“Say it’s not just talk this time. The war won’t just be between us and the UK,” Connor said. “If a skirmish breaks out, Russia’s jumping in. Then anyone else who wants to redivide the map in Europe. It’s going to be World War III. The planet is going to go up in flames. That doesn’t bother you?”
“The president needs congressional approval to go to war—even I know that,” Jimmie said. “They haven’t seen eye to eye on anything.”
“He’s wearing them down,” Connor said. “Look, the guy had the country declare bankruptcy, and Congress impeached him. Then he sent the bulldozers in to seize all that private land along the border without authorization—do you remember that? And Congress impeached him. Then he lied under oath that he didn’t write that list ranking the entire White House staff in order of ‘bangability,’ and Congress impeached him. Each time, not only was he exonerated, but his approval rating went up, and Congress’s went down.
“Now, with the midterms coming up, they’re feeling the pressure,” Connor continued. “Trump’s found even more leverage. He gets the roll calls of the votes on every bill and donates ten thousand dollars to the primary challenger of everyone who didn’t vote his way. Then he calls the congressmen to tell them that he did it!”
“The American people know a bully when they see one,” Jimmie said. “There will be an outcry eventually.”
“Haven’t you seen the polls? Americans don’t like bullies in schoolyards, but they love it when the victim of the bullying is Congress. Change.org has forty thousand signatures on a petition for Trump to give Rand Paul a wedgie on the Senate floor. Trust me, bro. If Trump wants to go to war, we’re going to war.”
Jimmie shook his head. It sounded like this kid had been watching too much MSNBC. “I’m going to forget we had this conversation. I expect you to do the same,” he said, turning to leave.
“Have you been to the basement?”
Jimmie froze. “Of the White House?”
“Of the Alamo,” the kid said sarcastically. “Of course I mean the White House.”
“Maybe. What of it?”
“There’s another basement—a basement under the basement.”
“A subbasement. That’s not unusual.”
“That’s where his office was,” Connor said. “It’s a long shot, but his tapes might still be there. You might—”
“Whose tapes?”
“The last ghostwriter,” Connor said. “Lester Dorset.”
Chapter Sixteen
Winter Is Coming
Jimmie retraced his steps back toward the hotel. He’d known kids like Connor Brent back in college. Kids with Che Guevara T-shirts and hemp necklaces. Kids who camped out on the steps of the college president’s office for “change.”
That was all they ever wanted: “change.” They knew what they were against but didn’t have the imagination to think up a viable alternative. Jimmie wasn’t much different. He didn’t like war, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think he could devise a better alternative to the way things were. True intelligence meant knowing the limits of your intelligence.
Jimmie had reached the limits of his intelligence long ago.
The kid was wrong—as kids often were.
There was no way Trump would ever give the order to fire nukes. If Jimmie knew the phrase “mutually assured destruction,” Trump had to know it too. The man owned too much real estate to let it all go up in a mushroom cloud.
What bothered Jimmie a little, though, was this whole business with Lester Dorset.
He had specifically asked Emma Blythe if Cat and Lester were still together, and she’d artfully dodged the question. Even more suspicious, she hadn’t said a word about the Pulitzer Prize–winning reporter being the previous ghostwriter.
There was a perfectly acceptable reason for her to avoid such talk: She might have sensed some professional animosity between Jimmie and Lester. That Jimmie felt inadequate next to somebody with the pedigree of a New York Times byline.
Well, the joke was on her. Jimmie couldn’t care less about any of that. So what if he won a Pulitzer? It was for feature writing—the easy Pulitzer. Find a sob story, crap out ten thousand words, hello, Joe.
What he did care about, though, was the fact that Lester had—rather abruptly—overtaken Jimmie in Cat Diaz’s affections. Did it bother Jimmie that his girlfriend had left him for that old bag of bones? Of course. But he’d let go of his anger long ago. Cat had made a choice—a dumb choice, but it was her business. He’d moved on.
