Boomsday

Chapter 20

Cass didn’t have to wait long. Three days later, ABBA announced that it would support Senator Jepperson’s Voluntary Transitioning proposal, and co-sponsor Senator Fundermunk of Oregon had disappeared into a northwest mist. “With the proviso,” as Mitch Glint said at his press conference, “that the final legislation reflects ABBA’s input.”

In Washington, “input” means “demands.” ABBA’s input consisted of several truckloads of Boomer pork. Cass read down the list with mounting despair: a Botox subsidy? Tax deductions for-Segways? Grandchild day care allowance? The blood throbbed in her temples. Then she came to the real eyebrow raiser: “Mr. Glint further said that Senator Jepperson had ‘indicated a willingness to raise the threshold age of Transitioning from 70 to 75.’ ”

He gave it all away, she thought. He gave away the entire store.

She angrily punched the speed-dial button on her cell phone. His emergency cell number, to be used only in the event of a nuclear strike or his receiving the Nobel Peace Prize. Randy answered in a whisper, indicating that he was on the Senate floor. The Senate, bowing to OmniTel, the powerful cell phone and PDA lobby, had relaxed the rules so that senators and congressmen were now permitted to use phones on the floor, even during speeches. They were still banned during the joint session for the president’s State of the Union address, but OmniTel’s lobbyists were working on it.

“Before you go getting varicose veins,” Randy said, “would you like to hear the good news?”

“There is no good news,” Cass said. “Don’t you realize what you’ve done? You’ve made Transitioning completely pointless, even as a meta-issue. Under the Jepperson plan, it will now cost the Treasury.”

“Are you finished?”

“No. Not nearly.”

“Would you please lower your voice? They can hear you clear across the aisle. Hush. As of this morning, and as a direct result of my willingness to meet them halfway-”

“Halfway? Halfway? Are you kidding? You met them in your own end zone!”

“May I continue? We now have thirty-five votes for Transitioning. Barzine and Wanamaker just came aboard. And Quimby says he’ll vote for it. The older senators have been taking in so much in campaign contributions from ABBA, they now have no choice but to come aboard. Isn’t that marvelous? Of course, with Quimby you never know how he’s going to actually vote. Silly old ass.…”

“Randy,” Cass pleaded in a calmer tone of voice, “these concessions…if you raise the age to seventy-five-don’t you see, it’s meaningless? There won’t be any savings. There’s no point-”

“Darling. Darling. It’s a meta-issue.”

“That’s not the point.”

“We’ll fine-tune it. Don’t worry. I’ve got to go. Call me later. I’ve got some interesting news for you.”

“I don’t want any more news from you.”

“My man Speck checked in. I think you’ll want to hear it.”

Cass pressed “End.” “End” was the new hang-up.

She wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him on the floor of the U.S. Senate. She was so mad, she didn’t care what his myrmidon Speck had to report.

ABBA’s endorsement of Transitioning made the front page. Randy’s proposal that Americans kill themselves in return for tax breaks, a bill that had begun as a turd in the Capitol Hill punch bowl, had now attracted the support of one-third of the U.S. Senate. And this made Randy front-page news.

JEPPERSON EMERGES AS SURPRISING FORCE IN DEBATE OVER “VOLUNTARY TRANSITIONING”

Within several days, there were more headlines:

WHITE HOUSE SAID TO VIEW JEPPERSON AS SPOILER IN COMING CAMPAIGN

JEPPERSON DOES NOT RULE OUT POSSIBLE PRESIDENTIAL RUN

“Was this ABBA deal your idea?” Terry said, standing in the doorway of Cass’s office, holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

“No,” Cass snapped.

“Just asking. Have we not had our morning Prozac?”

“He totally sandbagged me.”

“Surprise. Did you see the story about how he’s thinking of running for-”

“Yes.”

Terry closed the door and sat in front of Cass’s desk. “Are you pissed off specifically at me, or just with the human race in general?”

“I’m mad at myself.”

“For putting your trust in a politician? Or for-”

“Go ahead,” she groaned. “For sleeping with him? It just happened. It does happen, you know. You’re on the road and-”

“The road,” Terry said. “That’s good. The road did it.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Well, look at it this way. You fucked him before he fucked you. Does that help?”

“Thanks,” Cass said. “I feel so much better.”

