Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“Everyone thinks I killed my mother.”

“No, no, no. Impossible.”

“If I were a girl, I suppose I wouldn’t want to get involved with a man who killed his mother.”

Monsignor Montefeltro shifted in his seat. His facial muscles were starting to knot. No more wine for Gideon. The white wine had a high sugar content.

“Geedeon-”

“Do you want to know what happened that day at Frenchman’s Bluff, Massimo?”

“Only if you desire to tell me. But if you don’t-”

“ She tried to kill me .”

“Eh?”

“She wasn’t right in the head. The doctors had diagnosed a terminal brain tumor just three weeks before. I was driving. We stopped, just like we always did, for the view. Then suddenly she reached over and shifted the car into drive and put her foot down on the gas. I said, ‘Momma, what are you doing?’ I tried to brake, but we were on gravel, on a downslope. The car just kept going, sliding. I said, ‘Momma, what are you doing?’ She said, ‘I’m done living. We’re gonna meet Jesus together.’ I said, ‘Momma, but I’m not ready to meet Jesus!’ She said, ‘Well, he’s ready to meet you, boy!’ By then we were five feet from the edge. All I could do was open the door and roll out. The car went over with her in it.”

Monsignor Montefeltro stared.

“I made up that story about how the parking brake failed. I couldn’t tell everyone what really happened. That my own mother tried to kill me? And it ended with everyone thinking I killed her .” Gideon shook his head. “I’ve spent my whole life working on behalf of life. Crying over unborn babies, praying over the brain afflicted, keeping them alive. Preaching on the sanctity of every human being. And now…” He let out a long, plaintive sigh. “Now I’m in love with a woman who’s the poster girl for legal suicide. And on top of that, I got people suing me for tens of millions of dollars ’cause of some psycho male nurse!”

He glared at Massimo. Behind the exhausted eyes burned a bright, furious fire. “It ain’t right! It ain’t fair! You’re a man of God. You got a direct line to the Almighty. You got a switchboard at the Vatican, straight to heaven. Well, next time you and your cardinals are talking to the Lord, you ask Him: What did Gideon Payne do to make Him want to take a giant crap on him! You ask him that!”

Monsignor Massimo Montefeltro said to himself, Caution. Caution. You are dealing with a wounded creature of the American swampland. Speak very softly. Keep your fingers away from his mouth.

“Geedeon, what you tell me gives me the most enormous pain.”

“Well, it should! It damn well should!”

“Remember that it is only through suffering that we come truly to know God.”

“Aw, what a bunch of crap.”

“Geedeon. Please. It is the entire basis for our religion!”

“Not mine. Not anymore. This boy is done with suffering! This boy is going to party down and howl at the moon and get laid ! I am going to know women! I’m going to know them every which way from Sunday! Now, you go get us another bottle of this fine Italian grape juice. You and I, Massimo, we’re going to get drunk tonight. We’re going to get good and truly and royally drunk. And then,” Gideon said, “you and I”-he belched-“we’re gonna get laid !”

Frank Cohane pondered Bucky Trumble’s bizarre request on the way back to California in his jet. He was able carefully to analyze the conversation, by virtue of having recorded it.

It occurred to him as he pressed the “Play” button on his pocket digital microrecorder that he was amassing quite the audio archive of his dealings. Bucky Trumble’s voice came through clear as a bell. Frank listened as the chief aide to the president of the United States asked him to plant outgoing e-mails on his daughter’s computer in order to link her to a serial murderer. Frank thought, Wow. And I thought I could be devious.

He ran the scenarios through his mind. Scenario one: success, reward, a significant cabinet post in Peacham’s second term. Secretary of the Treasury, a title you got to keep for the rest of your life. Scenario two: success, Peacham loses election, no reward. Scenario three: lack of success, disgrace, prosecution, prison. Scenario three lacked appeal.

Frank analyzed scenario three again and again, evaluating every node and decision marker. He concluded that Trumble’s request could be accomplished at technically negligible risk. Less than…he calculated…one-tenth of a percent. Not quite zero tolerance, but-acceptable.

He thought it through one more time and decided that the risk of being disgraced and in jail was-unacceptable.

So where does that leave us? If you don’t play ball, no cabinet post.

He played the tape again. Had he made any self-incriminating comment? The answer was: No. Nothing. He hadn’t said a word. He had listened to Bucky Trumble’s request; had commented on its gross illegality. After that, Bucky got up, said how grateful the president would be if Frank contrived to put his own daughter behind bars, and-left. He, Frank, had said nothing. In any court of law, and even in the higher court of public opinion, his silence could be construed to be that of a father horrified to the point of muteness on being asked to act so heinously against his own flesh and blood.

He was in the clear.

And now Frank Cohane had an epiphany. Instantly, he chided himself on how obvious it had been all along. He felt a surge of satisfaction as he looked down on the sunset-drenched clouds going by. He signaled the rather dishy stewardess-a feature on Air Frank, as it was called within the company-to bring him a Scotch on the rocks.

He leaned back in the soft teal-colored Italian leather and gazed out the window again. He was at forty-six thousand feet, alone in his own jet, flying toward the setting sun, home to a forty-thousand-square-foot, as-seen-in- Architectural-Digest house overlooking the Pacific; to a woman-tiresome, lately, but who still lived up to her end of the bargain, providing him with on-demand, world-class sex. He had everything he wanted or could possibly need-and now he had just figured out how to get even more, and completely risk-free. Frank Cohane felt a surge of well-being.

“So?” Cass asked Randy. They were in his Senate office building, following a long day of commission hearings. Gideon Payne hadn’t shown up; probably still licking his wounds.

Randy had been evasive all day. Every time she brought it up, he said he didn’t want to discuss the matter in or even near the commission hearing room. Senators, who spend most of their waking hours within a few feet of a microphone, sooner or later become convinced that the entire landscape is listening, even if they really have nothing worth listening to.

“Did you call the FBI?”

“Honestly?”

Cass said, “Randy, you’ve got to stop saying that. It sends a signal: Normally, I lie through my teeth. Trust me. I teach corporate executives how to lie. But the answer is, yeah, I’d like to know. Honestly.”

“I got my guy Speck working on it. If anyone can find out what’s going on with the FBI and your computers, he can. I still can’t believe you put all that stuff in your diary. I’m not even certain I ever called my mother a cunt to you.”

“Why can’t you just call the FBI directly? You’re a U.S. senator. You’re supposed to throw your weight around.”

“Because it will leak that I’m trying to protect my girlfriend.”

“So? It’ll get you the girlfriend vote.”

“I promise you that I am every bit as anxious as you are to get your bloody computer back. My God. Mother was a pillar of Massachusetts society. And you calling her a cunt.”