by Paul Lally
In his field of entrepreneurial work, Jack Riley’s suffered though his share of overly optimistic presentations. He’s also been on the other side of the table, pitching a new something for all his worth. One thing he’s learned for sure, you can spend a lifetime extolling the facts, but if you don’t connect the heart to the head, you’ll die trying.
Guaranteed.
Feeling is everything in a successful transaction. And if you don’t communicate the emotion of the product—its “sizzle”—then nobody but nobody is going to buy your “steak.”
Based on what he’s seen so far, that is not something the budding real estate dealmaker Munroe Devillar needs to worry about.
After only five minutes of watching her strut her stuff in front of the standing-room-only crowd of Portsmouth citizens in the overheated Marriot ballroom, and then watching her eye-popping video, Jack realizes that her “Portsmouth Park” development proposal sizzles like a filet mignon, bearnaise sauce included.
The masterfully-produced promotional video shows two high rises, rows of semi-detached condos, three shopping courts and—like a cherry on the top—an Abenaki Native American tribe-sanctioned casino. Every building looks so realistic, you’d think the multi-million project’s been finished for years and is a roaring success.
Jack makes a mental note to get in touch with the ad agency who produced the video. These folks understand sizzle, and he’s going to need them when the latest version of his SuperCap storage system completes its test/evaluation phase.
But for now, to the business at hand; spying on the “mean girl” he went to school with at Portsmouth Senior High, who’s grown up to be a bullying bitch. From what Jack’s learned after three quick phone calls to three folks this morning—two real estate attorneys and a local developer—he’s got all the info he needs to start tracking his prey.
It’s not hard to do so incognito, considering the shoulder-to-shoulder mob that fills the ballroom. The crowd looks to be regular city folks—no ringers—who want to know what Munroe’s got up her Vera Wang silk sleeve with this “Portsmouth Park” proposal of hers. Free appetizers and an open bar for the attendees as her magnet has proven hard to resist.
The food’s fresh, that I can attest, because I sampled some before the crowd started showing up. Being a newspaper reporter for more years than I care to admit promises me long hours and little food unless I scrounge where I can.
And so I did.
Seeing Jack Riley show up just after Devillar’s presentation started and making a point to hide in the shadows, well, hmmmmm.... that perks up my attention. Up until this point, it’s been just another ho-hum assignment and my need to write 500 words for tomorrow’s edition.
Not anymore.
I start putting two and two together: the USS New Hampshire is sitting squarely in the spot where Munroe’s project is supposed to land with both feet. Not exactly an “elephant in the room.” More like a 68,000-ton chunk of floating metal that, from what my contacts have told me, and my eyes observed, is no longer a welcome visitor to our fair city.
I know Jack’s dad, Tommy Riley, who’s the executive director of the non-profit foundation doing its best to keep the struggling museum ship alive and floating.
But it’s sinking fast.
At the end of the ballroom, directly beneath the video screen, nine Portsmouth City Council members sit at a long table, their names neatly printed on cards in front of them.
The presentation video concludes... a still photo appears: it’s an aerial view of the familiar salt piles and rust mountains of Phillips Metals, LLC, and the USS New Hampshire.
Then, as the music swells, the photo slowly dissolves to a dream come true: high rises, condos, shopping centers, the casino—gone is all that used to be—in its place what is to come.
While the audience applauds and some even cheer, the well-groomed, smiling, confident young woman at the podium directs her 1000-watt smile on the council members and raises her voice to be heard over the applause.
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
Like a string attached to kewpie dolls, eight of the nine members grin and nod especially Councilman Charlie Stein her latest lover. The ninth person, Mayor Maggie Foley, on the other hand, purses her lips and squints her eyes as she takes the full measure of our Black Widow spider wearing six-inch heels—and not missing a step.
Phillips’ Metals re-zoning application has already gone through the planning board stages and tonight is the first of four public hearings. The council eventually needs to vote on the re-zoning application. Devillar’s ambitious proposal dies on the vine if they turn it down. The vote doesn’t have to be unanimous, but it does need to be a majority.
