Boomsday

by Christopher Buckley

Monsignor Montefeltro, fearing anew for his $15,000 antique Tabriz rug, which reeked unpleasantly of Mr. Clean bathroom cleanser and other things, nudged a wastebasket closer to Gideon.

  The monsignor himself did not feel 100 percent. Out of sympathy for Gideon, who was clearly going through some kind of breakdown, he’d kept him company in drink, at least up to a point. Gideon had consumed four bottles of white wine. (Total cost: $460.) Montefeltro himself had consumed perhaps the better part of two bottles, rather more than his normal intake, even when working on a recalcitrant widow. His tongue felt furry and sticky, the inside of his head felt like the entrance to hell. He had already taken four Advils.

  He relived the horror of the previous night. At some point while drinking his fourth bottle, Gideon had staggered to his feet and shouted, “Let’s go get us some pussy!” Whereupon he had pitched forward into an eighteenth-century Venetian rosewood ebony-and-ivory-inlaid table (cost: $8,000), reducing it to splinters and opening up a gash in his forehead.

  Montefeltro managed to revive Gideon, offering a sincere thanks to the Virgin Mary that the inebriated Protestant had not bled to death in his living room. The parlor now resembled an abattoir. Upon reviving, Gideon copiously voided the contents of his stomach onto the Tabriz and onto Monsignor Montefeltro.

  Since the monsignor preferred not to have to explain to his housekeeper why the parlor was a lake of vomit and blood, he rummaged through the basement for something that looked as if it had to do with cleaning, eventually finding a bottle of yellow liquid with a label displaying a bald smiling eunuch with an earring. Why this should symbolize cleanliness to Americans was a question the monsignor did not pause to resolve. He got down on his hands and knees and cleaned the horrific mess himself, a very different office from symbolically washing the congregation’s feet on Good Friday. By the time he finished, Gideon revived and, now feeling greatly improved, demanded more wine. At which point the nightmare began in earnest.

  The monsignor had gone off to make a pot of coffee in the kitchen. He was no more used to making coffee for himself than scrubbing the floors. Finding all the ingredients took time. When he came back to the room with the coffee, he found Gideon on the phone—Montefeltro’s own house phone—having what sounded suspiciously like a conversation with the dispatcher of an escort service. The true horror came when he heard Gideon giving out the monsignor’s address.

  Gideon hung up, smiled, belched.

  “Geedeon, what have you done?”

  “Lysol,” Gideon said, looking at the rug. “Lysol’s the thing. Make all the nasty germs go ’way. . ..”

  “No—who were you talking to just now? On my telephone?”

  Gideon contemplated the unpleasantness of his barfed-upon pants legs and shoes. “You got any extra duds? Can’t entertain our lady friends looking like this. Hic.”

  “Duds? What are you talking about? Geedeon, who were you—”

  “Always liked the way you looked. Cassock. Hic. With the little scarlet—hic—buttons. You must have another one up there. Can’t wear the same cassock day in—hic—day out. Hic. Might have to let it out a bit in the belly. Hic. I’ll take one of them crimson skullcaps. Just love the crimson skullcaps.”

  “Geedeon. Listen to me. Please. Please. Who were you talking with on the telephone?”

  Gideon smiled a big beaming smile, broad as the Potomac River. “Donnnnnn’t you worry about a thing. I ordered us up a couple of—hic—hotties. Hic. Russians. You know what they say about Russian girls? Hic. Yours is named . . .Tolstoy. Hic. Mine’s—hic—Dostoevsky.” Gideon began humming “The Song of the Volga Boatmen.”

  Montefeltro relived the agony of what followed: the ringing of his doorbell; having to physically restrain Gideon from getting up to answer it; more ringing; insistent ringing; angry ringing, accompanied by loud banging on the door. Then the ultimate horror: His phone rang. Cautiously he answered and heard an angry voice, Russian accented, saying, “Mr. Montefeltro. Your dates are outside. Please to let in.”

  Porca miseria! The awful-sounding woman knew his name. His phone number.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “there must be a mistake. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  The Russian voice said, “No mistake. We have caller ID. Are you going to let them in, or you want I’m sending men?”

  “No, no men!”

  “You want girls, then?”

  “No! Look, it’s . . .I am sorry, it’s all a bad mistake. Good night. Thank you. Good night. God bless you.” The monsignor hung up the phone.

  “Where’s my Russian girl?” Gideon said. “Where’s my little babooo-shka? Back in the U.S., back in the U.S., back in the USSRRRRRRR. . ..”

  “Geedeon. Please. Quiet. Shut up.”

  “That’s no way to speak to a—hic—man of God. Oh, I’m a man of God. . ..”

  The doorbell rang. The phone rang. The besieged monsignor answered.

  The voice, now icy, said, “You owe one thousand two hundred dollars. Six hundred for each. You don’t want massage, no problem. But you owe one thousand two hundred dollars for making massage house call. Or I am sending Ivan and Vladimir.”

  “Okay. Please. Wait. A moment.”

  In a panic, Monsignor Montefeltro ransacked his home for money. Monsignors tend not to keep on hand large sums of cash.

  Gideon had passed out again. Montefeltro rummaged through his pockets and found his wallet. It held a bit over $300. The doorbell rang and rang. There was a loud pounding on the door. Ivan the Terrible and the probably even more terrible Vladimir.

  He saw Gideon’s expensive-looking gold watch fob resting against his bulging, vomit-splattered vest. He took it and the even more expensive-looking gold watch it was attached to. He went to the door, opening it with the lock chain attached, and peered out. There he saw two Valkyrie-tall Russian-looking ladies, attractive (in a cheap sort of way), smoking cigarettes, and wearing faces of fury.

  “Why you not open door?”

  “Shhh. Prego.”

  “You’re —priest?”

  Agnus Dei . . .In the confusion, Montefeltro had forgotten to remove his Roman collar.

  “No, no. It’s—a costume. It’s costume party. We’re having a party. Yes. But everyone is now asleep. Thank you for coming. Here.” He handed over the cash and gold watch and fob.

  “What’s this?” said Tolstoy. Or Dostoevsky.

  “A gift. Very valuable. Please. Go. Now. It’s all a mistake. A terrible error. Please. Dasvidanya. God bless you. I love Russia. Wonderful country. Good night. Good night.”

  He shut the door, threw the bolt, and braced, sweat trickling down his neck, for another ring of the bell or the phone or Ivan’s jackboot to come through the door.

  Silence. The makeshift emoluments had done the trick.

  Omnibus sanctiis et Tibi, Pater . . .

  He heard from the parlor: “Where’s my Russian girls?!”

  Chapter 28

  Allen Snyder, looking un-upbeat and definitely lacking spring in his step, arrived at the offices of Tucker for the meeting he had hastily called with Terry and Cass.

  “I’ve got some good news and less good news,” he said, trying to smile through resisting facial muscles. “Which would you like to have first?”

  “The good news,” Cass said.

  “The bad news,” Terry said simultaneously.

  “The good news: There’s nothing on the computer linking you to Arthur Clumm. Legally, for the time being, you would seem to be in the clear on that one. Though it remains a bit of a public relations . . .”

  “The word you’re looking for is ‘nightmare,’” Terry said.

  “Then what’s the bad news?” Cass said.

  “They found those files relating to your North Korean project. Some golf tournament?”

  Terry said to Cass, “I thought you deleted those.”

  “I did,” Cass said.

  “They found them,” Allen said. “I’ll explain the technology later.”

>   “Why not save it—for our arraignment?” Terry said. “Oh, great.”

  “It’s typically the deleted files that interest them. Let me ask you—did the North Koreans approach you, or did you approach them?”

  “No, no—they approached us. Absolutely,” Terry said.

  “Were you in direct contact with their government?”

  “No way. There’s this NGO here in town, the—what’s it called, Cass?”

  “Association of Totalitarian Asian Tyrants?”

  “Cass. Could we be helpful, please?”

  “It’s called the U.S.-Korea Mutual Understanding and Promotion Society.”

  “Right,” Terry said. “Not a big office. Just one guy who chain-smokes. Mung Park. Mr. Mung Park.”

