The Day of the Donald by Andrew Shaffer Read Free Book Online

being threatened—by lawyers, usually. Never by a janitor.
    Jimmie was beginning to sense that something . . . untoward might have happened to this mysterious predecessor. The ghostwriter who had left behind “big shoes to fill,” according to the press secretary. Big . . . concrete shoes?

Chapter Twelve

A Hard Bed Is Good to Find
    J immie Bernwood returned to the Royal Linoleum Hotel—“VACUUMED DAILY,” according to the neon sign—well after dark. He’d gone suit shopping, which meant forgoing the chauffeured car he’d arrived at work in for public transportation. He’d spent an extra forty-five minutes waiting on the Metro, which had stopped running during yet another electrical blackout. So far, he’d learned that when the trains did run on time, you could be sure the buses wouldn’t. And good luck hailing a taxi—Uber had put most of them out of business, just before getting put out of business themselves by Bikinibus. Washington’s entire traffic system was a mess . . . which, he supposed, was a good analogy for the government. Nothing prepared you better for working in DC like living in DC. Even when things were rolling along smoothly, you sensed there was a wreck just around the corner.
    He fumbled with his keys. A prostitute passed by with a john. Jimmie should have taken Emma’s offer to put him up in a Trump hotel last week. At least the hookers there would be high-class—the kind that accepted Bitcoin instead of Starbucks gift cards.
    But it hadn’t felt right to him. Even though he knew this was the lowest of the low in journalistic gigs—a celebrity ghostwriter who’d signed a nondisclosure agreement (a gag order, basically)—he needed some measure of independence. He was drawing the line at the daily allowance for food. The whole situation reminded him of when he’d dated Cat while working under her at the Daily Blabber . Time apart was a good thing. A healthy thing. Even if you didn’t think you needed it, you needed it. Well, until one of you goes off and screws some guy from the New York Times .
    He flopped down on the bed with the weight of a lead-filled corpse. It was like landing at the bottom of a rock quarry. The only thing harder than the criminals at the Royal Linoleum Hotel were the beds.
    A deep moan issued forth from the other side of the wall.
    He lifted his head. There was a low grunt, followed by another moan.
    Yes. Yes. Harder .
    There was a sharp knock on the wall between the rooms, and then another. Somebody was getting some use out of the beds, at least.
    Jimmie grabbed a pillow and wrapped it around the back of his head, covering his ears. He needed to get to sleep soon. He had to be back at the White House in less than twelve hours, and if he didn’t get a solid ten hours of shut-eye, he was a cranky bastard. Maybe when they finally assigned him an office, he could just sleep under the desk.
    You like that? Say my name . . . say my name.
    Teddy Mac .
    Jimmie lifted the pillow and sat up. Teddy Mac? It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. No way. He pressed an ear up to the wall, which appeared to be nothing more than wallpaper over plywood.
    Who’s your daddy?
    I don’t know . . . oooooh . . . I’ve never met him . . . ahhhhh . . .
    Son of a bitch.
    Although the headboard continued to hit the wall, Jimmie knew with 100 percent certainty that the voices weren’t coming from whoever was doing the bed-shaking. The voices were from the television, which was turned up to cover whatever action was really going on next door. Whoever was on the other side of the wall was watching the sex tape that had landed Jimmie Bernwood in hot water. Scalding-hot water. Boiling water that had ultimately cost him his job at the Daily Blabber .
    They were watching the Ted Cruz sex tape.

Chapter Thirteen

Wallbanger
    J immie phoned the front desk. The man with the Kardashian accent answered. It was the same man who’d given him the keys to the room. Actually,