“Do you want me to hire you a grief counselor? Do you know what those people make? Weird niche, when you think about it. What do they do, come to work every morning hoping there’s been a plane crash?” Terry said hesitantly, “You, uh, saw about Gideon Payne?”

“No.”

“Oh. He…What a fat little dick.”

“Just tell me.”

“He gave a speech last night in West Virginia. Wheeling. Traditional venue for dramatic speeches. Your name came up.”

“Terry, you’re burying the lead.”

“Oh, he said he had some evidence that you and Randy were, uh, doing some pretty hot and heavy fact-finding in the minefield. Also, he called you ‘Joan of Dark.’”

“Hm,” Cass said, “not a bad line.”

“I’m sure someone thought it up for him.”

“Yes,” Cass said. “Someone clever. What evidence?”

“Ignore it. He’s just trying to get back at you for calling him a mother killer.”

“Don’t be avuncular,” Cass said, “or I’ll cry.”

“Change of subject. So. Our boy wants to be president. Did he mention this while you two were playing hide the salami?”

“That’s completely heinous.”

“Give these guys one good headline and suddenly they’re hearing a chorus of voices. A call he cannot-must not-ignore. The will of the people.”

“I don’t see it, personally. And I’m not being disloyal saying that.”

Terry snorted. “No. But I wouldn’t exclude it. It’s America. Land of the free, home of the strange. In 1991-you were in diapers-the president of the United States had an approval rating of ninety percent. He’d just won a spectacular war in the Persian Gulf. Eighteen months later, he lost reelection to a horny governor from Arkansas.”

“Thank you. I heard something about it. Your point being?”

“American history is one accident after another. But with the right management…the right handling…”

“Terry-the man just sold me down the Mississippi River. Why would I want to help him become president?”

“So he’s an opportunist. How does that differentiate him from ninety-five percent of people who run for president?”

“I thought my generation was supposed to be the cynical one.”

Terry said, “I’ve spent my entire professional life making chicken shit into chicken salad. I’m almost fifty. I hear the flip-flop feet of the Grim Reaper approaching. It’s time. I want to work with-turkey shit.”

“There’s a life goal for you.”

Terry shrugged. “Cass, I’m a PR man. This could be my shot.”

“Can’t you find someone, I don’t know, worthy?”

“I bet I hate him every bit as much as you do. More.”

“This is your justification for wanting to help elect him president of the United States?”

“Didn’t you ever want to do something major in your life?”

“I can’t believe you just asked me that. I was on the cover of Time magazine. Voice of her generation? Hello? Remember?”

“I misspoke. I retract. My prior statement is inoperative. I apologize. Come on. I always wanted to do this. You know, put someone over the top. Play in the big leagues. So. Here’s my chance.”

“Be my guest. I’d sooner eat caterpillars off a hot sidewalk.”

“Where did you pick that up?”

Cass shrugged. “Randy.”

“So he fiddled a bit with Transitioning. But look, he got thirty-five senators.”

“Stop spinning me. Friends don’t spin friends.”

Terry leaned across her desk. “So he cut a few deals. Did you skip Civics 101? They all do that. So we say to him, ‘Look, asshole, we got you this far. We’ll get you all the way. Meanwhile, here’s what we want in return.’”

“What do we want?” Cass said.

“I don’t know,” Terry said. “We’ll think of something.”

“Cass! Come in, sweetheart. I’ve been thinking about you.”

Randy’s Senate office, like most, was spacious, and it took some time to cross from the threshold to his desk, which normally gave the senator time to rise to his feet and greet his visitor. But Randy did not rise to greet Cass. Some…protocol shift had taken place since her last visit here, the day of the fateful ABBA speech. Not only did he not rise to greet her, but he went back to his paperwork.

“Sit, sit,” he said, still not looking up.

“Am I…interrupting?” she said a bit coolly.

“You? Never! Thanks for coming by.”

“Did you really just say to me, ‘Thanks for coming by’?” she said.

“Hm? Problem?”

“No problem. Only, it’s just the sort of thing that senators more typically say to, I don’t know, Barnstable County Teacher of the Year or some undersecretary of housing and urban development.”

“Still mad, are we?”

“Why would I be mad? Just because you completely rewrote the Transitioning bill without bothering to tell me?”