Jimmie paused at the water fountain at the entrance to the park. The bronzed sculpture of Bill Clinton not having sexual relations with Monica Lewinsky glimmered under the moonlight. A soft breeze blew through the park, kicking up leaves. Jimmie shuddered as a chill came over him.
He tried to tell himself the chill was just because he didn’t have on a heavy enough jacket. Fall was here, and the nights were getting longer and colder. The chill had nothing to do with the nagging suspicion that even if the kid was full of shit, some of what he’d said had resonated with Jimmie. That America, while strong at home, was assuming the reputation outside her borders of the crazy guy you cross the street to avoid. That the map he’d seen in the Boardroom was more than a simulation. That it wasn’t just winter that was coming—it was war.
Excerpt From the Trump/Dorset Sessions
June 1, 2018, 9:45 AM
Dorset: Your relationship with Russian president Vladimir Putin has raised some eyebrows.
Trump: It’s strictly platonic.
Dorset: Of course—I wasn’t implying otherwise. You are, however, aware that Putin’s record on human rights has earned him an F from Amnesty International. What do you think it says to the world when the American president is seen horseback riding with somebody like that?
Trump: You mean somebody who looks phenomenal without a shirt on? Somebody who’s in tremendous, tremendous shape?
Dorset: I mean somebody who’s been sanctioned by the United Nations multiple times. Somebody who was the target of a congressional resolution that condemned him as a threat to America’s national security.
Trump: Is he a little rough around the edges? Yeah. It takes big balls to hold onto power in a place like Russia. They’re a tough people. Very tough to govern. But he’s got cojones the size of grapefruits. Trust me—I know. I’ve been in the locker room with him.
Dorset: What did you think about Russia harboring NSA whistleblower Edward Snowden?
Trump: If I were in Putin’s boots, I would have rolled out the red carpet for him too. What a smart thing to do. Russia never stopped playing spy games. They never stopped fighting the Cold War—they just made us think it was over to trick us into submission. I knew what he was doing the whole time.
Dorset: Do you really think we’re still in the midst of the Cold War?
Trump: Are there hostilities between our countries still? In some quarters, undoubtedly. So what? I have some hostilities with all my exes. That doesn’t mean we can’t still show up at the same fundraiser. To meet the challenges of the twenty-first century, Vlad and I need to work together.
Dorset: What type of challenges?
Trump: Real bad guys, like the Chinese. ISIS. England.
Dorset: The United Kingdom is the United States’ oldest ally. In our recent military endeavors, they’ve been the one country who we could count on to have our back. Are you suggesting there’s some tension between the two countries now?
Trump: You tell me. They tried to ban me from their stupid little country, you know.
Dorset: You’re referring to the Parliamentary “debate” over whether or not to allow you into the UK, which was triggered by an online petition. Those who signed the petition believed your remarks about Kardashians constituted hate speech.
Trump: They’re just jealous—not just of me, but of our great country. Their food is terrible. Their sports are terrible. Bridget Jones has absolutely nothing on American diaries. I mean, Gone Girl—such a superior diary
. Way more intrigue. Soccer? We have football. Real football. They have James Bond? Say hello to Jason Bourne, who is much better looking. Needs to get laid more, though. You hear about Bond girls. Where are the Bourne girls?
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Chapter Seventeen
In Bloom
Jimmie woke up in a cold sweat. It was just after four. While he wanted to believe everything Connor had told him was fantasy, his mind was running wild. He’d searched for the GIF Connor had spoken of, the one with the body falling from the White House roof. It appeared to have been all but wiped off the Internet. Thankfully, he found it on a cached Fark link.
It was nothing, really—just a blur. Could have been a gnat flying past the camera lens. No wonder it hadn’t taken off. And yet . . . there appeared to be another figure on the roof. Just a shadow. But still . . .
After an hour of tossing and turning, Jimmie gave up on sleep. His brain was on fire with speculation. What had happened to Lester Dorset? He dressed and took the Metro to work.
