Terry and Cass were going over a presentation for a client who owned a nationwide string of 550 pet stores. He wanted the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to relax its ban on importing a species of Amazonian salamander called a motato that absorbs moonlight and glows in the dark. He foresaw a huge demand for glow-in-the-dark salamanders and, on top of the normal fees, was offering Terry a $5 million bonus if it went through.
The problem was twofold. The head of the imported salamanders division within Fish and Wildlife had to be persuaded that the motato was not, strictly speaking, endangered. The other problem was that the salamander was considered holy by a tribe of indigenous Indians, which meant that various environmental deputies in the Brazilian government would have to be persuaded, which is to say bribed-or, in the parlance of K Street, “accommodated.” Terry and Cass were analyzing this particular aspect when the door burst open and in limped the senator from the great state of Massachusetts.
“I’ve been calling you for two days,” he said grumpily to Cass. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
“I’ve been dealing,” Cass said airily, “with salamanders.”
Terry said to Randy, “Don’t ask.”
Cass said, “Less slimy than certain human beings.”
“If you two want to slug it out, I could leave,” Terry said.
Randy threw himself into a leather chair. “It wasn’t very nice of you to call me a ‘wimp’ on your blog.”
“Actually I toned it down. Originally I had called you a backstabbing sellout.”
“Thank you,” Randy said. “I’m touched. You didn’t help me much with the president. I was given the impression that he doesn’t like being called a ‘manipulative scumbag.’ Really, Cass.”
He described his phone call with Bucky Trumble. “So, it would appear that we’ve been had.”
“No, darling,” Cass said, “you’ve been had.”
“Whatever,” Randy said. The kinda spooky look came over him. “But let me assure you-they will rue the day that they tangled with Randolph K. Jepperson.”
“Rue?” said Terry.
Cass said, “It’s WASP for ‘pluck out their eyes.’ So, Senator? What’s the plan now? Gearing up to write an earthshaking op-ed piece?”
“Screw that. We’re running.”
Cass and Terry stared.
“For president,” he added.
“Darling,” Cass said, not unkindly, “what on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, typically when someone runs for president, they have some, you know, reason. Other than, say, hating the current president. They’re called ‘issues.’”
“I have a platform.”
“I must have missed that press release. And what does it consist of? If you say Transitioning, I’m going to stab you in the heart with this pen.”
“As a matter of fact, Transitioning is indeed part of my platform. Fiscal responsibility. Not handing on debt to the next generation. Accountability. Leadership-”
“Don’t forget global warming. Where do you stand on violent crime?”
“I’m against it,” Randy said, rising out of his chair. “Look, I could use you.”
“You already did.”
“I know you’re sore. I don’t blame you. I was an ass. And maybe it sounds grandiose to say, ‘I’m going to run for president.’ But ever since that day I walked into the JFK Library-”
“Tripping your brains out on LSD. That’ll make for a stirring announcement speech.”
“All right, we’ll leave out that part of it. Point is, I feel that this is what my life is directed toward. Fate put us together in that minefield in Bosnia.”
“You wanting a gourmet meal put us in that minefield.”
“I’m trying to explain why I’m running for president.”
“Randy, I’m not interested. I don’t care. Want to give a speech? Go do it on C-SPAN.”
Randy stood up. He looked at Terry. Terry shrugged. Randy walked to the door. He said, “Your generation is being bankrupted by my generation. I want to do something about it. There’s a presidential election coming up, and I’m going to be in it. I could use you-I mean, I need you. But okay. Good luck with your salamanders.”
He left.
Terry said to Cass, “Say what you will, the man knows how to make an exit.”
Cass hardly slept that night, and not because she was wired on Red Bull or blogging. The next morning, as she blearily read the computer screen to find out what the rest of the world had done, she saw the bulletin from the White House announcing that Franklin Cohane, the billionaire California software entrepreneur, had been appointed finance chairman of the Committee to Reelect President Peacham.
She called Randy on his cell phone. “Okay,” she said. “I’m in.”
“Oh, darling,” Randy said, “that’s wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.”
“Whatever,” she said, and hung up.
Chapter 32
Gideon Payne, too, had been having a hard time getting through to the president, and this chafed. He was even having a hard time getting through to Bucky Trumble. Just who did Mr. Buckminster Trumble think he was? The White House might be busy, but Gideon was not used to having hours go by before his phone calls were returned. The cheek of these people.
It had been a tumultuous couple of months. First the deplorable episode at Monsignor Montefeltro’s involving the Russian jezebels. His watch-gone. Probably hocked by the strumpets for drug money. He still unconsciously patted his vest pockets for it. He’d hired a private investigator to scour the capital’s pawnshops and antique jewelry stores, looking for it.
Then there was the commission and Cassandra Devine’s surprise gesture of reconciliation. What had prompted that? Was it really just the sight of his bandaged head? Or had some deeper, inner decency prompted it? He yearned for another touch of her hand but knew-knew in his heart of hearts-that there would not be another. She and Jepperson, that ass Yankee opportunist, were going to marry, so the rumor was.
As for the work of the commission itself, Gideon had made his feelings plain to Chairman Bascombe P. Bledsoe. Bledsoe seemed determined to put an end to the wretched business with his “Further study is needed” ruling. Jepperson’s Transitioning bill was now stalled in the Senate, going nowhere.
Meanwhile, Elderheaven’s profits were up 50 percent, thanks to the new actuarial software that Sidney, his chief operating officer, had purchased-at some considerable cost-from that software company in California. The software allowed Elderheaven to be selective in deciding which old folks to admit, and so far, it had been brilliantly accurate. The recent admissions had been dropping like flies, right and left, after signing over their life savings, leaving Elderheaven awash in cash. Which was good, since Elderheaven and Gideon needed cash to settle the damn Arthur Clumm-related lawsuits. But at this rate, the company would be able to expand, rolling up more and more nursing homes. The future looked very green indeed. And there was nothing like money to pump a man up, fill him with confidence. Gideon felt like sashaying on down to the White House, banging on the door, and demanding that the president declare his support-wholehearted support, none of this no-objection-in-principle gargle-for Gideon’s memorial to the 43 million. The time for equivocation was over. Had he not fought the president’s battles on the commission? Gideon was owed.