Jane came up with a plan to make the money she and Dick so desperately need.

She imagined the 147 members of Congress who voted to overturn the election would pay her handsomely to write snappy little tweets they could post to hide that they had violated the Constitution.

She’d help them argue that her old boss actually won reelection because he got more votes than he did in 2016 — ignoring that seven million more Americans voted for his opponent.

When she worked at the White House, Jane was part of a team effort that made distorting reality glamorous. But alone at home, the unclean feeling that comes from scamming gullible people comes over her more quickly than usual.

Luckily, a few hits of sativa and a long hot bath wash it away.

What bothers her more is that her new business plan pays less than the tips that were thrown at her as a dancer during her college years.
 
Follow the travails of the Fallen Angels from the first installment.

She didn’t look anything like the undocumented immigrant who had been so eager to clean Jane’s apartment at half the going rate weeks earlier.

The hair and the wardrobe were different. The glasses were gone. Jane needed a minute to be absolutely sure it was same woman.

“Why, if it isn’t our little Maria José speaking perfect English.” Jane said. “And shopping at Gucci no less.”

“Lo siento, no hablo inglés.” The woman replied.

Jane took the seat across the table, blocking the woman‘s exit.

”You tricked your way into our apartment!”

“Let’s be civilized, Mrs. Doe,” the woman said in formal, textbook English.

“Ask yourself, Mrs. Doe, who would be interested in a recording of the talking points for the Big Lie that you and Mr. Doe pitched to Mr. Giuliani’s associates on Zoom?

”And not to worry, Mrs. Doe. I’ve been made responsible for your welfare and I’ve taken steps to disguise your voices.

“And if you do happen to end up in a witness protection program – no need to change your name. ‘Jane Doe’ is perfect.”

Jane bristled. She’d been browbeaten into giving up her maiden name when she married into the powerful Doe family.

 
Follow the travails of the Fallen Angels from the first episode.

Soon after Dick and Jane moved to Columbia Heights, they’d hear thumping in the distance.

As the weather warmed and they opened their windows, voices and shouts were added to the soundtrack.

Down toward 13th NW, a backboard had been installed on the parking lot of a storefront mosque.

Dick would stand back and watch the pickup games, not aware his limbs were twitching along with the moves under the boards.

After some weeks, one of the brothers walked over.

“You play?”

“NCCAA for a year.”

“NCCAA?” the guy asked.

“Christian conference.”

“For sure! So put your hat on the bench to get in the lineup. We do ‘make-it, take-it’ to 12. Turns over fast.

”We got us some jag-offs who go Bobby Knight when they‘re wasted, so we kick their asses off the court for the night.”

“Played with my share.” Dick said.

He didn’t mention he’d been suspended from the NCCAA for unsportsmanlike behavior.

He’d have to watch himself. He didn’t want to fuck up the only good thing that’s happened in months.

 
Follow the travails of the Fallen Angels from the first installment.

“You can’t be seen with the president.” Dick said.

“You’re going to be subpoenaed for the Jan. 6 trials and hauled in front of the Select Committee. The knives are out for you and me.”

“He’s raised a $100 million this year.” Jane replied. “He’ll protect us.”

“Just like he’s protecting Giuliani.” Dick said.

“We need money, Dicky. It’s been ages since we decanted a Richebourg.”

“We knew we were pimping for a used-condom salesman, fair enough, but then he goes and incites his dead-enders to put up a gallows for Pence.”

“Ancient history, Dick. You’re just jealous he’s recruiting me and not you to be one of his strategists.”

Dick took his phone from the nightstand and showed it to his wife. “Got the same invitation you did, Jane. I’m surprised you couldn’t read between the lines.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been invited to Mar-a-Lago to attend a fundraising event, Sweetheart.”

 
Follow the travails of the Fallen Angels from the first installment.

“Our sincere apologies.” The manager of Mar-a-Lago told Jane.

“You were invited to our Million-Dollar Donor Weekend by mistake. Our databases have been hacked by somebody like
Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.”

Jane responded with an eye roll.

“But if you’d care to serve as a volunteer staffer, Mrs. Doe – greeting donors and making sure their glasses are filled – we can make you comfortable in the employee locker room. How does a half-price voucher for our $69.95 breakfast buffet sound?”

Jane was livid but desperate to make connections.

As she moved through the Donald J. Trump Grand Ballroom later that evening, a number of the more prominent guests avoided making eye contact, some crossed the room to keep their distance.

She had met and spent time with them, when she was a very young woman, at private gatherings arranged by her “Uncle Jeffrey” Epstein.

 
Follow the travails of the Fallen Angels from the first installment.