It was still before seven when he arrived at the White House. He decided to stroll the grounds before heading inside. It was too early to hit the slot machines in the Press Room. Plus, he had to see the Rose Garden for himself. He didn’t know what he’d find—probably nothing—but he had to see it. He had to see where Connor claimed Lester had met his end, as improbable as it had sounded.
Trump’s revamped Rose Garden wrapped around the back of the White House from the East to West Wing. A pair of Secret Service agents stood at attention near the back doors. Jimmie nodded as he passed them, just to be friendly. They didn’t acknowledge his presence. Behind the dark shades, it appeared they were catching some Zs. He thought he heard one snoring.
Even though it was early fall, the garden was still in full bloom. Jimmie couldn’t identify any of the flowers besides the roses. He didn’t know shit about flowers, except that they were expensive as hell on Valentine’s Day and withered to nothing a week later.
Jimmie shot a quick glance up at the third-floor family quarters. The lights were out. Was Trump awake right now, though? Perhaps he was already at breakfast or reading the paper in the Oval Office. The president frequently bragged about how little sleep he got. It didn’t sound like something to brag about. It sounded like something to see your doctor about.
A hand drew a curtain to the side. A woman wrapped in a bath towel opened a set of double doors and stepped out onto the third-floor patio. Her wet hair glistened in the dawn’s morning light. She was beautiful beyond comparison . . . and she was also the first lady. This was Trump’s fifth (but probably not final) wife: Victoria Trump.
She gazed out on the South Lawn, surveying the sand traps and water hazards within her domain.
Jimmie knew he should look away, but he was powerless. He’d never been much of a voyeur. However, it wasn’t every day that you saw the first lady step out of the shower. Or maybe it was every day. Maybe if he got here before seven every morning, he could catch a glimpse of the Hottest Wife on the Planet.
That wasn’t just in his estimation, either—that was an official title, bestowed by no less an authority than Maxim magazine. And it was well deserved. In person, the Latverian model looked even better than she’d looked on America’s Next First Lady.
Victoria caught sight of Jimmie staring up at her.
He froze in place.
She shot him a knowing smile and slowly undid her towel. Oh so slowly . . .
Just as she was about to show him her first ladies, a light came on behind her. She quickly wrapped the towel back tight around her as her husband approached from behind. He was fully dressed and holding his phone up as if filming video of her. Victoria batted him away and stormed inside. The president shrugged and tapped away on his phone, facing away from Jimmie. A picture of the first lady would pop up on Instagram any second now.
Jimmie’s phone chirped in his pocket—the president hadn’t posted to social media. He’d sent a group text. Jimmie’d forgotten to switch his phone to silent! Shit.
It chirped again, and Trump swiveled around.
Without thinking, Jimmie dove headfirst into the Rose Garden.
Chapter Eighteen
Roses Are Red, Lester Is Blue
If he’d had time to hesitate, Jimmie would have balked at jumping into a flower bed filled with so many roses. Where there were roses, there were thorns. Even a boob like Bret Michaels knew that.
However, as he lay flat on his stomach under the cover of the flower bushes, Jimmie realized he hadn’t been scratched. He was going to have to dust the dirt off his suit, but there wasn’t a single thorn that had poked him. The flowers were fake. Every single one of them. No wonder the Rose Garden looked so majestic in late August.
Jimmie silenced his phone and rolled over onto his back. Looking up, his eye was drawn to some lettering on the underside of a rose petal: “Made in China.” Through the faux foliage, he could see that Trump had disappeared back inside, chasing after Victoria. What the hell had Jimmie been thinking? And more important . . . what the hell had she been thinking?
Something scurried through the dirt near him. Before he could even turn his head to check it out, the thing was on his chest.
The first family’s dachshund, Opulence, was staring him in the face. It yipped twice, shrill and piercing, then sniffed at his lips. The dog could probably smell the coffee on his breath. If it was looking for food, it would have to look elsewhere—Jimmie had decided to start showing up to work with an empty stomach to avoid any further “incidents.”
