The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology

by Jake Devlin

  -121-

  Wednesday, September 12, 2012

  11:49 a.m.

  Bonita Beach, Florida

  Pam nudged Jake's calf under the water and said, “Ready for some sun time, Jake?”

  “Getting cold?” Sonya asked.

  “Not at all; this is perfect. What's the water temp?”

  “86, I heard,” Jake said. “But I'm ready for some sun, too. See y'all.”

  He and Pam headed to shore, leaving Sonya, Ann Louise and a third woman, Sandy, continuing to bitch about the county's removal of the showers on the stairs leading up to the restrooms and its banning of soap and shampoo in the relocated ones. Phrases like “No public input, petty damned bureaucrats, user-unfriendly parks and rec department, no scientific tests after 18 years of soap use, fuckin' paranoid risk manager” and “Let's have a soap-in, a big one,” echoed across the water.

  Once settled in, Jake said, “Sorry about that, Pam. What was it you were saying before all that?”

  “I forge- – oh, right. What do you think about Romney picking Ryan for VP?”

  “Eh. But if I were writing that story, the team I'd put on that side would maybe be Gingrich and Jesse Ventura; that would make for some great debates. And Ventura would offset Gingrich's religiosity, at least a bit. That would be more fun than what's really coming.”

  “Already here.”

  “Oh, yeah. This is probably the worst, most vicious, negative campaign I've ever witnessed. And it's only gonna get worse.”

  “On both sides.”

  “Got that right, Pam. You know, with all that crap about Romney's tax returns, I'd think he should just say he'd be happy to release all of those if Obama would release all his college transcripts and records, even --”

  “Oh, Jake, shhhhh! Don't even think about that, and for god's sake don't write anything about it.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Red flags, angry bulls. That is NOT a rock you want to poke around under. Remember, I was there.”

  “Oh, right. Geez, is it that big a deal?”

  “From what I overheard and the millions he and his supporters put into suppressing those, I'd say it sure is. Leave it alone.”

  “Okay. But it would be a good counter- --”

  “No, Jake, please, not another word.”

  “Okay, okay. But I do like the idea of Gingrich and Ventura.”

  “That's fine; ain't gonna happen.”

  “Right; but it'd make for great debates. Substantive, not just 'He's a bastard,' 'No, he's a bastard,' on and on.

  “Another big problem is that most of the voters are either emotionally locked in on one side or the other or totally ignorant of the real issues and are easily manipulated.

  “You know, I read a study a couple days ago – this happened right after the conventions, mind you – where people were either shown photos of or given descriptions of several people and asked to identify them, and 92 percent could identify the lady singer who'd worn the meat dress, but only 8 percent could identify the Treasury Secretary. The Chairman of the Federal Reserve got 13 percent, and a bunch of sports figures I couldn't identify got between 43 and 64 percent.

  “And nearly 40 percent couldn't even identify the governor of their own state, and that's with BOTH the photo and the description.

  “These are the people who elect the leaders of the Free World. Geez.”

  “That's a pretty sad commentary on our culture, Jake.”

  “In a lot of ways, it's a pretty sad culture, isn't it?”

  “I'm afraid you're right.”

  After a momentary pause, Jake said, “By the way, Pam, I made that up.”

  “Made what up?”

  “The study.”

  “No.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Pam slapped Jake's shin, but lightly, said, “You sonofabitch,” and then laughed. “Yes, you did; got me good with that one. But it was so believable.”

  “That's what I do. Remember my three-and-a-half-minute limit on being serious.”

  “Well, you lasted longer than that with those three bitching about the showers and the soap.”

  “My tongue was bleeding a lot through that. But then I don't use the showers all that much.”

  “I can tell.”

  “What?” Jake raised his arm and sniffed.

  “Gotcha.”

  “That you did, you daughterofabitch.” He laughed, but he sniffed again.

  “Oh, Jake, I've got an idea for the name you asked me for.”

  “Sorry?”

  “The name. What do you think about this? Bonnie Springs.”

  “Oh, your pen – hmm. Bonnie Springs? Let me – yeah, I like it.”

  “Oh, goodie.”

  “Let's use it. In fact, you've been so much help on this, I probably should really give you top billing.”

