Boomsday

“I think so, sir.”

“Sure you are.” The president smiled. “Hell, you went to Harvard. Now, the way it would work, I would come out and make a public statement, say, ‘Look here, I don’t like the idea of people jumping off bridges in return for tax breaks. It’s un-American. But I recognize that we live in damn hard times-and we got to do something about it.’”

Bucky Trumble nodded. “That’s right.”

“I’d say, ‘I’m a reasonable man. I’m willing to listen to both sides of the argument. So I am going to’”-the president paused for dramatic effect-“‘appoint a blue-ribbon Presidential Commission on Transitioning. I’m going to call together all the best minds in the country-starting with Senator Randolph K. Jepperson of Massachusetts, who I suppose knows as much about this issue as anyone on the planet.’ Naturally, we’ll have to have other people of diverse views. But you’ll be my first pick. My”-he gri

Randy nodded.

“Now, what’ll happen is you’ll be front and center, with daily TV coverage. Only now instead of looking like the poster boy for mass suicide, you’ll be the voice of reason. You’ll get to say in front of cameras-with everyone watching-as you interview witnesses, ‘Well, hm, I don’t know, maybe this isn’t the answer, after all. Maybe there is a better way.’ I see headlines. JEPPERSON EMERGES AS MODERATING VOICE ON TRANSITION COMMISSION. I see another headline. Want to hear it?”

Randy nodded.

“WHITE HOUSE SAID TO BE IMPRESSED BY JEPPERSON PERFORMANCE ON COMMISSION.”

“WHITE HOUSE DAZZLED,” Bucky corrected.

The president smiled. “You want to hear one more? PEACHAM ASKS JEPPERSON TO BE RUNNING MATE. Do you like that headline, Randy? Do you?”

A little voice inside Randy was shouting, Look out! but what came out of his mouth was, “I believe so. Yes.”

The president leaned back with a contented air. He looked over at Bucky. “What about you, Buck? You like that headline?”

“I like it a lot.”

The president stood, extended his hand, and said, “Okay, then, pardner. See you round the corral.”

It was only later that Randy would note the conjunction of the words okay and corral in the sentence.

Cass was cooking di

The phone rang. It was Terry, saying, “Turn on the TV.”

“It’s on.”

“What do you know about this?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Where’s the junior senator from the great state of Massa-chusetts?”

“He’s on his way. I’m cooking di

“What are you making?”

“Soft-shell crabs.”

“What are you cooking them in?”

“Skillet. Why?”

“Well, when he walks in the door, hit him in the face with it. He’s on the commission. It was just a

“What? Impossible. He’d have said something.”

She heard the door open. “Randy?” she called. “Is that you?”

“Hi, darling. Are you in the kitchen?” His voice had a foreign upbeat quality to it.

Cass said to Terry, “I don’t believe this. Call you back.”

“Kill him,” said Terry.

“Yum! Soft-shells! I love soft-shells. How was your day, sweetie?” He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Fine. How was your day? Darling.”

“Gosh. Busy. Listen-great news.”

Cass sliced tomatoes. It kept her from disemboweling Randy with the knife.

Randy said, “You won’t believe it.”

“I’ve seen a few things in my time. Try me.”

“I got the White House to appoint a commission on Transitioning.”

Cass stared.

He added, “It’s unbelievably good news for our side.”

“A presidential commission,” Cass said somewhat coolly. “Boy. Those don’t come along just every day.”

“It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. Had to twist quite a few arms. Bucky Trumble is one tough cookie. I had half an hour’s face time in the Oval with the president.”

“Really? Well, you have been a busy boy,” Cass said, clutching her knife, reminding herself that killing a U.S. senator was a federal crime.

“Aren’t you pleased? You don’t sound pleased.”

Cass adopted a pensive attitude. “Didn’t you tell me that presidential commissions were what they appointed when they didn’t want to do anything about something, while giving the illusion that they do?”

“Moi? Did I? I don’t remember that. No. No, no. Au contraire. Commissions are-my gosh, if you want to shine a light on something, there’s no better way. Darling, you don’t seem to grasp what marvelous news this is: a presidential commission. Blue-ribbon. You might be a little enthusiastic.”

“Let’s review,” Cass said. “You’ve gone from hating the idea, to championing the idea, to giving away the idea, to sitting on a commission to discuss the idea. It’s not quite the ‘take that hill’ brand of leadership, is it?”

Randy said, “I’m going to be more than just a commissioner.” He chuckled. “Don’t you doubt that. The White House is…This is really-really-really between us, okay?…The White House is on our side.”

“Really?” said Cass. “Fu

“Darling. They can hardly come right out and say they like it. Presidents can’t just endorse mass suicide. It’s not presidential.”

“Yes, that seems to be the general case in this town. Everyone walking around wishing they could say what they really believe.”

“I’m starved. Let me go wash up.”

“Yes,” Cass said. “You’d better, if you’ve been at the White House.”

He ignored it and gave her a peck kiss on the cheek and toodled off.

Cass called Terry. “Should I use the nine-inch skillet on him or the twelve-inch?”

“The twelve-inch,” Terry said. “They just a

Chapter 22

Di

There was a lot to do. She had to respond to Gideon’s charge about the Bosnian “evidence.” Once that was done, she would have to explain to her millions of loyal followers-followers who were depending on her-why their maximum leader, the senator from the great state of Massachusetts, Randolph “Let’s Make a Deal” Jepperson, had apparently sold them all down the river for some unspecified mess of pottage. The proximate cause of her dumping the delicious meal onto his lap was his refusal to tell her exactly what devil’s bargain he had entered into with the White House (in return for selling her out). Then there were thousands of e-mails wanting to know about her father’s denunciation of her. She sighed. She was tired. Should she take a Ritalin? It would be a long night. But it was good to be back in the cockpit. In cyberspace, everyone can hear you scream.

The phone rang and rang. Randy. She answered four times, each with, “Fuck off,” and hung up. The fifth time, she picked up and listened. A strained voice said, “I’m all in favor of screwing, but can we at least do it in bed and not over the phone?”