Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“Where’s my watch and fob?” he said accusingly.

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember anything, ” Gideon said, turning his pants pockets inside out.

An old Italian proverb suddenly came to Montefeltro: “Si non и vero, и molto ben trovato.” If it isn’t true, it is a happy invention. He said, “You gave it to your friend. Miss Tolstoy.”

Gideon scrunched his cheeks; his eyes peeped out through fatty slits. “What are you talking about? Give away my watch? That watch has been in my family since 1864!”

“Why don’t you sit down, Geedeon. And now I will tell you your confession.”

By the time Monsignor Montefeltro finished his recitation of the evening’s events, changing one or two details, Gideon looked ready for a funeral parlor. His skin had gone the color of waxworks.

“But…but…I don’t remember any of that,” he moaned.

“Consider that a blessing. Of course you don’t,” Montefeltro said, not unkindly. “You were drunk. Extremely drunk. Four bottles. Very good wine. Expensive.”

“But why would I give my watch, my precious watch and fob, to a-Russian who-re?”

“Two Russian who-res. Perhaps to avoid being beaten to death by two very large Russian pimps.”

“Did I…” Gideon now looked frantic. “Did I… consummate ?”

“Do you mean were you intimate with her? No-God be thanked. To think of the disease you could catch from such a woman. The bubonical plague, probably.”

Gideon shuddered. “I have to get my watch back. You have no idea. It’s precious. Family heirloom. They gave it to my ancestor for superlative marksmanship-”

“Geedeon, were I you, I would give thanks to God that I am still alive today. And buy another watch !”

“What was the name of this, this escort service, you called it?”

“How should I know?” the monsignor said heatedly. “I am not familiar with escort services! I am in the kitchen, making you black coffee to make you conscious, because you are vomiting all over my house and destroying my family treasures-look, the table, eight thousand dollars-and when I return, you are in here, on my telephone, making phone calls to prostitutes !”

“Well, I’m sorry, Massimo, if I was overserved.”

“Overserved! You drank my entire cellar!”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Gideon said edgily. “Meanwhile, I would appreciate it if you would assist me in the matter of my watch.”

“Geedeon! Forget the fucking watch! We are lucky to be alive, I tell you! The madam-the keeper of this brothel that you telephoned on my telephone -she called to inform that she is going to send people named Ivan and Vladimir to break the legs of us both! You should be having high mass offered in every cathedral in America to give thanks. You should get down on your knees and pray.”

Gideon surveyed the carpet. It did not look suitable for kneeling. “There’s a problem.”

“Of course there’s a problem! This brothel now has my phone number! Do you understand the scandal that could happen?”

“Oh…” Gideon put his hand to his eyes. “It’s worse than you think. The watch has my name on it.”

“Porca miseria.” Monsignor Montefeltro considered. “My conclusion is that it is not a wonderful situation for either of us.”

“I’ll report it stolen,” Gideon said. “That’s what. I’ll call the police and say it was stolen.” He reached for the phone.

“Geedeon. Not. That. Telephone! ”

Gideon rummaged for his cell phone.

Montefeltro said, “Wait. Think a moment. If you report to the police the watch is stolen and for some reason the Russian whores are found with the watch, what then? They will tell them everything. Including that you gave it to her. You can deny all this to the police, but they will produce their phone records with the call from my phone. Can you imagine the headlines? Can you imagine the scandal, Geedeon? For both of us? You can get a new watch, you cannot get a new reputation!”

Gideon looked defeated. He moaned, “Pray with me, Massimo. I have sinned.” He started to kneel, but then, after surveying the detritus of the lost night, said, “Is there some…other room where we might make our rogations?”

“That depends if you have finished with the throwing up,” Montefeltro said a bit testily. “All night I am cleaning. It’s not pleasant.”

“I’m sorry, Massimo,” Gideon said, summoning from deep within the remnants of his dignity. “I was not myself.”

The phone rang. Montefeltro picked it up without saying hello. He heard:

“Is residence of Montefeltro?” said the familiar, horrid, foreign-accented voice. Montefeltro tried to formulate some response, but nothing came.

The voice said, “This is escort service from last night. You owe nine hundred dollars. You want to give me credit card number, or am I sending Ivan and Vladimir?”

Frank Cohane was at the helm of his twelve-meter yacht Expensive off Monterey Bay in a stiff breeze, running time trials in preparation for the America’s Cup, when his cell phone went off. Whenever Frank was on the boat, his cell phone was programmed to accept calls only from his secretary, who was instructed to call him only if it was a matter of apocalyptic urgency.

“Yeah, Jean, what?” he barked. Expensive had just rounded the upwind mark. The crew was setting the spinnaker, a delicate procedure and one requiring total concentration from the helmsman.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Cohane, but there’s a reporter from the Yale Daily News insisting that he speak with you.”

“The Yale what? Who?”

“He says he needs to talk to you about a story he’s writing saying-these were his words-that you, quote, bribed Yale to keep them from expelling Boyd.…?Mr. Cohane?…Sir?”

“Fuck!” Frank Cohane threw the cell phone overboard.

“Mr. Cohane-sir! She’s jibing! Jibe-ho! ”

There was a loud rip forward, the sound of $60,000 worth of Mylar turning itself from a huge mono-bosom into something resembling a shredded party favor.

“Mr. Kane?” Jean said to the Yale Daily News reporter. “I’m sorry to keep you holding. Mr. Cohane and I were cut off. He’s at sea, on his yacht. Let me try to reach him. I’ll call you back.”

Charlie Kane, Yale sophomore, staff writer for the “Oldest College Daily”-as the Yale Daily News proudly called itself-told Mr. Cohane’s pleasant secretary that his deadline was in three hours. He hung up and went back to writing his story.

It had come to him, as many of the really good stories do, in a hand-me-down way. A girl in his philosophy class had a friend who had gone out with Boyd Baker. Boyd was one of the campus’s more conspicuous party animals. He’d managed to flunk all his courses and had been asked to leave and spend a year, as Yale put it, “reassessing your priorities.” And then nothing happened. He just stayed.

One dawn, after a long night of snorting Ritalin and Ecstasy with his girlfriend, Boyd confided to her that his stepfather, some humongously rich California tech guy, had bribed Yale to the tune of $25 million to keep him on. What a great story! Charlie thought. The election for next year’s editorial board was coming up, and with a story like this under his belt, Charlie would have a good shot at editor in chief.

While he waited for the phone to ring, Charlie typed: “Attempts to reach Frank Cohane on his sailboat were unavailing.” He looked at the sentence, deleted it. He Googled “Cohane” and “America’s Cup,” examined the matches, and typed: “Attempts to reach Frank Cohane aboard his ultra-high-tech, well-named yacht Expensive were unavailing.”