The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology

by Jake Devlin

  After the parade, Gayle drove Paul home, and Pam and Jake, in her new sixth-floor condo, experimented with the Rodeo position, which they found fairly silly, then with Boarding the Stagecoach (awkward, but tolerable), both versions of the Synchronized Duck Walk (impossible to maintain, and they quacked up over both) and finally the Two-Leg Intertwined Pogo Stick (painful, both before and after they lost their balance; luckily, no bones were broken in the fall).

  Then, ready for a return to some degree of normalcy, they swapped sensual massages, which led to another deeply intimate, but this time comfortably horizontal, encounter between Stevie Bruce and Ginny May, after which Jake and Pam finally fell into an exhausted, deep sleep in each other's arms.

  As the sun rose, the Bolero played again … twice.

  -102-

  Tuesday, March 13, 2012

  2:09 p.m.

  The Oval Office

  Washington, DC

  “Thanks, Emily. Got it.

  “Hey, John, Al, good morning … And backatcha … Okay, I've got two issues – three, actually … first, John, how are you doing on getting that IPO set up on Yellowstone? Right, non-voting shares, restricted sales, no dividend, institutional ownership only, minimum amount a million bucks. I've got the social media folks working on a subtle, stealthy dog-and-pony show. Rumors, denials, the whole schmeer … yup, I think right around the Fourth should be a good time. Good. Keep me posted, okay? Good.

  “Al, when John announces the 50-year bond auction for next month, I want to see you and your people sending out some quiet rumors that you're very interested in those instruments … no, no, no, I'm not expecting you to buy them all … or even any of them. I want you and John both to punch up demand for those, especially with the Chinese. I want to see them buying as close to all of that entire issue as we can get them to. I've asked Wes to push some rumors out through his teams, as well … well, of course. He's a solid partner in this whole process. I want them to think that they've got to bid for the whole 600 billion in order to get any, and I can't have any leaks that will lead back here. I mean, they'll probably figure some of it out, but they can't let themselves lose too much face by not participating. And then we'll have them right where we want them, if all goes well.

  “Good, Al, good. John, everything clear with you on that? Yup, scarcity, scarcity, scarcity. But do it subtly, below the radar. Get it going as if it came from the primary dealers who are drooling to get a piece of it. Right, just like we did it back at DEI with the Venezuelans.

  “Right, John. Al, you got it all clear? Great. Okay. See ya.”

  As soon as he hung up, Emily buzzed him. “Gordy, I've got the mayor of New York City holding for you.”

  “I'll take it.

  “Good afternoon, Your Honor. It's your dime; go ahead … yeah, I'm meeting with them soon and we should get it done by the end of the day … yeah, they should be all back up and running tomorrow … well, I'm happy if you're happy … what? … no, I won't; you're stuck on that one … well, it was a stupid move in the first place … nope, double refunds, immediately … wait, slow down … too bad; live with it … don't make me come up there … that's better. Now, I've heard some rumors about you wanting to ban large soft drinks. What the hell is that about?”

  Donne listened patiently, asking a few clarification questions, and then said, “Absolutely not. That's way too much nanny statism … well, get over it … that's my policy. Now, if I'm gonna get the theaters open up there, I've got to go. Have a good day … if you want to.”

  Donne hung up the phone and turned to his overflowing inbox, which he emptied in less than half an hour. He noticed that the approved pile was now larger than the disapproved one, and both were smaller than usual. He smiled and said to himself, “Ah, they're learning.”

  Then he took a nap before meeting with the boys from Broadway. As he drifted off, he murmured, “Let there be light,” and chuckled.

  -103-

  One Month Earlier

  Wednesday, February 15, 2012

  1:23 p.m.

  Bonita Beach, Florida

  ”No, no, no, Jake. Put it there first, then do that and then back there next.”

  “You sure of that, Pam?”

  “Absolutely. And we need to keep our voices down; too many people might hear.”

  “Hey, it's season; they're always close,” but Jake dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “Okay, I can do it that way. But then I'll need to tweak this over here.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. But if that's too tricky, we can try it the other way.”