  “No, no, no, Jake; it's your work. I'd even like it better if you put it in parentheses or a smaller font or something.”

  “Really? Like … oh, maybe 'with Bonnie Springs'?”

  “Works for me.”

  “Hmm. Yeah, I like it. Okay.”

  “Cool. Deal.”

  “Done.” Jake leaned forward and they shook hands, holding them a bit longer than normal, then finally lay back.

  “You are one amazing woman, Pamela Brooks.”

  “I know. You have great taste and discernment, Jacob Devlin.” She ran her fingers through her blonde tresses, smiling at Jake.

  Jake, off-key, sang quietly, “Getting to know you, getting to know all about you ...” but then broke off and said, “Well, not all.”

  “But purdy neah all, Tex,” Pam drawled.

  “Workin' on it awl, Belle,” Jake drawled back.

  Justin whispered into his beach bag, “Hey, Sharon, nicknames again; bet they're getting ready for a condo visit.”

  Sharon's raspy voice came over his earbud. “No bet; nothin' better'n a nooner.”

  Justin leaned over and whispered in Lindsay's ear. “How about one for us sometime soon? Like next time it rains.”

  Lindsay whispered back. “Ain't gonna happen, you pig.”

  “I heard all that,” Sharon said. “Eyes and ears open, kids.”

  “So when did you first figure it out about JJ?”

  “When I saw the two of you together. But when I first met you, the very first time, I'm glad I had a cookie in my mouth; if I hadn't heard you say you were Pamela93, I would have blurted out, 'Hi, JJ.' You are very much alike. But that cookie gave me time to look more closely and pick out the differences. And I knew her real name was Judy.”

  “So, on the three-way?”

  “I figured you were colluding and pulling my leg … again. But it was fun.”

  “Oh, Jake, I don't pull your leg that much.”

  “Well, you --”

  “But as for Stevie Bru- – oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  “Ron.”

  “Hey, schlub, am I still dead and gay?”

  “Yes, you are, asshole.”

  “Well, then no need for these cupcakes Jenny baked.”

  “Sorry, Ron. Still dead and gay … and an asshole.”

  “But you're not a Tea Party Republican or a dwarf,” Pam threw in.

  “Oh, right. Okay. Here ya go. So am I gonna get a free copy of your book?”

  “You're a Democrat, aren't you, Ron?”

  “Yup.”

  “Thought so, and nope.”

  “Thank you, Jenny,” Pam called over to her, smiling and giving her a “thank you” nod as Jake put the cupcakes in his cooler.

  “Or do you want one now, Pam?”

  “Naw, I'm fine. Maybe we can get a hot dog.”

  “Good ide- – oh, wait. Deb's not here; it's September.”

  “Oh, right. Ah, well. Then I guess I will have one.”

  “Okay.” Jake got the cupcakes back out and Pam took one. Jake debated a moment, but then he too pulled one out. Ron went back and sat with his wife, sulking.

/>   “Mmmmm. Oh, oh, ohhhhh. That's positively orgas- – oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  “Behind you.” Pam swallowed quickly and moved the cupcake to her left hand.

  “What? Ron again?”

  “Who the fuck is that?” Sharon's raspy voice asked over the twins' earbuds.

  “Just a homeless bum,” Justin said. “Scraggly beard, dirty clothes, probably drunk, stumbling and stagg- --”

  “Heads up, kids. Something hinky about him.”

  “Be cool, Jake. This is gonna be troublesome.”

  “I'm cool.”

  “What the hell are you doing here, Randy?”

  Obviously drunk, slurring his words, the man spat out, “You bitch, you bitch! You ruined my fuckin' life! And now you're sitting here with this fuckin' trainer – traitor. What the fuck? What the --”

  “Randy, you're drunk, and I didn't ruin your life. You did. It was your op that --”

  “And you, you fuck,” Randy slurred, turning to face Jake, “you're the cause of this all. You bastard. You fuckin' her?”

  “I don't think that's any of your --”

  “Don't you say a word, you fuck. I'm --”

  “Gun!!” Pam yelled.

