A big-bottomed guido took the empty chair next to Jimmie. Chris Christie. Although the job title on his badge said he was the “chief janitor,” Christie wasn’t dressed like a janitor. His navy-blue suit and power-red tie were the same as every else’s in the Boardroom, albeit from the “big-and-tall” section. The really big-and-tall section.
“You look like you’re having fun,” Christie said, leering at Jimmie.
“Just some first-day jitters. And maybe a little food poisoning.”
“Been there before,” Christie said, shoving a fork right into what was left of the cake. “First day in the governor’s office, I was so nervous that I shit my drawers. It was a little bit of excitement, a little bit of Montezuma’s revenge.”
“No shit.”
“Yes shit,” Christie said.
Jimmie watched as Christie shoveled the cake into his gullet like a bank robber stuffing bundles of cash into a duffle bag.
“So what did you do?” Jimmie asked. “After you… shit your drawers.”
Christie wiped the yellow frosting from around his mouth. “I ordered up a traffic study in Fort Lee, put the kybosh on a new tunnel to Manhattan, and then cleaned myself up in the bathroom of Jerry Jones’s G5 en route to the Super Bowl. The bathroom in that plane is nicer than anything on the ground in Trenton.”
“So the moral of the story is…”
“There is no moral to the story,” Christie said. “Morals are for putzes. You understand what I’m saying, Jimmie?”
“I think so,” Jimmie said. He really had no idea what the hell Christie’s point was, other than the fact that you couldn’t count on anyone who worked for you to tell you when your shit stank. “Say… do you know anything about this ‘nuclear’ situation? The press secretary mentioned there was an emergency that rhymed with ‘muclear.’”
Christie snorted. “That’s just the Security Council code we use when there’s dessert in the Boardroom.”
“So what’s the code when there’s a real nuclear emergency?”
“Same thing.”
Jimmie felt his eyes go wide. “Isn’t that… dangerous?”
Christie narrowed his eyes to the point where his pupils were crushed into two tiny, black coals. “I see those hamsters running on those wheels in your head,” he said. “You’re not an idiot. Not like half the reporters upstairs in the White House press corps. The president wanted you for this job, though-Lord knows why, but he did. I know you’re dangerous. A wise guy like you, around here? You could hurt people, real easily, with that pen of yours. I’m talking about your words, of course. You writers and your weak stabbing motions. Just remember: You could also get hurt… real easily. And we wouldn’t want that. Trust me-I do a lot of ‘cleaning up’ for President Trump, if you know what I mean. Ask yourself, are you the froster? Or the frosting?”
Christie crammed the last of the cake into his gaping maw. “See you around, kid,” he mumbled.
Jimmie sat in stunned silence. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought the former governor of New Jersey had just threatened him. In his line of work, he’d been used to being threatened-by lawyers, usually. Never by a janitor.
Jimmie was beginning to sense that something… untoward might have happened to this mysterious predecessor. The ghostwriter who had left behind “big shoes to fill,” according to the press secretary. Big… concrete shoes?
Chapter Twelve
A Hard Bed Is Good to Find
Jimmie Bernwood returned to the Royal Linoleum Hotel-“VACUUMED DAILY,” according to the neon sign-well after dark. He’d gone suit shopping, which meant forgoing the chauffeured car he’d arrived at work in for public transportation. He’d spent an extra forty-five minutes waiting on the Metro, which had stopped running during yet another electrical blackout. So far, he’d learned that when the trains did run on time, you could be sure the buses wouldn’t. And good luck hailing a taxi-Uber had put most of them out of business, just before getting put out of business themselves by Bikinibus. Washington’s entire traffic system was a mess… which, he supposed, was a good analogy for the government. Nothing prepared you better for working in DC like living in DC. Even when things were rolling along smoothly, you sensed there was a wreck just around the corner.
He fumbled with his keys. A prostitute passed by with a john. Jimmie should have taken Emma’s offer to put him up in a Trump hotel last week. At least the hookers there would be high-class-the kind that accepted Bitcoin instead of Starbucks gift cards.
But it hadn’t felt right to him. Even though he knew this was the lowest of the low in journalistic gigs-a celebrity ghostwriter who’d signed a nondisclosure agreement (a gag order, basically)-he needed some measure of independence. He was drawing the line at the daily allowance for food. The whole situation reminded him of when he’d dated Cat while working under her at the Daily Blabber. Time apart was a good thing. A healthy thing. Even if you didn’t think you needed it, you needed it. Well, until one of you goes off and screws some guy from the New York Times.
He flopped down on the bed with the weight of a lead-filled corpse. It was like landing at the bottom of a rock quarry. The only thing harder than the criminals at the Royal Linoleum Hotel were the beds.
A deep moan issued forth from the other side of the wall.
He lifted his head. There was a low grunt, followed by another moan.
Yes. Yes. Harder.
There was a sharp knock on the wall between the rooms, and then another. Somebody was getting some use out of the beds, at least.
Jimmie grabbed a pillow and wrapped it around the back of his head, covering his ears. He needed to get to sleep soon. He had to be back at the White House in less than twelve hours, and if he didn’t get a solid ten hours of shut-eye, he was a cranky bastard. Maybe when they finally assigned him an office, he could just sleep under the desk.
You like that? Say my name… say my name.
Teddy Mac.
Jimmie lifted the pillow and sat up. Teddy Mac? It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. No way. He pressed an ear up to the wall, which appeared to be nothing more than wallpaper over plywood.
Who’s your daddy?
I don’t know… oooooh… I’ve never met him… ahhhhh…
Son of a bitch.
Although the headboard continued to hit the wall, Jimmie knew with 100 percent certainty that the voices weren’t coming from whoever was doing the bed-shaking. The voices were from the television, which was turned up to cover whatever action was really going on next door. Whoever was on the other side of the wall was watching the sex tape that had landed Jimmie Bernwood in hot water. Scalding-hot water. Boiling water that had ultimately cost him his job at the Daily Blabber.
They were watching the Ted Cruz sex tape.
Chapter Thirteen
Wallbanger
Jimmie phoned the front desk. The man with the Kardashian accent answered. It was the same man who’d given him the keys to the room. Actually, the only man who appeared to work at the Royal Linoleum Hotel besides the housekeepers. Jimmie explained that he wanted to file a noise complaint.
“I’m trying to get some sleep, and these guys-well, you can hear for yourself,” Jimmie said, holding the phone receiver up to the wall. The pounding continued. “You hear that?”
“I can hear it from here,” the man at the front desk said wearily.