Chapter Twenty-One

Candy Is Dandy, but Liquor Is Quicker

After Emma left, Jimmie pulled his White House–issued phone out to find a tux rental shop nearby. “Find men’s wear stores,” he instructed his phone.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” his phone said in that bitchy voice of hers. “Please speak up.”

He cleared his throat. “FIND MEN’S WEAR STORES!”

There was a click above his head. Jimmie looked up. There was nothing above him but the ceiling. Rats? Not in the Trump White House. That click sounded familiar, he thought, climbing onto his desk. He pushed aside a tile and reached around until—

There. He pulled the device out. A Tascam DR-08 Portable Digital Recorder. It was voice activated, which explained why it had clicked on when he’d shouted. It wouldn’t record conversations very well through the tile, though, so he doubted someone had placed it up there to record him. Chris Christie and whomever else was in charge of eavesdropping at the White House probably had much more advanced ways of bugging rooms. No, this had been hidden in the ceiling. He was as sure of it as he’d been sure of anything in his life. Which is to say, not a hundred percent sure. But, as he’d heard around the West Wing, “close enough for government work.”

Jimmie turned his phone off and pressed PLAY on the recorder.

Let’s start at the beginning. You were born in 19—

That’s not how you’re going to begin the book, is it? With my head poking out of my mother’s wherever?

With your birth? Not necessarily, but that’s basically how Dickens started David Copperfield.

Even more reason not to do it. I hate magicians.

The first voice was Lester’s. The second was Trump’s. The interview sessions recorded by Lester Dorset existed after all. They weren’t tapes, however—they were on a hard drive embedded into the recorder. The security measure Emma had talked about. Connor Brent’s insane story about evidence that would lead to Trump’s downfall was no Bernie bro fantasy.

Jimmie was tempted to listen to the recordings now, but he couldn’t. He returned the recorder to its hiding spot. Right now, he had to find a fly tux. His afternoon was booked already, too—the bathroom attendant had invited him to play Cards Against Humility with some of the blue-collar staff in the breakroom.

After that, it would be time to hit the State Dinner. Where they might not have steak, but they would sure as shit have some booze. Anything less would be a middle finger to the Russian president. Perhaps someone would drop a few more hints about what really happened to Lester Dorset. Cash was great for getting people to cough up information, but alcohol was better.