“Seems reasonable,” Jimmie said.
“He ordered Lester to stay on the ground. It was a goddamn miracle, but Lester wasn’t dead. He’d survived the fall and was laying there with a broken leg. Two broken arms. Broken everything. But he was still alive.” Trump paused. “Until he tried to stand, and the Secret Service fellow shot him six times, square in the chest. It would have been a great, great embarrassment to the Secret Service,” Trump said. “For one thing—shooting an unarmed man. I mean, thank God he was white, right?”
Jimmie didn’t say anything.
“Since it happened so late, and in almost total darkness, we swept it under the rug. More or less. Not just because it would embarrass the Secret Service, but because it would embarrass Lester. His wife and children didn’t need to know that their father had taken his own life—the coward’s way out. It was better for them to think he’d gone hiking. Which, come to think of it, is such a cowardly thing to do too. It’s like going hunting without carrying a gun.”
“Do you know why he did it?”
“No note,” Trump said. “Not even a Snapchat. He wasn’t struggling financially, from what my people could tell—we would have helped him out if we’d known about any difficulties. He was doing great work. Fantastic work. We’d spent hours talking in the Oval Office, which is all lost now, I suppose.”
The president’s usual hyperbole had temporarily gone dormant.
“Afterward, my advisors and I spent hours watching and listening to tapes of him, looking for clues,” Trump said. “There are eyes and ears everywhere, Jimmie. Even the bathrooms.”
Jimmie already had a shy enough bladder as it was—he didn’t know how he was ever going to use the restroom at the White House again. Thank God there was a Starbucks across the street.
“Unfortunately, there’s only so much time one man has,” Trump said. “When you’re the leader of the free world, you don’t have the time to do everything yourself. What good are a hundred different surveillance tapes if you don’t have time to watch them? You have to outsource tasks to people you trust. People who don’t need to check in every fifteen minutes for your stamp of approval. I give my staff a lot of leeway. It’s the same thing I tell my pilot: Fly the plane. As long as it takes off and lands, I’ve got bigger things to deal with.”
Jimmie nodded.
“The trouble is,” Trump continued, “when people see you’re distracted or your attention is elsewhere, they take that as a sign that it’s okay to slack off. Or worse: They think they can take advantage of you. Same thing happened with my casinos in Atlantic City. Unless I was there, on-site, things just went to hell. And Atlantic City was also just kind of like hell, so I preferred to spend as little time as possible there. If you had the choice between a penthouse overlooking Central Park and a dump on a boardwalk in Jersey, which would you choose?”
“I—”
“Exactly,” Trump cut in. “You’d take Manhattan. Anyone would. God, I wish I were back in New York.”
“It’s a beautiful city,” Jimmie said. It had been his home, too, for nearly a decade.
“Some days, I think of just taking off in my chopper and heading back to Trump Tower. Leave Washington and all these dirty politicians behind. But I would never do that. I made a promise to the American people, and I’m not leaving until I’m finished with that promise. We’re winning. By the time I’m done with this country, they’re going to be so tired of winning, they’ll elect some loser to take my place. Paul Ryan, or some schmuck who will do his best to cock up everything I’ll have accomplished.”
“Seems to be how the political cycle works.”
“It’s dumb—it’s a cycle of ignorance. The people think they know what they want, but when you give it to them, they change their minds. Democracy is a broken system. If you want to get anything done, you need to lead from the top down, not the bottom up. Look at the Empire.”
“The Ottoman Empire?”
“The Empire Empire. Star Wars. Darth Vader. Say what you will about his parental skills, but that guy knew how to get shit done. He built not one but two Death Stars. You know how many of his citizens he put to work on those projects? The scale is unimaginable. A small group of agitators—the Rebels—destroyed everything he’d worked for.” Trump lowered his voice. “We have a Rebel Alliance in this country, plotting against me as we speak. They call themselves ‘Socialist Justice Warriors.’ We haven’t had a Kardashian attack on US soil during my presidency, and suddenly I’ve got these domestic terrorists to deal with? Give me a break!”