  “No, no, Pam, I think it's great; in fact, it feels just right.”

  “I'm glad you like it, Jake.”

  “And then just stick it in there?”

  “Only if it really feels right to you.”

  “Hmmm. Yeah, it does.”

  “Really, really feels right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Really.”

  “But if you change your mind, that's okay with me.”

  “I'm glad you're so flexible, Pam.”

  “One of my many great features,” she said, giggling. Jake chuckled.

  “One of many I love.”

  “Why, thank yuh, suh,” Pam drawled. “Ah do so appreciate your lovin'.”

  “It ain't hard, ma'am.”

  “Okay. Anything else you want to stick in there?”

  “I don't think so; it feels a little too long already.”

  “Better a little too long than too short.”

  “Yeah, I know. But if it gets really long, then it doesn't work right.”

  “How about this? Split it in two and put it in front and behind?”

  “Split it? How would we do that?”

  “Right down the middle. Let me see. Ah, right here. Does that feel okay to you?”

  “Oh, there? When the screaming starts? Or should we keep the gunshots in the first part? I could tweak that a little bit and then pick it up with the gorilla head deflating after something from the Donne timeline. What d'ya think?

  “Wait, wait. Isn't that when Jennifer gets back to Poopsie after the Occupiers and the paint on her coat?”

  “Oh, right. Let me see. Ah, yes, there it … yeah, that works for me. Gunshots, screaming, Occupiers, paint, Poopsie, gorilla head.”

  “Cool,” Pam said, chuckling. “I like it.”

  “Oh, geez. That was the scariest day of my life, bullets flying all around. I really thought I was gonna die. I still get nightmares.”

  “Really? You've never had them when you've stayed over.”

  “Guess I have other things on my mind on those nights.”

  “But when you do wake up in the middle of ...”

  “Oh, yeah; or when you wake me up ...”

  “Mmmm. Yeah. I love it when --”

  “Ohh, that's hot,” a squeaky alto voice intruded.

  “Yeah, and it's dry, too, Ron,” Jake said flatly, not moving his head at all. Pam looked over Jake's shoulder and saw Ron, dripping wet after a quick dip in the Gulf.

  “The news said it was 61 degrees, I think,” she said.

  “Right; it's hot,” Ron squeaked. “Like you.”

  “Oh, put it to rest, Ron,” Pam said.

  “So you got a part for me in the book yet, Jake?”

  “Matter of fact, Ron, I do.”

  “Secretary of Defense?”

  “Nah, sorry. Pam and I talked it over and we've got a very special part for you. Right, Pam?”

  “Oh. Right, Jake.”

  “It's a very, very special part,” Jake said.

  “So tell me.”

  “Okay. First, you've got no lines.”

  “No lines?”

  “Nope. When we first see you, you're dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “And gay.”

  “WHAT??? Gay?” Ron said, his face turning a deep red-brown.

  “And you're a transsexual.”

  “No.”

  “Yup. And you've got AIDS.”

  “Nooo!�
� His throat tendons started to throb.

  “And you're a dwarf. Tried out for that pest control commercial, but you didn't get it.”

  “Shit, Jake.”

  “And you're a Republican.”

  “You son of a --” His fists clenched.

  “And a member of the Tea Party.”

  “What? You can't do that.” He shook a fist at Jake.

  “Well, maybe, just maybe, if you get Jenny to make us some more brownies, I could leave it at dead and gay.”

  “Now, now, Jake,” Pam cut in, “that sounds like a bribe.”

  “Naw, just letting him do some lobbying.”

  “Ah,” Pam said, laughing and glancing up at Jenny, who was smiling back and laughing quietly.

  “Oh, I'd also have to leave you as a Republican.”

  “No, no, Jake. I'll talk to Jenny. How many to take that part out?”

  “The Republican part?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, probably a couple dozen might do it. No, make it four.”

