The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology

by Jake Devlin

  “Oh. No. But thanks for watching our stuff,” Jake replied, smiling as innocent a smile as he could muster.

  As Jake and Pam settled back into their lounge and chair, Janet whispered to Norm, “They smell like a spring day in Ireland.”

  Pam leaned in to Jake and said, “I forgot. You were going to let me see the first hundred directives. Did you remember to bring 'em?”

  “Yup.” He dug around in his beach bag for a moment and pulled out three or four stapled sheets of paper and gave them to Pam. “Here ya go. Enjoy.”

  Pam unfolded them and leaned back to read, while Jake lay back on his lounge, watching her.

  Two minutes later, Pam said, “Jake, this one, Number 23, how does that --”

  She looked more closely at Jake, whose eyes had closed and whose breathing was steady but light, a smile playing over his lips.

  Pam smiled and whispered to herself, “Well, they do say there's a nap for that,” and went back to the directives.

  Five minutes later, a harsh, nasal voice intruded. “Hey, Jake, did you try that cigar yet?”

  Pam looked up, eyes flashing angrily. “Shhhh.” But too late.

  Jake jerked on his lounge, reached behind his head and mumbled, “Wha?” but his eyes stayed closed. He rolled his head side to side, then settled back in.

  “Did you try that cigar yet?”

  Pam hissed, “Shhh. Can't you see he's sleeping?”

  “Well, I was,” he mumbled. “What d'ya want, Sonya?”

  “Have you tried that cigar yet?”

  “Not yet. I will.”

  “When?”

  “After I wake up some more, okay?”

  “Okay. That's a light. They also have flavors, like strawberry --”

  “I know, Sonya; you told me before.”

  “-- cherry, peach --”

  “I KNOW, Sonya; I know.”

  “And they're only ten bucks a carton --”

  “Sonya, I get it. I know, I know. Blue-and-white carton. And I can get 'em at B2B. Got it. Got it.”

  “So when ya gonna try it? I know you'll like it.”

  “Okay, okay. I'll try it now. Where did I put it?”

  “Right there.” Sonya pointed at his bag.

  He picked it up, pulled out his magnifying glass, lit it and took a puff. He immediately started coughing and stubbed it out in the sand, put it back on his bag.

  “Too soon, Sonya. Later.”

  “But --”

  “I said later. Got it?”

  “But --”

  “Got it?”

  “Okay, okay; go tit.” She glared at Pam and stalked back toward her chair.

  “Well, back to the real world, Jake.”

  “Yeah. Geez.”

  “Sorry; I tried to stop her, but too late.”

  “Don't worry about it. Nobody's been able to stop her yet.”

  “I should have seen her coming. My situational awareness is already slipping.”

  “Oh, it'll come back when you get to O-N – orientation. Uh, I'm sure it's part of their training – in your case probably just a quick refresher and you'll be right back in top form.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I'm sure. Of course, you're in top form right now.” He smiled.

  “Why, suh, I thank you.” She giggled and dropped her voice to a whisper. “So does Ginny May.” She smiled broadly. And Jake smiled back.

  “Not gonna touch that one right now, right here.”

  Pam fake-pouted. “Oh, well. Maybe later.” Then she smiled. “We've got a week before I go.”

  Jake smiled. “Yup, we do. Ready for some water time?”

  Pam smiled and said, “I love noodling with you.”

  Jake laughed. “Oh, Pam, you're so bad.”

  “I can be, but only when I want to.”

  “I know. Uh-oh. I really gotta get in the water.” He picked up his noodles and foot-washing bag and headed in. Pam folded up the papers, put them in her bag and followed him in, giggling.

  -74-

  Tuesday, January 17, 2012

  8:53 a.m. EST

  A network morning talk show

  “Welcome back. I'm talking with Wes Farley, the current CEO and former COO of Donne Enterprises International.

  “Now, Wes, some in the press have noticed that Gordon Olin Donne's initials spell G-O-D. Does he think of himself as God?”

  Farley roared with laughter. “Oh, god, Lindsey –“ He looked up. “Oh; sorry, Gordy.” He laughed even harder. “He's had to live with that his whole life, but he's gotten used to all the jokes and reactions that anybody's been able to come up with so far. And no, he does not think of himself as God, although ...”

  Lindsey raised her eyebrows. “Although?”

  “Well, he does apply the old Teddy Roosevelt line, 'Speak softly and carry a big stick,' and when he finds out something is going wrong anywhere in any of our businesses, he says, only half tongue in cheek, 'Don't make me come down there.' And if and when he does, people 'down there' do start to pray, especially those who know they haven't met our expectations.”

  “What happens to them?”

  Wes looked at her, squinting his dark brown eyes. “You don't want to know, Lindsey – just kidding. Actually, it depends on what country the business is in. In some countries in the Mideast, we can cut off their hands … or their heads.”

  “Oh, my god!”

  “Gotcha, Lindsey.” He gave her a twinkly-eyed smile.

  “But we do have to deal with local laws and policies, so the remedies can range from mild reprimands to out-and-out termination, which we have done when the situation calls for that.”

  “Which leads me to this question, Wes. On balance, has Donne been a job creator or a job destroyer?”

  “Both. But the records we keep, which I had updated before coming on this show, tell me that, as of last Friday, DEI has created 2,965,761 net jobs since 1985. And we've sold 3,789 businesses back to employees, at a P/E multiple of about ten, which seems pretty fair.”

  “Many people have looked at his directives and are accusing him of being terribly draconian. Is he?”

  “Absolutely, but only if people abuse the freedom and flexibility he gives them or take advantage of weaker or more vulnerable people. The one thing he is not is an advocate of byzantine and labyrinthine over-regulation, micro-managing and nanny-statism.”

  “We've only got a minute left, Wes. Anything else you can tell us about Gordon Donne?”

  “Well, I guess two things come to mind. First, his very top priority is customers; they always come first. And everybody in any of our businesses HAS to see their role as somehow serving that priority.

  “The other is that he's terrific at delegating. He ensures that all of our people have the training, tools and authority to do the job right, ideally the first time, and he also makes sure they understand that they, each and every one, take full responsibility for their own success or failure in their role. Everyone is personally accountable.”

  “Any dark secrets?”

  “Sure. Doesn't everybody have some?”

  “I don't.”

  “Oh, c'mon, Lindsey. How about your affair with your produ- – sorry; never mind. Can we cut that?”

  Lindsey, stunned, was silent.

  “Lindsey, I'm so sorry.” Then he looked off-camera and said, “I'm sorry. Can we cut that, please? Lindsey, I'm really sorry.”

  The screen went to a commercial for an online pet supplies provider, followed by others for a prescription allergy medication, a European car brand, a female hygiene product, a fiber-rich breakfast cereal, an online religious matching service, a Medicare supplement insurance plan, a prescription incontinence pill, two network situation comedies and the midseason premiere of a new reality competition show, “Naked Tycoons,” in which a dozen billionaire CEOs are given a thousand dollars each, dropped in separate cities and compete to see who can not only survive, but start a business without access to their contacts or resources,
using only their own wits and skills, and not their identity or reputation. After six months, the one whose new business is the most successful wins a million dollars from each of the other tycoons for his or her favorite charity.

  Returning from the break, Lindsey's co-hosts, Rose and Tom, broke directly into an interview with a teenager from West Virginia who had taught his pet alligator to skydive. Lindsey's absence was not mentioned. That afternoon, Lindsey was fired.

  Two days after that, she received a phone call from Wes Farley, who offered his abject apology and condolences for the loss of her job and suggested she keep her phone with her.

  Later that same day, she received a phone call from a woman who identified herself as Emily, Gordon Donne's chief of staff, who invited her to the White House for what she called a “discussion,” an invitation that Lindsey readily accepted.

  A week after that, Lindsey returned to her network with a DVD of an exclusive one-hour interview with Gordon Donne and negotiated a return to her job at twice her previous salary. She also continued her affair with her producer, and married him six months later.

  -75-

  Five Months Earlier

  Sunday, August 14, 2011

  3:35 p.m.

  Bonita Beach, Florida

  “And that's why they call it the 'half-Dolly' house.”

  Pam laughed. “So if it had two observatories, it'd be a full Dolly?”

  “You got it.”

  “And if it had three?”

  “Oh, Pam, that'd just be weird.” They both chuckled.

  Jake leaned back on his noodles, looked over at the small crowd on the sand and in the water.

  “Hey, Pam, how many people you think are here today?”

  ”Oh, I don't know. Maybe a hundred, hundred and ten.”

  “I was wondering, if all of them voted, how many of 'em – or maybe a percentage – would vote intelligently, with a clear idea of the actual issues, and what percentage would vote for mostly irrational and emotional reasons?”

  “I'd think it'd be a small percentage for the first, much bigger for the second.”

  “Think the eight and 92 would work there, too?”

  “Maybe; pretty close, at least. Just my opinion.”

  “And that 92 percent is probably half on one side of the sandbox, half on the other, and the spin doctors and poll dancers'll be going after some of them, but not so much the eight percent, for next year's election, mostly with negative campaign ads.”

  “I think it's gonna get really ugly,” Pam said, frowning.

  “Wonder which Republican will win their primary.”

  “Now, that race'll probably get really ugly, too.”

  They both lazed back on their noodles for a while, and then Jake lifted his head out of the water.

  “Pam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Looking at all those people again, how many would you guess have a life story that they would like to think is newsworthy?”

  “All of them?”

  “I'd go along with that. But how many of their stories actually are newsworthy?”

  “I wouldn't know, Jake.”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Okay – oh, ah-ha. About eight percent?”

  “Good guess. So eight out of a hundred, almost nine out of a hundred and ten.”

  “Right.”

  “So, Pam, as we look at all those people on the beach, to us, 92 percent of them are just objects, and as any of them look back at us, we're part of their 92 percent … at least until they get to know us … and vice versa. And then instead of objects, they're subjects, people we know something about.

  “Remember that woman who was running and kicking like a showgirl and soccering that little ball on the beach this morning?”

  “Dorothy, right? She seemed nice. Good figure, too.”

  “She's the one who taught me that martial arts move. She teaches at a place over in the hardware plaza. Her hubby has a sign company.

  “And there's a guy named Joe who gives me a stock market report every weekday morning; gets it from his radio.”

  “I haven't met him, have I?”

  “Nope; just weekdays. Maybe tomorrow, if the weather holds.

  “And then there's Dave, an older guy who walks the beach and hunts for shark's teeth. Finds a lot of 'em, too, some days; but some days, nada. All of them used to be in my 92 percent, but now they're in the eight; I know them … to varying degrees.

  “And there, Pam. See that woman power-walking, the one in the orange T-shirt and funny-looking white shorts?”

  “The short one, thin, with a craggy kind of face?”

  “That's the one. Her name is Marlene and she used to be a comedy writer for Milton Berle or George Burns or somebody like that, and she won a worldwide competition in the '70s in playwriting. Now, that's newsworthy, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “So she just moved out of the 92 percent and into the eight.”

  “Yeah. She sounds like somebody I, and probably a lot of other folks, could have a great time talking with. Bet she has a lot of super stories to tell.”

  “And I'd bet you have a lot of great stories you could tell, too.”

  “Oh, Jake, you have no idea.”

  Jake looked past Pam, eyes widening slightly.

  “Uh-oh. Lightning.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Down there toward Naples. Looks like the summer storms are building in earlier than usual today.”

  Pam swiveled on her noodle and looked south. “Wow, those are dark, and they came up fast.”

