Chapter Twenty-One
Candy Is Dandy, but Liquor Is Quicker
After Emma left, Jimmie pulled his White House-issued phone out to find a tux rental shop nearby. “Find men’s wear stores,” he instructed his phone.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” his phone said in that bitchy voice of hers. “Please speak up.”
He cleared his throat. “FIND MEN’S WEAR STORES!”
There was a click above his head. Jimmie looked up. There was nothing above him but the ceiling. Rats? Not in the Trump White House. That click sounded familiar, he thought, climbing onto his desk. He pushed aside a tile and reached around until-
There. He pulled the device out. A Tascam DR-08 Portable Digital Recorder. It was voice activated, which explained why it had clicked on when he’d shouted. It wouldn’t record conversations very well through the tile, though, so he doubted someone had placed it up there to record him. Chris Christie and whomever else was in charge of eavesdropping at the White House probably had much more advanced ways of bugging rooms. No, this had been hidden in the ceiling. He was as sure of it as he’d been sure of anything in his life. Which is to say, not a hundred percent sure. But, as he’d heard around the West Wing, “close enough for government work.”
Jimmie turned his phone off and pressed PLAY on the recorder.
Let’s start at the beginning. You were born in 19-
That’s not how you’re going to begin the book, is it? With my head poking out of my mother’s wherever?
With your birth? Not necessarily, but that’s basically how Dickens started David Copperfield.
Even more reason not to do it. I hate magicians.
The first voice was Lester’s. The second was Trump’s. The interview sessions recorded by Lester Dorset existed after all. They weren’t tapes, however-they were on a hard drive embedded into the recorder. The security measure Emma had talked about. Connor Brent’s insane story about evidence that would lead to Trump’s downfall was no Bernie bro fantasy.
Jimmie was tempted to listen to the recordings now, but he couldn’t. He returned the recorder to its hiding spot. Right now, he had to find a fly tux. His afternoon was booked already, too-the bathroom attendant had invited him to play Cards Against Humility with some of the blue-collar staff in the breakroom.
After that, it would be time to hit the State Dinner. Where they might not have steak, but they would sure as shit have some booze. Anything less would be a middle finger to the Russian president. Perhaps someone would drop a few more hints about what really happened to Lester Dorset. Cash was great for getting people to cough up information, but alcohol was better.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Strawberry and Cinnamon
Trump and Putin descended the Grand Staircase, preceded by a phalanx of flag-bearing Marines. The crowd, including Jimmie, clapped enthusiastically at the president’s arrival. “The President’s Own” US Marine Band segued from “America the Beautiful” into a brass rendition of Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It.”
The world leaders waved from the first step as the flashbulbs went off.
Putin stepped to the microphone. “I thank the Donald for his invitation and affirm that we, Russia, stand by our friend, America, against her enemies around the world… especially if they have limp wrists and posh accents.”
When Trump took the mic, Jimmie slipped out to the State Dining Room. He wanted to get a good seat. Someplace close to the buffet, so he could load up his plate before John Kasich hit it. Kasich was already creeping toward the door in the most wrinkled tuxedo Jimmie had ever seen. Rumor had it the poor guy was living in his car.
Not only wasn’t there a buffet, however, but it turned out he hadn’t needed to rush: The seating was assigned. Emma had put Jimmie at the head-of-state table right next to Trump and Putin.
Good. Excellent, in fact. Vladimir Putin was at the top of Jimmie’s list of suspects for Lester’s murder.
Jimmie had visited the WhiteHouse.gov website and found the list of everyone who’d been at the White House the night of July fourth. While the Trumps had indeed been out of town, three people besides Lester had clearance levels that would have given them access to the roof: Chris Christie, Corey Lewandowski, and-staying in the Lincoln Bedroom as a guest of the White House-Russian president Vladimir Putin. There’d been a handful of Secret Service agents with free rein of the family quarters and access to the roof. However, as Jimmie had seen, the Secret Service seemed to have no interest in lifting a finger for Trump. They weren’t going to kill somebody to protect his reputation. They wouldn’t even shoot somebody in the kneecaps.
After a half hour, Trump finally arrived in the dining room and took a seat next to Jimmie. “If you’re going to puke tonight, do it on the press,” the president told him.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Jimmie said, a bit too enthusiastically. He’d been back and forth to the open bar a couple of times already. He had a decent buzz going.
“Have you been to one of these things before?” Trump asked Jimmie.
“Politics isn’t my usual beat,” he said. “But I’ve had dinner before.”
“You’re going to love it. You’re going to have an amazing, amazing time. Do you know Vlad?”
Jimmie shook his head and self-consciously pulled the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket down. There hadn’t been time for alterations, so he was wearing a tux two sizes too small.
“Vlad is a riot,” Trump said. “We were out hunting today. Oh, boy. That guy, I tell you what.”
Jimmie could see it now: Trump, a big proponent of the Second Amendment, and Putin, an avid outdoorsman, marching through the Virginia woods together, blasting deer with Uzis.
“Will the first lady be joining us tonight?” Jimmie asked.
Trump snorted. “She hates Vlad. Thinks he’s a bad influence on me. Every time we get together, I end up stumbling home at four in the morning smelling like Strawberry and Cinnamon. And I’m not talking about scents. I’m talking about dancers. Those are their names: Strawberry and Cinnamon.”
“I get it,” Jimmie said.
“Good. You’re a good guy. You got a weak stomach, but you’re a good guy.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Please-call me Trump. There’ve been how many presidents? Forty? Fifty? There’s only one Trump.”
Unless you counted his wives, or his parents, or his children. But Jimmie had a feeling Trump didn’t count them.
“We have to schedule a time to talk,” Trump continued. “You’ve got to see the Oval Office. You know that it’s really an oval?”
“I was never any good at geometry,” Jimmie said, scanning the dining room. More than a hundred guests were seated and chatting, waiting on the arrival of the Russian president. Jimmie was already starting to sweat under the opulent chandeliers, which cast so much light that it felt like he was in a tanning bed. Perhaps that was how Trump kept his luxurious glow intact.
“Which one of my hotels did Emma put you up in?” Trump asked.
“I found a place on my own. You know the Royal Linoleum?”
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Trump said. “I’ll talk to Emma. We’ll set you up in one of my properties.”
Jimmie chose his words carefully. “If there happens to be an advertised vacancy at a Trump building, of course, I’ll jump on it. I don’t want any special treatment.”
“A vacant unit in a Trump building is about as rare as a Kate Winslet movie where we don’t see her honkers,” Trump said. “But I see your point. You’re a man who likes to do things on his own. You don’t like to be dependent on others. I can respect that. Can I give you some advice, though?”