  “And they wanted you to do what, exactly?”

  “The way they put it was like, ‘To promote harmony and understanding between North Korea and the community of world nations’ by putting on a pro-am golf tournament. In North Korea. They have a golf course, apparently. A really challenging course. Over there, a bunker’s really a bunker. Our job was to put it on. You know, wrangle celebrities.”

  “Celebrities?” Allen Snyder said.

  “There wasn’t exactly a groundswell of enthusiasm. But O. J. Simpson indicated some interest.”

  “Real A-list,” Cass said to Allen.

  Allen digested this information. He said, “You’re aware that North Korea is on the State Department list of sponsors of international terrorism. American citizens are prohibited from doing business with North Korea.”

  Terry, rallying to his own defense, said, “We were more just exploring a theoretical . . .you might say, avenue of convergence. Nothing . . .specifically . . .definite?”

  Allen stared.

  “Terry,” Cass said. “We’re surrounded. Give it up.”

  “What has it come to,” Terry said, “when your own government turns into Big Brother, knocks down your doors, seizes your computers, and comes after you with all its formidable resources for trying to contribute something—just something—a gesture, to . . .to . . .” He looked at Cass. “I forgot. What was it?”

  “Harmony and understanding.”

  “Right.”

  “Let me deal with the FBI,” Allen said. “I imagine we’ll be hearing from them soon.” Just then, Terry’s secretary buzzed him to say that two agents from the FBI were outside wanting to speak with him and Cass.

  Allen went out to run interference.

  “I’m thinking we should have a separate reception area,” Terry said. “One for clients and one for the FBI. We’ll make it nice for them. Potted cactuses. Copies of American Rifleman. A TV showing America’s Most Wanted.”

  “About the computer,” Cass said to Randy. He was scribbling notes for a speech on a legal pad.

  “Um?”

  “There’s good news. And other news. Which do you want to hear first?”

  “Given my druthers, I’d only ever want to hear good news. I thus gather your news is something less than good.”

  “They didn’t find anything about your mother being a c-u-next-Tuesday. Or what we do with cherries.”

  “Well, what a relief,” Randy said with a miffed air, looking up from his legal pad. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose, giving him a supercilious WASPy air. “So if you Google ‘Senator Randolph Jepperson’ and ‘cunt,’ you won’t get two thousand matches. Quel joie.”

  “So, you want to hear the other news?”

  “Not particularly,” he said, going back to his legal pad. “But I have a feeling I’m going to anyway.”

  “Terry and I were sort of in discussion with . . .it was this business deal . . .really, no big deal.”

  “Um?”

  “Probably never would have even gotten to that. Deals like that fall through all the time.”

  Randy continued scribbling his announcement speech.

  “Tell you what, Cass,” he said. “I won’t look at you, and you tell me what you need to tell me. How would that be? On the count of three. Ready? What was it you said about truth telling being just like riding a bicycle? One . . .two . . .three.”

  “The FBI found some files on the computer that make it seem like Terry and I were”—Cass made a dismissive sound—“working with an NGO trying to facilitate one of those, you know, hands-across-the-seas type of deals where you, you know, adopt a private sector, bilateral, really more multilateral . . .”

  Randy looked up. “Did you just have a stroke?”

  “Huh?”

  “Because you’re making no sense. Why don’t you just tell me what it is?”

  “Okay,” Cass said, using her best casual, matter-of-fact tone. “They’re curious about some files pertaining to a golf tournament Terry and I were discussing with a foreign government. That’s it.”

  “What government?”

  “Korea.”

  “Well? I don’t see the problem.”

  “Technically speaking, North Korea. How’s the speech going?”

  Gideon Payne groaned and attempted, very slowly, to rise to his feet. “Merciful Jesus . . .”

  Monsignor Montefeltro, looking like Torquemada about to issue a death sentence at the Inquisition, sat in the chair facing Gideon. He had moved it back in case Gideon vomited again.

  “What . . .happened?” Gideon said woozily.

  “Very much happened,” Monsignor Montefeltro said in a clipped tone of voice. “Would you like first to hear about my evening? And then I will tell you about your evening?”

