The Ex-President

by Jeff Soloway

  “Yeah.”

  “Were they wearing uniforms?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Then how did you know they were security?”

  “They were acting like assholes.”

  “You said they came around the corner. From the front of the ship or the back?”

  “Front.”

  Where Chomp’s suite was.

  “Did they ever get in?”

  “Yeah. He opened after a minute. They moved right on in. But, Jacob—before they did—I think I did something right.”

  “What?”

  “I shot a picture! I was way back and had a bad angle but I still got some profile. Got the room number too.”

  “You had your camera?”

  “Of course I did. I was taking pictures all day, starting with the protests. You know I like to shoot cops. I was planning to send the pics to the cruise line. Maybe get those jerks fired. Would’ve done it right away but I’m not using the ship’s ripoff Wi-Fi to do the cruise line a favor.”

  “I think those were Chomp’s men, Dad. Is the photo time-stamped?”

  “They all are.”

  “And they never saw you?”

  “Doubt it. Would’ve made me eat the camera.”

  “Can I see your photo?”

  “Sure. But I left the camera in my room.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Yeah, well, I better go and bring it back. My room’s no good.” He looked embarrassed.

  “Fine. But don’t bring it here, in case Mom comes back. Meet me in the library on the Mediterranean Deck.”

  A knock. My father’s face spasmed. He leaped up from his chair. “Is that your mom?” He started for the door, but then stopped. My mother would never knock so loud.

  We heard the little flit and click that meant the door’s automatic lock had been disengaged. A nervous grin stretched over my father’s face.

  Harvey Salamone stepped through the door, big ears quivering with every step. Just behind him was Jimbo.

  “Who’s this guy?” Harvey asked.

  “Howard Smalls,” my dad announced. “Jacob’s father. Who are you? We’re paying passengers, you know! Well, I am.”

  Jimbo stared, puzzled, at the women’s clothes strewn about the place. He lifted up the end of a hanging blouse and peered behind it, as if some assassin might be hiding behind it.

  “President’s security.” Harvey pointed to the door. “Say goodbye, Smalls Senior.”

  My father stared at Jimbo. My father’s eyebrows bunched again. He was either considering the most politic way to handle the situation or, more likely, choosing among several verbal slams.

  I interrupted quickly. “Bye, Dad. We’ll talk later.”

  He looked at me in surprise. His face drooped. “I think I should stay,” he mumbled.

  “I can handle it,” I said. “I want you to go.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  To my surprise, he nodded.

  He lunged forward and embraced me with both arms, so quickly that my own arms were pinned to my side. I rattled for a moment in this fatherly cage. Jimbo laughed.

  “That’s the guy,” my father whispered, “in my picture.”

  He nodded at Jimbo. My father released me and walked out the door without looking back.

  When he was gone, Harvey said, “Wait outside.” Jimbo left.

  Harvey sat down hard on the bed. His wiggled his butt to rumple the folded blue dress and the other garments beneath it. As the mattress jiggled, my mother’s note slipped off the top of the pillow and surfed down its front, just behind Harvey. Pres. Buffoon.

  “Normally, I hate writers,” Harvey said. “You’re like rats carrying the plague. But some dipshits like rats. I knew a kid who kept a couple little white ones for pets. You’re one of those. You might have saved us. You earned a second chance.”

  “How did I blow the first one?”

  “You blew like three. Sneaking into Chomp’s room. Mouthing off at dinner. Sneaking downstairs to talk to the cleaning girl. But you brought your mom. That pays for everything.” He shifted his weight, making his big ears quiver and the note behind his wrist spin like a leaf on a rippling pond. “President’s been off his game since the first lady left him. Your mom puts a grin on his face. First time I’ve seen it in months. She might be changing history. Now we just need you to cooperate.”

  The world’s hugest fly buzzed overhead. Harvey put his finger to his lips. Steve Gouda’s voice boomed through the buzz: “Stand by for a special announcement from President Carlton Chomp.”

