by Jake Devlin
Paul and Gayle Rutledge and their three children, aged six, nine and 13, left their hotel, stopped at Dotty's for a to-go breakfast and headed to the beach on this, the fourth day of their two-week vacation from Paul's job as an advertising agency CEO in St. Paul and Gayle's much more demanding job as a full-time mom.
Cindy, the oldest, riding shotgun, was the first to notice. “Look, Dad,” she whooped, and started laughing loudly.
Paul looked over and saw the word “OLD” stenciled in white paint in the right lane, then about thirty feet farther on, the word “FART,” and another thirty feet on, the word “LANE,” all in letters at least six feet tall.
Cindy said, “You better switch lanes,” and laughed again.
Paul chuckled and said, “Why me, smartass? You're the old fart.”
“No, I'm not. You are.”
“No, you are.”
“No, you are.”
Jordan, the nine-year-old, piped up from the back seat, “You're the old fart, you're the old fart,” and Skyler, his six-year-old sister, joined in, “You're the old fart, you're the old fart.”
And with that, all three of the kids joined in, singing the phrase over and over in fully uncoordinated disharmony, until Gayle finally said, “That's enough; pipe down, everybody.”
Then Cindy saw another set of the words and, in an only slightly subdued voice, said, “Better switch lanes, Old Fart.”
Paul gave her a surreptitious glance and smiled to himself.
Jordan, irrepressible, started up again, “Daddy is an old fart, Daddy is an old fart,” then Skyler, after squinching up her face a bit, came out with, “Cindy is an old fart, Cindy is an old fart,” again singing in their childish disharmony, both kids singing over each other, with Cindy yelling “Shut up, shut up!!” until Gayle finally yelled, “Stop it, stop it!!! That is ENOUGH!! If you all don't settle down, we're turning around and going back to the hotel and you won't get to build any sand castles.”
At that point, a sulky silence settled over the entire car, until Paul asked Gayle, “You've got my tablet, right? I want to watch that press conference this afternoon.”
Gayle said, “Yeah, I've got it right in the bag, and it's all charged up.”
“Great, hon. So now all of this old fart family is ready to have a great time at the beach.”
Gayle rolled her eyes and shot daggers at the back of Paul's head as they continued west toward the Gulf.
As they rode over the bridge onto the island, Cindy piped up, “From now on, I want to be called 'Montana.'”
"Last week it was 'Idaho,'” Skyler chirped. “Idaho, Idaho, Idaho!” Jordan joined in, “Udaho, Udaho, Udaho.”
Gayle growled, “Everybody, QUIET! Shut up!!!”
They continued in sulky silence, arriving at the beach ten minutes later.
-18-
Six Months Earlier
Monday, June 13, 2011
2:53 a.m. EDT
Bonita Beach, Florida
Jake awoke instantly from a light but restorative sleep, grabbed his .38 Special from under the pillow and was on his feet within three seconds, sweeping his weapon and his vision quickly across the spartan loft bedroom, noticing the red light on the security control box, indicating the system was in secure mode. He padded silently across to the sliding glass doors to the balcony overlooking the Gulf, checked that they were secure, then crept to the locked door to the rest of the house. Quietly turning the deadbolt, he slowly opened the door and took a quick glance out, then ducked back behind the doorframe. Seeing and hearing nothing, he moved out fast and low, nearly on his knees, but maintaining flexibility, and again swept his weapon and vision quickly back and forth. He saw nothing amiss.
He glanced over the banister and again saw nothing in the open living area below. Breathing deeply and slowly, he made his way down the stairs, carefully avoiding the ninth step from the bottom, which he'd booby trapped. Reaching the floor, he scanned each corner of the room, then moved to the door to the study and went in high and fast. But again, nothing. He also found nothing in either of the ground-floor bedrooms, the kitchen or the bathroom.
Creeping silently to the front door, he deactivated the alarm and opened the door, glancing down the stairs to the ground below. Again, nada.
"Pull yourself together," he mumbled to himself, closing the door and reactivating the alarm system. He crossed to the sideboard on the north wall and retrieved the power cord to his computer from the hidden drawer, then headed into the study, where he plugged in and booted up his computer while rewinding the security tapes to ten minutes before he awoke. Forwarding at double speed, the only thing he saw was a slow-moving dark SUV traveling south on Hickory at 2:52:43, passing in and out of view from left to right in about six seconds. Freezing the video, zooming in and advancing frame by frame, he was only able to make out a dark face looking out the passenger window at his house as the vehicle passed by; he couldn't tell if it was male or female. None of the other cameras showed anything out of the ordinary.
Jake breathed a small sigh of relief, but he knew he probably wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, still somewhat shaken from all the gunfire on the beach the previous morning, from Pam's warning about her boss and his ongoing suspicions, and especially from the appalling allegations he'd found on the internet from the paper Chelsea had given him.