  Gideon was now on two feet, listing to and fro. He patted his vest pockets, sensing even in his distress that something was amiss. He began patting all his pockets.

  “My watch. My fob. They’re gone.” He looked at the monsignor more alertly. His brain was like a mastodon struggling to free itself of a tar pit.

  “Where’s my watch and fob?” he said accusingly.

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I don’t remember anything,” Gideon said, turning his pants pockets inside out.

  An old Italian proverb suddenly came to Montefeltro: “Si non è vero, è molto ben trovato.” If it isn’t true, it is a happy invention. He said, “You gave it to your friend. Miss Tolstoy.”

  Gideon scrunched his cheeks; his eyes peeped out through fatty slits. “What are you talking about? Give away my watch? That watch has been in my family since 1864!”

  “Why don’t you sit down, Geedeon. And now I will tell you your confession.”

  By the time Monsignor Montefeltro finished his recitation of the evening’s events, changing one or two details, Gideon looked ready for a funeral parlor. His skin had gone the color of waxworks.

  “But . . .but . . .I don’t remember any of that,” he moaned.

  “Consider that a blessing. Of course you don’t,” Montefeltro said, not unkindly. “You were drunk. Extremely drunk. Four bottles. Very good wine. Expensive.”

  “But why would I give my watch, my precious watch and fob, to a—Russian who-re?”

  “Two Russian who-res. Perhaps to avoid being beaten to death by two very large Russian pimps.”

  “Did I . . .” Gideon now looked frantic. “Did I . . .consummate?”

  “Do you mean were you intimate with her? No—God be thanked. To think of the disease you could catch from such a woman. The bubonical plague, probably.”

  Gideon shuddered. “I have to get my watch back. You have no idea. It’s precious. Family heirloom. They gave it to my ancestor for superlative marksmanship—”

  “Geedeon, were I you, I would give thanks to God that I am still alive today. And buy another watch!”

  “What was the name of this, this escort service, you called it?”

  “How should I know?” the monsignor said heatedly. “I am not familiar with escort services! I am in the kitchen, making you black coffee to make you conscious, because you are vomiting all over my house and destroying my family treasures—look, the table, eight thousand dollars�
��and when I return, you are in here, on my telephone, making phone calls to prostitutes!”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Massimo, if I was overserved.”

  “Overserved! You drank my entire cellar!”

  “I’ll make it up to you,” Gideon said edgily. “Meanwhile, I would appreciate it if you would assist me in the matter of my watch.”

  “Geedeon! Forget the fucking watch! We are lucky to be alive, I tell you! The madam—the keeper of this brothel that you telephoned on my telephone—she called to inform that she is going to send people named Ivan and Vladimir to break the legs of us both! You should be having high mass offered in every cathedral in America to give thanks. You should get down on your knees and pray.”

  Gideon surveyed the carpet. It did not look suitable for kneeling. “There’s a problem.”

  “Of course there’s a problem! This brothel now has my phone number! Do you understand the scandal that could happen?”

  “Oh . . .” Gideon put his hand to his eyes. “It’s worse than you think. The watch has my name on it.”

  “Porca miseria.” Monsignor Montefeltro considered. “My conclusion is that it is not a wonderful situation for either of us.”

  “I’ll report it stolen,” Gideon said. “That’s what. I’ll call the police and say it was stolen.” He reached for the phone.

  “Geedeon. Not. That. Telephone!”

  Gideon rummaged for his cell phone.

  Montefeltro said, “Wait. Think a moment. If you report to the police the watch is stolen and for some reason the Russian whores are found with the watch, what then? They will tell them everything. Including that you gave it to her. You can deny all this to the police, but they will produce their phone records with the call from my phone. Can you imagine the headlines? Can you imagine the scandal, Geedeon? For both of us? You can get a new watch, you cannot get a new reputation!”

  Gideon looked defeated. He moaned, “Pray with me, Massimo. I have sinned.” He started to kneel, but then, after surveying the detritus of the lost night, said, “Is there some . . .other room where we might make our rogations?”

  “That depends if you have finished with the throwing up,” Montefeltro said a bit testily. “All night I am cleaning. It’s not pleasant.”