The Day of the Donald (8 page)

J
immie retraced his steps back toward the hotel. He’d known kids like Connor Brent back in college. Kids with Che Guevara T-shirts and hemp necklaces. Kids who camped out on the steps of the college president’s office for “change.”

That was all they ever wanted: “change.” They knew what they were against but didn’t have the imagination to think up a viable alternative. Jimmie wasn’t much different. He didn’t
like
war, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think he could devise a better alternative to the way things were. True intelligence meant knowing the limits of your intelligence.

Jimmie had reached the limits of his intelligence long ago.

The kid was wrong—as kids often were.

There was no way Trump would ever give the order to fire nukes. If Jimmie knew the phrase “mutually assured destruction,” Trump had to know it too. The man owned too much real estate to let it all go up in a mushroom cloud.

What bothered Jimmie a little, though, was this whole business with Lester Dorset.

He had specifically asked Emma Blythe if Cat and Lester were still together, and she’d artfully dodged the question. Even more suspicious, she hadn’t said a word about the Pulitzer Prize–winning reporter being the previous ghostwriter.

There was a perfectly acceptable reason for her to avoid such talk: She might have sensed some professional animosity between Jimmie and Lester. That Jimmie felt inadequate next to somebody with the pedigree of a
New York Times
byline.

Well, the joke was on her. Jimmie couldn’t care less about any of that. So what if he won a Pulitzer? It was for feature writing—the easy Pulitzer. Find a sob story, crap out ten thousand words, hello, Joe.

What he did care about, though, was the fact that Lester had—rather abruptly—overtaken Jimmie in Cat Diaz’s affections. Did it bother Jimmie that his girlfriend had left him for that old bag of bones? Of course. But he’d let go of his anger long ago. Cat had made a choice—a dumb choice, but it was her business. He’d moved on.

Jimmie paused at the water fountain at the entrance to the park. The bronzed sculpture of Bill Clinton not having sexual relations with Monica Lewinsky glimmered under the moonlight. A soft breeze blew through the park, kicking up leaves. Jimmie shuddered as a chill came over him.

He tried to tell himself the chill was just because he didn’t have on a heavy enough jacket. Fall was here, and the nights were getting longer and colder. The chill had nothing to do with the nagging suspicion that even if the kid was full of shit, some of what he’d said had resonated with Jimmie. That America, while strong at home, was assuming the reputation outside her borders of the crazy guy you cross the street to avoid. That the map he’d seen in the Boardroom was more than a simulation. That it wasn’t just winter that was coming—it was war.

June 1, 2018, 9:45
AM

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

J
immie woke up in a cold sweat. It was just after four. While he wanted to believe everything Connor had told him was fantasy, his mind was running wild. He’d searched for the GIF Connor had spoken of, the one with the body falling from the White House roof. It appeared to have been all but wiped off the Internet. Thankfully, he found it on a cached Fark link.

It was nothing, really—just a blur. Could have been a gnat flying past the camera lens. No wonder it hadn’t taken off. And yet . . . there appeared to be another figure on the roof. Just a shadow. But still . . .

After an hour of tossing and turning, Jimmie gave up on sleep. His brain was on fire with speculation. What
had
happened to Lester Dorset? He dressed and took the Metro to work.

It was still before seven when he arrived at the White House. He decided to stroll the grounds before heading inside. It was too early to hit the slot machines in the Press Room. Plus, he had to see the Rose Garden for himself. He didn’t know what he’d find—probably nothing—but he had to see it. He had to see where Connor claimed Lester had met his end, as improbable as it had sounded.

Trump’s revamped Rose Garden wrapped around the back of the White House from the East to West Wing. A pair of
Secret Service agents stood at attention near the back doors. Jimmie nodded as he passed them, just to be friendly. They didn’t acknowledge his presence. Behind the dark shades, it appeared they were catching some Zs. He thought he heard one snoring.

Even though it was early fall, the garden was still in full bloom. Jimmie couldn’t identify any of the flowers besides the roses. He didn’t know shit about flowers, except that they were expensive as hell on Valentine’s Day and withered to nothing a week later.

Jimmie shot a quick glance up at the third-floor family quarters. The lights were out. Was Trump awake right now, though? Perhaps he was already at breakfast or reading the paper in the Oval Office. The president frequently bragged about how little sleep he got. It didn’t sound like something to brag about. It sounded like something to see your doctor about.

A hand drew a curtain to the side. A woman wrapped in a bath towel opened a set of double doors and stepped out onto the third-floor patio. Her wet hair glistened in the dawn’s morning light. She was beautiful beyond comparison . . . and she was also the first lady. This was Trump’s fifth (but probably not final) wife: Victoria Trump.

She gazed out on the South Lawn, surveying the sand traps and water hazards within her domain.

Jimmie knew he should look away, but he was powerless. He’d never been much of a voyeur. However, it wasn’t every day that you saw the first lady step out of the shower. Or maybe it was every day. Maybe if he got here before seven every morning, he could catch a glimpse of the Hottest Wife on the Planet.

That wasn’t just in his estimation, either—that was an official title, bestowed by no less an authority than
Maxim
magazine. And it was well deserved. In person, the Latverian model looked even better than she’d looked on
America’s Next First Lady
.

Victoria caught sight of Jimmie staring up at her.

He froze in place.

She shot him a knowing smile and slowly undid her towel. Oh so slowly . . .

Just as she was about to show him her first ladies, a light came on behind her. She quickly wrapped the towel back tight around her as her husband approached from behind. He was fully dressed and holding his phone up as if filming video of her. Victoria batted him away and stormed inside. The president shrugged and tapped away on his phone, facing away from Jimmie. A picture of the first lady would pop up on Instagram any second now.

Jimmie’s phone chirped in his pocket—the president hadn’t posted to social media. He’d sent a group text. Jimmie’d forgotten to switch his phone to silent! Shit.

It chirped again, and Trump swiveled around.

Without thinking, Jimmie dove headfirst into the Rose Garden.