Fighting for The Spoils

"People ask me what my mother put in the soup," says Ari, who talks with Rahm two or three times a day. "I wish I knew. I have three boys of my own."

Their father is a Jerusalem-born pediatrician who came to the United States after working for the pre-independence Israeli underground. In Chicago, he met Emanuel's mother, an X-ray technician and daughter of a local union organizer who ended up in more than one paddy wagon as a protester in the 1960s. "Politics and the civil rights movement were very much a part of our family life," says Ezekiel. "We went on Martin Luther King's march on Cicero with my mom."

When Rahm was 17, he cut his finger on a meat slicer at Arby's, where he worked a summer job. It became infected, the infection spread to the bone, and a cut grew into a potentially life-threatening condition. Doctors eventually amputated the finger, and Emanuel spent eight weeks in the hospital. He says the experience made him more focused for college and beyond.

"He blames me for ending up at Sarah Lawrence," says Ezekiel, who thought a small Eastern college would suit his brother better than a big school. "But he loved it. He loved being around all those women."

The young Rahm wasn't particularly political. That passion emerged during college when he starting working with the advocacy group Common Cause. Later, he landed on a few campaigns, including Paul Simon's successful first Senate race in 1984. Almost immediately Emanuel proved a peerless fundraiser. Richard M. Daley hired him to dial up dollars for his successful mayoral run in 1989. Two years later, Emanuel got a job in the soon-to-be-legendary "War Room" of Clinton's upstart presidential campaign in Little Rock.

"With the exception of the candidate and his wife, Rahm may have been the only indispensable person in that campaign," says Begala, who credits Emanuel with keeping the money flowing during the Gennifer Flowers unpleasantness. "He was a force of nature."

He stayed with Clinton through most of two terms. Early on, though, his hard-charging style riled as many allies -- in both the White House and the Capitol -- as opponents. In 1993, he was fired as political director, reportedly at the urging of first lady Hillary Rodham Clinton. But he stayed on as a senior adviser to redeem himself, with both Clintons, by successfully spearheading some of their diciest legislative ambitions, including NAFTA and the assault weapons ban.

Those initiatives passed, and along the way Emanuel's wonkier self bloomed like a thousand white papers. He talks fluidly about 401(k) regulations and dependent health coverage and universal college tuition. With fellow Clinton alum Bruce Reed, he recently wrote a book, "The Plan," an election-year wish list of New Democrat policy proposals.

"He's a great strategist, but I actually think he cares more about the policy side of it," says Illinois Sen. Barack Obama, who is close to Emanuel and is campaigning with him for several DCCC candidates in the final weeks. "He likes to talk tough, but deep under that crusty exterior is someone who believes that government can make a difference in people's lives."

But Emanuel's devotion to, say, tax reform may never overtake his rep for grenade-launcher etiquette. His spat with Howard Dean, for example, went publicly profane.

"Rahm and I have certainly had our disagreements," Dean says by e-mail. "But the bottom line is we both want to win."

Even within the White House, few were safe from his instinct for showstopping vulgarity. He once marched up to the newly elected Tony Blair in the Oval Office, where he and Clinton were preparing to go out for their first joint appearance. "This is important," Emanuel said to the British prime minister. "Don't [foul] it up."