  The poetic way to describe what happened next would be to say that Randy's head simply exploded in a red mist, but that would in no way do justice to the absolutely gruesome reality of what happened when a .50-caliber bullet entered Randy's head right at his hairline, with a downward trajectory, just as four .45s hit his chest from in front of him and two .44s struck his gun hand and then his temple from his left, all within two seconds.

  Yes, his head did explode, but with the impact of bullets of those calibers, bits of skin, hair and skull flew back, sideways and even a bit forward, while his eyeballs fell intact, one on the sand and one in the Gulf, both of which were immediately spirited away and swallowed by two scavenging seagulls.

  His brain also spattered over the sand and water, mixed with his flesh, bone and blood; seventeen migrating bull sharks over a mile offshore detected the scent and started their journeys to the source.

  Randy's gun hand disintegrated, adding more blood, flesh and bone to the mix on the sand and in the water. The gun itself, with an index finger still in the trigger guard, was knocked twelve and a half feet south, landing about a yard from Norm and Janet, who had been focused on their puzzles until the gunfire erupted.

  The bullets to his chest knocked him four and a half feet back, blood spurting from the four wounds, until his heart stopped and his body lay, nearly headless, half in the water and half on the sand, the red pool staining the sand and spreading five feet or more from Randy's empty neck, then being shifted north toward Pop's by the mild swell and the small breakers coming in on the gentle seabreeze.

  Then the screaming and running began.

  “What?” Justin yelled into his beach bag as he put his .45 back in and Lindsay did the same with hers.

  “Get your ass up here, Justin, and help me down with the fuckin' bags and the rifle, now! Oh, shit; get the bug in her condo on your way up, too.

  “Lindsay, grab all your stuff, get out of there in the mess, get the van and meet us behind the building. You'll need to come in off Forester up by Pop's; they're resurfacing the other end. And while you're coming, tell Amber we need a quick exfil, from the east end of Bonita Beach Road, and to send the big Woodcock. Tell Mike we'll need a driver to get rid of the van, too.”

  “Got it,” Justin yelled.

  “Go tit,” Lindsay said.

  The man on the PVC lounge put his .44 back in the holster under his lounge, straightened the fringe, and calmly went back to his book, a cleverly written thing with two choices for the reader at the end of each chapter, leading to multiple possible stories and outcomes.

  Pam and Jake sat stunned and silent, but only for a moment.

  “Are you okay, Pam?”

  “I'm fine,” she said, wiping blood and flesh and brain from her legs and chair, dropping the cupcake in the sand. “Shit. That was a delicious cupcake, too. Are you okay?”

  “A little shook up, but okay. Gonna have to clean this lounge up, though, and wash the towel. Where did those shots come from?”

  “Two from that guy on the PVC lounge behind you. The others, I don't know. Goddamn Randy.”

  “Your ex-boss.”

  “Now doubly ex, I guess.” She lifted her head, listening to the approaching sirens. “And here come the locals.”

  Sure enough, within minutes, Sergeant Dooley and nine Collier deputies and six Lee deputies forced their way through the running, screaming mob all the way down to the body.

  “Again, you two. Why is it whenever there's gunfire on my beach, you two are involved?”

  “I take it that's a rhetorical question, Sarge,” Jake said.

  “So what the hell happened here, Jake Devlin?” the sergeant hissed. “And there's no inflatable this time.”

  One of his deputies was talking to the man on the PVC lounge, who casually pulled out a leather wallet, opened it and displayed it to the deputy, who damn near poked his own eye out as he almost saluted.

  “Sarge, you'd better come over here … now,” he yelled.

  It wasn't until three o'clock, after statements were taken, cell phone videos were reviewed and what remained of Randy had been removed, that Pam and Jake were able to get to her condo for their nooner -- actually nooners, accompanied, of course, by the Bolero.

  -122-

  Friday, January 7, 2028

  8:30 p.m.

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  via a 24-hour news channel

  Gordon Donne, dressed in his usual casual clothing, his fringe of hair even thinner and grayer, smiled into the camera. He looked to be the picture of health for his age, now 68.

  “Good evening, my fellow Americans, and Happy New Year.

  “It's been a little over sixteen years now that I've been working for you, and again I have good news to report.

