It was flattering to have the most powerful man in the world supplicate in this fashion. But there was something just a tad smelly about it all. He was leaving something out.
“Mr. President,” Gideon said, “with all due respect, why-really-do you want me to take the lead on this?”
The president leaned back in his chair. He nodded as if in acknowledgment of defeat. Then he smiled, looked over at Bucky Trumble, and said to Bucky, “I told you he was smart. Didn’t I tell you?”
“You did, boss. You did.”
The president, calmer now, said to Gideon, “Look here. If I take the lead on this, all it’s going to accomplish is to empower the cocksucker. Don’t you see? His numbers’ll jump. He’s going at the president! It’ll make it a political issue instead of moral issue. Which is what it is. That’s why you’re the only one who can do it. And I’ll back you with everything short of air strikes.”
“What exactly do you propose, Mr. President?”
“Buck,” the president grunted.
“There’s certain information about Jepperson and this woman Devine that you might find useful in this debate.”
Gideon’s eyebrows arched like stretching cats. He stroked his beard with moist, scented fingertips. His lips pursed. Oh my, oh my. Yet a voice whispered, Careful, son. You’re in the lion’s den, and the beasts do raven.
“What kind of information?” he said cautiously.
“The kind,” the president said, leaning forward, suddenly every bit the commander in chief, aiming soul-seeking missiles into Gideon’s eyes, “that causes tides to turn. Let me pay you a compliment: We didn’t call you in here just to fuck around.”
Good Lord, Gideon thought. What had this man eaten for breakfast? Flapjacks with nitroglycerin syrup? Another thought came to mind: Were they recording this? You never knew with the White House. But then why record yourself in the act of offering dirt to a man of impeccable moral rectitude? Impeccable, that is, apart from the business about killing Mother.
“I would like to consider it,” Gideon said nervously. “I would like to pray on it.”
The president’s look of cold command suddenly congealed into panicked horror at the prospect that Gideon was about to invite him to get on his knees in the Oval Office and pray with him. He’d done that the last time with the “Stomach Madonna” woman, as the tabloid press had unfortunately dubbed Mrs. Delbianco.
Sensing the president’s discomfiture, Gideon added quickly, “In the privacy of my own heart.”
The president sighed with relief. “Of course. If there’s anything we can do for you in the meantime…”
Bucky shot the president a cautionary look-too late.
“There is something, actually,” Gideon said.
“Oh?” the president said, as if delighted to hear it.
“The memorial to the forty-three million.”
“Oh. Right.” Shit.
For years, Gideon had been petitioning various congressmen and senators for a memorial on the Washington Mall to the 43 million unborn souls since the Supreme Court’s Roe v. Wade ruling in 1973.
“Well”-the president stood, smiling broadly and extending his hand-“we will certainly give that our prayerful thought.”
Chapter 18
Cass had come up with the notion of a television and Internet advertising campaign to stigmatize old age. This would, theoretically, nudge voters toward greater acceptance of Voluntary Transitioning. Randy loved the idea and, in the spirit of the thing, volunteered to pay for it out of his own deep pockets. Terry was less enthusiastic, for practical reasons.
“Cass,” he said, “some of our best clients are CEOs in their sixties, some in their seventies. You really want to run public service announcements on TV telling them they’re selfish bastards and should kill themselves? Speaking as the founder of Tucker Strategic Communications-and incidentally as your employer-let me just say that this company is not out to commit suicide.”
“Terry,” Cass said, “we’re not urging our clients to Transition.”
Terry furrowed his brow and clicked on one of the storyboard slides in the PowerPoint presentation Cass had prepared. He read aloud:
“Spot number four. ‘Resource hogs’? Now we’re calling old people resource hogs?”
“Problem?” Cass said matter-of-factly.
“Well-it’s a little harsh, isn’t it? I never thought of Grandma and Grandpa as resource hogs. What happened to meta?”
“Terry, Terry, Terry, we’re simply making the point that nonproductive longevity only consumes resources that would be better spent on younger generations, who are currently being crippled with passed-along debt as a result of-”
“Thank you, Ayn Rand.”
“Okay.” She smiled. “So, no problem?”
“What about this one?” Terry punched up another slide: “‘Wrinklies’? We’re calling them Wrinklies?”
“I wasn’t going to put that on TV.”
“That’s a relief,” Terry snorted.
“I’m going to plant it,” she said brightly. “Have a third party send it into CASSANDRA and then make it our own. I think the kids’ll go for it in a big way. ‘Wrinklies. Ew, gross! So heinous.’”
“Was Einstein a Wrinkly? Eleanor Roosevelt…Helen Keller?”
“They gave something back. Einstein showed us how to blow ourselves up. Now that’s what I call transitioning.”
Terry gave her a worried look. But on she went. “This campaign is about self-indulgent aging Boomers who are wrecking the U.S. economy and economically enslaving the next generations. This is not about The Miracle Worker or Eleanor Roosevelt. Though she really was wrinkly. Will you please just chill?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Yes. For heaven’s sake.”
“I couldn’t tell. This one…” He clicked on another slide. Up came an image of a group of gaunt, hungry-looking youths staring hollow-eyed at a large empty bird’s nest. The caption read: “What kind of nest egg will you leave them?”
“I guess it works,” he said. “But kind of a downer, though.”
“It’s supposed to be. What’s eating you? It’s like you’re suddenly a double agent working for the American Association of Resource Hogs.”
Terry sighed. “I don’t know. This is starting to give me the creeps. Urging old people to kill themselves. Norman Rockwell it ain’t.”
“Omigod, Terry.”
“What?”
“That’s it! You are such a genius.” Cass hugged him. “You really are. It’s beyond brilliant. I can’t even discuss it.”