“You mean like sex stuff?”
Allen blushed.
“I’d just as soon not have the FBI poring over my diary,” Cass said, flustered. “There are no lesbian fantasies or numbers of private banking accounts in the Cayman Islands or plots to assassinate the president or Osama bin Laden’s private cell phone number.…?But it’s a diary. I tell it things. That’s what you do with a diary.”
Terry groaned.
“All right,” Allen said in calming tones. “I’m going to insist that they have no probable cause. At the same time, I don’t think we want headlines saying that we’re refusing to cooperate with an FBI investigation into”-he gave Terry a weary glance-“serial murders.”
When the agents and Allen had left, Terry said, “Diary?”
“So?”
“It’s a company computer.”
“Oh, please. If you’re worried about the FBI finding incriminating material on my company computer, I’d worry more about the company-related stuff. Like your proposal to the government of North Korea about putting on that celebrity pro-am golf tournament in Pyongyang. Or our pitch to ExxonMobil for the ‘Adopt a Sea Otter’ plan. Or the media plan for the Mink Ranchers Association about how more people get rabies from minks than from rats. Or would you rather worry about my diary?”
Terry, color draining from his face, said. “I better call the IT people. We’ve got some deleting to do.”
“What about damage control?”
“Delete first, control damage later.”
The senator from the great state of Massachusetts called. He’d heard about the “personal goddess” comment and the “Keep up the good work.” He said, “Don’t worry. I’ve thought it all through. We’re going to be fine. You and Terry could spin your way out of a hurricane. By the way, I won’t be back in town for a while.”
“Why not?”
“I’m going on a listening tour. If I’m going to be a national candidate, I’ve got to get myself out there. I’ll check in from the road. Good luck!”
It had been a long day. Terry and Cass repaired that night to the Unnamed Source, a bar around the corner from the office. She told him about the call from Randy.
“A ‘listening tour’?” Terry snorted into his bourbon.
Cass said, “The first listening tour in history took place in France, in 1848. It was conducted by a man named Alexandre Ledru-Rollin. One of the leaders of the revolution of 1848. One day he saw a mob going by his window. He jumped up and said, ‘There go the people! I must follow them! I am their leader!’”
The TV over the bar showed Arthur Clumm, Nurse of the Year, making another fashion statement in bright orange with stainless steel wrist and ankle accessories.
Terry waved over the bartender. “Would you turn that thing to ESPN?” The bartender went to find the remote control. Cass idly watched the “crawl” at the bottom of the screen, the distracting ticker tape of generally pointless news bulletins.
… SHARES OF ELDERHEAVEN CORP STOCK DOWN 8% IN WAKE OF BUDDING GROVE FACILITY DEATHS…
In the next instant, the screen switched to a Major League Baseball player who had gained seventy-five pounds in less than a year, all of it muscle. His lawyer, sitting next to him at a table, was staunchly averring that his client had never taken steroids and was pounding his fist on the table, complaining about the “unconscionably sloppy custody chain with these urine samples.”
“Merciful Jesus,” Gideon Payne was saying over the phone. He had loosened his tie and with his free hand was waving off a minion who was approaching with a face of woe. “How much of it do we own?…Thirty percent?” Gideon’s eyes darted back and forth like beads in an abacus. “That’s minority ownership.…?I know it’s almost a third, Sidney, I can count…but it’s still…minority…We don’t…we don’t…We do? Well, who in the name of all angels and archangels signed off on that dumb-ass scheme?…What is the Elderheaven Corporation doing administering the personnel division of a nursing home in Blooming…Budding, whatever Grove-”
“Reverend,” interrupted one of Gideon’s minions, “it’s that reporter from The New York Times again. He says-”
“Go. Away,” Gideon mouthed. “Now you look here, Sidney. You’re going to have to deal with this out of your office. I need space around me on this. A lot of space. Vast space. I want you to create a, a, desert around me. You’re the chief operating officer of Elderheaven Corporation. So assume the mantle of chief and start operating. As far as I am concerned, I wasn’t in the same room when this deal was signed with Budding Grove. I was not in the country. I was not on the planet. Not in the same solar system.”
Gideon hung up, exhausted and in a molar-grinding fury. The minion was hovering.
“What do you want, Templeton?”
The minion Templeton presented Gideon with a list of the media calls that had come in following the revelation that Arthur Clumm, Death Angel, was technically on Gideon’s payroll.
The Financial Times…The New York Times…The Washington Post…USA Today…the Los Angeles Times…The Wall Street Journal…the Jerusalem Post...?The Jerusalem Post? For God’s sake.…?
Gideon wiped his brow with a handkerchief, dismissed Templeton, and looked up at the ceiling and muttered, “You’re not working with me today, Lord.”
Cass and Terry had made a $100 bet, as they rushed back to the office from the Unnamed Source with renewed spring in their step, as to how long before Senator Randolph K. Jepperson called, pretending not to have heard the news about Gideon Payne’s one-third ownership of the Budding Grove-“Budding Grave” in the tabloid press-nursing facility; furthermore, to announce that he was abandoning his “listening tour” because there was no one out there really worth listening to and was ready to get back to sitting on the Transitioning commission. Cass bet that he would call in before noon the next day. Terry bet after noon. Randy’s call came at twelve-fifteen p.m., so they decided to spend the $100 on a good, splurgy lunch at the Calcutta Club.
Cass said, “What would you say if I extended an olive branch to Gideon?”
Terry tore off a piece of naan and dipped it in crispy okra and yogurt. “Fine, as long as you were smacking him across the face with it.”
Cass smiled and forked a piece of Manchurian cauliflower. Terry popped some chicken tikka masala into his mouth.
“Right now I would guess he’s frantically building some kind of moat around himself,” Terry said. “He didn’t hire this wacko. He didn’t know. Elderheaven’s a huge company. Yada yada. Why should he be held responsible? He’s just as horrified as anyone. More horrified. More horrified than you, anyway. You were this hairball’s inspiration. His ‘personal goddess.’ Sending him autographed photos saying, ‘Kill! Kill! Kill! Keep up the good work!’”
Cass dabbed a bit of bhindi from her lips. “What we ought to be doing is calling time-out to Gideon’s and my catfight and shifting the spotlight onto Randy.”
“I’m kind of enjoying the catfight. Everyone is. Why cancel the best show on TV?”
“Not canceling, entirely. But shifting the focus. Look, it’s worked, in a way, the whole Transitioning thing. It’s got the government focused and on the defensive. If he’s really got a shot at the vice presidency.”
Terry stared, a forkful of karavee bhindi suspended in midair. “You don’t honestly think they’re going to give it to him, do you?”
“Why take chances? You were the one always telling me you wanted to elect someone president.”
“Sure. I also wanted to sleep with Grace Kelly, play with the Rolling Stones, and throw the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. Instead I ended up running a beauty parlor on K Street for corporate criminals. Life is funny sometimes.”