  “First, on GDP, our growth has backed off a little bit, as we should expect as the economy has matured. We only grew by 12 percent last year, down from the peak of 15 percent in 2025. Not bad, not bad at all, in my opinion.

  “Our revenue hit 9.4 trillion dollars last year, and our budget for this year is only 4.3 trillion, down to nine percent of GDP, so we're doing great on paying off our debt. It's down to 1.8 trillion dollars, and it's looking like we'll have it down to an even one trillion by the end of this quarter.

  “Unemployment is now at 2.8 percent, slightly under the 'full employment' level, just over three percent. So we're concerned that inflation might be above our one percent acceptable rate, but only slightly, in the near future.

  “You have given us tremendously positive feedback on the work and jobs that have been funded through our Sovereign Wealth Fund, and with that fund now topping five trillion dollars in capital, we are able to expand our funding and the returns to our investors, mostly seniors, by a factor of 1.8 this year. So you seniors will have almost twice as much spending money this year as you did in 2027 … well, for those of you who chose the annual withdrawal option for this year. And don't forget, that option is available to all of you at any time, so feel free, okay?

  “I'm going to end with that and let you all know that you can find more information about the state of the country on our web site, ________.gov.

  “So I'll now simply wish you all a very happy and prosperous 2028. Good night, all.”

  -123-

  Saturday, September 15, 2012

  11:38 a.m.

  St. Tropez, France

  Pam sat in a comfortable and incredibly luxurious leather chair in the master salon of a 39-meter yacht traveling to St. Tropez, awed by the ship itself and its astoundingly opulent furnishings. Rona and Joel, her trainer/advisers, reclined on a matching couch to her right, appearing a lot less tense than Pam thought she looked … no, KNEW she looked. After all, she was maybe about to meet,
in person, the nearly-mystical top dog, head honcho, CEO, big boss of OP-US, OP-LATAM, OP-EUR-AS, OP-AUS and OP-AF, the man (or woman, possibly) who apparently had the final say on whether Pam would become a member of the inner circle at Optimum Protection. She forgave herself for being a bit nervous.

  Rona had called Pam at eight a.m. two days before and arranged to pick her up at her condo in Bonita in three hours and told her to pack for a six-day overseas trip and to pile all … ALL … the rest of her things in the middle of the floor of her rented condo. Four hours later, Rona, Joel and Pam had taken off from Fort Myers in an OP executive jet, luxurious, but nowhere near as luxurious as this yacht.

  On the flight over the Atlantic, Rona and Joel spent the first two hours going over Pam's stellar training and on-the-job performance records and then broke out a celebratory bottle of champagne for three and told Pam that they were taking her for her final orientation, but that they'd have to blindfold her for the last two hours of the flight and the rest of the trip.

  When the jet landed at Toulon-Hyères, France, Rona carefully led Pam off the plane to a waiting helicopter, which ferried the three of them out to the yacht, which was far offshore, on its way to St. Tropez. Once onboard, Rona gently removed Pam's blindfold and led her down to the elegantly appointed salon where the three of them now awaited the arrival of the boss, sharing more champagne, some caviar and crackers and small plates of foie gras with pickled pear. A huge platter of cold cuts, rolls and breads and a refrigerator filled with soft drinks and bottled water sat untouched and unopened on a foldout bar on one wall. An elegant bar with high-end wines and liquors filled another wall.

  Ten minutes later, the sound of a larger helicopter was followed by the arrival in the salon of ten other members of Pam's class: Peter and Patty, the Sweet Peas, from Leipzig, Germany; Anja and Anna-Lena, the Cutesy Twins, from Munich, Germany; Paul and Evelyn, the Bikers, from Staten Island, USA; Vito and Danuta, the Kuzzins, from Heraklion, Crete; and Mikhael and Corinna, the Movers, from Sydney, Australia.

  Another helo trip brought Molly, Melissa and Denise, the MMD Triplets, whose accent was Scottish, but who were actually from the northernmost part of England; Eileen, Elynn and Eden, the Triple-E's, from Capetown, South Africa; Kee-Kee and Mimi, the Grinners, from Naples, Florida; and Terry, Mary and Carolyn, the Merry Spinsters, from Orlando, Florida.