anyone else who wants to redivide the map in Europe. It’s going to be World War III. The planet is going to go up in flames. That doesn’t bother you?”
“The president needs congressional approval to go to war—even I know that,” Jimmie said. “They haven’t seen eye to eye on anything.”
“He’s wearing them down,” Connor said. “Look, the guy had the country declare bankruptcy, and Congress impeached him. Then he sent the bulldozers in to seize all that private land along the border without authorization—do you remember that? And Congress impeached him. Then he lied under oath that he didn’t write that list ranking the entire White House staff in order of ‘bangability,’ and Congress impeached him. Each time, not only was he exonerated, but his approval rating went up, and Congress’s went down.
“Now, with the midterms coming up, they’re feeling the pressure,” Connor continued. “Trump’s found even more leverage. He gets the roll calls of the votes on every bill and donates ten thousand dollars to the primary challenger of everyone who didn’t vote his way. Then he calls the congressmen to tell them that he did it!”
“The American people know a bully when they see one,” Jimmie said. “There will be an outcry eventually.”
“Haven’t you seen the polls? Americans don’t like bullies in schoolyards, but they love it when the victim of the bullying is Congress. Change.org has forty thousand signatures on a petition for Trump to give Rand Paul a wedgie on the Senate floor. Trust me, bro. If Trump wants to go to war, we’re going to war.”
Jimmie shook his head. It sounded like this kid had been watching too much MSNBC. “I’m going to forget we had this conversation. I expect you to do the same,” he said, turning to leave.
“Have you been to the basement?”
Jimmie froze. “Of the White House?”
“Of the Alamo,” the kid said sarcastically. “Of course I mean the White House.”
“Maybe. What of it?”
“There’s another basement—a basement under the basement.”
“A subbasement. That’s not unusual.”
“That’s where his office was,” Connor said. “It’s a long shot, but his tapes might still be there. You might—”
“Whose tapes?”
“The last ghostwriter,” Connor said. “Lester Dorset.”
Chapter Sixteen
Winter Is Coming
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
“The president needs congressional approval to go to war—even I know that,” Jimmie said. “They haven’t seen eye to eye on anything.”
“He’s wearing them down,” Connor said. “Look, the guy had the country declare bankruptcy, and Congress impeached him. Then he sent the bulldozers in to seize all that private land along the border without authorization—do you remember that? And Congress impeached him. Then he lied under oath that he didn’t write that list ranking the entire White House staff in order of ‘bangability,’ and Congress impeached him. Each time, not only was he exonerated, but his approval rating went up, and Congress’s went down.
“Now, with the midterms coming up, they’re feeling the pressure,” Connor continued. “Trump’s found even more leverage. He gets the roll calls of the votes on every bill and donates ten thousand dollars to the primary challenger of everyone who didn’t vote his way. Then he calls the congressmen to tell them that he did it!”
“The American people know a bully when they see one,” Jimmie said. “There will be an outcry eventually.”
“Haven’t you seen the polls? Americans don’t like bullies in schoolyards, but they love it when the victim of the bullying is Congress. Change.org has forty thousand signatures on a petition for Trump to give Rand Paul a wedgie on the Senate floor. Trust me, bro. If Trump wants to go to war, we’re going to war.”
Jimmie shook his head. It sounded like this kid had been watching too much MSNBC. “I’m going to forget we had this conversation. I expect you to do the same,” he said, turning to leave.
“Have you been to the basement?”
Jimmie froze. “Of the White House?”
“Of the Alamo,” the kid said sarcastically. “Of course I mean the White House.”
“Maybe. What of it?”
“There’s another basement—a basement under the basement.”
“A subbasement. That’s not unusual.”
“That’s where his office was,” Connor said. “It’s a long shot, but his tapes might still be there. You might—”
“Whose tapes?”
“The last ghostwriter,” Connor said. “Lester Dorset.”
Chapter Sixteen
Winter Is Coming
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
Similar Books
