The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology

by Jake Devlin

  Gordon was usually more comfortable talking with adults than with kids his age, and his IQ was measured several times, with an average of 143, in the genius range. While his father was not a particularly positive role model, with his drinking and his frequent loud arguments with his wife's father, Gordon was never abused, either verbally or physically, but he bonded more closely with his grandfather, who taught the boy how to shoot, hunt and fish, as well as passing on the powerful moral code that all Rangers lived by.

  One thing (perhaps the only one) that Gordon's father and grandfather shared was an interest in chess, and Gordon took to it like a fish to water, winning a local tournament at the age of six, less than a year after his introduction to the game. In later life, Gordon credited that game for much of his success in business, especially in his hedge fund and in venture capital, which evolved into Donne Enterprises International (DEI) in the early eighties and beyond.

  Gordon and his grandfather remained close until the latter's death in 1998 after a long battle with lung cancer, which he fought with what his fellow Rangers called "sheer orneriness." But at the age of 89, he'd had a fine life, was lucid to the end and had taught his adopted grandson many, many valuable lessons, which stuck with him for the rest of his life.

  One that Gordon particularly remembered and often applied in later life was "The clever cougar hides his claws."

  In addition to chess, Gordon showed an interest and talent in math and the stock market, which his mother and grandfather encouraged; his father was disinterested, if not openly hostile, to the boy's interest in the market, but he supported his mathematics, even though he himself was terrible at it.

  On his ninth birthday, in 1968, his grandfather, thanks to some Ranger connections, was able to introduce Gordon to a legendary investor from Omaha, who gave the boy signed copies of two books by Benjamin Graham, "The Intelligent Investor" and "Security Analysis," which the boy devoured over the next seven months, taking copious notes.

  For his tenth birthday, his grandfather gave Gordon five thousand dollars to do with as he wanted. Gordon, balancing instant and deferred gratification, kept five hundred dollars in cash, which he spent for gifts and entertainment over the next year, and invested the rest, using what he'd learned from the Graham books and his other studies of the markets. His portfolio more than doubled by his twelfth birthday, and grew more than twentyfold by the time he graduated from high school.

  He also showed entrepreneurial spirit, especially with his math skills. He developed several algorithms that he then built into a software platform for financial transactions, which he sold to a major computer company in 1979 for fifty-five million dollars, just weeks before he turned twenty.

  That platform formed the basis for all bank transfers for the next eight years, until Donne developed a competing platform, which became the de facto standard and still remains in use to this day; but instead of selling that one outright, he licensed it to clearing houses and kept maintenance contracts through one of the companies in Donne Enterprises International. So to this day, ALL bank transfers around the world are handled by the DEI platform.

  Donne won a full scholarship to a major Ivy League university, but dropped out in his junior year with his fifty-five million dollars and began building his own hedge fund and private equity/venture capital businesses. He took financial care of his grandfather, and also set up generous annuities for eleven teachers who'd had the greatest positive influence on him in elementary, junior and senior high school. He felt that it was a great tragedy that his parents had both died before his windfall.

  But he carried all of that history and experience with him when he entered the Oval Office on December 9, 2011, filled with anticipation that his plans for that day would work.

  -4-

  Sunday, June 12, 2011

  11:03 a.m.

  Bonita Beach, Florida

  Another placid, brochure-perfect day on the Gulf: overnight low, 72 degrees, the high forecast to be 91, a mild easterly breeze, a Gulf temperature of 86 degrees and not a cloud in the bright blue sky.

  By late morning, the beach was maybe a quarter full with locals and some tourists, mostly Europeans. The AA meetings in the gazebos at the south end of the beach had dispersed an hour before, and the parking lots were only half full, unlike February, March and April, when every available legal parking space was full by 9:30 and many cars took their chances at getting ticketed and towed from illegal ones. "Season" was a time when residents mostly stayed home, but now they were coming out in force, renewing lapsed acquaintances and reclaiming their habitual spots on the sand. They mostly knew each other only by first names; last names just added to the information they might forget, since many of them had what they sometimes called Quarterheimer's, also known as senior moments.

