The Day of the Donald (17 page)

A
fter Jimmie doubled back downstairs to grab his charged phone, it was 6:08. He shot Cat a quick text letting her know he’d be late. When she heard that he’d been held up by the president, she would understand. Right? That was a totally good excuse for being late.

It was almost comical that he even cared what she thought. Wouldn’t it have been fair to make her wait? Make her sweat it out?
She’d
been the one who cheated on
him
. The fact that it had happened more than two years ago and that he’d suggested they take some time off shouldn’t have made any difference. Furthermore, she seemed to be more pissed at him than vice versa. Bedfellows made for strange politics.

He headed for the National Mall on foot. The former green space where protestors had once flourished was now home to dozens of restaurants and retail stores. Some Debbie Downers thought it was an eyesore, sneeringly calling the national park the “National Outlet Mall.” Which was absurd, really: There wasn’t an outlet store within a mile of the National Mall. It was strictly upscale chains. Trump’s National Mall Glamorization Plan didn’t allow discount retailers, dollar stores, or Macy’s.

Jimmie glanced over his shoulder. For a second there, he thought he’d heard footsteps matching his. Was he being followed? He didn’t recognize anyone or see anyone acting out of the ordinary.

The meeting with Trump on the Lincoln Bedroom deck had ratcheted his paranoia up a few notches. Hadn’t the “leak” already been plugged? Lester Dorset was dead. Did Trump suspect Chris Christie was also an SJW sympathizer?

Cat would help him sort it all out. She could tell him if there was some sort of prior connection between Lester and the prime suspect for his murder, Corey Lewandowski. Right now, the only evidence tying the press secretary to Lester’s death was circumstantial. Jimmie was putting together the puzzle, but there were still pieces missing.

He picked up his pace, weaving around the human tortoises jamming up the sidewalk. Tourists to the left of him, townies to the right. The restaurant was less than a mile away, but it would take him an hour if the sidewalks continued to be this clogged.

He spotted a pedicab parked on the edge of the National Mall. While people weren’t stepping aside for Jimmie, they would have to if a pedicab was barreling their way.

A slim white guy was sitting on the pedicab’s bicycle seat, checking his phone. He looked like Pee-wee Herman, if Pee-wee Herman was super into P90X. Jimmie could smell the pot from a mile away, but the kid’s sculpted calves told him that he was all business.

Jimmie hopped into the back seat of the pedicab.

“Cracker Barrel,” Jimmie said.

“Which one?” the kid said. “The restaurant on the National Mall, or the world’s largest barrel of crackers?”

“The world’s largest barrel of crackers is in Cedar Rapids.”

“Yeah, it’d be quite a ride, I guess.”

Jimmie tried not to roll his eyes. He clarified that, yes, he meant the restaurant and not a roadside attraction in the middle of the country.

The pedicab lurched forward. The kid rang the bell on his handlebars, and people began turning their heads and then stepping to the side. The pedicab started to gain momentum. If someone had been following Jimmie, they wouldn’t be for much longer.

T
he 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.”

“The vice president of what?”

“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.”

“S
he’s not my girlfriend.”

It was the wrong thing to say, but it was the first thing that came to Jimmie.

There was a pause at the other end of the line. For a second, he thought his phone had dropped the call. Then the mystery man spoke up: “This is Jimmie Bernwood, right? Do I have the correct number?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m just saying, she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Cat Diaz,” the man said. “You were meeting her at the Ritz Cracker Barrel.”

“Right,” Jimmie said. “I’m not disputing that. I’m just—”

“Your girlfriend, your date. Same thing.”

“It wasn’t a date,” Jimmie said. “It’s like a friends thing. No—more like a coworkers thing, I guess.”

“You’re taking her to the most romantic restaurant in the city on a Friday night, and you’re telling me it wasn’t supposed to be a date?”

“No! I mean, we never discussed it.”

“Were you going to pay for her? If you were, that’s a date. I can’t believe she’d say yes to eating there if she didn’t . . .”
Jimmie heard the man whisper to someone else in the room. “On a Friday night, right? Yeah, that’s what I said.” The voice got louder as the man spoke into the phone again. “Well, regardless of which one of you is in denial, we have her. And she’s cute! Have you even asked if she likes you like that?”

The hostess had a couple of menus and was waiting on Jimmie. He held up a finger. Not that one. His index finger. “I need to take this,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.”

“Who are you talking to?” the man on the phone demanded.

Jimmie made his way through the other customers waiting in the foyer, the poor schmucks who didn’t have reservations. Some of them could be waiting hours on standby, on the off-chance a table opened up. The Ritz Cracker Barrel filled up weeks in advance. There were some perks to orange-level security clearance.

“Sorry about that,” he told the kidnapper. “So Cat is my ex. And I understand you have her?”

“Oh, that makes sense now. Yes, and if you don’t give us what we want, you’ll never see her again.”

Somebody was taping this call right now: the White House, the NSA, Homeland Security. Somebody. The question, however, was whether or not anybody would listen to the recording in time for it to mean a damn thing to Cat. Even if they had a real-time eavesdropper from some shadowy government organization, the chances of them tracing it and sending the Navy SEALs to the kidnapper’s door were miniscule. There was a good chance Jimmie was going to have to handle this situation himself.

“Are you still there, Mr. Bernwood?”

“I don’t know who you are,” he said. “I don’t know what you want. If you’re looking for ransom, I don’t have a lot of money. What I do have, however, is a very particular set of skills . . . skills I have picked up over a very long career. Skills that can make me your worst nightmare. Let my daughter go now, and I won’t come after you. But if you don’t . . . I will find you. I will find you, and I will cause you pain. Unimaginable pain.”

“Did you say she’s your daughter? You’re dating your daughter?”

“No, I didn’t mean ‘daughter.’ I meant my date. No, wait, I didn’t mean that either—”

“You think you’re the first person I’ve tried to extract ransom from who’s used that speech from
Taken
?” the man said. “I’m more than familiar with the skills you possess, Mr. Bernwood—meager as they are.”

Jimmie sighed. “Tell me what you want. Get it over with.”

“Don’t get discouraged,” the man said. His voice was flat. “We want the tapes.”

“Like, sex tapes? I don’t do that kind of journalism anymore.”

“The Dorset tapes.”

The only ones who knew about the tapes were Trump, Lester . . . and the Socialist Justice Warriors. The caller had just revealed his affiliation. Jimmie had snubbed the SJWs. Now they weren’t asking him to help them—they were telling him he had to. Or else.

“We know you have them in your possession,” the kidnapper continued.

“Let’s say I did have these tapes. Is what’s on them worth going to prison for? Because that’s exactly what’s going to
happen to you once the Secret Service tracks you down. They’re tracing this call right now.”

The man laughed heartily.

“Is that funny to you?” Jimmie said.

“If you knew everything that we know, you’d be laughing too.”

“What do you think is on these tapes?”

“Just bring them to us.”

“Where are you?” Jimmie asked. “Clinton Plaza?”

“When you have the tapes in your possession, put a potted fern out on your patio at the Watergate. We will be in touch with further instructions. You have until midnight on Sunday.”

“Can I have until midnight on Monday? It’s a holiday weekend.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. It sounded like the man was whispering to someone in the background.

“Fine, Monday at midnight,” the caller said. “Just put a fern out. Got that? A fern, Mr. Bernwood. And one last thing: Get the FBI or the CIA or even the FDA involved, and we kill your daughter.”

“You mean my date.”

“I thought it wasn’t a date?”

“Okay, sure, maybe deep down I was hoping—”

The line went dead.