Once his PC finished booting up, he checked the curtains to be sure no lights could be seen from the beach side, since it was turtle nesting season, and only then did he turn on the desk lamp, settle into the chair and check his emails, finding two that needed replies. He sent those and then began typing from the notes he'd made while waiting for Pamela at the Seabreeze Cafe: "... -itzer reporting from the White House Press Room, where we're expecting Gordon Donne to appear at any minute for his long-awaited first live press conference. You can feel the electricity …”
-19-
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Midday
New York, New York
As the morning wore on and the markets all hovered only a bit up or a bit down, volume stayed near an all-time low, but the buzz of conversation and arguments was near an all-time high.
But as one p.m. approached, a hush of anticipation settled over the entire trading floor and everybody looked to the televisions and their tablets with rapt attention.
* * * * * *
12:55 p.m.
Bonita Beach, Florida
Paul Rutledge finished up the sandwich Gayle had made for him and stuffed the wrapper into their trash bag. Then he pulled his tablet from their beach bag and started searching for the online broadcast of Donne's press conference.
Cindy, Jordan and Skyler were happily building a huge sandcastle down near the shoreline, occasionally singing out “Daddy is an old fart.” Gayle kept a close eye on them while she chatted with an Italian couple, Salvatore and Rafaella, and an octogenarian Canadian woman, Lucy, who'd been snowbirding in Bonita for the past fifteen or sixteen years; she wasn't clear on which. Lucy had also seen the OLD FART LANE stencils and wondered if those had been installed by the City and how that could possibly be enforced. She also said in no uncertain terms that she was not going to be forced into that lane if she didn't want to go there. “Nobody tells me where to drive my Jaguar,” she grumbled.
Paul finally got to an online site with Donne's press conference, but only after a great deal of frustration, and even then, the screen was difficult to see in the bright sun. He managed to get the screen tilted to where he could sort of see what was going on, his earbuds in, volume adjusted, and settled in just as the press conference was beginning to get underway.
"... -itzer reporting from the White House Press Room, where we're expecting Gordon Donne to appear at any minute for his long-awaited first live press conference. You can feel the electricity of anticipation coursing through the room, and again, we have received no prepared statement from his office, nor has there been either a demand or a request from Mr. Donne's office for advan
ce notice of any of our questions. So it looks like it's going to be a free-for-all, and from some of the conversations we've had while we've been waiting, probably a pretty wild one.
"We've also noticed a couple of additions on the stage: that big touch screen on the right and a chair and side table on the left -- okay, here we go, right on time."
At precisely one p.m., Donne, dressed in jeans and a tropical shirt, entered the Press Room, preceded by two bodyguards and followed by a short, thin and very prim woman and a stout man, both in business suits, who sat in the fold-down chairs along the left wall. Donne strode to the podium and faced the assembled crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen, before I begin, I want to introduce my Anti-Hubris Czar, Cecily Fusi, F-u-s-i, pronounced Fyoo-si, not Fussy or Fyoo-zi. Cecily has been with me for twelve years and has always acted as a trusted sounding board, sort of like my conscience.
“Could you stand up, Cissy?”
The female stood and the press applauded politely.
"Next to Cissy is Cody Harbison, my Czar for Unintended Consequences. Cody has a phenomenal ability to take any set of facts and predict an entire spectrum of both intended and unintended consequences with uncanny accuracy. Cody's been with Donne Enterprises International for seventeen years, and he's the only guy who's ever been able to beat me at chess.”
"Just once, Gordy, in '96,” Cody said as he stood up. The press corps laughed and applauded.
"Thanks, guys,” Donne said as they sat back down. Then he smiled at the press corps and held up a sheaf of papers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a couple of announcements and then I'll take your questions. First, I'm holding 173 letters of commitment from big businesses all around the world, pledging to open offices or manufacturing plants here in the United States, with projections of over 1.1 million jobs by the end of next year."
A gasp rose from most of the hard-crusted, cynical journalists in the room, and on trading floors around the world, millions of buy orders were executed, and in a matter of seconds, all three US stock indices spiked up between one and one and a half percent.
On Bonita Beach, Paul tented a towel over his head and his tablet and was able to follow the market action on the ticker and summary windows on the bottom of the screen.
Donne continued, "That's just in the past three days. Furthermore, a survey conducted by a major pollster yesterday and last evening shows that 77% of small businesses in this country are now planning to add new employees in the first quarter of 2012, which works out to be another 2.3 million jobs.”
At that, the three indices shot up another percent and a half. Paul let out a too-loud “Yessss!” Gayle pulled up a corner of his towel tent and held a finger to her lips to shush him. Paul nodded a silent okay, but quickly returned his eyes to the screen as Donne continued with his comments.
"I know a few of the pundits on the Sunday morning talk fests wondered why I only mentioned the word 'jobs' once in my speech last Friday. I hope what I just told you all made up for that omission. Creating private sector jobs is one of my major priorities, but I know that the role of government, using that word in its most generalized sense, is not to do that directly, but to create the kind of environment that supports job creation, and in my admittedly biased opinion, that is better done with carrots than with sticks, metaphorically speaking, although some of both are needed. It's a question of balance.
"Next, as most of us know, the whole world is going to be facing a serious situation with water as the population rises beyond seven billion, but that does not give any government the right to restrict its citizens' private property rights, which as of now includes the right for any property owner in this country to deal with any precipitation that falls on his property in any way he chooses, without any kind of restrictions. Sorry, Colorado and Utah, but now your residents can now have rain barrels, and people everywhere are free to use their own creativity in any way they choose. That's Directive 318, which, along with many others, has been posted on ______.gov.
