Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

“I tried,” Dexter said drily. “Several times.”

“This time, you win. And you don’t have to enter the Iowa caucuses or the New Hampshire primary. You don’t have to kiss babies or anyone’s ass. You don’t have to pretend you give a shit about the Middle East -”

“Mr. Bixby. I do give a shit about the Middle East.”

“That’s great. Someone has to, right? Look, I’ve been watching you. You were born to play this part. You’ve got this incredible… authority. You really look like the real deal.”

“Thank you. I like to think that I am the real deal. You want me to play a president, is that the idea?”

“Exactly.”

“Like The West Wing?” [17]

“Yeah. But without all the hand-wringing. With balls. Gritty. And sexy. Hot. I’m casting Ramona Alvilar as the First Lady.”

“Really?” Dexter said. “I saw her in what-was-it-called. She’s quite…”

“Hot? Oh,” Buddy chuckled, “let me tell you. I came three times during the meeting.”

Senator Mitchell’s expression suggested to Buddy that this might not have been appropriate. Buddy shrugged. “Figure of speech. You know what sold her on the deal?”

“No,” Dexter said, “I don’t.”

“When I told her I was going to approach you to play the President.”

“Oh. Really.”

“She’s a huge fan.”

“Well. Please tell her that I’m a fan of hers. Look, Mr. Bixby-”

“Buddy. Please.”

“I already have a job. A good one.”

“I recognize that and appreciate that,” Buddy said. “And I respect that. I would say this: if at this moment in your life you’re completely fulfilled, if you feel that you have nothing left to prove, no heights left to scale, then… I’ll shake your hand, thank you for your time, and be out of here. I guess someone in your position, when they retire, they can make a few dollars working for some lobbying firm on K Street, right? On the other hand, if you’re up for taking on something that could be extremely exciting, very high profile, to say nothing of insanely lucrative, then… sleep on it.”

Dexter looked out the window, seeing his own face staring back at him. It was a handsome reflection, he reflected. He tilted his head just so. Yes. It did look presidential. Yes. Yes.

“Are you doing this to spite your wife?” Dexter said.

“Well,” Buddy shrugged, “sure. But there’s also the money.”

IN A VAST MARBLE BATHROOM of a vastly expensive hotel suite with a splendid view of the Washington Monument, Pepper Cartwright, associate justice-designate of the U.S. Supreme Court, was throwing up.

JJ and Juanita hovered on the other side of the door.

“Amor,” Juanita said, “por favor, abre la puerta.”

From Pepper’s side of the door came a hollow, bellowy sound of the kind heard in the sea mammal section of the zoo as feeding time approaches.

“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.

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.”