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“I hope you don’t mind,” the President said to Special Counsel Bob “Ferris” Mueller, then nodded to me.
“Sure,” Mueller said. “No problem. Call me Ferris.”
Big D gestured to me with his bright orange, open hand. Ferris and I stood up from the table. I had never frisked anyone, but I had been felt up by TSA many times, so I knew the drill.
“Assume the position,” I said and Ferris leaned over, both hands on the table.
The table at the neighborhood Italian restaurant was a wobbler, so it tumped over when Ferris put his weight on it, throwing both of us to the floor, where I proceeded to pat him down. Feeling under both arms, and around his slender waist and both ankles went fine. But I balked at caressing Bobby’s inner thighs until we could stand up. I didn’t want the other diners to get the wrong impression.
“He’s clean, Big D,” I said after quickly checking Ferris’s inseam.
“What’s in his jaw?” E. Hobart Calhoun, my longtime friend and attorney asked.
E. had been co-counsel for Big D in the Russia probe ever since the President had seen the video of E. confronting Mueller at the death penalty press conference. E. insisted to Big D that I provide security at the Italian restaurant, given my recent victory in the Mensa Division finals against tenacious Paul Reubens in the International Mixed Martial Arts expo in Bangkok.
“Nothing,” Ferris said, raising his hand to stroke his gigantic jowls, then opening his massive federal maw wide for my inspection.
“He’s okay, Big D,” I said, turning off my flashlight.
Waiters scrambled to right the table, and placed a large plate of cannoli in the center. Big D invited us to sit again.
“I’ve considered your proposal,” Big D said, “but I must decline the offer. My learned counsel, Mr. E., tells me we covered this option in Tweet No. 9,788 in Volume III of Big D Presidential Tweets. I’m surprised you didn’t see it in the Federal Register.”
“What are they doing here?” E. interrupted, pointing to a dark alcove, raising his voice. “You were supposed to come alone.”
I squinted to see G-Men Peter “Love” Strzok and Lisa “Sweet Thing” Page nose-to-nose at a table, whispering over their dinner of braised liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti.
“Aw, those kids,” Ferris Mueller said wistfully. “I remember those days. Archbishop Comey and I used to double-date in a convertible because he was so tall. He was always into some kind of insubordination. One time he took it upon himself to give grades to everyone in our Home Ec class after he accused the professor of having a conflict of interest.”
“It’s unseemly,” Big D said to Mueller, pointing at the lovebirds, “such a public display. Have they no sense of decency, sir, at long last? Have they left no sense of decency?”
“Uh,” Ferris said. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
Big D looked at me. I gave the go-ahead.
“This guy’s all jaw and no teeth,” E. said after Mueller disappeared into the loo.
After a moment, I watched Ferris leave the head and walk toward us in slow motion, singing a piece from a Mascagni verisimo opera that seemed to get louder as he approached the table.
“Take this!” Mueller proclaimed, holding a limp subpoena dripping water.
“Don’t touch it, Big D,” I said. “You don’t know where that thing has been.”
“I told Strzok to tape it under the tank, not inside,” Ferris said, shaking his head, “the love-sick s.o.b.”
Strozk and Page, holding hands, appeared behind Mueller. He dropped the soggy mess on the floor and walked out with the G-Men trailing. Every diner stared in shock.
“Leave the soggy subpoena,” Big D said as we stood to leave. “Bring the cannoli.”
“Pardon me,” Big D said walking out, suppressing a belch.
“Not now,” E. said. “Later.”