As far as Jimmie was aware, there hadn’t ever been a Kardashian attack on US soil—or internationally, for that matter. While Trump may have been misguided there, he was correct about the Rebel Alliance. One for two wasn’t bad.
“Not only that,” Trump continued, “but we have a leak in the White House.”
Chapter Forty-One
Let’s Go Cubbies
The blood in Jimmie’s veins went ice-cold. Did Trump suspect that he was the leak? Sure, he’d met with a Socialist Justice Warrior in Clinton Plaza. Had Christie showed Trump the Gideon Bible? Even though he’d rejected the offer, he hadn’t reported the meeting to law enforcement. That probably made him as good as guilty in Trump’s eyes.
“We can speak freely out here,” Trump said, mistaking the reason for his silence. “There are white-noise generators at both ends of the veranda, which we bought from Hillary’s staff at a yard sale. Even the Secret Service can’t hear us from the Rose Garden below.”
Jimmie swallowed hard. “You said there was a plot against the White House?”
“Homeland Security picks up chatter from time to time. Kardashians, mostly. We hear things on social media, on texts. We read e-mails. But these SJWs are smart. They know how we operate. They don’t communicate online. They use paper and pens; they use landlines. They’re invisible to us.”
“I hope I’m not out of line here . . . but, outside of a few protestors at rallies, are you sure they exist?”
“We have surveillance photos of a meeting of the agitators,” Trump said. “We identified one of the rally leaders and tortured the hell out of him. He sings for some musical group named the Pearl Jams.”
“I’m familiar with them,” Jimmie said.
Trump raised an eyebrow.
“Their music, I mean.”
“He gave us the name of who we assume is the leader of the rebel alliance,” Trump said. “Jeremy.”
“Do you know anything else about these . . . agitators?”
“They wear blue caps.”
“That should make them easy to find, then,” Jimmie said. “The obvious problem being that lots of other people wear blue caps. Like Chicago Cubs fans, for instance. Are you sure Eddie Vedder, a noted Chicago fan, wasn’t simply wearing a Cubs cap?”
“You might be on to something there,” Trump said. “We did pick him up at Wrigley Stadium. I might have to put in a call to Guantanamo.” Trump rested his proportionally small hands on the railing and sighed. “You know, I wasn’t too sure about you at first. You refuse to stay in the finest, most sumptuous hotel. You throw up on me. You’re a different cat, Jimmie.”
“Thank you?”
“When I said I handpicked you, I wasn’t lying,” Trump said. “Or I was, a little. Because although you’re my new ghostwriter, there’s another job that I wanted you for. I want you to help me find the leak in this administration. Be my plumber.”
“Emma didn’t mention anything about this.”
“This is between me and you. You’re one of the dirtiest players in the game. I had to get a feel for you before springing this on you, though.”
“Emma doesn’t know. What about Christie or Lewandowski?”
“This is between you and me and the man upstairs,” Trump said. “Baby Jesus.”
“I’ve never really done anything like this before,” Jimmie said. Not only that, but Jimmie wasn’t sure if he was up for this sort of political espionage. He di
dn’t know if he could continue to hear the word “leak” without giggling.
“It’s easy. When you find the leak, you tell me. No one else. I’ll take care of it myself. Because, as you know, it’s the only way to ensure something gets done properly. No offense.”
“None taken,” Jimmie said.
“It should go without saying that nothing less than the future of our great country is at stake here,” Trump said. “If England continues taunting us and the shit goes down, we need to have all our dicks in a row. Enemies outside our country could conspire with those within our borders. That’s why we need to clamp down on these PC clowns. I need to know now: Are you my guy?”
Jimmie was about to dive further into the web of political intrigue that already had a body count several times that of the Watergate and Lewinsky scandals combined. For the record, nobody had died in either of those scandals, but both had brought presidents to their knees. While Jimmie still didn’t know the full extent of what was happening inside the Trump White House, it was bound to trump those so-called scandals. The Pulitzer would be his. And then Cat would see just what she was missing out on. If she was lucky, he might even take her back.