  The buzz grew until it seemed to fill every corner of the room, every wrinkle in my mother’s clothes. I imagined all the ship’s passengers slowing their strides, lowering their drinks, hushing their children. Bar, hotel, and food services managers would all be signaling their servers to hold on for a second. Enough with the scurrying and clinking.

  A new voice came on: “So typical.” It was Chomp’s. “So predictable. We knew they’d try something, but personally, I thought they’d show some respect. I mean of all places. A cruise. This cruise.”

  His speech was lurching, his pauses unplanned. He was speaking into a microphone in the cruise director’s office, with no audience to perform for.

  “I don’t care about myself,” he went on. “I’m just a guy trying to save civilization. It’s you, my friends and supporters, I worry about, and I do it so often, every day. I hate to say it, but the nightmare is real, folks. One of your fellow passengers is dead. Murdered. Don’t worry. Please don’t worry. We caught the guy. Some of you saw that yahoo at dinner tonight, the little spastic who jumped up on his table and shouted his gobbledygook. Funny guy. Looked harmless. They all look harmless.

  “I wasn’t fooled. As soon as I saw the little twinkletoes, I was disgusted. Personally. I just looked at his face. It was swollen”—a pause while you imagined Chomp’s face bulging like a chipmunk’s—“with a special kind of hate, which I immediately understood, believe me, because so very many people hate me. Most of them are no more dangerous than your average liberal snowflake or Frenchman, but others are real monsters. ISIS. Antifa. Black Lives Matter. They’re everywhere. And now they’re here. Thank God I have some tremendous security officers, better than any cruise ship in world history, without any doubt, except maybe the transport ships to Alcatraz, which they closed, by the way, Alcatraz isn’t good enough for murderers these days, no natural light, cop killers need their fancy sheets and Xboxes and Peking duck. Things are different on this ship. We don’t treat the terrorists so sweetly, believe me. Thanks to my men, the guy confessed. To the murder of passenger Clark Wolfson. Room 1103. Take a look, folks, it’s all taped off. But you can still see the mess.”

  Someone in the adjacent cabin cried out in anguish and I heard a muffled but clear command: “Pipe down!”

  “Why did he do it? Oh, we’ll find out. We’re not done with the murderer. He’ll tell us. And he’ll tell us who’s funding him. And if anybody objects to the methods of my interrogators, then I say go join the U.N.

  “Many of you know that I have long had in mind a brave, beautiful plan to remake the world. Some of you have pledged to join me in my dream. Some of you have no idea what I’m talking about. But you will, my friends. You will. Here tonight and on the island tomorrow, you are as safe as in your own home, unless you live in Chicago or Baltimore, and if you do, thank God you got away. But we should all be thanking God. Because this incident proves that, for us, every place is Chicago and Baltimore. Back there on the mainland, half the country, less than half but a very nasty and noisy fraction, they want to kill us. Me and you. They want us to die. But we refuse. We refuse.

  “I am calling a meeting of every passenger on this ship. A meeting, a rally, a party, all three. You’re all invited. One
hour from now on the island. If that’s too late for you and the kiddos, no problem, we’ll do it again tomorrow morning. But tonight we’ve got a team from Fox coming in on a chopper. This is big. They made a last-minute decision. You see, folks, I’ve got an announcement to make. We’re building a new nation. Guess who’s the Founding Fathers? All of you. All of you. If you choose. I hope you do. Clark Wolfson is the first casualty in our war. And you know, we have never—ever—lost a war. Good night, and God bless our nation, our nation. Not theirs.”

  Steve Gouda came on to explain that we would soon be docking at Elysian Island and that more information on the nationally televised Chomp Nighttime Victory Party was available on Cruise TV Channel 1. And then he and the buzzing were gone.

  “You leaked the murder to Fox,” I said. “That’s why they’re coming.”

  “Murder is news,” Harvey agreed. “He said like half of what I wrote. But not bad for no practice. Your mom gives him confidence.”

  Was he lying to me or taunting me?

  “That protester tonight—”

  “You mean the murderer. One of the murderers.”

