IF I GOT THE CALL (PART VII – “BETTER CALL ST. PAUL”)

OCTOBER 20, 2022 – (Cont.) “Not to denigrate your legal teams,” I said, “but ever since Michael Cohen, you’ve been working with the wrong crew. They’re third- and fourth-stringers. Losers, especially Powell and Giuliani. To be brutally honest, sir, they all did you a massive disservice—worst lawyers ever. Weak. Every single one of them. I’m here to turn the tide, save the game, keep you out of the slammer . . . uh, did I just say, ‘prison’? . . . and allow you to stay in front of the biggest crowds of all time. Are you ready?”

He didn’t respond verbally but exercised his jaw muscles and tried to loosen his neck from the grip of his tightly buttoned collar.

“Good,” I said, treating his body English as a ‘Yes.’ “Then let’s get right down to business.” I unzipped my laptop bag and pulled out a black magic marker, plastic handcuffs, and a large roll of red duct tape.”

“What’s that?”

“With me, sir, what you see is exactly what you get: a black magic marker, handcuffs,  and red duct tape.”

“What for?”

“The handcuffs are, well, for your hands, so you can’t Tweet for a while. The MAGA-red duct tape is for your mouth to keep you talking, and the magic marker is for writing ‘Better Call St. Paul’ on the tape, just as a reminder when you look in the mirror, which I assume is most of the time.”

“You’re joking,” said the Don as he gathered his overweight self and lifted it out of its chair.

“No joke,” I said, looking him straight in the eyes. “Unless you think ankle shackles, prison food on a tray and an orange jumpsuit with LOSER written on front and back are a joke.”

His eyes narrowed, as his jaw muscles bulged. I could see him trying hard to assemble an unruly set of four or five words not counting superlatives, but nothing came out. Two words, meanwhile, appeared inside my head: “He’s” and “flummoxed.”

Finally, he opened his mouth. A second later he muttered, “The people. They love me.”

“Maybe so,” I said, “but for them to keep lovin’ you, you’ve got to have a megaphone and a microphone; a platform and performances. That’s all going to vanish—along with this grand palace of yours—if you don’t follow my advice and recommendations—to a ‘T’.”

Volcanic ash was building inside his ears. For the moment, though, his tongue was silent. I let the steam gather for a few seconds before I continued.

“Are we ready to do business?” I said.

He didn’t answer except by leaning into his fists planted on the desk.

“If so, sir,” I said, “please take a seat.”

He remained frozen, staring at me like a cornered animal. What I’d seen from a distance over the past number of years and what I was now observing six feet away was a supremely disturbed creature. I thought about any number of similarly situated human beings I’d encountered close up. I thought of ‘Mike.’ (Cont.)

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson