Boomsday

by Christopher Buckley

  “Oh, relax, Terry. They didn’t seize your computers. No one cares about your sea otters.”

  “Oh yeah? I promise you, my little senior vice president of Tucker Strategic Communications, that ExxonMobil will definitely care about our sea otter proposal—if they read about it on the front page of The Washington Post.”

  “All right,” Cass said. “I’ll activate Randy. What’s the point of having a U.S. senator for a boyfriend if he won’t intervene with the FBI for you?”

  Terry snorted. “I hear the galloping hooves of cavalry.”

  “Honey bun,” Randy groaned, “I can’t meddle with an FBI investigation. For heaven’s sake. I might be appointed vice president of the United States. How would it look?”

  “I’m not asking you to meddle. Just to call up the director of the FBI and tell them not to leak client-related stuff to the press.”

  “I’ll think about it. By the way, how’re you coming with those volunteers—the ones who said they’d testify as willing to kill themselves at age sixty-five?”

  “Transition. Try, please, to get used to the word. But wait a minute. Why can’t you call him? I didn’t commit any crime. There’s a principle involved. Even if it’s not a principle you can cash in on right away.”

  Randy sighed. “I . . .What if I do and they leak it that I called? You’re my girlfriend. How will it look?”

  “Like you cared about the girlfriend?”

  “Awkward,” Randy muttered. “Damn awkward.”

  “Okay.” Cass shrugged. “I just hope they find the diary file where I quote you calling your mother a ‘cunt.’”

  “What? You wrote that in your diary?”

  “It’s a diary.”

  “Why would you . . .Oh, my God. Cass. What else did you put in there?”

  “Well, let’s see. Stuff about our sex life. How you like to take cherries and—”

  “Cass!”

  “What can I tell you, sweetheart? I’m a girl. Men look at themselves in mirrors. Girls write in their diaries.”

  “Jesus. I don’t believe this. What were the names of these FBI agents?”

  “Antrim and Jackson. They looked kind of lean and hungry. One of them kept touching his gun.”

  Cass hung up. Terry had been sitting next to her throughout the phone call.

  “Did you really put all that in there?”

  “As if. Please.”

  Terry nodded in the way of a pleased mentor. One of his maxims, imparted to all his protégées, was: Never tell a small lie when a big one will suffice.

  “So what’s with the cherries?” Terry said.

  “Wouldn’t you love to know.”

  “This meeting is called to order.”

  “Mr. Chairman,” Gideon Payne said, “I wish to make a statement.” Gideon did not look well. His jowls sagged, and he had small blue circles under his eyes. He looked awful.

  “Go ahead, Reverend.”

  Gideon adjusted his spectacles and read. It was a lengthy and somewhat rambling excoriation of Arthur Clumm, Death Angel of Budding Grave—Grove—ending with a somewhat tedious, solemn, and verbose reaffirmation of the value of human life. Gideon normally ran on high-test; today he rattled, as if running on diesel.

  “Mr. Chairman, may I say something?” Cass said.

  “Yes, Ms. Devine,” the chair said cautiously.

  “As we proceed to investigate the feasibility of Voluntary Transitioning, I too think it would be appropriate to have a moment of silence—for the victims of Budding Grove, who were involuntarily murdered. By Mr. Payne’s employee.”

  “Damn you!” Gideon exploded. “He’s no ’employee’ of mine! And you, madam, are a she-devil! A she-devil! And I cast you out!”

  Cass raised an eyebrow and said quietly, “Mr. Chairman, I was under the impression that I was in the hearing room for a presidential commission. I seem to have wandered by mistake into the chamber reserved for exorcisms.”

  PAYNE CALLS DEATH DIVA DEVINE “SHE-DEVIL”AS TRANSITION HEARINGS DEGENERATE

  “Geedeeon,” Monsignor Montefeltro said, looking worried, “dear friend. How does it go with you?”

  Monsignor Montefeltro knew very well that it was not going well for his dear friend Gideon. He, along with everyone else in the country, had been glued to the proceedings on TV, and he had seen Gideon’s tantrum. The chair had had to adjourn the session. Some said that Payne’s fulminations were a disguised attempt to derail the proceedings. But if it was an act, it certainly looked very convincing. Gideon looked like a man on the verge of a heart attack. To be sure, he was under terrible strain owing to the lawsuits against Elderheaven. Lawyers were circling. He’d been served with papers by the ones representing the first wave of aggrieved families.

  Cassandra Devine, meanwhile, had sat there at the dais, arms crossed, coolly rolling her eyes, an almost bemused expression on her face.

  The two men sat in their usual meeting place, the monsignor’s house in Georgetown. The grandfather clock in the hall beat a calming metronomic tick-tock in contrast with Gideon’s agitation. It was cool and air conditioned, but Gideon kept having to mop perspiration from his glistening brow with his silk handkerchief. He downed the first two glasses of chilled 2001 Gaia & Rey briskly, gulpingly, as if trying to put out a fire that was smoldering somewhere within him.

  For his part, the monsignor was in a pleasant frame of mind, having that week persuaded four wealthy Catholic widows to leave practically all their earthly possessions to Mother Church. The Vatican was well pleased.

  “Massimo. It’s been the most awful time,” Gideon said. “This Clumm maniac . . .I’m being sued by the families for . . .tens of millions . . .and on top of it this woman, Cassandra—she’s got me all twisted up. Did you watch today?”

  “Eh, no,” the monsignor lied whitely, “I was busy. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, I made a fool of myself today. A terrible, pluperfect fool, and in front of the whole world.”

  Gideon poured himself a third glass of wine. “She knows where all my buttons are, and she presses them every time. I—I can’t help myself.” A look of panic crossed his face. “The truth is, Massimo . . .do you want to hear the truth of it?”

  “Yes, Geedeon. Of course.”

  “I love her.”

  Monsignor Montefeltro’s eyes widened. “But Geedeon. How can this be? She attacks you at every opportunity.”

  “I can’t explain it.”

  “Try.” The monsignor, known as one of the silkier confessors in Rome, filled Gideon’s glass.

  It poured from Gideon like water sluicing from an overburdened dam. He loved Cassandra Devine, loved everything about her. He loved her first name, her last name (“I know it’s spelled differently”), her looks, the way she abused him just the way his mother used to. (Is Dr. Freud in?) She made Gideon “all goosey.” The monsignor made a note to look up the word in his Dictionary of Modern American Slang, but he had a good idea what it meant. The man was a wreck.

  By the time Gideon was finished, he’d gulped down several more glasses of wine. He was glassy-eyed and spent, but calmer.

  “You won’t . . .,” he said faintly, “tell what I’ve told you, will you?”

  “Of course not, Geedeon,” Montefeltro said, though strictly speaking, since Gideon was not a Catholic, there was no actual confessional bond of secrecy involved.

  “Geedeon, with all respect for your feelings, I don’t in complete honesty think there is a future for you and this Cassandra Devine.”

  Gideon sighed. “No, no. I know. Oh, hell’s bells, Massimo. I can’t account for my feelings. It makes no sense at all.” He sounded drugged. Well, the man had drunk six glasses of wine. “As long as I’m at it, Massimo, I got another confession for you. I’ve never been with a woman.”

  “Ah.” Montefeltro nodded, rather hoping this was the last confession of the evening. It was one thing to listen to old Catholic biddies tell him they’d been rude to their chauffeurs, but he didn’t really car
e to go spelunking in Gideon’s soul. God knew what goblins lurked there.

  “God loves you for your purity, Geedeon. You serve Him as the apostles served our blessed—”

  “I would like to be with a woman.”

  “Ah. Yes, well . . .” The monsignor nodded, now in full confession-hearing mode. “We all have certain feelings. This is natural. Even I from time to time—”

  “I’m not attractive to women. I know that.”

  “Nonsense! You are a . . .” Well, yes, true, you look like a frog. “A powerful man. People all over the country, the world, respect you. You are the Reverend Geedeon Payne. Friend of the president.”

  “Everyone thinks I killed my mother.”

  “No, no, no. Impossible.”

  “If I were a girl, I suppose I wouldn’t want to get involved with a man who killed his mother.”

  Monsignor Montefeltro shifted in his seat. His facial muscles were starting to knot. No more wine for Gideon. The white wine had a high sugar content.

  “Geedeon—”

  “Do you want to know what happened that day at Frenchman’s Bluff, Massimo?”

  “Only if you desire to tell me. But if you don’t—”

  “She tried to kill me.”

  “Eh?”

  “She wasn’t right in the head. The doctors had diagnosed a terminal brain tumor just three weeks before. I was driving. We stopped, just like we always did, for the view. Then suddenly she reached over and shifted the car into drive and put her foot down on the gas. I said, ‘Momma, what are you doing?’ I tried to brake, but we were on gravel, on a downslope. The car just kept going, sliding. I said, ‘Momma, what are you doing?’ She said, ‘I’m done living. We’re gonna meet Jesus together.’ I said, ‘Momma, but I’m not ready to meet Jesus!’ She said, ‘Well, he’s ready to meet you, boy!’ By then we were five feet from the edge. All I could do was open the door and roll out. The car went over with her in it.”

  Monsignor Montefeltro stared.

  “I made up that story about how the parking brake failed. I couldn’t tell everyone what really happened. That my own mother tried to kill me? And it ended with everyone thinking I killed her.” Gideon shook his head. “I’ve spent my whole life working on behalf of life. Crying over unborn babies, praying over the brain afflicted, keeping them alive. Preaching on the sanctity of every human being. And now . . .” He let out a long, plaintive sigh. “Now I’m in love with a woman who’s the poster girl for legal suicide. And on top of that, I got people suing me for tens of millions of dollars ’cause of some psycho male nurse!”

  He glared at Massimo. Behind the exhausted eyes burned a bright, furious fire. “It ain’t right! It ain’t fair! You’re a man of God. You got a direct line to the Almighty. You got a switchboard at the Vatican, straight to heaven. Well, next time you and your cardinals are talking to the Lord, you ask Him: What did Gideon Payne do to make Him want to take a giant crap on him! You ask him that!”

  Monsignor Massimo Montefeltro said to himself, Caution. Caution. You are dealing with a wounded creature of the American swampland. Speak very softly. Keep your fingers away from his mouth.

  “Geedeon, what you tell me gives me the most enormous pain.”

  “Well, it should! It damn well should!”

  “Remember that it is only through suffering that we come truly to know God.”

  “Aw, what a bunch of crap.”

  “Geedeon. Please. It is the entire basis for our religion!”

  “Not mine. Not anymore. This boy is done with suffering! This boy is going to party down and howl at the moon and get laid! I am going to know women! I’m going to know them every which way from Sunday! Now, you go get us another bottle of this fine Italian grape juice. You and I, Massimo, we’re going to get drunk tonight. We’re going to get good and truly and royally drunk. And then,” Gideon said, “you and I”—he belched—“we’re gonna get laid!”

  Chapter 27

  Frank Cohane pondered Bucky Trumble’s bizarre request on the way back to California in his jet. He was able carefully to analyze the conversation, by virtue of having recorded it.

  It occurred to him as he pressed the “Play” button on his pocket digital microrecorder that he was amassing quite the audio archive of his dealings. Bucky Trumble’s voice came through clear as a bell. Frank listened as the chief aide to the president of the United States asked him to plant outgoing e-mails on his daughter’s computer in order to link her to a serial murderer. Frank thought, Wow. And I thought I could be devious.

  He ran the scenarios through his mind. Scenario one: success, reward, a significant cabinet post in Peacham’s second term. Secretary of the Treasury, a title you got to keep for the rest of your life. Scenario two: success, Peacham loses election, no reward. Scenario three: lack of success, disgrace, prosecution, prison. Scenario three lacked appeal.

  Frank analyzed scenario three again and again, evaluating every node and decision marker. He concluded that Trumble’s request could be accomplished at technically negligible risk. Less than . . .he calculated . . .one-tenth of a percent. Not quite zero tolerance, but—acceptable.

  He thought it through one more time and decided that the risk of being disgraced and in jail was—unacceptable.

  So where does that leave us? If you don’t play ball, no cabinet post.

  He played the tape again. Had he made any self-incriminating comment? The answer was: No. Nothing. He hadn’t said a word. He had listened to Bucky Trumble’s request; had commented on its gross illegality. After that, Bucky got up, said how grateful the president would be if Frank contrived to put his own daughter behind bars, and—left. He, Frank, had said nothing. In any court of law, and even in the higher court of public opinion, his silence could be construed to be that of a father horrified to the point of muteness on being asked to act so heinously against his own flesh and blood.

  He was in the clear.

  And now Frank Cohane had an epiphany. Instantly, he chided himself on how obvious it had been all along. He felt a surge of satisfaction as he looked down on the sunset-drenched clouds going by. He signaled the rather dishy stewardess—a feature on Air Frank, as it was called within the company—to bring him a Scotch on the rocks.

  He leaned back in the soft teal-colored Italian leather and gazed out the window again. He was at forty-six thousand feet, alone in his own jet, flying toward the setting sun, home to a forty-thousand-square-foot, as-seen-in-Architectural-Digest house overlooking the Pacific; to a woman—tiresome, lately, but who still lived up to her end of the bargain, providing him with on-demand, world-class sex. He had everything he wanted or could possibly need—and now he had just figured out how to get even more, and completely risk-free. Frank Cohane felt a surge of well-being.

  “So?” Cass asked Randy. They were in his Senate office building, following a long day of commission hearings. Gideon Payne hadn’t shown up; probably still licking his wounds.

  Randy had been evasive all day. Every time she brought it up, he said he didn’t want to discuss the matter in or even near the commission hearing room. Senators, who spend most of their waking hours within a few feet of a microphone, sooner or later become convinced that the entire landscape is listening, even if they really have nothing worth listening to.

  “Did you call the FBI?”

  “Honestly?”

  Cass said, “Randy, you’ve got to stop saying that. It sends a signal: Normally, I lie through my teeth. Trust me. I teach corporate executives how to lie. But the answer is, yeah, I’d like to know. Honestly.”

  “I got my guy Speck working on it. If anyone can find out what’s going on with the FBI and your computers, he can. I still can’t believe you put all that stuff in your diary. I’m not even certain I ever called my mother a cunt to you.”

  “Why can’t you just call the FBI directly? You’re a U.S. senator. You’re supposed to throw your weight around.”

  “Because it will leak that I’m trying to protect my girlfri
end.”

  “So? It’ll get you the girlfriend vote.”

  “I promise you that I am every bit as anxious as you are to get your bloody computer back. My God. Mother was a pillar of Massachusetts society. And you calling her a cunt.”

  “No, you called her a cunt, darling. I just wrote it down.”

  “The entire board of the Society of the Cincinnati attended her funeral! The governor came.”

  “Well,” Cass said, “let’s hope your guy Speck is as good as you say he is. I wonder why Gideon didn’t show today.”

  “He’s probably under his bed in the fetal position,” Randy said. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back. You can continue tormenting him. By the way, you given any more thought to my proposal?”

  “‘By the way’”

  “Problem?”

  Cass sighed. “You’re asking me to marry you, and you preface it with ‘by the way’? You sure know how to make a girl feel like item number eighteen on your to-do list for today. ‘Haircut.’ ‘Ask Cass if she’ll marry me.’ ‘Fix garage door.’ ‘Vote against emergency spending bill.’ Are WASPs genetically incapable of being romantic?”

  “You want me to get down on my one good knee?”

  “Forget it. I’ll get back to you.”

  Gideon Payne was not under a bed sucking his thumb, in the fetal position. He was upright, though barely, in the parlor of Monsignor Montefeltro’s Georgetown house, taking tiny sips of black coffee and nursing a head that felt like a blacksmith’s anvil. Demons, large ones, perhaps even Beelzebub himself, were pounding on the anvil with sledgehammers, making the most terrible noise.

  “Do you want more Alka-Seltzer, Geedeon?”

  “Oh . . .,” Gideon whimpered, waving him off with a feeble motion. He put down the coffee, picked up the Ziploc bag full of crushed ice, and put it to his forehead. It felt corpse-cold and waxy. A large bruise empurpled several square inches above his left eye; a small gash in its center crusted over with blood.