“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 didn’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.