“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?”