

“That’s Gramm Stands for Texas,” the senator grumbles.

In fact, Gramm has insisted that he’s no more interested in running for President than anyone else who has ever held office. Just because he had an elaborate party Sunday night for delegates from some of the biggest electoral states and another Monday night that was so big that some had labeled it the Gramm for President Party; and just because he was the honoree of some of the wealthiest Republican contributors at a reception Tuesday, and just because he’s been sending out Gramm for 1996 fund-raising letters for almost two years now . . . doesn’t mean that much, he says.

At an exclusive reception for Gramm, Jack Barnette, a businessman from Georgia who gives $10,000 a year to the GOP, said he has already offered to give up working for a year to help Gramm with a presidential bid.

“I like his humble beginning,” says Barnette as he sips a vodka tonic at the tony Four Seasons Hotel. “Nothing he does in order to go for the White House is too much, ‘cause he’s the right man.” A Bush/Quayle ranking aide disagreed: “Most of these guys don’t have the gonads that Gramm has to be that obvious. He’s been downright crass this week.”

Quayle, according to this same aide, has been more subtle in his efforts. “He’s been very smart. He’s been using his great box in the stadium to impress big contributors, inviting them to sit with him, calling them for dinner. You could say this is all in the name of the ’92 election, but the money people know better.”

Nevertheless, Dan and Marilyn Quayle weren’t so subtle when they caused a minor disruption Monday night by making their way through the convention hall, shaking hands and politicking, during Pat Buchanan’s eagerly awaited speech. (Buchanan, by the way, never mentioned Quayle’s name.)

If Quayle is serious about 1996, he may have to work on those disabling gaffes.

During an interview with Bernard Shaw of CNN, he was asked about his future in the White House.

“Well, Bernie,” Quayle said, “let us get through this week; let us get through the debates; let’s see George Bush reelected this November, and then we’ll talk about 1994.”

Later, Quayle’s press secretary, David Beckwith, said the vice president obviously meant 1996, adding, “Anybody who has their head on their shoulders knows that we have our hands full in 1992.”

Like Quayle, Buchanan also has insisted he wouldn’t even think about 1996 until after November. But his 1992 campaign staff has different plans: Recently, they changed the telephone number of the campaign headquarters so last four digits are “1-9-9-6.” Buchanan’s sister, Angela (Bay) Buchanan, said his staff didn’t get the boss’ approval first.

“But I’ll tell you,” she says, “I’ve been talking to people here all week long about the future, and I’m just waiting for the signal from Pat--and we’re off and running.”

Surprisingly, when he was asked at an elaborate anti-abortion rally who his 1996 choice might be, the Rev. Jerry Falwell, keeper of all things fundamental, didn’t first mention the God-fearing “Pats”--Buchanan or evangelist Pat Robertson, who were both in attendance.

“I think James Baker will have the inside track if he wants it,” said Falwell.

Is that Jim Baker, with one K , or PTL founder Jim Bakker, with two K s?

With barely a chuckle, Falwell sneered: “One K .”

Indeed, Jim Baker may be the most inscrutable no-show non-candidate --besides Dick Cheney. (Both were expected to arrive in Houston on Wednesday for the President’s speech today.) Although many can picture him on the yellow couches of the Oval Office, holding court with world leaders and grinding out tough domestic policy, others point out that he’s never even won a race for school board.

But Falwell says the secretary of state’s inexperience as a candidate shouldn’t stop him: “He’s presidential timber.”

And just because Cheney, who has made it known privately that he’s interested in running, was not around the whole time, doesn’t mean his gremlins weren’t busy.

Grant Larson, Linda Taliaferro and Becky Costantino, all delegates from Wyoming, the former congressman’s state, spent the weekend talking up their homeboy with delegates from across the country.

“He’s one of the few men from Washington who is decent, honest and clean,” said Larson. “Now, how many politicians can you say that about?”

That Pete Wilson couldn’t make it because of his budget problems in California hasn’t prevented his minions from watching out for his future, either.

In fact, some delegates from California--where there is a great deal of sentiment for Jack Kemp--resented orders from their leaders not to show up on the floor Tuesday evening with Kemp or Gramm signs.

One complainer, Xavier Hermosillo, told CNN on Wednesday that such signs were verboten because of Wilson’s 1996 aspirations. Hermosillo, co-chair of the California Latino caucus, balked, declaring, “I don’t agree with this.”

But Marty Wilson, a former aide to the governor and no relation, insisted no orders were given about the signs. “They weren’t verboten ,” he said with a smile. “They just weren’t there.”

Other bright-and-shining governors, such as Massachusetts’ Weld and South Carolina’s Campbell, strutted their stuff at more lofty gatherings, displaying their presidential promise at deeply serious policy forums where the wonk talk was heavy and the crowds thin.

At a party in his honor Tuesday night, featuring Mexican food and a surprise appearance by Bruce Willis, Weld tried to dismiss himself as a standard-bearer in ’96.

“It doesn’t pass the reality test,” he contended. “To be halfway through your first term in (state) office is not a springboard to national politics. There is still a steep learning curve.”

(Weld, who was first in his class at Harvard Law School, seems to have a few things to learn about celebrities: In small talk with Mr. Die Hard, he asked the married actor about his love life. “I don’t read the National Enquirer,” the governor said. Willis, who one delegate said would make a “divine” President, did not respond.)

As to Weld’s qualifications as leader of the Free World, Al Fundacaro and Robert Penta, both alternate delegates from Medford, Mass., couldn’t agree.

“I don’t know that anyone is doing anything about putting Weld out there for President,” Penta began.

Retorted Fundacaro, “What the hell are you talking about? What do you think those signs were at the hotel on Sunday?”

Penta: “What signs?”

Fundacaro: “The signs that said ‘Weld in 1996.’ You don’t think his advance people planted those in the lobby? What is wrong with you? . . . He may as well have announced his candidacy.”

Yet all this jockeying might be unnecessary if one man who already knows the part well decided to throw in his hat. For there are some delegates in Houston who appear to have enormous faith in American medicine and believe there is only one right person for the job--ever: octogenarian Ronald Reagan.

Their placards? “Ron in 2000.”

Contributing to this story were Times researchers and assistants D’Jamila Salem, Lianne Hart and Karen Baird.