“Now, a VERY important and special announcement. As you all know, interest rates are very low, and many of our seniors can't get a decent return on their retirement savings without taking substantial and often dangerous risks. In part to help with that, and in part to provide some investment capital for the country, I am creating a USA Sovereign Wealth Fund, which will be a private institution, NOT a government one.
“Among the many ways institutions and individuals can invest in this fund, it will offer a guaranteed minimum rate of five percent on a five-year CD, with an annual withdrawal option; for example, if you invest a hundred thousand dollars, each January 15th, you'll get a check for five thousand dollars, and after five years, you'll get your hundred thousand back. So after five years, you'll have collected 25 thousand dollars and can also get your hundred thousand back.
“On a ten-year CD, the interest rate will be eight percent, if you take the annual withdrawal option. So each January, you'll get a check for eight thousand dollars, or eighty thousand over ten years, and then you get your hundred thou back.
“Now, if you don't choose the annual withdrawal option, your rate will be one percent higher on each of those CDs, compounded daily.
“There will also be longer-term CD's available, and the minimum investment will be as low as five hundred dollars.
“In addition, with my hedge fund and private equity experience, I know that our return will be significantly higher than five, six, eight or nine percent, and those excess returns will be split 70/30, with the 70 percent going to infrastructure repair and development and other types of projects and the 30 percent into a pool which will be added to the return each investor receives, to be distributed or reinvested, at the investor's option, at the end of the CD's term.
“I have created this fund under Directive 251, and we'll have the details in the form of a prospectus available online in PDF format by Friday of this week.
"I do have some other announcements to make, but I'll defer those and we'll get right to the Q&A, since there'll probably be some overlap there." Donne moved to the chair and settled comfortably into it.
"Okay, first question? Let's see. Yes? Please use the mike.”
"Good afternoon, sir. Barbara _______ from ______ News. Have you decided on what title you want to have us call you?”
"Nope; not one of my priorities. How about this? For now, let's go with Mr. Donne and after we've gotten to know each other better, we can go with Gordon or Gordy. I know that's not a title, but my focus is on policy, not little stuff like that. Fair enough?”
"Yes, sir, Mr. Donne.”
"Oh, geez, can we drop the 'sir'? I'm pretty informal, in case you all haven't noticed. I don't stand on protocol much.”
"Okay, Mr. Donne.”
"Thanks. Next? How about a tough one?”
"Kestyn ____ from ____. How can you justify lowering taxes on millionaires and billionaires?”
"Oh, that's not a tough one. Two ways to answer that. First, we get as much revenue from a ten percent tax on one guy making a hundred thousand as from a five percent tax on two guys making a hundred K each. And I would rather see two folks making a hundred thousand each than just one. That's a goal of many of my policies.
“Second, I would rather that we collect 27 percent from ten of those millionaires and billionaires than 39 or 45 or even 80 percent from the one of them who's either too stuck or too stupid to move out of the country. Remember, the rich have a LOT of choices. Think of the folks moving from New York to Florida and Texas to escape New York's high taxes, or moving their wealth to both legal and illegal offshore tax havens. Okay. Next? Yes?”
"Savannah ____ from ____.”
"Oh, I can tell this is gonna be a tough one already.”
The group laughed, albeit somewhat guardedly.
"I'll do my best, Mr. Donne. As you know, several commentators on Sunday called you 'heartless.' How do you respond to that?”
"Well, as I was watching them and hearing
that, I just thought that their sense of 'fairness' was a lot different from mine. I believe you've gotta have a balance between reason and compassion, or head and heart, and that'll be a bit different for each issue. But as for me, I will never go so far in the heart direction as to be a sucker. Word to the wise, okay? Next?”
"Avery ___ from ___. I've got a photo here of you and Mohammar Gaddafi together, smiling and shaking hands. What's the story on that?”
"Oh, that. You have a copy I can see?”
"Sure, Mr. Pres- – Mr. Donne.”
"That's okay, Avery; old habits die hard. Thanks. Oh, right. This was in … ah … 1993? Yes, '93, when one of our companies built an automated brick factory in Libya. He was one sneaky, devious bastard, I'll tell you. So we had to be even sneakier and deviouser – I mean more devious; sorry. I'm a fan of win-win solutions, but he was like a dog with a bone trying to make it win-lose. So we made sure he lost, I think it was to the tune of about half a billion bucks on that deal. And knowing that that was money he stole from his people and would otherwise have gone into his personal fortune somewhere, we put that into a separate account in our hedge fund in anticipation of his departure; that account is now worth in excess of forty billion dollars and belongs to the people of Libya.”
Avery spoke up again. “Did you say forty billion dollars?”
“That's correct, Avery. That's what half a billion can grow into over eighteen years, prudently managed, as we have. Go ahead and do the math yourself. I can also tell you that since Gaddafi's death, Wes Farley and a team at DEI have been working with governments and claimants around the world to track down the billions he stole and hid away. Next? Yes.”