  Before Ron could turn around and see Jenny, she flashed Pam an okay sign, then a thumbs up, smiling. As Ron turned, she buried her nose in her book, trying unsuccessfully to stifle her laughter.

  “Of course, you'll always be an asshole,” Jake said, only slightly under his breath.

  “I heard that,” Ron squeaked as he walked away. Ken and Marsha, Ned and Joan, both Barbaras, Bill, Peggy, George, Will, Lucy, Rosemary, Patrick, Norm and Janet, Paul and Evelyn and a couple of strangers within earshot all laughed. Ron glared at them all and plopped down into his chair next to Jenny, sulking. The Mimosa twins focused on a cell phone, trying to justify their giggles.

  “That was a little cruel, Jake,” Pam whispered.

  “Just that guy thing, remember?” Jake whispered back. “He calls me a schlub, I call him an asshole, and Jenny gets complimented on the baking she loves to do. Balance.”

  “Her brownies are delicious.”

  “And they freeze well.”

  “You freeze 'em?”

  “Of course. If I ate 'em all, my belly would look like his.”

  “Ewww.”

  “Hey, that's my word,” Jill whispered to Carie. “Maybe she's got us bugged?”

  “Shhh,” Carie whispered.

  “So, Jake,” Pam said, “what's next?”

  “I think my shoulders need a break. We've been at this for a couple hours. How're you doing?”

  “I could use a break, too. Massage swap?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Let's go.”

  “We'll watch your stuff,” Norm and Janet said in unison as Pam and Jake got up.

  “Get ready, Sharon,” Jill whisper-giggled into her beach bag.

  -104-

  Tuesday, March 13, 2012

  4:35 p.m.

  The Oval Office

  Washington, DC

  Emily and six Secret Service agents and four of Donne's private guards escorted five handcuffed union bosses from the Broadway theater industry into the Oval Office.

  Donne looked up at them all, his mouth full of cheeseburger, and waved them to a point in front of his desk. He left them standing there, fidgeting, while he slowly finished his meal, took a final sip of his soda, carefully wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and leaned back in his chair.

  “I understand some of you are mob-connected,” he began. “So I think it's best to keep you all restrained while we have our little chat. Keep a close eye on them all, guys.” The guards all nodded.

  “Now, boys, it's come to my attention that your members have gone on strike and that Broadway has gone dark. That violates my no-strike directive and my no-encouraging-strikes directives.

  “So my question is this. What do you have to say for yourselves before I find you guilty and sentence you?”

  “I want to speak to a lawyer,” one of the bosses said.

  “Me, too,” said another, and the other three concurred.

  “Well, kids, that ain't gonna happen. Your due process rights are only what I decide they'll be, and for you they do not include lawyers.

  “Now I'll ask it again. What do you have to say for yourselves?”

  All five remained silent.

  “Well, boys, that makes things pretty simple.

  “I've gone over the contracts you have with all the producers, and they are the most appalling, disgusting, restrictive and downright criminal contracts I've ever had the pain of reading.

  “Not only that, but you have all been abusing your members for decades, skimming money from their dues for your own personal lifestyles and your mob bosses, sending more money to national lobbying groups and requiring your members to buy overpriced health and life insurance from companies you control. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

  “I find you all guilty of violating the two directives I mentioned before, and in addition to a prison sentence starting right now in the cellblock in our basement and continuing for ten years in a federal prison with no amenities and only minimal sustenance, for which you will be billed, I am also confiscating everything each of you owns or controls, leaving you and your families destitute. I am also clawing back any and all payments you have made to other cronies or mob bosses over the last twenty years.

  “Emily, do we have room for these five downstairs?”

  “Afraid not, Mr. Donne. Those cells are all full. We do have some empty cells in the EOB, but they are the D level cells.”

  “Well, guys, those'll have to – oh, wait. Emily, are those four other union bosses and their attorneys still over there?”

  “Yes, they are, Mr. Donne.”

  “Oh, dear, I completely forgot about them. It's been … what? … three months, I think. Can you have them brought up here?”

  “Now, Mr. Donne?”

