Chapter Forty-One

Let’s Go Cubbies

The blood in Jimmie’s veins went ice-cold. Did Trump suspect that he was the leak? Sure, he’d met with a Socialist Justice Warrior in Clinton Plaza. Had Christie showed Trump the Gideon Bible? Even though he’d rejected the offer, he hadn’t reported the meeting to law enforcement. That probably made him as good as guilty in Trump’s eyes.

“We can speak freely out here,” Trump said, mistaking the reason for his silence. “There are white-noise generators at both ends of the veranda, which we bought from Hillary’s staff at a yard sale. Even the Secret Service can’t hear us from the Rose Garden below.”

Jimmie swallowed hard. “You said there was a plot against the White House?”

“Homeland Security picks up chatter from time to time. Kardashians, mostly. We hear things on social media, on texts. We read e-mails. But these SJWs are smart. They know how we operate. They don’t communicate online. They use paper and pens; they use landlines. They’re invisible to us.”

“I hope I’m not out of line here . . . but, outside of a few protestors at rallies, are you sure they exist?”

“We have surveillance photos of a meeting of the agitators,” Trump said. “We identified one of the rally leaders and tortured the hell out of him. He sings for some musical group named the Pearl Jams.”

“I’m familiar with them,” Jimmie said.

Trump raised an eyebrow.

“Their music, I mean.”

“He gave us the name of who we assume is the leader of the rebel alliance,” Trump said. “Jeremy.”

“Do you know anything else about these . . . agitators?”

“They wear blue caps.”

“That should make them easy to find, then,” Jimmie said. “The obvious problem being that lots of other people wear blue caps. Like Chicago Cubs fans, for instance. Are you sure Eddie Vedder, a noted Chicago fan, wasn’t simply wearing a Cubs cap?”

“You might be on to something there,” Trump said. “We did pick him up at Wrigley Stadium. I might have to put in a call to Guantanamo.” Trump rested his proportionally small hands on the railing and sighed. “You know, I wasn’t too sure about you at first. You refuse to stay in the finest, most sumptuous hotel. You throw up on me. You’re a different cat, Jimmie.”

“Thank you?”

“When I said I handpicked you, I wasn’t lying,” Trump said. “Or I was, a little. Because although you’re my new ghostwriter, there’s another job that I wanted you for. I want you to help me find the leak in this administration. Be my plumber.”

“Emma didn’t mention anything about this.”

“This is between me and you. You’re one of the dirtiest players in the game. I had to get a feel for you before springing this on you, though.”

“Emma doesn’t know. What about Christie or Lewandowski?”

“This is between you and me and the man upstairs,” Trump said. “Baby Jesus.”

“I’ve never really done anything like this before,” Jimmie said. Not only that, but Jimmie wasn’t sure if he was up for this sort of political espionage. He didn’t know if he could continue to hear the word “leak” without giggling.

“It’s easy. When you find the leak, you tell me. No one else. I’ll take care of it myself. Because, as you know, it’s the only way to ensure something gets done properly. No offense.”

“None taken,” Jimmie said.

“It should go without saying that nothing less than the future of our great country is at stake here,” Trump said. “If England continues taunting us and the shit goes down, we need to have all our dicks in a row. Enemies outside our country could conspire with those within our borders. That’s why we need to clamp down on these PC clowns. I need to know now: Are you my guy?”

Jimmie was about to dive further into the web of political intrigue that already had a body count several times that of the Watergate and Lewinsky scandals combined. For the record, nobody had died in either of those scandals, but both had brought presidents to their knees. While Jimmie still didn’t know the full extent of what was happening inside the Trump White House, it was bound to trump those so-called scandals. The Pulitzer would be his. And then Cat would see just what she was missing out on. If she was lucky, he might even take her back.

Jimmie Bernwood, with two fingers crossed behind his back, shook Trump’s hand. “I’m your guy,” he said.

Trump nodded. There was a long, awkward pause.

“Any plans for the three-day weekend?” Jimmie asked, trying to make casual conversation. Jimmie was terrible at casual conversation. Then again, he was terrible at formal conversation too.

“Mar-a-Lago,” Trump said. “A little golf, a little cookout. And you?”

“Nothing much . . .” Jimmie slapped himself on the forehead. How could he have been so stupid? “Do you know what time it is?”

Trump looked at his Rolex. “Ten ’til six. You have somewhere to be?”

“Meeting an ex-girlfriend for dinner. Do you need me much longer, or . . . ?”

Trump waved him on. “Can I also give you some advice, though? When you’re out at dinner, head into the men’s room and crank one out. That way, you’re less likely to be tempted to fall back into old habits. Take it from me: Ex-sex is one of the worst decisions you can make. Think with your big head, not your little head.”