  Millie, Fran and Alvina, friends for sixty years, each weighing well over 300 pounds, were lying together on their usual red blankets, gossiping at length about all the annoying newly-retired "young'uns" in their over-55 trailer park. When you're over eighty, you've got a right to your opinions ... and to be offended by anything and everything; or so they continually told themselves. Some folks on the beach called them "The Triple-Ton Threat," while others referred to them as the "Antique Elephant Parade," and still others just called them the "Beach Balls." They were all paging through the latest issues of three of the top fashion-and-relationship magazines.

  A dozen or so of the Beach Potatoes, a self-named group of locals, ranging in age from roughly 30 to 50, gathered in their usual spot a bit south of the boardwalk from the Collier County parking lot, some reading, some swapping jokes, others exchanging recipes, and still others heading into the water with their noodles. A nicely tanned woman named Carole, who was known as the Sweet Potato for her gentle and pleasant disposition, was talking with Jim, the Scalloped Potato, about his plans for dealing with his severe hair loss.

  In the water, the Barefoot Beach Babes, also self-named, bobbed and gossiped, mostly about their husbands, who were all off golfing.

  Norm and Janet headed to their regular spot near the high tide line, where Norm used a long-shafted drill and then a sand anchor with spiral flanges to put up their umbrella, which cast a shadow on empty sand, since both of them sat on their macramaed beach chairs in the sun, never in the shadow. That irony never entered their minds as Janet worked on her sudoku and Norm on his crossword puzzle after finishing their sausage-cheese-and-egg breakfast muffins.

  A bit south of Norm and Janet, a crewcut, extremely pale but well-muscled young man was sitting in a plain beach chair under an umbrella, facing north, talking on his cell phone, but so quietly that no one could hear a word he was saying. His aviator sunglasses hid his eyes from anyone's view. The Beach Potatoes commented about him, calling him another Mashed Potato, while Carole, the Sweet Potato, walked down to him and said she hoped he was using lots of sunscreen; he simply nodded and went back to his cell phone, but his eyes followed her shapely figure as she returned to her group.

  The Hat Squad had been in the water for two hours, floating on noodles and bobbing up and down, back and forth, soothing their arthritis and osteoporosis, gabbing away. They'd lost two members over the winter, so now they were down to only thirteen. Alice was still the leader and moderator; she also usually won in their weekly poker games in their gated community, where she was president of the homeowners association. All the members agreed that she had the best hats; today, it was a huge purple cloche with a wide brim and several multi-colored peacock feathers dangling all around it.

  Up very close to the stairs to the showers and rest rooms, the Incontinentals gathered for convenience and quick access, in separate clumps, since, while they shared the same affliction, they had never made connections with each other, so there was no inter-clump conversation.

  Carie and Jill, the Mimosa twins (brunette, 30-ish, very cute) were sitting on their towels in their usual space next to the boardwalk from the Collier County parking lot, towel-dancing and people-w
atching.

  Most of the current popular authors were well represented in the hands of multiple readers, and a few ebook readers were scattered around the beach. One guy even had his in a plastic bag and was reading in the water, up to his waist. He called it "aqua-literating" and claimed his reader had never gotten even slightly damp.

  But he nearly dropped it when he glanced up and saw a tall, lissome, extraordinarily well-built blonde meandering south on the shoreline. Wearing a near-thong gold bikini a few shades lighter than her tan and a tiny, nearly sheer sarong around her waist, she could have been a former Miss America ... or with her figure, maybe a Miss September. From a distance, she looked to be about 23, but she was actually just weeks shy of the big 5-0. As she walked, not strutting or flouncing, but totally self-confident, heads turned and eyes ogled.

  Even the teenagers playing volleyball near Pop's at the north end of the beach stopped their game; one of the boys let the ball loose and chased it to the shoreline, getting within ten feet of the object of his immediate hormonal affection, eyes and another part of his anatomy bulging. When he returned to the net and said, "Definitely a MILF," the other boys snickered and one of the girls rolled her eyes and punched him in the shoulder.