“Look, sweetkins, there’s the real world, and then there’s the U.S. Senate. We have a chance to carry this thing into the end zone.”

“Whose end zone, Mr. Flutie?”

Randy gave her an exasperated look, as though only her recalcitrance stood in the way of acknowledging his political genius. “I don’t know how else to put it. We need the Boomers.”

“I thought the whole point was to oppose the Boomers.”

“Same thing. But you want them inside the tent pissing out, not on the outside pissing in.”

Cass stared. “Are we quoting Jefferson or Madison?”

“Do you want this bill to pass or not?”

“At this point, no. You’ve taken my meta-issue and turned it into a Boomer pork sausage. That’s not why I signed up.”

“I’m sorry that the democratic process doesn’t measure up to your high standards. Give my regards to Aristotle and Pericles.”

He had the kinda spooky look.

Cass stood. “Well, good luck.”

“Where are you going?” he said, looking suddenly more human.

“I’m not ‘going.’ I’m fleeing.”

“Oh, sit down, Cass. Come on. We can work this thing out.”

“I’m not a lobby, Randy.”

He smiled. “No. I got that.” He stood and hopped around the desk to her. Cass realized that was why he hadn’t stood. He wasn’t wearing his prosthesis. She began to giggle.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s…just…whatever.”

“Making fun of cripples. And you all full of umbrage.”

He hopped over to the door and locked it.

Sometime later, both of them lying on the big leather couch, she said, “You heard about Gideon Payne’s speech?”

“I did,” Randy said. “I was thinking of going to his office personally and breaking his nose, but my handlers advise against it. There are certain drawbacks to being a senator. Plus there’s the business about his ancestor shooting my ancestor. It would only look like some preposterous blood feud. Not quite the attitude of dignity one strives for if you’re thinking of running for president. I suppose I could hire a sniper. That would even the historical score.”

“Is it something we need to worry about?”

“Shouldn’t think. There isn’t any evidence. We weren’t lap dancing in the minefield.” He smiled. “Hardly had time.”

“He called me Joan of Dark.”

“I saw. Good line, actually.”

“Um-hum.”

“You’ll come up with a good counterpunch, darling,” Randy said.

“I was thinking of ‘fat little fuck.’ What do you think?”

“I like it. It’s witty, but it also has substance. Anyway-change of subject-my man Speck reported in. I’m afraid you’re not going to like what he found out. This has to be absolutely confidential, yes?”

“No. I thought I’d tell The New York Times.”

“He’s former Secret Service, so he has access to all sorts of…No point in going into it, but he’s an absolute pit bull, let me tell you. During the last campaign…well, never mind.”

“You’re babbling.”

“Darling, I’m in a state of postcoital bliss. Drowning in endorphins. Of course I’m babbling. It seems there were a number of phone calls between your father’s very private phone line and the White House.”

Cass froze. “Why wouldn’t there be? He’s a big donor. He’s an Owl.…”

“Yes, but most of these were made in the days just before your dear old pater announced to the press that you were…”

“‘Morally repellent’?”

“?’Fraid so. Sorry.”

Cass thought. “Still doesn’t mean-”

“Cass. Now who’s giving whom the reality check? But let’s look at it analytically.”

“Beats looking at it emotionally.”

“Quite. Let’s assume they asked him to denounce you. Why? Cui bono. Them-has to be. In any White House, it’s always about them.” Randy considered. “Can’t quite parse it, but it must have something to do with sparing the White House some embarrassment. It’s as if they wanted Frank to publicly identify himself as your dad.” He thought. “Of course. That’s it. It’s quite obvious. Want to take it from there?”

“The media hadn’t yet connected the two of us. He’d been lying low. We don’t have the same surnames. He’s a big donor to the White House, and I’m the Molotov cocktail thrower. And the Justice Department lets me go.”

“Clever girl. See what sex does for the brain?”

Cass sighed. “Boy. Regular nest of vipers, isn’t it?”

“It’s Washington, darling. The shining city upon the hill. Beacon of democracy. Last and best hope of mankind. And you wonder why I have to cut a few deals?”

“Whoa. Bait and switch. You’re not off that meat hook yet.”

“We’ll discuss it. Meanwhile, that’s not all my man Speck found out. Does the term ‘RIP-ware’ ring any bells?”