Right now, Phillip’s Metals is a junk heap and a salt pile taking up valuable real estate, including a big fat chunk of rusting steel called a battleship. For sure, Devillar can send the Rock packing—it’s her legal right—but she won’t make a dime unless the council gives her the green light.
Considering the flashy video, you might think it’s going to be a snap. But you don’t know Portsmouth, or any New England town for that matter. It’s one thing to sell the sizzle, but quite another to plate the steak. Over the years, speculators, land developers, and ditzy dreamers have poked enough holes in New Hampshire to make it look like swiss cheese. Most of them remained just that—holes—both in the ground and in investors’ empty pockets.
Which is why Mayor Maggie purses her lips and frowns at the memory, which by all accounts, the sight of which makes Jack happy. Portsmouth’s long-serving mayor is the kindest person he’s ever known, but she doesn’t suffer fools gladly.
She lifts her gavel as if to silence the crowd. The very warning gesture is enough to quiet the hubbub. That’s how much the city loves Maggie, and how much she loves them.
“Ready for comments, Ms. Devillar?” she says.
“Absolutely, Madam Mayor.” Munroe beams.
Maggie leans forward and queries her council. “Ready, ladies and gentlemen?”
Lots of nods.
“The floor is open. Speak your mind, don’t hold back. We’re here to serve you, not the other way around—but before I forget, make sure to save some of that fancy food back there for me. I need to take a little something home to John.”
Chuckles and knowing laughter.
Maggie’s devoted husband John never attends her endless rounds of official meetings and public events. So, whenever food’s involved, Maggie will wrap up “a little something” for him in a napkin. She loves her husband, loves her city, and the people living here. Especially ones in need—one of whom Munroe Devillar is most certainly not.
Jack’s initial thinking about the crowd changes. Some of the folks here tonight might well be ringers as one by one they approach the microphone and gush effusively over Devillar’s plan to “revitalize” the “eyesore” that Phillips’ Metals currently is and how Portsmouth Park will “invigorate” the city like never before. Not a peep about the battleship currently tied up there. It’s as if she no longer exists.
“We need a boost like this.”
“A shot in the arm.”
“About time Portsmouth joined the twenty-first century.”
“So long, rust pile!” (Laughter on this one.)
And so it goes. The ratio of praise-to-criticism is 9:1. Sure, the spoilsports are there, complaining about the strain a proposed development will place on the city’s sewage treatment facility already working at full capacity. But Devillar is quick to soothe the complainer with a long spiel about “innovative ways to supplement the existing capacity with pre-treatment techniques.”
Whatever that means, Jack thinks. But he doesn’t ask a follow-up to her bullshit answer. He’s there to scout the enemy, not engage.
By the end of the evening, while he stays buried in the crowd as it drifts out of the ballroom and Mayor Maggie picks up a couple of egg salad finger sandwiches for John (his favorite), Jack realizes why his father was so worried abou
t the ship’s future. Munroe Devillar has most definitely got a good thing going. And while she’s only the tip of the iceberg with plenty of hidden folks underneath—especially her unknown investors—she’s fully capable of sinking the Rock just like her icy counterpart sank the Titanic.
“Jack Riley, is that you?”
Mayor Maggie’s deep voice, born of smoking endless cigarettes back when they were considered harmless, turns him away from his Tesla.
“Madam Mayor.”
“Where’ve you been hiding?”
For a brief moment he thinks she’s referring to the meeting, but then realizes its broader context.
“Akron, Ohio as a matter of fact.”
“Dare I ask, how’s business?”
“Brisk—and you?”
She sighs. “I’m staring at the front end of a runaway train.”
“Meaning?”
The Portsmouth Park development thing. Poor Walt Phillips is barely cold in his grave and his daughter’s already on the march.”
“I heard something about that from my father.”
