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.Hail Mary, full of grace.”“It’s New York, Dexter.”“Thank you for clarifying that.I’d assumed you were talking about a diamond mine in South Africa.”OKAY,” Dexter said to Buddy and Jerry.“Let’s do it again.I’ll rip her clothes off with my teeth.”“Whoa, Tiger,” Buddy said, giving Dexter a manly shoulder punch.“That’s an original Carolina Herrera.But I love the energy.Throw her onto that bed, send in the ol’ Nimitz, and we’re out of here.Good to go, Mr.Prez?”“Yes, yes,” Dexter said, sounding profoundly bored at the prospect of ravishing a woman voted by People magazine the third sexiest woman on planet Earth.There was something in addition to the four-million-dollar maisonette that was taking up a lot of gigs on Dexter Mitchell’s hard drive: a poll that morning in USA Today.If the election were held today, who would you vote for? Answer: President Mitchell Lovestorm—by thirty points over the next most popular choice.Dexter had shown the poll to his wife, palms moist with excitement.Terry had glanced at it in a bemused way, as if it were a postcard from Aunt Hattie in Bora-Bora.“That’s wonderful, darling.And isn’t it wonderful you aren’t running?”“But Terry.Look at these numbers.Thirty points!”“Dexter,” she said, “Mitchell Lovestorm is a television character.”“So?” Dexter said.“We’re all television characters these days.”“I’m not.Look, sweetheart, it’s a lovely compliment to what you’ve been able to do.And for a nonprofessional actor, too.We’re all so proud of you.But the poll is”—she laughed—“meaningless.Anyway,” she said brightly, like a mother trying to convince a recalcitrant six-year-old that he didn’t really want to go to the zoo today after all, “you’re already president.”Dexter sighed.“It’s hardly the same thing, Terry.Have you ever heard of the term ‘synchronicity’?”“Yes,” Terry said.“It’s when you suddenly have a lot of money and just the right apartment comes on the market.”As soon as Dexter had wrapped the steamy reconciliation scene on Air Force One he went off to his dressing room and placed a call to Buster “Bussie” Scrump, the Washington pollster and political operative.It had been unkindly but accurately said of Bussie Scrump that his ethics were of a piece with Groucho Marx’s manifesto, “I’ve got principles.And if you don’t like them, I’ve got other principles.”“Mis-ter President!” Bussie said jovially.They’d known each other for years.“How’s the Nimitz? I swear I get goose bumps every time I hear you say that.”“Fuck the Nimitz,” Dexter said.“Now listen, Buss, this is between you, me, and the Holy Ghost.”CHAPTER 22The investigation into the Swayle leak, now in its fourth week, had so far failed to produce any result other than a deepening of the already sour mood within the marble palace.A defiant and continuingly minty-breathed Chief Justice Hardwether had, true to his threat, called in the FBI, causing almost unanimous ill will.(For once the justices agreed on something.) Clerks asked to submit to polygraph examinations appealed to their various justices, who in turn registered Olympian proxy umbrage and fired off furious, copiously footnoted letters to the Attorney General, with ostentatious cc’s to their own Chief Justice.One such letter had been reprinted in full on the front page of the Washington Post.The skies over Capitol Hill darkened with writs and subpoenas, but the Supreme Court being supreme, there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot the Justice Department could do other than to stamp its feet and put out grumbly leaks on the theme of “supreme arrogance.” Juvenal’s quis custodiet was quoted so often on TV that three-year-olds became conversant in Latin.Court observers shook their heads in dismay.Not since Bush v.Gore* had the Supreme Court been held in such contempt by the country.Had Chief Justice Hardwether lost his grip? This never would have happened under Rehnquist.And these rumors that he was drinking.It was all so very sad.At the epicenter of this fury and unpleasantness stood Justice Pepper Cartwright, the aggrieved party insofar as the leak went, yet increasingly perceived in the public eye to be the epicentric cause of all the problems.Editorials had begun to appear calling for her impeachment.Every now and then, as the saying goes, Washington needs to burn a witch.Meanwhile, the President who had elevated her to the high court was mounting the most quixotic reelection campaign in history.He had announced his firm intention not to spend one dime on television advertising, nor a single day campaigning in Iowa or New Hampshire or any of the early primary states.His campaign slogan was almost defiantly prosaic: “Vanderdamp: More of the Same.”“As a rallying cry,” one pundit put it, “it’s not quite up there with ‘Once more into the breach.’ ”The Presidential Term Limit Amendment, meanwhile, was busily ratifying its way through various state legislatures.State senators were furious with Vanderdamp for years of having denied them pork.The people, on the other hand, seemed to find the President’s breathtaking honesty refreshing, if not downright unique.According to the polls, many were rethinking their quondam odium.He was up by twelve points—or as they put it in Washington, “double digits.”In the midst of this howling gale, Pepper blew her nose, dried her tears, and tried to go about the business of interpreting the U.S.Constitution as best she could.But it wasn’t much fun and she missed the view of Central Park.She missed lying in bed and looking out over it and eating hot bagels.Buddy had been wrong about there being no good restaurants in Washington, but she had yet to find New York–quality carbohydrates.Given other developments, this was a minor disappointment.ONE LUNCH HOUR in the Court cafeteria, she found herself standing in line behind Crispus Galavanter.“Why is it,” he said in his plummy cello voice, “that you and I are always taking up the rear of the procession? When will we take our rightful places in the pageant of greatness? The world wonders.”Crispus bantered in these mock-heroic tones.His nickname among the clerks was “the Licorice Caesar.” He quite liked it, even occasionally signed his memos “LC.”Pepper smiled, gathered up her Jell-O with embedded fruit, cottage cheese, and iced tea.Crispus’s tray held a trencherman’s portion of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, lima beans, onion rings, and two Dr Peppers.“May I.join?” Crispus said.It was a mild breach of protocol, as Pepper had papers tucked under her arm, a signal she’d intended a reading lunch.But you couldn’t say no to Crispus.“How you making out,” he said, “in the midst of all this Sturm und Drang?”“Okay.No one’s asked me to take a polygraph, anyway,” Pepper said, forking up some cottage cheese.“Disgraceful business.You shouldn’t have been put through it.Makes us all look bad.I don’t blame the CJ for being furious [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]