Jimmie Bernwood, with two fingers crossed behind his back, shook Trump’s hand. “I’m your guy,” he said.
Trump nodded. There was a long, awkward pause.
“Any plans for the three-day weekend?” Jimmie asked, trying to make casual conversation. Jimmie was terrible at casual conversation. Then again, he was terrible at formal conversation too.
“Mar-a-Lago,” Trump said. “A little golf, a little cookout. And you?”
“Nothing much . . .” Jimmie slapped himself on the forehead. How could he have been so stupid? “Do you know what time it is?”
Trump looked at his Rolex. “Ten ’til six. You have somewhere to be?”
“Meeting an ex-girlfriend for dinner. Do you need me much longer, or . . . ?”
Trump waved him on. “Can I also give you some advice, though? When you’re out at dinner, head into the men’s room and crank one out. That way, you’re less likely to be tempted to fall back into old habits. Take it from me: Ex-sex is one of the worst decisions you can make. Think with your big head, not your little head.”
Chapter Forty-Two
The National Outlet Mall
After Jimmie doubled back downstairs to grab his charged phone, it was 6:08. He shot Cat a quick text letting her know he’d be late. When she heard that he’d been held up by the president, she would understand. Right? That was a totally good excuse for being late.
It was almost comical that he even cared what she thought. Wouldn’t it have been fair to make her wait? Make her sweat it out? She’d been the one who cheated on him. The fact that it had happened more than two years ago and that he’d suggested they take some time off shouldn’t have made any difference. Furthermore, she seemed to be more pissed at him than vice versa. Bedfellows made for strange politics.
He headed for the National Mall on foot. The former green space where protestors had once flourished was now home to dozens of restaurants and retail stores. Some Debbie Downers thought it was an eyesore, sneeringly calling the national park the “National Outlet Mall.” Which was absurd, really: There wasn’t an outlet store within a mile of the National Mall. It was strictly upscale chains. Trump’s National Mall Glamorization Plan didn’t allow discount retailers, dollar stores, or Macy’s.
Jimmie glanced over his shoulder. For a second there, he thought he’d heard footsteps matching his. Was he being followed? He didn’t recognize anyone or see anyone acting out of the ordinary.
The meeting with Trump on the Lincoln Bedroom deck had ratcheted his paranoia up a few notches. Hadn’t the “leak” already been plugged? Lester Dorset was dead. Did Trump suspect Chris Christie was also an SJW sympathizer?
Cat would help him sort it all out. She could tell him if there was some sort of prior connection between Lester and the prime suspect for his murder, Corey Lewandowski. Right now, the only evidence tying the press secretary to Lester’s death was circumstantial. Jimmie was putting together the puzzle, but there were still pieces missing.
He picked up his pace, weaving around the human tortoises jamming up the sidewalk. Tourists to the left of him, townies to the right. The restaurant was less than a mile away, but it would take him an hour if the sidewalks continued to be this clogged.
He spotted a pedicab parked on the edge of the National Mall. While people weren’t stepping aside for Jimmie, they would have to if a pedicab was barreling their way.
A slim white guy was sitting on the pedicab’s bicycle seat, checking his phone. He looked like Pee-wee Herman, if Pee-wee Herman was super into P90X. Jimmie could smell the pot from a mile away, but the kid’s sculpted calves told him that he was all business.
Jimmie hopped into the back seat of the pedicab.
“Cracker Barrel,” Jimmie said.
“Which one?” the kid said. “The restaurant on the National Mall, or the world’s largest barrel of crackers?”
“The world’s largest barrel of crackers is in Cedar Rapids.”
“Yeah, it’d be quite a ride, I guess.”
Jimmie tried not to roll his eyes. He clarified that, yes, he meant the restaurant and not a roadside attraction in the middle of the country.