“Tommy’s livid, of course. So’s the admiral. I’ve no idea what they’re going to do when that battleship of theirs sails away.”
“It’s got a lot of history for a lot of people.”
“My dear...” She reaches out and touches his arm. “You’re so right. But...” She falls silent.
“But what?”
She fusses with the paper bag, inside of which, John’s finger sandwiches are waiting. “Human beings live in the past and the present. But a city....one like Portsmouth...it’s all about the future.” Another pat on his arm. “My love to Tommy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turns to leave, then swivels back. “What on earth are you doing in a hotel parking lot?” Up go her eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re—”
“—a business meeting, Madam Mayor, I swear.”
Her eyebrows go higher and the tiniest of smiles. “Whatever you say.”
Hector Garcia is a busy man. Drug Lords aren’t called “Lords” for nothing. They’re the shining star on top of a Mexican Cartel Christmas tree covered with thousand-dollar bills free for the taking.
Every second of every minute of his day is filled with the endless minutiae it takes to operate a billion-dollar illicit drug operation whose sole purpose for existence is to drive barbed hooks deep into addictive flesh and never let go.
But when Miguel Vargas shows up unannounced at Garcia’s office, smiling to beat the band and asks for “five minutes, por favor,” the drug lord smiles, immediately agrees, and with an imperious wave of his lordly hand pauses his daily briefing with his “number two,” Iván Zambadas.
Which ticks off Iván no end. Here’s why: When he found out that Los Zetas cartel gang members murdered Garcia’s son-in-law, Ramón, his own pathway to the top became much more than a distant dream; it became a certainty.
And about damn time, too.
For years, he’s been the drug lord’s right-hand man, his executive officer, his “go-to” guy in all things drug-related. But Garcia always treated him like the fairy tale “second eldest son;” still in the family, but all the while grooming Ramón for the top spot.
Then “poof” his competition was gone. And because nature abhors a vacuum, Iván got ready for his just reward.
But then surprise, surprise...
Along comes Miguel Lopez-Vargas, bright, ambitious, and through sheer determination and drive, directly responsible for bringing to market a Fentanyl-enhanced version of heroin that, if it sells up north the way Iván knows it will, the Garcia cartel’s money-studded Christmas tree’s going to grow into a forest practically overnight.
And when it does, Vargas is going to be the new forest ranger for sure. This much Iván understands. The world loves a winner. And him? Back to chopping wood in the deep dark forest.
Enough to drive a man mad.
But you wouldn’t know it from the way Iván greets his archrival, hand shaking, backslapping, and smiling. Easily a foot taller than Vargas, you’d think he was the eldest son in this Mexican fairy tale.
“You have that look in your eye, my friend,” Iván says. “Am I right?”
“You are right as always, hombre.”
“Five minutes, got a lot to do,” Garcia says, still grinning, but his eyes aren’t.
“I only need one, señor. The delivery will be ready in ninety days, just in time for the initial harvest.”
“Most excellent. And your crop?”
Vargas deadpans, “Cucumbers. Majewski doubled their order. They have a new brand of pickle coming out; dulce y agria, sweet and sour.”
Garcia laughs. “You know which crop I mean. ”
“Oh, you mean what will be beneath the pickles?”
“Be advised, your one minutes is up soon.”
“Oh, that crop. I have put on another production shift, midnight to seven to make certain of a full load.”
Garcia frowns. “Is that safe?”
“I trust them with my life.”
A quick smile and nod of understanding. “Maya, si?”
Vargas nods proudly. “My people lived in the Yucatan long before your Conquistadors, took our land.”
“And you’ll be here long after we’re gone, if mestizos like you are any proof.”
Vargas bites his tongue and smiles instead. He’s proud of his “mixed” Maya heritage through his mother, long ago buried God knows where. He never found out after their slaughter in the tomato fields. And like any minority anywhere, especially in Cancún, his people do the menial jobs, the service-industry jobs, the chicken-processors, the trash collectors, the dish washers, the shit shovelers.