  “Yes, Emily; right now.”

  “And these gentlemen?”

  “Hold them somewhere until those others get here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  -105-

  Tuesday, March 13, 2012

  12:35 p.m.

  Bonita Beach, Florida

  The Mimosa twins, Jill and Carie, finally got fed up with the five drunken spring breakers who'd sat too close to them and had been leering at them and making lewd comments about them for the past half hour. The twins knew they were beautiful and looked younger than their real age (30), but these 19-year-olds' behavior had finally crossed the line when they started goading the biggest one. He lurched over to Jill and slurred, "Hey, babe, wanna suck my dick?" HIs buddies all laughed.

  "Excuse me?" Jill asked, removing one of her earbuds, glancing at Carie and nodding; Carie nodded back, imperceptibly.

  "I said, 'Wanna suck my dick?'" the kid slurred again, leaning closer and stretching his hand out toward her chest.

  Jill snapped her arm out and gripped his hand, twisting it into a kote gaeshi wrist lock. The boy's eyes widened and he tried to squirm out of her grasp, but she just gripped tighter and twisted more, and he started writhing in pain, falling to his knees on the sand next to her towel. Carie kept a wary eye on the other four, shaking her head and raising an index finger at them.

  "Now, sonny, I want to make sure I understand exactly what you said. What was it again?"

  "Ow, ow, ow, let go!"

  "No, no, I'm not sure that was it.” She squeezed tighter.

  “Oh, Christ! Let go!”

  “Was that what he said, Carie Berry?"

  "I don't think so, Jillybean. Doesn't sound anything like what he said."

  "I agree. Sonny boy, we agree that that's not what you said. I'll give you a second chance. What was it you said, precisely?"

  "Ow, ow, ow!"

  "Ding, ding, ding. Wrong answer. One last chance before I break your fingers. What. Was. It. You. Said. Precisely?"

  “Okay, okay. I asked you if you'd suck my dick."

  "Close, but no cigar. Precisely?"

  "Ow, ow. Okay. I think I said, 'Wanna suck my dick?'"

  "And j
ust before that?"

  "I don't remember. Ow!"

  "Try."

  "Umm ... ow, ow. I don't remember."

  "I believe he said, 'Hey, babe' to start it off, JB."

  "Why, thank you, CB; I do believe you are correct."

  "I do believe I am, JB."

  "So, sonny boy, is my sister correct?"

  "Yeah, yeah, I guess so. I don't remember. Ow, geez."

  "So you agree that what you said, precisely, was 'Hey, babe, wanna suck my dick?'"

  "I guess so ... ow. Okay, okay. I agree."

  "Now, sonny, by what stretch of your insipid little imagination do you believe that that is in any way, shape or form respectful to me?"

  "I -- I guess not."

  "Ding, ding, ding; not responsive. I'll rephrase the question. Did that question show any respect at all to me ... or to women in general?"

  "Uh -- ow. No, no."

  "No what?"

  "No, it did not show respect."

  "Well, at long last, some awareness. Now I have a few more questions for you. And I expect a prompt and totally truthful answer; otherwise, I'll twist harder and that'll feel like this."

  "Yee-oww!"

  "First, what's your name?"

  "Jerry."

  "Last name?"

  "Hagopian."

  "And how do you spell that, Jerry?"

  "H-a-g-o-p-i-a-n."

  "Okay; Jerry Hagopian.

  "And where do you go to school, Jerry Hagopian?"

  He named a well-known university in New Jersey.

  "Which campus?"

  "Camden."

  "And how old are you?"

  "19."

  "Very good, Jerry. Now I'm going to ask you a compound question, and that may be tougher for you. What year are you in and what is your major?"

  "I'm a sophomore, marketing."

  "Well, well, well. Maybe you're not as stupid as your behavior would indicate. Or maybe you are precisely that stupid. What is your GPA?"

  "Oh, geez. Um, 2.1."

  "Two point one? Maybe you ARE that stupid. Are you from New Jersey? Were you born there?"