  “Oh, not so fast. They usually build up over the Glades in the afternoon, but the seabreeze keeps them away until maybe 4:30 or 5:00, but then they move west and drench the beach. It's like the weather forecast for the whole summer could be one tape that they show every day, over and over.”

  “That would save a weatherman's salary.”

  Just then, a loud clap of thunder rolled through.

  “Okay, about 25 seconds, so five miles. We're okay for a bit. But I think we oughta get outa the water.”

  When they got back to their chairs, Jake happened to look up and see Sonya and Herb. She was pointing to Jake's bag and pretending to hold a cigarette to her mouth. Jake waved and nodded.

  “I think I'll try that little cigar Sonya gave me, keep her from coming down and blabbing again.”

  Pam glanced up at Sonya and said, “Yeah, good idea.”

  Jake lit it with his magnifying glass and took a light, careful puff.

  “Hmm; not too bad, actually.” He took another puff and inhaled. “Yeah, not bad. Want to try it?”

  Pam said, “Sure; okay.” She took a puff and inhaled. “You're right. Not bad at all. And ten bucks a carton?”

  “That's what she said. Over there at B2B Liquors.”

  “I may give them a try.”

  “Me, too.” Jake turned, caught Sonya's eye and gave her an okay sign. Sonya, to Jake's relief, just gave him a thumbs up, and then she and Herb started packing up their stuff.

  “Whew,” Jake sighed. Pam chuckled.

  “So do we need to rush?”

  “Not really. I usually wait until the clouds cover the sun. That might be another ten, twenty minutes. But I think we can finish this and then make a slow and easy exit.”

  Pam took another puff and handed the cigar back to Jake. “I think that's enough for me. Go ahead and finish it, if you want.”

  “Okay.”

  “Want to come back up to my condo?”

  Jake, taking another puff, began coughing, but managed to smile and say, “I do like the Bolero.”

  “Me, too. Maybe we can try 'Hall of the Mountain King' after that.”

  When Jake finished the cigar, they packed up their stuff, Jake put his in his car and he and Pam walked over to her condo.

  An hour later, having discovered that the 'Mountain King' was less than three minutes long, they went back to the Bolero, the full 17-minute one,
and used that as background to their two encores, not counting a final Bolero-free one in Pam's shower, both of them laughing a lot and humming the “Mountain King” slightly off-key.

  Jake delicately extricated himself, ran through the rain to his car, still in the beach lot, and went home to write, but within ten minutes of locking the door behind him, the sound of heavy rain and his own exhaustion lulled him off into a deep yet dream-filled sleep, with the strains of the Bolero ebbing and flowing through his subconscious.

  Back in her condo, Pam scanned Jake's list of directives into her PC and then settled in to study them and make some notes.

  -76-

  Sunday, August 14, 2011

  11:30 p.m. local time

  Cyberspace

  The Suppressor checked one of his multiple email accounts and found two messages, one sent Friday evening and one sent on Saturday morning. He opened the earlier one.

  “Sir or Madam, We have received the files you sent and after reviewing them, we have concerns, as we're sure you anticipated. As to your request for confirmation of the allegations in the 18-page file Rep.pdf, we decline to confirm any of the blatant falsehoods therein.

  “However, we would appreciate your efforts to keep that file from being published, and while your requested consideration is far from reasonable, we will accede to that request. Please advise as to the method of payment you prefer.

  “As to the 16-page Dem.pdf file, we believe that to be one the American public deserves to read at the earliest opportunity, and we urge you to have the author include it in its entirety.”

  The Suppressor smiled and opened the one from Saturday.

  “Got the file Dem.pdf you sent us unsolicited. You get no confirm from us, and we want to know who the author of this libelous screed is before we even begin to consider your ridiculous request for what you called 'consideration' to keep that out, with no evidence that you are even able to do that.

  “On the other hand, we believe that the file Rep.pdf is absolutely accurate and factual and deserves immediate publication.

  “Let us know immediately who the author of Dem.pdf is and we will proceed from there.”