While it’s true, when his stepbrother’s family adopted him, he rose higher in the social pecking order, he never forgot—and will never forget—that Maya blood still courses through his veins and a Maya warrior spirit sings in his heart. It’s the very same spirit that drove his Mesoamerican ancestors to conquer the Yucatan peninsula, only to end up being conquered in return by Spain and brought to humble heel, where they still reside today.
“Brownsville will be ready,” Vargas adds.
The smile vanishes. “Brownsville? We always cross in Laredo, right Iván?”
“Si, señor.”
Vargas pulls out a slip of paper and hands it over. “With all due respect, sir, this shipment is absolutely guaranteed to go through customs. The inside people are all set. Bought and paid for.”
“They always have and always will,” Iván snaps. “But at Laredo, not Brownsville.”
Garcia leans forward and lights one of his signature cheroots. Not a good sign. Iván gets ready to enjoy watching the chewing out that’s surely to come. And rightfully so. The impetuosity of this upstart! To announce a different border crossing like it’s as easy as crossing a street, for God’s sake.
Garcia examines the smoke and gauges the burn. He finally says, “Since when do you get involved with border crossings? That’s Iván’s specialty.”
“He’s the expert, sir. I know that, but...”
“But what?”
“Our buyer wants it delivered through Brownsville.”
“Lopez is crazy. He comes to us twice a year and expects us to hop up on our hind legs and beg for a treat—especially this one.”
“Señor Lopez has his reasons for wanting Brownsville. And besides that, it’s he who is begging for the treat, not us.”
Garcia reluctantly nods.
“And what a treat it is.” Vargas pulls out a cellophane packet of blue and white fentanyl/heroin capsules and brandishes it like Excalibur. “If all goes as planned, we have the chance to capture the entire American market. Think about it: the Sinaloa and Gulf boys will go mad. And then go broke.”
Garcia is not impressed. “Not for long. They’ll figure out a way to copy what we do.”
“That is true, but they will be missing a crucial element that only you have.”
“
What is that?”
He places the package on Garcia’s desk.
“Me.”
Garcia twists open a capsule and touches the very tip of his little finger in the snow-white powder. He tastes a microscopically small amount and closes his eyes. After a few seconds, he opens them.
“Brownsville it is. See to it, Iván.”
The best part about ribbon-cutting ceremonies is the gigantic pair of “scissors” that dignitaries always use. Doesn’t matter what color—gold, silver, red-white-and-blue—the things almost never cut the ribbon the first time around.
No exception today, Jack Riley thinks, as he stands beside the stocky, surprisingly young mayor of Niles, Ohio, who hefts a silver-painted, plastic version that must weigh ten pounds.
His voice is like a trombone blaring full blast. “The city of Niles welcomes the first of many Super Plug n’ Go’s, not only to power our citizens’ cars and trucks, but to power our city’s progress fast forward into a brighter future.”
He holds out the scissors. “Mister Riley, if you please?”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Jack keeps his smile going as they pose momentarily for the media to take photographs and video, then he opens the blades and slides them over a wide red ribbon that surrounds the Super Plug n’ Go station’s three, separate, multi-outlet re-charging islands.
Behind them, the convenience store patiently awaits its first customers. Fully stocked with the expected inventory of high-calorie snacks, caffeine-rich coffee, sodas, snow scrapers, motor oil (for the “other car”), and anti-freeze (ditto), it’s locked and loaded for the coming Midwest winter.
It takes three tries with that damned ribbon—Jack thought it would take only two—and the charging station is officially open for business.
As you’ll recall, he’s not the CEO of the Plug n’ Go franchise. That headache belongs to one of the smartest women he’s ever known; Marjorie Lawrence, whose iron fist tucked inside a needlepoint glove has done more to advance alternative energy than anybody in America—excepting Jack, of course, whose SuperCap technology opened a door that will never close again.