  “There are more?”

  “We think he had outside help. Some staff member on the ship. Or maybe some passenger, we’re not sure yet.”

  My father was still in danger.

  Harvey leaned forward, and the whole bed rumbled with his body. My mother’s note fluttered behind him. For the first time, he glanced back and noticed it.

  “I don’t believe the protester confessed,” I said quickly.

  Harvey turned to stare me down. “You better believe. We’re not done investigating. This thing goes deep. That terrorist was about to spill the whole plot to us.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “Died too soon.”

  Carlos. I closed my eyes, just for a second, expecting to see his sister’s wide eyes there in the darkness. Instead I saw my mother’s. How much did she know?

  “You don’t believe me,” said Harvey. “I know you. I’ve read the bullshit you published. I know what you’re up to. That woman downstairs was lying to you. She tried to feed us the same lies. Your mother’s a good woman. You don’t deserve her.”

  With difficulty, I kept my eyes from flashing to the white lily floating on the tousled bed. Pres. Buffoon was unlikely to go over well. “What do you want?”

  “You stay quiet. Chomp stays happy. In two days, you go home with the rest of the pussies who turn us down. In a few weeks, Mom gives you a call. We’ll even let her talk on the record. Then you’ll have the story, the best you’ve ever written, maybe the best anyone has ever written.”

  “The birth of a nation.”

  “Did your mom tell you? She better learn to keep a secret.”

  “I figured it out myself. You’re trying to build a new country on this island. You’ve already got some of the big donors and Chomp cronies to sign up. They’re staying on when the ship leaves. Chomp will try to convince more of the passengers tonight. Maybe you’ll get a few hundred more bros and zealots who want to extend their vacation. But that’s not a nation. It’s a carnival. How long will you be able to feed them?”

  Harvey’s laugh was low, massive, and unsettling, like an earthquake. “You think we planned this last week? He bought the lease from RMB a month ago and paid off the Bahamas for complete autonomy. It’s ours free and clear. We run the government and we make all the laws. We’ve been building for weeks. The first business we’re putting up is a bank. See, there’s no corporate taxes on Chomp Island, no personal income tax either. It’s like the Caymans, but a hundred miles from Miami. For a reasonable fee, every rich guy in American can live tax-free in paradise and stick it to the liberals at the same time. These passengers are just the first pioneers. We’re very in touch with the ultra-millionaire community back home. We’ve told everyone to watch Fox tonight. They’ll come. Tomorrow morning, rip down those dresses and look out the window. You’ll see a fleet of yachts cruising in.”

  The very essence of Chompism: half crusade, half tax-evasion scheme. I knew that the government of the Bahamas had for years rented remote islands to cruise lines or other resort businesses who agreed to staff them with Bahamians. They’d even sell them outright to individual tycoons with Oprah-size budgets. From there it was just one more step to granting governmental autonomy. All it took was more money.

  Would people really want to live on Chomp Island? The tax breaks were the hook but sticking it to the liberals was the closing argument. Relocating out here would provide the illusion, priceless to the ultra-millionaire community, of their self-interest serving a noble cause. And as Chomp had always understood, a sense of purpose is mightiest when paired with a sense of triumph.

  “But why,” I asked, “would Chomp resign the most powerful position on earth to run a tropical resort and tax shelter? He had the whole country breathless at his every tweet. Now he wants to be governor of Bermuda.”

  Harvey’s laugh this time was almost kindly. “Watch the speech. You’ll know even more in a few weeks when you talk to your mom. She’s on the island right now, with him. They took one of the tenders. As long as she stays loyal, she’ll know everything.”

  It took an immense effort of will not to glance at her note on the bed. “She will stay loyal. She loves him.”

  “She’d be a fool not to. With him, she gets to be queen.”

  “What do you get? I mean besides Chomp’s shit every single day.”

  “You really want to know?” He grinned. I imagined few people took an interest. “I get to hang on to him. I get to keep winning. Better to be a winner than a genius. The guys who think they’re puppet masters get fired. Not me. I was never gonna be in the cabinet anyway.” He opened and held out one hand, as huge and pink as a satin cushion. “Hand me your cardkey. And your phone.”

