“You all right, honey?” JJ said somewhat pointlessly.
“Of course she’s not all right,” Juanita said.
JJ took out his gold pocket watch and said, “Maybe I oughta call the White House.”
“Sí. Call them.”
“What am I supposed to tell ’em?”
“That she’s sick.”
“I can’t tell the President of the United States she’s got her head in the toilet. It ain’t dignified.”
“Tell them that she ate something.”
Pepper, listening to it all from behind the door, said, “I’m all right. Just give me a…” This was followed by another aquatic sound.
She had, to be sure, been through rather a lot at this point and had run through a lifetime’s supply of adrenaline. A few hours earlier, as she lay awake, sweating into her 800-count hotel sheets, staring at the time display on the clock, it had dawned on her that there was now no going back. Her new office was in a marble building that looked like it belonged on the Acropolis. She’d had recurring dreams in which its great bronze doors clanged shut behind her. When she turned around, she saw hooded figures welding the doors shut, to the accompaniment of demonic cackling. She stared into the blue water in the toilet bowl. Even the toilet water looks expensive. The President of the United States and the world media were cooling their heels waiting for her in the Oval Office.
Oh, girl, she thought, struggling to her feet and looking at the ghastly reflection in the mirror. What in hell have you got yourself into?
“What about a nip of bourbon?” JJ suggested through the door.
“No seas tonto, JJ. She can’t have bourbon on her breath for the President,” Juanita said crossly.
“Wasn’t suggestin’ she drink the whole bottle.”
Pepper opened the door, pale, but upright. “All right,” she gasped. “Let’s do this thing.”
Juanita marched her back into the bathroom to attend to hair and lipstick and other necessaries. JJ shrugged and drank the bourbon himself. The swearing-in went without incident, with Chief Justice Hardwether doing the honors. Pepper had gargled beforehand with about a quart of mouthwash and smelled like a spearmint forest. The Chief Justice smelled kind of minty himself. There was a nice small lunch, and President Vanderdamp autographed his place card for Juanita.
CHAPTER 14
On Capitol Hill, Senator Dexter Mitchell was having an officially unofficial meeting with his old friend Senator Clement Cranch of the great state of Mississippi. Cranch was Chairman of the Senate Ethics Committee, almost never referred to as “the powerful Senate Ethics Committee.”
The meeting was not going to Dexter’s satisfaction. Cranch kept shifting in his chair and doing things with his mouth as if he were a recent recipient of oral surgery.
“I just honestly don’t see the problem, Clem,” Dexter said. “It’s not like I’m trying to hide income.”
“Dexter, you’d need a mine shaft to hide that kinda income.”
Dexter made a dismissive gesture. “Now that’s only a best-case scenario, like if the series goes into syndication. For starters I’d only be pulling down, you know, fifty grand,” he lowered his voice, “per episode. Tops.”
Cranch snorted. “That’s one-third of a Senate salary, Dex. How’s that gonna look on the front page of the Washington Post? How’s it gonna look back in Hartford? You think of that?”
“Yes, Clem, I have, and I think the people of Connecticut would be proud to see their senator on TV.”
“You’re already on TV.”
“I’m not talking about C-SPAN, for God’s sake. We’re talking network, prime time. Look, Clem, there’s all sorts of dimensions to this thing.”
“Whenever people tell me ‘There’s all sorts of dimensions to’ something, it always boils down to one-money.”
“Listen, Clem-and this is strictly between us. Can I trust you on this?”
“Dex, I’m the Senate Ethics chair. I guess you can trust me.”
“Okay. I don’t give a rat’s ass about the money. You think I’m getting into this so I can move to McLean and build myself some forty-thousand-square-foot McMansion? This money-all of it-is going into my war chest.”
“What war chest?”
“For when I run again, Clem. For the big job.”
Cranch shook his head. “Dex, I don’t care if it goes for a McMuffin in McLean, for Vegas hookers, or for cleft palate surgery for kids in the damn Congo. The rules are the rules.”
“Fuck the rules.”
“That’s a fine thing to say to the Ethics chair.”
“That’s right, Clem. It’s a chair. Not a throne.”
“Well, whatever it is, it ain’t a toilet, and you ain’t about to take a crap in it.”
“Write new rules,” Dexter said. “For God’s sake. No one expects ethics in the Congress, anyway. Try Googling ‘ethics’ and ‘Congress,’ see how many matches you get.”
“Be that as it may. It’s my job, Dexter.”
“With all the dire things going on in the world right now… the economic situation, Texas about to mine its border with Mexico, these Russian submarines snooping off our shores like great white sharks, TV judges on the Supreme Court… and you’re all bent out of shape because a U.S. senator wants to lift the image of the entire government and maybe make a little walking-around money on the side…”
“I’m tired of this conversation, Dex. The rules say no outside regular salary. And that’s that. Over and out.”
“It’s not a salary.”
Cranch slammed his fist on his desk. “Then what in tar hell is it? And don’t you tell me it’s an honorarium. We get into more pissin’ matches over that goddamned word honorarium.”
Dexter stood before a window, looking at his presidential-yes-reflection. He sighed philosophically.
“It’s sad,” he said. “You devote your entire life to public service… your whole life… and an opportunity comes along to do something good for your family, a little money-”
“I thought the money was going to your war chest.”
“I consider my family part of my war chest, Clem. And the next thing you know you’re being trampled into the ground by the Four Horseman of the Ethicalypse. No wonder young people don’t want to go into politics these days.”
“That was a fine oration. Up there with Cicero. You done?”
“Will you walk with me, Clem? Will you take a few steps with me?”
Senator Cranch sighed. “Dammit, Dex, it ain’t up to just me.”
“This could be good for all of us. A sitting senator on a popular prime-time TV show, dynamically playing President of the United States.”
“Hold on. Hold on. How did you wantin’ to play Mr. Hollywood President become a mission of mercy on behalf of the U.S. Senate?”
“Have you seen the latest polls? Do you know what percent of the American people have quote-unquote high confidence in the Senate?”
Cranch groaned.
“Twelve percent,” Dexter said. “Twelve percent. Donald Vanderdamp-who has brought incompetence and dishonor to the office of the President-he has better numbers than us.”
“If it comes to that,” Clem said, “I don’t have a whole lot of quote-unquote confidence in the American people. But we’re stuck with each other. As for Don Veto, I wouldn’t worry none about his popularity ratings. Maybe he got a little temporary uptick from the Cartwright thing, but he’s a long way from winning any beauty contests. Hell, the Presidential Term Limit Amendment just got voted out of committee. Bussy Filbrick says it’s gonna sail through the House faster than shit through a goose. According to my whip count, it’s got over sixty-eight votes in the Senate. [18] Personally, I wish I could vote for it twice. That self-righteous cocksucker just vetoed my shrimp boat building initiative in Pascagoula.”
Dexter said, “What good is denying him a second term? From what I hear, he doesn’t even want a second term.”