  Next in line were the Incontinentals, three of whom reached into their bags for binoculars, seven for their cell phone cameras, and all the rest of the men rapidly cleaned their glasses, except for the ones who'd had cataract surgery, who silently thanked their doctors for giving them such clear vision. The women looked on enviously.

  In the water, Alice pushed the feathers away from her face and glared at the blonde, and the rest of the Hat Squad followed, glaring and adding their own catty comments to Alice's.

  Still further south, Millie poked Alvina and hissed, "Do you believe that? Doesn't Lee County have a law against thongs?"

  Alvina replied, "Yup, but it only requires that the back be at least two inches wide."

  Millie persisted, "Well, that one may be legal, but it's disgusting."

  Fran muttered, "I'll bet she's airbrushed."

  Alvina looked down her substantial nose at Fran. "That's only in the magazines, dumbo. You can't be airbrushed live."

  Millie sneered.

  Fran blinked several times, then looked at Alvina blankly. "Are you sure?"

  Alvina waved her off. "Sure, I'm sure. Geez."

  Seven of the Beach Potatoes pulled out their phones and started shooting video. Jim, the Scalloped Potato, took off his hat, rubbed his scalp and said to nobody in particular, “This is not a bald head; it's a solar panel for a sex machine.” Carole, the sweet one, looked at the blonde and thought again about getting implants, even though to others, she had a great natural figure; three of the guys in the group had already named her the Hot Potato.

  When Norm turned to ogle the blonde, he stubbed his toe on the drill sticking out of the ground next to his chair; Janet glanced at him, then at the blonde, then back at Norm, and said, "She IS gorgeous, isn't she?"

  Norm quickly replied, "Not as gorgeous as you are, my love."

  Janet smiled as she reached into their beach bag: "Good comeback, Norm. I'll get a bandage for your toe. It's bleeding."

  The blonde, who had been scanning the crowd from behind her high-fashion sunglasses as she strolled, but never making eye contact, stopped briefly to chat with an elderly couple, who shrugged, but pointed further south.

  A moment later, she stopped to ask something of a nondescript but deeply tanned older man, who was lying on what looked to be a homemade PVC lounge with a six-inch white fringe hanging down all around it. He was reading one of Milton Berle's joke collections and was known for his self-defecating humor. A T-shirt with a picture of a man lying in a hammock and the words "American Idle" was hanging off the end of his lounge.

  In answer to her question, he shook his head sadly and pointed further south. As she continued on, he heaved a deep sigh. His eyes took a long time to return to the book.

  The Mimosa twins glanced at the blonde, nodded to each other and activated the miniature sound-and-video recording equipment embedded in their beach bags. Jill whispered to Carie, "I hope we look that good when we're her age." Carie smiled and nodded, but kept her eyes on the blonde.

  The blonde then sauntered up to another older man reclining on a three-way beach lounge maybe fifteen feet further south, also near the waterline; he was writing in a small spiral notebook.

  In a gentle, melodious voice, she said, "Excuse me."

  Startled, the man looked up and saw a face with high cheekbones, full lips and either no or very natural makeup, a true movie star face, framed in lustrous, luxuriantly wavy honey blonde hair. He didn't -- couldn't -- ignore her anatomically very correct figure, of course.

  Perflutzed, he held up an index finger, then pointed to his mouth, finished chewing a chocolate chip cookie, swallowed and mumbled, "Mm-hmm?"

  She waited, but when nothing else was forthcoming, she asked, "Are you Jake Devlin, by any chance?"

  He swallowed one more time and said, "Yes, I am, but not by chance; that's the name I was given."

  "You're writing The Donne Deal?"

  Jake licked some crumbs from his lips. "Yup."

  She held out her hand and Jake took it. "I'm Pamela93; I've sent you some suggestions through your web site, back when you only had Donne's speech up there."

  "You're Pamela93? You don't look at all like I pictured you," Jake said, thinking that she actually looked precisely as he'd pictured her. "But I loved your idea on the minimum tax; that got me thinking."

