Boomsday

Gideon’s host, seated behind a museum-piece rosewood desk, rose and smiled broadly. He was a handsome man in his early fifties, tall and dark, beautifully ta

“Geedeon.”

“Massimo.”

The two men embraced warmly. Gideon’s friendship with Monsignor Montefeltro went back years, but they had really bonded during the affair of the Stomach Mado

As a good Southern Baptist, Gideon had been brought up to despise papists and popery. But as a ca

They recognized in each other a kindred risibility, ecclesiastical equivalents of the famous remark by the skeptic who said he didn’t understand why two psychiatrists, meeting each other on the street, didn’t burst out laughing. It wasn’t that Gideon and Monsignor Montefeltro believed they were part of a joke, but that they were mutually conscious of their own outrageousness: two splendid peacocks in the service of Christ.

They admired each other’s sartorial style. Gideon was fascinated by the Roman Catholic Church’s ecclesiastical garbs and vestments. He had in him a bit of Miniver Cheevy’s yearning for “the medieval grace of iron clothing.” He would listen to Monsignor Montefeltro for hours as he talked in detail about the finer points of stoles, soutanes, phelonions, and cinctures. After a particularly engrossing description of the holy father’s new Lenten chasuble, spun from Persian silkworms and woven with ground Badakshan lapis lazuli, Gideon sighed with wonder and declared, “How very drab by contrast are my own brethren!”

Monsignor Montefeltro smiled and rattled off the names of half a dozen Southern Baptist televangelists whose combined incomes were larger than the gross domestic product of Delaware and who dressed like archangelic pimps. Gideon’s own attire-floppy-rimmed Borsalino, silver-tipped cane, high starched collar, cravat, velvet vest, gold chain, and watch fob-itself suggested a Natchez riverboat gambler who was trying to maintain a low profile while visiting up north and not quite succeeding, on purpose. Both men wore rings on the pinky finger. Gideon was envious of the fact that by protocol, Monsignor Montefeltro was entitled to have his kissed. Gideon meanwhile could offer other portions of himself for the same office.

Monsignor Montefeltro had risen to prominence by courting wealthy American Catholic widows, persuading them that the path to sainthood lay in leaving their (husbands’) fortunes to the church. He had to date brought in a total of over $500 million for Mother Church. In recognition of this service, he received a living allowance that would certainly have given St. Francis of Assisi pause, if not an embolism, and for his base of operations, so to speak, the Georgetown town house, which could not by any means have been called monastic.

“I saw you on the television,” Monsignor Montefeltro said. “You were very good, Geedeon. But that woman! Dio mio.”

“Oh, Massimo, it was a catastrophe,” Gideon said. “An epic catastrophe.” There were few others to whom he would have made such a frank admission.

Montefeltro smiled. “Still, you were very good. At least you didn’t murder her for the cameras.” Montefeltro’s English was actually Oxford level-he was, in fact, fluent in seven languages-but he found it expedient, especially with the widows, to employ a slightly flawed syntax and accent and sometimes forgot to switch back to his normally impeccable English.

Both men laughed.

“Next time, I will. It is that woman that I have come to discuss.”

“Then you must stay for di

Chapter 19

“Wonderful news,” said the junior senator from the great state of Massachusetts as Cass entered his office. “We lined up two more- Hey, what happened to you? You look like you ran into a tornado.”

Whatever the right metaphor, Cass did look at a minimum out of sorts. Her eyes were red and puffy. She had gotten out of the cab to walk up Capitol Hill to try to clear her head and then burst into tears by the Robert A. Taft Memorial and Carillon, a well-known D.C. locale for emotional outbursts. She had a good sob lasting fifteen minutes, all the time trying to conjure the voice of the drill instructor from basic training to shake her out of it.

“I’m okay,” she a

“Then why is your chin doing that quivering thing?”

“Because my father,” she said in a voice loud enough to carry into the outer office, “is an asshole.”

Randy said in an even voice, “Well, I rather thought that was established a long time ago.”

She handed him the BlackBerry and commanded, “Scroll.”

“Sweet cakes, you know I hate these damn things. Couldn’t you just tell me in your own wo-”

“Scroll.”

“All right, all right, keep your knickers on.”

He read it, groaned, and tossed the device onto his desk. “At least he’s consistent. What a prick. Sorry, pumpkin. Now look, we got two more votes. They ate up the ‘meta’ business. The smart ones get it right off. The dumb ones, forget it. It really is in that regard representative, the Congress. Remember what Senator Hruska said about-”

“Excuse me,” Cass said. “Are we finished consoling me and now on to Senator Jepperson’s thoughts of the day?”

“I was just musing,” Randy said. “I agree with you. He’s a complete penis-head, your father. It’s a wonder you don’t have an eating disorder. How are we coming on the Wrinklies campaign?”

Cass sighed. “Can we talk about my prick father for just two more minutes? Then I promise I’ll spend the rest of my life on you. I’ll never mention myself again.”

“All right, on that condition.”

“You know, I can never tell if you’re being serious,” Cass said.

“Neither can I,” Randy said.

“Look at it,” Cass said. “There’s something weird about the timing. Why attack me publicly now? It’s almost as if it’s orchestrated. But who would orchestrate it?” She considered. “The White House?”

“Darling, don’t get me wrong, but the White House might have other things on their mind.”

“Like Massachusetts senators?”

“Well…”

“As a matter of fact, you may have a point. The White House has staked out an anti-Transitioning position. So, darling”-Cass gri

A look of quiet alarm came over Randy’s face. “Go on.”

“Frank’s a big Owl, big fund-raiser for the party. Probably wants to be an ambassador or something in the second term. At least, his wife probably wants it. He comes out swinging against me. I’m-sorry to dwell on me for a moment-somewhat identified as the person who came up with your big idea. So the White House tells him, Go after her. That’ll hurt Jepperson. It’s plausible. It’s one explanation. Unless Daddy Dearest just woke up one morning, drank his fresh-squeezed orange juice, and said, ‘I think I’ll call my daughter morally repellent today.’ I wonder…”