Opulence turned its attention to the paper bag in Jimmie’s hand.
“Not my tuna sandwich,” he mumbled. Though, really, what did he care? He was going to get seventy-five bucks every day to spend on food. He was going to pack the pounds on. The dog looked scrawny, and winter was coming.
The skinny wiener dog darted for Jimmie’s lunch bag . . . and pushed it out of the way. It started digging in the dirt. Looking for a bone it had buried? Maybe dachshunds weren’t into tuna salad.
The dog popped its head back up, and what it had in its mouth was not the bone Jimmie was expecting.
It was a human finger.
A gray, rotted human finger covered in dirt, but a human finger nonetheless.
Jimmie had a good guess whose finger it was even before he saw the gaudy golden ring on it. The inscription encircling the oversized ruby confirmed his suspicions: 1993 PULITZER PRIZE WINNER.
Connor Brent was right. The previous ghostwriter was most certainly dead.
Chapter Nineteen
We Don’t Dial 9-1-1
EMPLOYEES ONLY. NO TRESPASSING. WE DONT [sic] DIAL 9-1-1!
The sign was meant to keep intruders at bay. There was even a little icon of a pistol, in case you were too dim to get the point.
Jimmie, however, wasn’t a trespasser. He was a White House employee. He ran his badge over the card reader and heard the door unlock.
He hesitated with his hand on the knob. Despite his obscenely high clearance level, he couldn’t entirely be sure he wouldn’t be shot on the other side. If he was going to do this, though, he had to move quickly. The White House opened up for tourists in another sixty seconds. He was in one of the most popular rooms: the Reagan Library. The room was stocked with VHS copies of Ronald Reagan’s favorite movies—everything from outlaw Westerns to gunfighter Westerns. No books. If there was a single book in the White House outside of Trump’s own, Jimmie hadn’t seen it yet.
Jimmie slipped through the door. He descended the maintenance staircase on the other side, down into the bowels of the White House. Past the basement . . . and to the subbasement.
There were only two ways to get to the subbasement: via the Reagan Library and via a service elevator in the family quarters. A men’s room attendant had advised him to avoid the elevator. It was primarily used by the kitchen staff, who were known to lick. Jimmie didn’t ask any other questions. He’d tipped the attendant a twenty for his troub
les. Emma thought Jimmie had been in the practice of trading gossip for gossip. He’d been all too happy to not correct her. Cash was frowned upon in the news business, but cash was also king—Trump clearly knew that.
Jimmie pushed open the heavy fire door at the base of the stairs. He was in a walkway lit by what looked like backup lighting. It had that wonderful mid-twentieth-century bomb-shelter aesthetic. All bare concrete walls and exposed metal piping, like a hip coffee shop.
Jimmie was alone in the subbasement.
Uncomfortably alone.
Was the chief janitor’s closet down here somewhere? Jimmie had looked at the staff directory, which didn’t list a “chief janitor.” Whatever Christie was doing at the White House was off the books.
The subbasement seemed like the perfect out-of-the-way place from which to do dirty work. The kind of work that would normally be frowned upon in DC but was commonplace in Jersey. Jimmie hadn’t dared ask the men’s room attendant any questions about Christie, though. He didn’t want the guy to get in any kind of trouble over twenty bucks. God knew people had been killed for less, but still.
Jimmie passed a handful of metal doors, none of which were equipped with electronics for reading badges. He tried one. Locked. Maybe the subbasement was a dead end—his badge wasn’t going to do any good down here.
He turned the corner and paused. There was a door that stood out from the rest, with a Far Side cartoon taped to it: A nerd carrying a stack of books was pushing on a door marked “PULL.” A sign beside the door read “SCHOOL FOR THE GIFTED.”
It smacked of the smarter-than-thou humor a smarmy New York Times journalist would find funny.
The Day of the Donald Page 6