  "Minimum tax? That wasn't mine. I did the Roth IRA and the capital loss offset increases."

  "Oh, geez, I'm sorry. My memory isn't what it used to be."

  "No problem. You missed a bit, there on the right. May I?"

  She reached down and brushed a final crumb off the corner of his lip. "Got it.”

  "Thanks."

  "May I sit and talk with you for a while?"

  "Sure. Right here on the other side of my cooler okay?"

  "Great. And just call me Pam." She set her beach bag down, unwrapped her sarong, flipped open a chair and slithered into it, giving Jake a winning smile and batting her dazzling blues at him over her elegant sunglasses.

  -5-

  Friday, December 9, 2011

  7:55 p.m. EST

  Bonita Springs, Florida

  Slinky Joe's is a popular restaurant and bar in Bonita Springs, Florida, with a live band every night and a diverse clientele of retirees, bikers, rednecks and tourists, a true cross-cultural local icon. Debbie Jackson, in a skimpy red halter and denim short shorts that revealed the top of a red thong and a "tramp stamp" tattoo, sat at the bar, nursing her sixth beer of the night, looking around to see who she might con into buying her her seventh, when Pete, one of the owners, took the mike from the band and spoke to the crowd.

  "Folks, we're gonna take a vote here. I know you've been loving Salt and Pepper's music, but there's apparently a MAJOR announcement about the future of our country coming on the TV in five minutes. Joe and I have been seeing the promos all afternoon and evening, and we know many of you have seen those, too. This sounds like something that'll probably affect all of us, so we're gonna do a mini-democracy exercise here. Brittany and Justin are due for a break at 8:30, but if we move that up half an hour, we can all see just what this announcement is all about.

  "So let's see some hands. First, those who want them to break now and watch the announcement? Okay. And now those who don't want that?" At that, Debbie put up both hands and yowled a loud Confederate yell, then saw that she was the only one yelling, so she sat lumpily back down on her barstool.

  "Okay," Pete continued, "looks like about three-quarters of you want to watch. So let's have a BIG round of applause for Brittany and Justin" -- and the crowd whistled, hollered and applauded -- "and let's see what's gonna happen."

  Debbie turned to a mullet-cut guy in a wifebeater T-shirt who had just returned to his stool next to hers an
d mumbled, "What the fuck? I LOVE Brittany; she's got a great voice, better'n Whitney Houston. And now we gotta watch that lyin' (N-word deleted) AGAIN? Buy me a beer, Darryl, so I can get through this shit. I'll make it worth your while later." She leered suggestively at him.

  Darryl, five beers into his usual twelve, and having been the recipient of Debbie's well-practiced favors several times in the past, debated with himself for perhaps two seconds and then agreed; he'd just settle for eleven beers tonight.

  Seventy-nine-year-old Marion Herman and her eighty-four-year-old hubby, George, retired co-CEOs of a custom steel manufacturing company in Indianapolis, were sitting at a table in the front corner of the dining area, far away from the bar, pool tables and the stage. Visiting Slinky Joe's for the first time, they felt completely out of their element, but had been enjoying Salt and Pepper's music, on the recommendation of their neighbors, Ron and Eileen Roderick.

  Marion looked at George and said, "Honey, have you got your hearing aids turned up?" George nodded and murmured, "Tuesday." Marion sighed and rolled her eyes.

  Pete grabbed the remote, changed all the TVs to the 24-hour news channel and ran the audio through the band's amplifiers, catching the news anchor in the midst of his commentary:

  " ... -itzer, and we're on pins and needles here. The White House has not issued any hints of what this speech is going to be. We don't even have an early release of it, so we're completely at sea on what he might say."

  He paused, listening to his earpiece. "I'm just hearing that we're ready to go live to the Oval Office. So here we go."

  At that point the picture shifted to the Oval Office, but instead of President Obama's well-known visage, a stranger smiled awkwardly at the camera. He looked to be in his early fifties, smallish, bald with a light fringe around the sides and back, a bulbous nose, ears too big for his head, an overbite and a weak, receding chin.