Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

Monsignor Montefeltro said, “Geedeon. The pope is not ‘foreign.’ He is the universal church.”

“Yes, yes, I understand that. And I have only the highest respect. I’m only saying that if the pope issues some bull-and by the way, ‘bull’ is a pretty pungent term here; indeed, I fear for the puns that will result-but if the pope goes issuing bulls, it could upset things quite a bit.”

“I would say, from the perspective of Rome, things are already very upset in America, Geedeon. But I understand what you are saying, and I will of course relay this to Rome.”

“This Transitioning is going to be deader than a run-over raccoon. I’ll see to that. You tell your cardinals that Cardinal Gideon is on the case.” He winked. “Delicious wine, by the way.”

“There is a case of it in your car.” Monsignor Montefeltro smiled.

“Your generosity leaves me speechless.”

W hat now? Frank Cohane thought, seeing his daughter’s name pop up on his Google news alert page yet again. She was the Terminator. He read aloud.

Appointed to the Transitioning commission. For chrissakes. Her and her senator boyfriend Jepperson.

In due course, Bucky Trumble called to give him a heads-up about the commission. He told Frank there was more to it than met the eye. He wouldn’t say any more, only that they’d put Gideon Payne on it, as a “firewall.” He hinted that they’d tricked Jepperson into serving on it so as to reduce his visibility as Mr. Transitioning Champion.

Frank had complex views about Gideon Payne. Deep down, he couldn’t stand the man. He had no taste for southern Bible-thumpers. This one was always in the news, yammering about building some grotesque monument to fetuses-fetuses!-on the Mall in Washington or showing up at the bedside of people who’d been declared brain-dead twenty years ago, with a media posse in tow, calling down thunder and federal intervention.

Which made it all the more strange that Frank Cohane found himself in business with Gideon Payne. The (highly confidential) negotiation with Elderheaven had gone through. Gideon’s string of old folks’ homes were RIP-ware’s first client. Every prospective resident at Elderheaven was required to submit to the RIP-ware questionnaire (DNA, family history, lifestyle). Elderheaven was quietly turning away anyone for whom RIP-ware was predicting longevity and accepting the ones who had only a few years left, while pocketing their entire life savings. In the six months since Elderheaven had begun using RIP-ware in its applications process, the mortality rate of Elderheaven had shot up 37 percent. Profits were up 50 percent!

Frank, who was as canny a businessman as he was an engineer, had insisted on a 10 percent share of Elderheaven profits. Everyone was making a killing.

For this reason, Frank Cohane kept his personal feelings about Gideon Payne to himself. As for Gideon, it had come as a bit of a shock to him when he realized that RIP-ware’s owner was the father of his archenemy, Cassandra Devine. But he was greatly mollified by Frank’s denunciation of her as morally repellent. He told Frank, “I’m sure she takes after her mother.”

Frank had watched the famous episode of Greet the Press where Cass told Gideon she wasn’t about to be lectured by someone who’d run his own mother off a cliff. He’d had a good laugh at that. A scrapper, his little girl. He reflected, with mixed emotions, that he had no doubt played a role in that aspect of her development.

Now he found himself thinking back to the call a few weeks ago from Bucky Trumble, asking him to denounce her publicly: The president would very much appreciate it if… Hell of a thing to ask a father to do.

The White House drafted his talking points. Morally repellent? Jeez, Bucky, that’s a bit…harsh , isn’t it? Bucky said, Look, Frank, if you’re going to do it, do it. He gave in. But Frank had taped Bucky’s phone call. He taped all his calls. In life as in engineering, Frank Cohane believed in zero tolerance.

A week later, his security people reported a hack into Applied Predictive Actuarial Technologies’ phone system. The weird part was that they’d traced it to a server in Winchester, Virginia, maintained by an obscure division of the U.S. Treasury Department. Why was the government suddenly interested in his company’s phone calls? Then he thought: Is it possible Bucky Trumble has something to do with it? Did he suspect that Frank had taped their phone call? Was he trying to send Frank a warning?

Concentrate, Frank told himself. RIP-ware. RIP-ware. RIP-ware. It’s going to make you one of the richest people on the planet.

His cell phone rang. The caller ID said: LISA . He hesitated before answering.

“Yeah, Leese?” he said, trying to sound hurried so as to keep the conversation short. “What?…When?…Jesus, Lisa. What does he think college is? A four-year-long wet T-shirt contest, for chrissake? I told you it was crazy to send him to Yale. He couldn’t get into…I’m not being hard on him. I’m being realistic. I haven’t said one goddamn word to him. Not that he’d understand if I did. You’re right I’m pissed off. Cost me ten million dollars to get that nitwit into…I didn’t mean it that way.…?Lisa…Lisa…will you…Well, fuck you, too!” Frank Cohane hurled the cell phone across his office.

In the distance, a sea lion surfeited on salmon bellowed.

Randy and Cass were in bed. For all his flaws, it was good to be back there with him. Dear Randy. He was so obvious, but in men it can be a kind of saving grace. Transparency confers absolution.

Cass lay next to him, head nestled against his shoulder, fingers idly twirling a strand of his sandy-colored hair. She was happy and at peace. She’d missed this more than she cared to admit.

Randy said, “I heard some more from my guy Speck.” Odd choice of pillow talk, she thought.

“Um?”

“So guess who flunked out of Yale?”

“George W. Bush?” she said, not terribly interested.

“Your stepbrother. What’s-’is-name. Byrd. Boyd.”

Cass wasn’t sure how to process the information. “I never thought of him as my stepbrother. I’ve never even met him.”

“Quite the party animal, it would seem.”

She felt a twinge of indecent curiosity. “Randy, why would your guy Speck be investigating my stepbrother?”

“You know how it is. You point these guys in a direction and they keep going. They don’t stop. You do want to keep track of all the pieces.”

“Why is Boyd a piece?”

“Well,” Randy said, “your father more or less declared war on you. Calling you morally repellent. Know thy enemy, I always say. The Jepperson family motto is, ‘Don’t be caught with your pants down.’ Goes back to Baron Guy de Jepperson. Fourteenth century. Or was it thirteenth?”

“I’m not sure I think of some seventeen-year-old college kid as my ‘enemy.’”

“Eighteen. And he’s an ex-college kid. His mother-your stepmother-now she’s a piece of work, I hear.”

“Do we have to talk about this now?”

“Former tennis pro,” Randy said. “What is it about tennis pros? You know the type.”

“Not really,” Cass said, rolling over and staring up at the ceiling. “I never spent any time at country clubs. So, tell me, what kind of moral deficiency is implicit in the job description for ‘tennis pro’? Shoplifting? Serial murder? Terrorism?”

“They’re rather keen at the networking. She’ll make a dandy ambassador’s wife.”

Cass flumped a pillow and sat up. “You’re awfully informed about all this.”

“It’s my business.”