Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

One day, Cass had to take some papers over to the Senate campaign office, situated in the worst part of town, not so much to save money as to enhance Randy’s image as Champion of the Downtrodden.

She saw Randy and another man in the glassed-in corner conference office. She was putting the delivery package on the desk when Randy saw her and waved her in.

“Meet Terry Tucker,” he said. “Our communications evil genius. Highly overpaid evil genius.”

“Hello,” Cass said. Of course, she knew all about Terry Tucker. His title was communications director, but everyone seemed to take orders from him, including the chief of staff.

Terry smiled. “Ms. Cohane.”

“Devine,” Cass corrected him.

“In every way.”

“You must be in PR.”

“In every way.” Terry smiled. “Pleasure. I’ve heard all about you. We owe you.”

“What for?” Cass said.

“Our war hero here. You were present at the big bang that expanded our universe.”

“You oughtn’t to be quite so cynical,” Randy said. “She’s new in town, and young. She might actually have a few ideals left.”

Terry said to Cass, “We were just talking about the video I’m assembling for the ‘Salute to American Heroes’ dinner. The congressman is being honored for his heroism.” He turned to Randy. “Sorry, what was that you were saying about cynicism?”

“Wasn’t my idea,” Randy said.

“No, it was mine. That’s why you overpay me.”

“Good to meet you, sir,” Cass said.

Five minutes later, she was waiting for the elevator when she found Terry Tucker standing beside her.

“Got lunch plans?” he said.

“I have to get back to the office.”

“No, you don’t.”

“There’s this dragon lady I report to.”

“Giggles? Come on.” He smiled. “You look underpaid, underfed, and overworked. I can fix the middle part.”

It occurred to her, riding down in the elevator, that the last time a man had insisted that she share a meal, she’d ended up in a minefield.

Terry Tucker was in his late forties, more than twice her age. He was lean with dark hair and suspicious but not unfriendly eyes. He looked like someone who would tell you without hesitation something you didn’t want to hear but couldn’t disagree with. Cass had the radar of a pretty woman and could tell if someone was making a pass at her. He seemed oblivious to this aspect of her. His manner was that of an impatient older brother. Come on. She went.

He took her to a place on Pennsylvania Avenue named Carnivore, owned by a lawyer who had made $15 million from a class-action suit against the Salvation Army for dispensing sugar doughnuts to half a dozen diabetic disaster victims. It’s a great country.

“Have the four-pound lobster,” Terry said from behind a menu thick as Sheetrock and the size of an open newspaper. “It’s scary.”

“Four pounds? That’s not a lobster, it’s an ecosystem.”

“The People for the Ethical Treatment of Crustaceans used to demonstrate outside the restaurant. I know the owner. He hired me to deal with it.”

“What did you do?”

“Buttered them up. Literally. Announced we were feeding the leftovers to the homeless. You get a lot of leftovers from a four-pound lobster. The Post did a story on it. Headline was HOMELESS BUT STUFFED. With a photo. We set up a table and everything outside in the back.” Terry smiled. “The lobster huggers didn’t know what hit ’em. Fucking idiots.”

“That’s awful, ” Cass said.

“Who gets up in the morning thinking, What can I do to help the lobsters? Get a life.” Terry shrugged. “You do what you have to. This town is an asshole-rich environment. The crab cakes are good if you don’t want the lobster.”

Cass ordered a salad. Terry tucked into a sirloin with zest befitting the restaurant’s name.

“So here’s the deal with me,” he said without any prompting, and launched into an admirably condensed story of his life. When he finished, he said, “So what’s your deal? Hero Boy told me your dad bailed on the Yale tuition. What a prick.”

Cass put down her fork. “Excuse me. But what right do you have to call my father a prick?”

“You’re right. I apologize. Let me rephrase it. What a truly wonderful human being your father is for taking your college money- and the mortgage on the family house-and putting it into his failing business. Give that man a Father of the Year award.”

Cass shrugged. “I suppose he is a prick.”

“Does he still have the Cessna?”

“I see Randy told you everything. I don’t know. He’s in California becoming someone else.”

“He’ll fit right in. You can be anyone you want to there, as long as you don’t mind being stuck in traffic. Listen, when this campaign gets going-once it really starts, if he gets the party nomination-you know the media’s going to come after you.”

“For what?”

“You got into Yale. Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

“This is totally unfair.”

“I’m not saying it was your fault. He told me what happened. He’s a lot of things, but he’s not a complete asshole. He said it was all his fault. He said, ‘I feel guilty.’ I said, ‘You should. You totally fucked up this poor kid’s life.’”

“I’m not a ‘poor kid,’” Cass said.

“All right. He fucked up a wonderful young woman’s life. I told him, ‘Way to go. We certainly need more people like you in the Senate. People with judgment.’ What is it with Massachusetts politicians, anyway? They don’t do so good with women in cars.”

“Do you talk to all your clients like that?”

Terry smiled. “Not the corporate ones. Only the personally rich ones. They can handle it. They’re so used to having their asses kissed, it’s almost refreshing when someone tells them the truth. But enough about me. You look like a nice kid. Woman . Whatever. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Is the point of this expensive lunch to get rid of me?” Cass asked.

“No,” Terry said. “This was my idea. He didn’t put me up to anything.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I want you to come work for me.”

“In PR ?”

“Public relations is beneath you?”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yeah, you did. For starters, we don’t call it PR here. ‘Strategic communications.’ But before you tell me to go fuck off, let me tell you how it’s going to play out. The moment our hero nails the nomination and becomes a serious player-and I think he will-some media dickhead is going to do a story about how you’re on his payroll. Never mind that nothing happened over there between you two-other than you both got blown up. He’s got a rep as a skirt chaser, and you’re a looker. I can even tell you what the line will be: ‘Chappaquiddick Two-this time on dry land, and the chick lived to go on the payroll.’”

“That’s ridiculous! And it’s not true!”

“It’s a ridiculous town.” Terry shrugged. “How long do you really think you’d last once you become the story? Maybe he’s basically a nice guy now. Think he’d risk his entire campaign on you? He doesn’t feel that guilty. No politician does. They’re born with Original Spin. And then what? You’re on your butt on the street. You think everyone in town is going to be lining up to hire you?”

Cass stared glumly at her food.

“How was the salad?”

“Not very good, actually.”

Terry smiled. “Told you to order the lobster. Think of the homeless we could have fed. Consider my offer. I’ve got a feeling about you.”

“You don’t know me.”