Chapter Twenty-Three

Trump Zero

Before Jimmie could respond to what sounded an awful lot like a veiled threat, Vladimir Putin slapped Trump hard on the back.

Trump swung around, fists at the ready to defend himself. When he saw who it was, though, he jumped up to greet his buddy.

Putin put Trump in a playful headlock, and the American president threw up his arms in mock protest. The Secret Service agent with the shaved head—the one Jimmie had met the day before under very different circumstances—stood back a few feet, watching the public display of affection. Step aside, Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen—there was a new bromance in town.

Jimmie wondered how much Trump/Putin slash fic there was out there. It wasn’t a question of whether or not it existed but a question of how many shippers had avoided legal trouble from Trump’s team.

A nervous waiter carefully poured a Miller Lite into a chilled glass for the Russian president, who had taken a seat on the other side of Trump. Putin made a hand gesture to a tuxedoed man who’d accompanied him into the dining room. KGB, Jimmie guessed. If that was still a thing.

The KGB agent swished a light swig of the beer around in his mouth. He had an intense look of concentration, which was made all the more intense by the scar bisecting his right eye. He swallowed and gave Putin a sharp nod. The Russian president shot a perplexed Trump a look that said, You can never be too careful.

The waiter poured a Trump Zero for the president, who then held his glass out to the Secret Service agent behind him.

The agent made no move for the glass. Jimmie imagined he was rolling his eyes behind his shades, which he was wearing indoors simply to hide his annoyance with Trump.

Not wishing to be outdone on his own turf, Trump swung the glass around to Jimmie, who had no choice but to reluctantly accept it.

Jimmie cradled the glass with two hands and put it to his own lips, as if he were about to drink from the Holy Grail. He took a healthy swig and tried to repeat the KGB agent’s performance, swishing the carbonated liquid around like mouthwash. Had it been tampered with? How would he know? Unlike Putin’s goon, Jimmie was no poison sommelier. He tried to think back to the last time he’d even had a poisoned drink. When was that? Oh, yeah: way back in NINETEEN NINETY-NEVER.

Still, he made an attempt. What struck him at first was just how much like regular Trump Cola it tasted. Jimmie didn’t drink much pop. When he did, he usually opted for the stuff with real sugar or corn sweetener—the good stuff, in other words. Diet pop just tasted so phony, with that metallic aftertaste. He’d seen Trump Zero advertised as a better-tasting zero-calorie beverage, but it had always seemed too good to be true.

What a fool he’d been.

What a goddamned fool.

Jimmie handed the glass back to Trump, who raised his eyebrows expectantly. Putin leaned forward, craning his neck around Trump. The room itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting upon his pronouncement.

Jimmie finally gave a single nod, prompting a collective sigh of relief from the room.

After the taste test, Trump and Putin settled into a rowdy back-and-forth. At first, Jimmie tried leaning in to pick up as much of their conversation as he could, but Putin shot him an annoyed look. Jimmie backed off. Although he’d been seated close so that he could eavesdrop with impunity, he didn’t want to raise the Russian president’s ire. After all, Putin may have thrown the last ghostwriter off the White House roof to protect Trump.

Corey Lewandowski was seated to Jimmie’s left. Another possible suspect. Lewandowski was locked into a heated conversation with Secretary of State Omarosa over whether they should call the United Kingdom “England” or “Great Britain.” Jimmie had no interest in joining them, however. Lewandowski had already punched one waiter in the nuts for not refilling his water fast enough. And Omarosa . . . well, Jimmie remembered her from the first season of The Apprentice. He had no interest in tangling horns with her. He was referring, of course, to the literal horns that had sprouted from her forehead. Once, she’d shaved them down, but these days they grew long and curled.

Chris Christie, who was sitting directly across from Jimmie, made a gun with his hand. He pointed his index finger directly at Jimmie and pressed his thumb down. BANG. The White House janitor returned to his plate of cheese sticks, leaving Jimmie to wonder just what the hell kind of mess he’d gotten himself into this time. He was seated at a table with the most powerful men and women in the world . . . one of whom was a killer.