The pedicab lurched forward. The kid rang the bell on his handlebars, and people began turning their heads and then stepping to the side. The pedicab started to gain momentum. If someone had been following Jimmie, they wouldn’t be for much longer.
Chapter Forty-Three
The Ritz Cracker Barrel
The pedicab driver may have been stoned out of his gourd, but he could peddle like a son of a bitch. The frightened pedestrians scattered when they saw him coming, much to Jimmie’s delight.
“You go to school around here?” Jimmie shouted.
“Been out of school for a while,” the kid said. “What do you do at the White House?”
Jimmie was confused at first, then realized he’d left his badge hanging around his neck. “Can’t really say. Kind of top secret. Nothing exciting, though.”
“Huh. I came pretty close to getting a job there, once.”
“Internships can be competitive,” Jimmie said, thinking back to the interviewing process for interns at the Daily Blabber. It had resembled Greek hazings more than proper job interviews. He’d never been involved in it, but he’d seen the photos of the interns in humiliating positions that were forwarded around the office. They’d made those photos of Iraqi prisoners look like child’s play.
“Wasn’t an internship I was competing for,” the kid said, flying past a Ralph Lauren. “It was the vice presidency.”
“The vice president of what?”
“Of the United States, man. Ended up as speaker of the—” They swung around a corner and nearly collided with a mother pushing a stroller. The pedicab went off the sidewalk and onto the grass. The kid’s strong legs kept peddling, and they were back onto the sidewalk in no time.
The kid peddling had lost track of their conversation. Jimmie decided not to ask any more questions of him. He was so high, he thought he’d made a run for the White House! Jimmie had gotten stoned before, but never that stoned. Even a political newbie like Jimmie knew you had to be thirty-five to be president. He assumed the same rules applied to the vice presidency. There was no way this young buck was over twenty-five.
Instead of making small talk with the highest kite in the park, Jimmie ran over what he was going to say to Cat in his head: I’m onto the story of the century. ALL the centuries. There’s either a massive conspiracy against the president . . . or he’s pulling the strings. You heard that right: There’s a scandal going on at some of the highest levels of government . . . and I’m right in the middle of it. And I need your help.
The kid rolled the pedicab to a stop in front of the Cracker Barrel just as the sun was setting. A row of empty, gold-plated rocking chairs on the porch
rocked gently back and forth in the breeze. This was no ordinary Cracker Barrel—this was the fanciest one in the country. The Ritz Cracker Barrel.
“What do I owe you?” Jimmie asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” the kid said. “I do this for the exercise when Congress isn’t in session. See you ’round, man.”
Jimmie entered the restaurant and told the hostess he was meeting Cat. The woman ran down the list of tables. “She hasn’t arrived yet, sir, but if you’ll wait a moment, we’ll have you seated.”
Hasn’t arrived yet? he thought. That’s strange . . .
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Speak of the devil—Cat was calling him. He answered, “Just got here. Want me to order some biscuits for you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” a man on the other end of the line said. He had a slight twang to his voice that was difficult to place. “Skip the buttermilk biscuits . . . if you ever want to see your girlfriend alive again.”
Chapter Forty-Four
A Very Particular Set of Skills
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
It was the wrong thing to say, but it was the first thing that came to Jimmie.
There was a pause at the other end of the line. For a second, he thought his phone had dropped the call. Then the mystery man spoke up: “This is Jimmie Bernwood, right? Do I have the correct number?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m just saying, she’s not my girlfriend.”
“Cat Diaz,” the man said. “You were meeting her at the Ritz Cracker Barrel.”
“Right,” Jimmie said. “I’m not disputing that. I’m just—”
“Your girlfriend, your date. Same thing.”
“It wasn’t a date,” Jimmie said. “It’s like a friends thing. No—more like a coworkers thing, I guess.”
“You’re taking her to the most romantic restaurant in the city on a Friday night, and you’re telling me it wasn’t supposed to be a date?”
The Day of the Donald Page 12