My First Political Hit Job
A political thriller from my Republican days, before I found the paths of righteousness
There was a time — long before I wandered onto the more sensible side of the political street — when I was a young Republican with a typewriter, a sharp eye for weakness, and absolutely no idea how dangerous internal party politics could be. What follows is the story of my first political hit job, told the way it felt: tense, smoky, and humming with the low‑grade electricity of a knife fight in a locked room.
And at the center of it all was George Bloom — the quietest, most dangerous man in Pennsylvania Republican politics.
I. The Penn‑Harris: A Hotel Built for Conspiracies
The Penn‑Harris Motor Inn in Camp Hill wasn’t just a hotel. It was the unofficial command center of the Pennsylvania GOP — a place where deals were struck in hallways, alliances were born in the bar, and careers died in the parking lot.
On February 1, 1986, the place was a pressure cooker.
The Specter vs. Thornburgh endorsement battle had turned the State Committee meeting into a political trench war.
Delegates whispered in clusters.
County chairs moved like field marshals.
Operatives scanned the room for threats.
And somewhere in that maze of carpeted corridors and cigarette haze, George Bloom was watching everything.
II. Enter Bloom: The Man Who Never Raised His Voice
To understand the story, you have to understand Bloom.
He wasn’t loud.
He wasn’t flashy.
He didn’t need to be.
Bloom was the kind of man who could walk into a room and instantly know who was lying, who was scared, and who was about to switch sides. He had run the Pennsylvania Republican Party for decades — not by force, but by information control.
He collected secrets the way other men collected stamps.
He remembered everything.
And he had a gift for making people underestimate him — a soft‑spoken Jewish Republican in a state party that, in the 1940s and 50s, didn’t exactly overflow with them. During World War II, he’d been left effectively running the state when the governor went back into uniform. That kind of responsibility leaves a mark. It teaches you how to move levers quietly.
By 1986, Bloom was the spider at the center of the web.
And I — young, earnest, and a little too eager — had just handed him a weapon.
III. The Letter: A Blade Wrapped in Stationery
I had written a letter analyzing Dick Thornburgh’s near‑loss to Allen Ertel in 1982. It was factual, sharp, and devastating if read by the right people at the right moment.
I sent Bloom a copy.
He didn’t call.
He didn’t write back.
He didn’t ask permission.
He simply took a black marker and blacked out his own name and address, so nobody could see who the letter had originally been sent to.
But he left my name and address right there in plain view.
That was Bloom’s genius:
He protected himself, but he didn’t hide the blade.
He just made sure someone else’s fingerprints were on it.
Then he began circulating the letter — quietly, methodically — through the State Committee like a man dealing cards in a back‑room poker game.
IV. The Detonation
The reaction was immediate and explosive.
Thornburgh’s people were furious.
Forbes 400 National Committewoman Elsie Hillman was incandescent.
Operatives were sprinting through the Penn‑Harris like someone had pulled a fire alarm.
The letter hit the exact nerve Bloom wanted it to hit:
- Thornburgh’s vulnerability
- His near‑loss
- His shaky standing with the rank‑and‑file
- The fact that Specter’s people had the guts to say it out loud
And because my name and address were still on it, I became the face of the attack.
Bloom?
He was nowhere to be found.
He was probably sitting in his office, sipping coffee, reading the early wire reports, and smiling that small, satisfied smile of his — the smile of a man who had once again moved the chessboard without anyone seeing his hand.
V. The Meeting: A Room Full of Enemies
When the State Committee convened, the tension was thick enough to slice.
Thornburgh’s operatives glared at me like I’d set fire to their headquarters.
Specter’s people gave me the kind of nod you give someone who just did something useful — and dangerous.
Bloom drifted through the room like a ghost.
He didn’t look at me.
He didn’t need to.
He had already done his part.
And I had learned something important:
In politics, the person who hands out the letter is never the one who wrote it.
VI. The Aftermath: Lessons From a Quiet Master
The endorsement battle raged on.
The factions hardened.
The whispers grew louder.
And the letter — my letter — became part of the internal war.
I caught heat.
I caught praise.
I caught Bloom’s quiet approval.
And I learned the rules of the game:
- Power moves in silence
- Information is a weapon
- Allies protect themselves first
- A well‑timed document can shift an entire meeting
- And the man who looks harmless is often the most dangerous one in the room
Bloom taught me that without ever saying a word.
VII. The Truth of It
Looking back now, from a very different political life, I can say this:
My first political hit job wasn’t about malice.
It was about clarity.
I saw a weakness.
I documented it.
And a master strategist knew exactly how to use it.
It was messy, exhilarating, and unforgettable — a political thriller played out in real time, in a hotel built for conspiracies, under the watchful eye of a man who understood power better than anyone I’ve ever met.
And that was the day I stopped being a spectator and became a participant.