THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
“You are instructed personally to denounce this bill-publicly-in the most vehement language.”
“How do you mean, publicly, Eminence?”
“From every pulpit. Especially television. You are very good on the television. You are to be our leader in America on this matter.”
Monsignor Montefeltro’s mouth went as dry as an empty holy water dish.
“But, Eminence, surely,” he croaked, “the American cardinals, the papal nuncio, they are all much better suited than I to-”
“Massimo. Hear me. I am expressing to you the desire of the holy father himself. This is the greatest honor. You have pleased him. He reposes in you the greatest trust.”
“The holy father is too generous. I, I must-”
“Now I am going to tell you a great secret which you must not reveal to anyone. You are to be elevated to cardinal archbishop after the new year. You are to become the next papal nuncio to the United States. But you are not to let the holy father know that you know this. He wants to tell you himself. For it to be a surprise. Are you not pleased, Massimo?”
THUMPTHUMPTHUMP.
“Yes, Eminence.”
“You don’t sound pleased.”
“I am overwhelmed.”
“Very well. Now, attend me closely. You are authorized to say, on behalf of the Holy See, that should this abominable bill of ‘Transitioning’ become the law in America, the holy father will issue a bull of excommunication-to any American Catholic who supports it. Do you understand?”
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP. DING-DONG-DING-DONG-DING-DONGTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP.
“I think they are installing the bell of your new chapel. I must go. Good-bye, Massimo. God be with you.”
“Good-bye, Eminence.”
Monsignor Massimo Montefeltro slowly hung up the phone, the same phone that the head of the pro-life movement in the United States had used to telephone an escort service, one of whose employees was at this moment trying to kick in the front door. And now the pope in Rome himself had just issued instructions to the monsignor, whose phone number and-better yet-face were familiar to several employees of the escort service, to appear on every television screen in the country…in order to express moral indignation.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
Across Rock Creek and a mile down Pennsylvania Avenue, another phone was ringing just as Monsignor Montefeltro was hanging his up.
Bucky Trumble sat forlornly at his desk, contemplating the pink bottle of Pepto-Bismol. His stomach was a Vesuvius of churning gastric juices. He was certain that ulcers were forming.
“Mr. Trumble,” his secretary said, “it’s Mr. Cohane calling.”
Bucky took another slug of pink liquid and picked up the phone.
“What do you want?”
“You don’t sound very happy to hear from me.”
“Are you getting the right sound level for your tape recorder? Want me to count to ten? One, two, three-”
“Ah, come on, Bucky boy. Don’t play the debutante with me. You White House guys invented taping!”
“Get to the point.”
“Isn’t it nice not having to do all the bullshit? Now you can be honest with me. You don’t have to kiss my ass, don’t have to tell me, ‘Oh, Frank, I just spoke to the president and he has you in mind for a significant cabinet role in the next administration.’ Although come to think of it, you actually do have to kiss my ass. And that’s what I’m calling about.”
“What part of your ass needs kissing today, Frank?”
“All of it! I want in.”
“In what?”
“The campaign. The inner circle. No more Mickey Mouse ‘Owl inner circle’ bullshit and those phony ‘issue briefings by top officials.’ That’s for amateurs. I want to be in the room with you and the Man when the big decisions are made.”
“Is that all?” Bucky said mildly. “No air strikes or missile launches? Your own personal CIA daily briefer?”
“For the time being. After we win, I’ll want quite a bit more. Starting with the Treasury Department.”
“Why don’t we just send you the money instead?”
“That’s funny, Bucky. I’m really, really laughing. Do you do stand-up on the side?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Frank. You’re just another billionaire. According to Forbes, there are 371 of you out there.”
“Yeah, I saw. But this billionaire’s got you by the short ones, Bucky boy. And I’m about to give a good yank. Feel that? Want another?”
“You’re damaged goods, Frank. That Yale thing-bribing an Ivy League university not to flunk out your son? How do you think that would play at your Senate confirmation hearing?”
“Stepson. And who gives a shit? And who’s going to prove it was a bribe? You think Yale is going to come forward and say, ‘Sure we take bribes’? So I’m generous. That’s a matter of record. I give away tons of money. I give you money. I’ve just in the last week made significant donations to a number of Ivy League universities. You know what they say: Money’s like manure. Pile it up in one place…So don’t you worry about my Yale problem. That story got no legs. But nice try.”
Bucky said, “I can’t just wave a wand and make you head of the campaign.”
“Well, if I were you, Bucky boy, I’d start waving something-your dick, if it’ll do the trick. Otherwise you’re going to be reading a transcript of yourself telling me to hack into my daughter’s laptop and plant fraudulent, incriminating e-mails linking her to a serial murderer. Now, that would be a story with legs.”
“I’ll do what I can. But I don’t know if he’ll go for it.”
“Sure he will. Here’s what you tell him. Tell him exactly what I want. Up front. Tell him I want to be his secretary of the Treasury in the second term, and to that end, I will raise so much money for him during the campaign, you’ll be able to buy every minute of TV airtime between now and the election. If you can’t sell that, you’re in the wrong job.”
“I’ll do what I can. Good-bye, Frank. And Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck you.…?You’re right. It does feel good.”
Bucky hung up feeling oddly liberated. It was so seldom in politics one could be so frank.
Cass was wrangling volunteers.
She’d managed to find a few dozen sixty-something Baby Boomers who were willing to volunteer for Transitioning-though not until age seventy-five. Moreover, in return for their selfless acts of economic patriotism, they were demanding not only tax benefits well beyond the parameters of Cass’s original Transitioning plan, but also subsidized burial, mausoleums, full college tuition for their children, and retroactive medical payments going back to age twenty-one. Cass estimated that the aggregate economic impact of their Transitioning to the U.S. Treasury would be a negative $65 billion. (She would not emphasize this fact when they testified before the commission.)
“Where’d you find these people? Pyongyang?” Randy asked grouchily, looking over her list while plunging his chopsticks into a container of crispy shredded beef. He was generally grumpy with Cass and with Terry these days, owing to their North Korean golf tournament scheme. Oddly, the FBI, for whatever reason, hadn’t come around to grill them further. And so far it hadn’t leaked to the media. Allen Snyder was clearly worth well more than $700 an hour. Randy sniffed, “I imagine you’d find a lot of people in North Korea willing to sign up for Transitioning. At any age.”
“Since you ask,” Cass said, “it wasn’t easy. In fact, it’s quite hard finding people of your generation willing to do something altruistic for their country.”
“Altruistic?” Terry said, nearly spewing his hot-and-sour soup. “That’s a laugh. I bet half of these volunteers you found are on eBay right now, seeing how much they could get for their body parts.”