“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 dinner for him.”
“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 announced.”
“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. “Funny. You wouldn’t think so, the way they’ve attacked the idea day after day. Not to mention encouraging my father to denounce me.”
“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 announced Gideon Payne is on the commission.”
Chapter 22
Dinner was not a success, and through no fault of the food. Cass served the crabs, along with dilled new potatoes and fresh tomatoes in balsamic vinegar, onto Randy’s lap. She then stormed out of the mansion, giving the ancient door such a satisfyingly good slam that the stained glass transom rattled. She drove back to her apartment and hunkered down in front of her computer in a Red Bull rage. When the going gets tough, the tough get blogging.
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?”
“I’m glad you called,” she said. “I need your help with the wording of this posting for CASSANDRA. See what you think: ‘Senator Sells Soul to Lowest Bidder…’ Do you like it?”
“Cass-”
“Originally I had ‘Highest Bidder,’ but I changed it to ‘Lowest.’ I’m not sure what it means, but I like it. It says ‘sleazy.’ That’s just the headline. Do you want to hear the whole post?”
Randy said, “Cass, will you please calm down?”
“Too late. I’ve drunk three Red Bulls.”
“Well, take a pill. You’re coming unhinged. You’re completely misinterpreting this. I’m telling you, it’s a coup what I’ve pulled off.”
“What did they promise you?”
Randy had been in Washington long enough to lie smoothly, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it to her. Anyway, she wouldn’t believe him. Once you’ve slept with a woman, it’s harder to lie to her, despite the necessity. “That Transitioning would get a good full hearing, with all sides represented, in the plain light of day. You have to understand, Cass, this is the way to go.”
“I can’t even discuss it. And please, spare me a lecture on ‘How Our Democracy Works.’ It’s a good thing it was your ancestor and not you who worked on the Declaration of Independence. You’d have put in a clause reimbursing King George for the tea they dumped in Boston Harbor.”
“What do you want me to do? Get down on my one good knee and beg forgiveness?”
“A new record. Less than a minute into the conversation and you’ve played the amputee card. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s your leg you left over there or two other parts.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“Sorry. No, actually I’m not sorry.”
“All right. Start over. I’m sorry I didn’t consult with you first.”
“You should have.”
“I know. You’re right. I’m pathetic.”
“More.”
“How can I ever forgive myself? I should have told the president, ‘I have to check with my girlfriend first.’”
“Girlfriend? You mean the one you got the whole idea from in the first place?”
“Intellectual partner. Soul mate. Anam cara.”
“What?”
“It’s Celtic. A good thing. Trust me.”
“Trust is the issue here, Randy.”
“I’m sorry. Okay? I am truly, sincerely sorry.”
“Try practicing in front of a mirror. Call me in the morning.”
“I will. But no blogging, okay? Promise?…Cass?…Ca-ass?”
Cass and Terry were working on a PowerPoint presentation for a client who was looking to get a fat government subsidy for distilling automobile fuel out of used fast-food restaurant fry grease when the senator from the great state of Massachusetts walked in, looking somewhat less great than his state. He was limping, Cass noticed, and for once it had the look of sincerity. He slumped wordlessly into a chair.