“What’s this?”

“Terry’s and my official resignation from your campaign. Be sure to say that you were appalled to learn about it all. And that you immediately accepted-actually, demanded-our resignations. With any luck, they’ll move on.”

Randy looked at Terry. Terry shrugged. “You’re within spitting distance of Peacham. You don’t want to get bogged down in this.”

Cass said to Terry, “Could I talk to Randy for a minute?”

“I can’t do this without you,” Randy said.

“Sure you can. Just keep telling them to shut the fuck up.”

Randy tore up the piece of paper.

“I appreciate the gesture, but I already posted it on the website.”

“You stood by me. I’ll stand by you. We’ll tough it out.”

“That’s sweet but completely suicidal. If you make it, you might actually be in a position to fix this mess. I wouldn’t draw a whole lot of satisfaction from thinking I stood in the way of that. Hey”-she smiled-“we’re a long way from Turdje.”

Randy was blinking back tears. Cass reached over and stroked his cheek. “You can’t go in front of the Greater Manchester Self-Esteem League looking like that.”

Two days later, Randy finished second in the New Hampshire primary, three points behind Peacham. The big surprise that night was Gideon Payne, who came in third. An impressive showing-and now it was on to South Carolina.

Chapter 37

The details of Terry Tucker’s North Korea pro-am golf tournament scheme were avidly gone over in the press. One article, noting that North Korea’s only golf course had been built with slave labor (as had everything else in that unhappy country), was headlined “Field of Screams.” But Cass’s and Terry’s resignations had insulated Randy from significant collateral damage. After the initial huffing and puffing, most accepted it for what it was-another Washington PR scheme to shake a few shekels from one of the world’s nuttier dictators-and moved on.

The White House, on the other hand, did its best to keep the issue alive. En route to Charleston, South Carolina, aboard Air Force One, the president invited the press forward to his cabin. Bucky had suggested a leading question to a reporter friendly to the administration.

“Sir, will your Justice Department be pursuing legal action against Mr. Tucker and Ms. Devine under the trading with the enemy statutes?”

“Difficult question,” said the president, trying to look as if he were weighing a grave constitutional issue. Inwardly, he was feeling much lighter. No one had told him to shut the fuck up since New Hampshire. He had inserted a crowbar between Jepperson and that woman. Frank Cohane was urging him to unleash the attorney general on her. Strange, the relish Cohane had for going after his own daughter. The president didn’t like Cohane. He was always dropping little hints about how he was looking forward to running the Treasury in the second term. Bucky seemed oddly tolerant of this forwardness. But Cohane was an animal when it came to raising money. He was putting a lot of his own dough, too, into various 527s that funneled the money to the party. If Peacham did appoint him to the Treasury, there would be talk of his having bought the job. But there was a campaign to wage in the meantime.

“I haven’t consulted with the attorney general on that,” he told the reporter. “It’s his decision, not mine. Meanwhile, I think Senator Jepperson did the decent thing. For once.” The reporters laughed.

“Do you feel threatened by Reverend Payne, Mr. President? He’s showing strength in the South.”

“I feel threatened by anyone who wants my job.” Laughter. “But I’m going to work my heart out for every vote down there. This isn’t a southern matter or a northern matter. It’s an American matter.”

“Do you still refuse to debate with Senator Jepperson?”

“I will debate only with candidates who comport themselves according to minimal standards of decorum. If I see Senator Jepperson inside that debate hall, I’m going to have the Secret Service wash his mouth out with soap.” Laughter. “The kind with pumice.” More laughter. Bucky Trumble sat in a corner, beaming, listening to his own lines being spoken by the most powerful man on earth.

“Sir, the chairman of the Federal Reserve has indicated that he may raise the prime rate another point, to twenty-two percent, in view of the fact that inflation is now running at thirty-five percent.…”

The media do not abandon their darlings, not when they provide such copy as Cassandra Devine. Within days of her departure from the campaign, USA Today ran a cover story with the headline JEPPERSON AFTER CASS: IF I ONLY HAD A BRAIN.

Randy was not generally amused by the media’s declarations that Cass was his “brain.” On the other hand, he had enough of one himself to know that she was. Since the night in New Hampshire when he accepted her resignation, he had been calling and BlackBerrying her constantly.

“We probably ought to cool it,” Cass finally said. “Who knows who’s listening in and reading these e-mails. I’m not sure the other shoe has dropped yet. Justice may come after us. And if it comes out that we’re still talking, it could hurt you. Meanwhile, there’s this thing I’m going to do, and trust me, you don’t want to be an official part of it.”

Cass’s “thing” was a U30 protest rally in Washington, D.C., on the Mall at the foot of the Capitol building. On her website, Cass instructed everyone to bring their Social Security cards. She had gotten the idea from the Vietnam protests. Odd, she thought, that her inspiration should come from a key moment in the history of the Baby Boomers.

It was necessary to apply for permits from the National Park Service and fourteen other agencies and departments that ruled over democratic gatherings on the nation’s front lawn. Word of this made its way on up to the White House.

“Goddamnit,” said the president, “what do I have to do-drive a stake through this woman’s heart?” He said this in the presence of Frank Cohane and was immediately embarrassed.

Frank, however, seemed unperturbed. He said, “Sir, I’m afraid she’s out to make a fool of all of us.”

“Deny her the permits,” the president said to Bucky.

“Tricky,” Bucky said. “The media are in love with her. If we get in the way of the permit process, it’s bound to leak, and it’ll look like we’re afraid of her. I’d let it proceed. See what”-he shot the president a sly glance-“develops.”

“How do you mean?”

“You get a hundred thousand or so kids together,” Bucky said, “who knows what kind of hell’s likely to break loose. Right?”

The president smiled. “You’re a cocksucker, Trumble.”

“Thank you, sir.” Bucky smiled.

The Protest Against Social Security, or PASS, was held on the Mall on the Saturday before the South Carolina primary. Getting U30s to attend a political rally was like herding cats. They coalesced more readily for concerts than for political demonstrations. Still, they came, and in respectable numbers. The Park Service estimated the crowd at seventy-five thousand, a good showing. Vendors did a brisk business in tuna wraps and vitamin water. Many protesters carried STFU! signs. Emergency medical crews stood ready to treat anyone stricken with self-esteem deficit. Curious Boomers who looked on from the sidelines remarked that it was just like the Vietnam protests, only completely different. “In those days,” said one old-timer riding by on a Segway, “we didn’t have nearly the variety of bottled waters you have today. Man, those were crazy times.”

As soon as it grew dark, Cass took to the microphone and instructed the crowd to take out their Social Security cards. Seventy-five thousand people under thirty held them in the air, lighters at the ready. Suddenly the stage was swarmed with police wearing a dozen different uniforms.