Chapter Four

An Offer You Can’t Refuse

“There are dozens of Trump biographies on the shelves,” Emma said. “Even before he was elected president, the American people were fascinated with him. Half of the books about him are full of shit.”

“And the rest?” Jimmie asked.

“Are only half full of shit. Those are the ones he wrote himself.”

Jimmie laughed and immediately regretted it. Not just because he felt a sharp pain in his abs, but also because this woman clearly wasn’t joking.

“He doesn’t want another cookie-cutter biography,” Emma said. “He wants to write a memoir of his time in office. The working title is America’s Greatest Decade.”

“Decade?”

“He’ll have to remove term limits, but he considers that a formality.”

“Still, sounds a little optimistic.”

“He could wait to write the book until after his term, but he doesn’t know when that will be. He’s afraid he’s going to miss the yacht,” she said. “Besides, he wants it on shelves during his reelection campaign. He wants to tout all he’s done for the country. Discharging our debt to China, the buyout of Cuba, the program to put chandeliers in every classroom in the country.”

Jimmie felt his cheeks flush. “And my name was the first that came to mind.”

“Let’s just say you weren’t too far down the list. He’s a big fan of your work. You’ll be given total access. You can follow him into the bathroom if you want to.” She paused. “He actually specifically asked me to mention that to you. That he has nothing to hide in that department.”

That message delivered, her tone brightened: “He wants to come across as open and honest. You won’t be asked to sugarcoat anything. No restrictions. I know this is a lot to take in,” she said. “But I’m going to need an answer before I leave.”

“When are you leaving?”

“I need to catch my flight in an hour and thirty-seven minutes. Which means you have five minutes to decide, James.” She glanced at her phone. “Four minutes.”

Although Jimmie had never heard from the president before, it made perfect sense that Trump was a fan of his. Jimmie had been the one whose reporting had forced Ted Cruz out of the race. It was right when Cruz was preparing his all-out “This time we’ll really stop him” surprise reactivation of his campaign a week before the Republican National Convention. The story had also cost Jimmie his career. There was the lawsuit brought by SeaWorld against the Daily Blabber. The jury trial, where Jimmie’s ethics were called into question. The $180 million verdict. The appeal. The upheld verdict.

After that, his name was poison. No disreputable blog would have him, and he had no interest in working for the reputable ones. The assignment for Cigar Aficionado had come about through an old editor who still tossed him a freelance gig from time to time.

So while his past was painful, his present wasn’t exactly all kittens and rainbows. And this opportunity was almost too good to be true. Forget crawling around in the dirt—he’d be working in the White House. Or, as some of the administration’s critics called it, the “Gold House.” (Trump took this as a tremendous compliment.) What interested Jimmie more than the steady work, however, was the opportunity to see his ex-girlfriend again—Cat Diaz. What would she say if she saw him palling around with the president?

“Is Cat Diaz still working there in the press corps?” Jimmie asked.

“She was your boss at the Daily Blabber, wasn’t she? Fired you, right? If it’s going to be a problem for you to work together, we can revoke her credentials.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Do you know if she’s still seeing that reporter from the Times? Lester Dorset. Always flashing that Pulitzer of his around like he won the Super Bowl.”

“I don’t keep up with the latest gossip,” Emma said. “Isn’t that your specialty?”

Jimmie didn’t say anything.

Emma looked at her phone. “Time’s up. What’ll it be? Ready to return home?”

Jimmie grunted.

“So is that disgusting noise a yes? I really need to be on my way.”

“What’s the alternative, again?”

“I think you know that.”

“Because you’ve told me before?”

“Because you’re not as stupid as you pretend to be. If I leave you here, you’ll be thrown back into San Miguel after you’re healed. Imagine what will happen to you after a month. After a year.” She paused. “After ten years.”

In another decade, Jimmie would be in his forties. A decade after that, his fifties. Was there anything after that? He thought back to the old man coughing in the tunnel, the old man who was going to die in San Miguel. How many of the migrants would kill for the opportunity Jimmie was being handed?

He would accept the job. For that old man and for every migrant who had ever dreamed of a better life and fallen short.

He’d accept it primarily to avoid returning to jail, of course.

Secondly, for a chance to show up his ex.

Thirdly, for the steady paycheck.

But fourthly, for those poor souls who hadn’t been blessed with the talent to turn prose into paychecks. He’d pour out a little liquor for them when he returned to the States—not much, because Trump Whiskey was expensive. But enough to say he’d done it, and that was all that mattered.