Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

“Payment? For what? To whom?”

“Just… some people in DC.”

“Dexter,” said Terry, her temperature dropping like a Canadian cold front. “We’re talking about five hundred thousand dollars. That’s half a million dollars.”

Dexter chuckled. “Yes. Yes. Like Ev Dirksen [26]used to say-God rest his soul-‘A million here, a million there, pretty soon you’re talking about real money.’ Ha-ha. They don’t make them like that anymore, do they?”

“Dexter. What have you done with our money?”

“Well, honey,” he laughed, “technically my money. But sure, of course, ours…”

“Dexter.”

“Terry, when I agreed to take on this new assignment, it was with the expectation, and the understanding that-”

“No, no, no, no. No speeches, Dexter. This isn’t the Iowa caucus and it’s not the New Hampshire primary. What. Have. You. Done. With. The. Money. Dexter? The money that was the down payment money for the maisonette.”

“That must be, what, a French word?”

“Dexter.”

“Terry, honey, lambie, listen to me for one minute, okay?”

“I am listening, Dexter. And I’m not liking what I’m hearing.”

“That money is a down payment. But on a different residence.” Yes, Dexter thought. Good. Brilliant!

There was a silence, as the Book of Revelation would say, for the space of about half an hour-the kind of silence that generally precedes rains of fire and blood and other unpleasant things, some of them on horseback.

“What,” Terry said, “in God’s good name are you talking about?”

“The White House, Terry. The best housing in America. Makes that maisonette or whatever the hell it’s called look like a mud hut. And no monthly maintenance charges, either. Terry? Honey? Sweetie? Hello?”

There was the sound of a telephone being violently cradled.

Well, Dexter thought, that was a success. He returned to his script.

“We’ll bury him at Arlington with full honors. In a lead-lined coffin so the pallbearers won’t get cancer. And once we’ve sounded taps over the corpse, then I will deal with President Gennady Barranikov. Get me the Russian translation for ‘No more Mr. Nice Guy.’ And tell Admiral Murphy to signal the Nimitz to stand by.”

THE PRESIDENTIAL TERM LIMIT AMENDMENT was proceeding toward ratification. Eight states, so far, had approved it-states whose legislatures were peeved at “Don Veto” Vanderdamp for having denied them federal spending monies for, variously: a dam, a highway “enhancement,” a wind farm, a Museum of Gluten, an underground storage facility for used fast-food restaurant cooking grease, an Institute for the Study of Gravel, a postoperative transgender counseling center, and an electric eel farm “alternate energy source initiative.” Eight states down, twenty-four to go.

“Your campaign manager called again,” Hayden Cork said to the President in the Oval Office. “He wondered if he might actually meet with you sometime before Election Day next year.”

“What else have you got for me?” the President said, barely looking up from his desk.

“You might at least call him,” Hayden said. “If only as a courtesy.”

“He knows what to do,” Vanderdamp said, scribbling. It was a personal letter to the Russian prime minister suggesting that the recent assassination of the prime minister of Ukraine, performed with in-your-face blatancy by the Russian secret services, might not have been in the best interests of international comity.

“Yes,” Hayden said, “still, it might be nice for him to hear from you some, I don’t know, message. ‘A steady hand on the helm’? ‘Putting people first’? Something…”

“He knows my message. ‘More of the same.’ ”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll find that invigorating at campaign headquarters. Mr. President, if I may-”

“No, Hayden, you may not.”

“Very well, sir,” Hayden said, a bit stiffly.

“Was there anything else?”

“Yes. I know how you hate foreign policy crises, but Elan Blutinger called and wants to brief you on developments in Colombia. At the earliest opportunity.”

“ Colombia? Crisis? Headache, maybe, crisis, I doubt. What is it?”

“Rather sensitive.”

“Hayden,” the President said, “we both know that he’s already told you what it is. So why don’t you just tell me and I’ll promise to sound surprised when he tells me.”

“President Urumbaga is going to announce that he’s pegging the Colombian peso to the price of cocaine in Miami.”

“And what am I supposed to do about that?” the President said.

“Essentially, the country is switching to what he calls an economía blanca. A white economy. He’s in effect legalizing cocaine.”

“He can’t do that. Can he?”

“Well, I’m sure the National Assembly has to be consulted. But you know how that goes down there. How it becomes our problem is that he’s declaring it legal export.”

“For God’s sake,” the President said. “We gave him a state visit last year. South Lawn ceremony, military band, testimonial speeches, dinner, entertainment by whatsername, Gloria Estefan and the Miami Noise Machine…”

“Sound Machine, I think.”

“I’d say that’s a matter of opinion. He swore-up, down, and sideways-he was committed to the drug war. ‘We stand with you against this scourge.’ His exact words. And now- this?”

“According to Elan’s people, he doesn’t really have much choice. The narcos kidnapped the last of his family last week. You’ll recall his wife and mother-in-law were taken hostage right after they returned from the state visit here. So he’s got the proverbial gun to the head.”

The President stared out the Rose Garden window. “All right,” he said, “send in the Nimitz. Maybe that’ll get their attention.”

Hayden pursed his lips. “Perhaps not the Nimitz, sir?”

“Why not? Is it in dry dock or something?”

“I know you don’t watch much television, sir, but Dexter Mitchell, he’s in a show now. It’s doing rather well. He plays a president.”

Vanderdamp snorted. “Finally. I know all about that. It’s called POTUS. President Lovebucket or some such. My grandchildren watch. They like it. They tease me about it. Little Ann Marie told me, ‘He’s more handsomer than you are, Grampy.’ Ha-ha. I said, ‘Well, if that’s the way you feel, I’m not going to name that new national park after you.’ Ha-ha-ha! Darling thing. Looks just like her mother when she was that age…”

“Yes, well, President Lovestorm, his solution to every crisis is to send in the Nimitz.”

“So?”

“I’m all for giving the Colombians the heebie-jeebies, sir, but why don’t we suggest to the Joint Chiefs they send in the George H. W. Bush or the Theodore Roosevelt or…”

“I don’t care what aircraft carrier we use,” President Vanderdamp said. “But for God’s sake, Hayden. What’s it come to when you can’t use an aircraft carrier because some TV president is using it.”

“Let me check with Admiral Stavridis, see what we have on station down there.”

“What’s happening, Hayden?” the President said philosophically. “You can’t tell anymore what’s real and what isn’t. Everything’s all jumbled. The world has been reduced to a wide-screen TV.”

“Yes, sir. With respect to that, it appears President Lovebucket has engaged Buss Scrump to form an exploratory committee.”

“For God’s sake.”

WOULD YOU KNOW ANYTHING about this?” Buddy said.

He was standing, florid faced, in Dexter’s dressing room, thrusting his BlackBerry at his star. Dexter, recoiling slightly, saw the headline on the little screen:

‘POTUS’ FOR PRESIDENT? DEXTER MITCHELL IN (REAL) PRESIDENTIAL BID