No Kidding

Before he entered Doctors Hospital in Washington two weeks ago for his second major brain operation in eight months, California's Democratic Sena tor Clair Engle prepared two statements for the press. The first said that he was still a candidate for renomination to the Senate in his state's June 2 primary. The second announced that he was quitting the campaign because of his health.

There was never much doubt about which statement would be released. Since August, Engle, 52, had not made a single speech in the Senate. Last month, when he rose at his desk to introduce a bill, he was able to utter only the monosyllable, "A. . .," before he lapsed into agonizing silence. Through it all, he clung to the hope that he could still run. But last week, after the results of his second craniotomy were in, Engle sent a telegram to his California headquarters advising, "It is with deep grief that I now ask my state campaign chairman, Tom Carrell, to release the second statement."

Slow Down. Engle's withdrawal left no fewer than eleven Democrats in the race for the Senate nomination, but only two of them matter. One is State Controller Alan Cranston, 49, a tense, balding liberal who spews out words so swiftly that his aides write marginal notes in his speeches advising him, "Take it easy. Slow it down." The other is portly Pierre Salinger, 38, who quit as White House press secretary in March and filed as a candidate just two hours before the deadline.

Having started last, Salinger is running hardest of all. At first, people had trouble taking him seriously. He had, after all, once taken a fully clad dip in Bobby Kennedy's Hickory Hill pool, and he was always doing things like holding press conferences in Bermuda shorts or showing up for tennis at the Newport Casino clothed in gorgeous hues of canary yellow and powder blue instead of the traditional white. Even when he quit gagging, his audience sometimes kept on laughing. Once, after his usual quota of jokes, he told his listeners that he wanted to discuss education in a serious, nonpolitical vein. The audience roared, and Pierre later wondered exasperatedly, "What was so funny about that?"

"Doll Baby, Let's Go." But Salinger has since made it clear that he is not just kidding around, now impresses audiences with his grasp of California problems. He works 18-hour days, often gets by on five hours of sleep, has dropped 13 Ibs. to 190 in five weeks.

Hastily assembled, Salinger's campaign crew committed such initial mistakes as printing leaflets and posters with his name misspelled SALLINGER, but it is now functioning with considerable precision. Some 10,000 people are working for him across the state, including a galaxy of Hollywood stars and starlets. A squad of six shapely coeds called "Sweethearts for Salinger," clad in white sailor shifts and red, white and blue berets, has been formed to pass out pink champagne and campaign propaganda at Salinger rallies.

Last week the first of a series of "Parties for Pierre" was held at the orange-roofed ocean-front home of Salinger's campaign cochairman, Pat Kennedy Lawford. The "Sweethearts" wandered around distributing bumper stickers reading I'M FOR PIERRE, and heart-shaped red balloons inscribed p.s. I LOVE YOU, in addition to the finger sandwiches. When the speechmaking was over, ladies clustered excitedly around Pierre, and he only broke away when a female aide whispered, "Doll baby, it's getting late on the campaign trail. Let's go."

The Late Show. Pierre is going strong, but Alan Cranston may prove a tough man to beat. Cranston has Governor Pat Brown, the 70,000-member California Democratic Council and organized labor behind him. He is expected to pick up more votes among Engle supporters than is Salinger. And he is a strong vote getter who won his job in 1962 by a 1,300,000-vote majority.

But Salinger has the covert support of State Assembly Speaker Jesse ("Big Daddy") Unruh, perhaps the ablest politician in the state. Salinger's past association with Jack Kennedy is doing him no harm. He is slowly overcoming his image as a "carpetbagger" who was born in San Francisco but had not lived in California for seven years (he was a Virginia resident when he jumped into the Senate race). Occasionally, however, when the brass bands strike up California Here 1 Come or P.S. I Love You, a comic in the crowd suggests a rendition of Carry Me Back to Old Virginny.

On the Republican side, retired Song-and-Dance Man George Murphy, 61, is considered the front runner, but as of now is given little chance of defeating either Salinger or Cranston in November. Still, Murphy goes over big with middle-aged matrons, gets good laughs when he tells audiences, "They say I'm just an actor. Well, there have been lots of bad actors in Washington. Maybe they can use a good one." If nothing else, Murphy is getting plenty of exposure: right now some 20 old Murphy movies are making the rounds on television's late-show circuit.

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