  “Why?”

  “This is where you stay for the next two days. You’re not one of the Founding Fathers. You’re going home. We want you to stay right here in this room. No more creeping around. No more chatting up dancers or cleaning girls. Or the president. Stay here and catch up on your movies. Spring for the porn and jerk off, I don’t care. We’ll get you room service. But you’re done disrupting the operation.”

  He barked a command. The bodyguard returned. This minion had minions.

  “Be good to him, Jimbo,” said Harvey, “as good as he deserves.”

  Chapter 19

  Jimbo daintily brushed a stringy jumble of halter top off the desk and sat down. From within an inside blazer pocket he pulled out a paperback Sudoku book. He had to hold it down almost to the underside of his belly to read it. His jet-black hair was combed into raven’s wings on each side. The first thing I wanted to do was get rid of that note. Jimbo was less likely to take offense than Harvey, but no use taking chances. I sidled to the bed.

  “Stop right there,” he said, without looking up from the book. “Sit down. Not on the bed. The floor.”

  “Why not the bed?”

  “That’s my bed.”

  “There are two beds.”

  “They’re both mine.”

  This wasn’t the VIP treatment I was led to expect. I sat down, back against the side of the bed, my two legs sticking out like a bored kid’s. Better to obey while I plotted how to shake this murderous curmudgeon and get hold of my father’s camera. Jimbo had to sleep sometime.

  He took out a pen from his pocket and, without changing his expression in the slightest, inscribed a number in the book. He pulled back the pen and examined his work with the concentration of a painter. He was bulky, slow-moving, and apparently farsighted, but I suspected his nonchalance reflected confidence rather than incompetence. He was, after all, Chomp’s personal bodyguard. I should be flattered that I was his special assignment.

  “Can we order room service?” I asked. “I didn’t get much
dinner.”

  The top half of one eye peered at me over the paperback horizon. “No. You skinny fuck. Know why?”

  “No.”

  He thrust his hands in his pants. My heart stuttered, but, like Amadou Diallo, he pulled out not a gun but a wallet. He unfolded it and pulled from its innards a photo. “That’s my boy. Look at him.” He held it in his palm, to make clear that I wasn’t to touch it.

  Everyone was showing me family photos. This one was creased and dog-eared almost to uselessness, but I could still make out a boy. He was wearing a uniform and holding a bat in the standard Little League baseball-card photo stance. Or maybe it was a Junior Aryan League hippie-beating stance. I had to remember that this man was likely a killer.

  “Good-looking kid,” I said.

  “Yeah? You took food from his mouth, asshole. So you go hungry too.”

  “What did I do? Whatever it was, I didn’t mean it, I swear.” Learn his problem, sympathize, take it on for yourself. Make an ally.

  Jimbo squeezed his eyes so tight his whole face crinkled up, as if it, like the rest of him, were being crushed by some implacable machine. “You knew.”

  “I didn’t. Really. Tell me. Maybe I can make it right.”

  “Sure you can. No problem. Thanks, bud! They tell me you’re a reporter. Guys like you—media assholes—you can always call in favors, pull strings, make threats, jerk some little guy around. Good for you. I’ll tell you what you did. You snuck on the ship early, because why should you follow the rules? Rules are for jerk-offs like me. Then you busted into the president’s room while I was busy chewing out the cleaning cunt. He gets pissed. Harvey says I left my post. You know what? He’s right. And nobody would have cared if it wasn’t for you. I got reamed out. Demoted. Almost got fired. I’m lucky they need me. I’m lucky I’m good.”

  I thought I knew how Jimbo had proved his worth. He leaned forward. I retracted my legs so he wouldn’t get the idea to come stomp on them and shatter my shins.

  “Look, Jimbo—”

  “James to you, asshole. You made me sweat. So now you sit. Hungry. And don’t even think about complaining to Harvey. He doesn’t give a shit.”