What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [39]
Janie stuck out her lower lip and made puppy dog eyes over the cancellation, pouting on Cadmon’s behalf. “Aw! No massage?”
“Say it’s urgent. It’s extremely important that I talk to him,” he said. “Today.” He’d been trying to get some time with the bastard for almost a week.
“Okay, boss,” she said.
Janie left, and Cadmon turned back to his screens. Each showed footage of Dick Whitford, the governor of Texas, and, as of a few days ago, Louisiana. There were images of Whitford mumbling into a microphone; Whitford shooting dirty looks at reporters; Whitford flailing his arms against a swarm of bugs and being ushered off the stage. It was an unmitigated disaster. Cadmon shook his head slowly as he clicked the mouse.
He’d known Whitford for years – ever since they were fraternity brothers at the University of Texas. And Whitford had been a cold-hearted, ambitious jerk even then. The years since – particularly the ones Whitford spent as the vice president – only served to prove that he was an indefatigable penis. And even though he’d only been the Vice President, Whitford had appeared to run the administration as a kind of imperial puppet master, which suggested that the man had developed a megalomaniacal streak. That had made him an ideal candidate for the role Cadmon had been looking to fill. Or so Cadmon had thought.
They’d argued when Cadmon had first approached Whitford with the opportunity.
“Louisiana already has a governor,” Whitford had said.
“They’re going to need a replacement.”
“Well, that’s what they’ve got a lieutenant governor for,” Whitford said. “Wait, is that what they call it? They’re Cajun, you know. Got goddamned weird words and laws and all kinds of strange shit. What do they call their lieutenant governor? What’s the French word for honcho?”
“They call him the ‘lieutenant governor,’” said Cadmon, wondering if Whitford had forgotten to take his meds.
“No, no. It’s got to be French. Wait, Lieutenant… that is French, isn’t it?” He pressed a button on his phone. “Withers, what’s the French word for governor?”
Without hesitating, Ms. Withers’ voice replied though the speaker. “Gouverneur, sir.”
“Goo-ver-nuhr?” He pronounced each syllable as if, well, as if he were a Texan trying to speak French.
“Yes, sir. Gouverneur.”
Whitford had muttered to himself as he clicked off the intercom. “Goddamn surrender monkeys, stealing our language before we even thought to use it.” He looked up at Cadmon. “The phrase is Lieutenant Goovernuhr. Although they probably screwed up the word order and put the damned adjective last. So it’s Goo-ver-nuhr Lieutenant.”
“Look,” said Cadmon, “they’re—”
“So what about the Goo-ver-nuhr Lieutenant?” He dropped the ‘t’ off of ‘Lieutenant,’ replacing it with a curled lip and zesty Continental head shake. “He can just step right in. Although he probably wouldn’t step, would he? He’d probably do some kind of queer French sashay.”
Cadmon breathed deep, slow breaths, calming himself. “No,” he said finally. “The Lieutenant Governor is going to be dead.”
At first, Whitford seemed not to notice that Cadmon had spoken. “And even if he weren’t available, the next person in line is – wait a minute. What did you say?” Whitford leaned forward in his chair, his narrowed eyes boring into Cadmon.
“They’re all going to die,” said Cadmon. “Everyone in line. All dead.”
Whitford sat back in his chair, regarding Cadmon for a moment. He tilted his head, giving Cadmon a sideways glance, his eyes suddenly piercing. “Son,” he said, “what in the hell are you talking about?”
Cadmon told him about the storm, and how it would destroy the State of Louisiana, putting the country’s oil reserves, refining, and pipelines at risk. Said he’d had a vision and prayed and that he was confident enough that he’d stake his fortune. In the end though, he’d had to sell the idea to Whitford as a money-making scheme. That should have set off