Chapter Forty-Three
The Ritz Cracker Barrel
The pedicab driver may have been stoned out of his gourd, but he could peddle like a son of a bitch. The frightened pedestrians scattered when they saw him coming, much to Jimmie’s delight.
“You go to school around here?” Jimmie shouted.
“Been out of school for a while,” the kid said. “What do you do at the White House?”
Jimmie was confused at first, then realized he’d left his badge hanging around his neck. “Can’t really say. Kind of top secret. Nothing exciting, though.”
“Huh. I came pretty close to getting a job there, once.”
“Internships can be competitive,” Jimmie said, thinking back to the interviewing process for interns at the Daily Blabber. It had resembled Greek hazings more than proper job interviews. He’d never been involved in it, but he’d seen the photos of the interns in humiliating positions that were forwarded around the office. They’d made those photos of Iraqi prisoners look like child’s play.
“Wasn’t an internship I was competing for,” the kid said, flying past a Ralph Lauren. “It was the vice presidency.”
“Of the United States, man. Ended up as speaker of the—” They swung around a corner and nearly collided with a mother pushing a stroller. The pedicab went off the sidewalk and onto the grass. The kid’s strong legs kept peddling, and they were back onto the sidewalk in no time.
The kid peddling had lost track of their conversation. Jimmie decided not to ask any more questions of him. He was so high, he thought he’d made a run for the White House! Jimmie had gotten stoned before, but never that stoned. Even a political newbie like Jimmie knew you had to be thirty-five to be president. He assumed the same rules applied to the vice presidency. There was no way this young buck was over twenty-five.
Instead of making small talk with the highest kite in the park, Jimmie ran over what he was going to say to Cat in his head: I’m onto the story of the century. ALL the centuries. There’s either a massive conspiracy against the president . . . or he’s pulling the strings. You heard that right: There’s a scandal going on at some of the highest levels of government . . . and I’m right in the middle of it. And I need your help.
The kid rolled the pedicab to a stop in front of the Cracker Barrel just as the sun was setting. A row of empty, gold-plated rocking chairs on the porch rocked gently back and forth in the breeze. This was no ordinary Cracker Barrel—this was the fanciest one in the country. The Ritz Cracker Barrel.
“What do I owe you?” Jimmie asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” the kid said. “I do this for the exercise when Congress isn’t in session. See you ’round, man.”
Jimmie entered the restaurant and told the hostess he was meeting Cat. The woman ran down the list of tables. “She hasn’t arrived yet, sir, but if you’ll wait a moment, we’ll have you seated.”
Hasn’t arrived yet? he thought. That’s strange . . .
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Speak of the devil—Cat was calling him. He answered, “Just got here. Want me to order some biscuits for you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” a man on the other end of the line said. He had a slight twang to his voice that was difficult to place. “Skip the buttermilk biscuits . . . if you ever want to see your girlfriend alive again.”