The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology (39 page)

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.”

The Suppressor laughed aloud and closed both emails, put his PC to
sleep, poured himself a glass of very expensive wine and lay back in
his recliner, savoring the moment. “The game's afoot.”

An hour later, he awoke his PC and began drafting a reply to the
Friday email.

“You are correct that we anticipated your having concerns, and
we have no preference as to whether you confirm or deny the contents
of Rep.pdf or, for that matter, Dem.pdf.

“However, we have received new information from members of the
opposing side; therefore, we must adjust our discussion.

“They have offered us 25K to keep Rep.pdf in, which is 15K more
than our original suggestion to you to keep it out. They have also
offered 25K to keep Dem.pdf out. Thus a total offer of 50K.

“Please advise as soon as possible how you would like to
proceed in light of this new information.”

He saved that to his drafts folder and began a second email.

“First, there is NO WAY we are going to disclose the identity
of the author, and we frankly don't care whether you confirm (or
deny, as we anticipated you would) the accuracy of Dem.pdf, nor do we
care about your opinion of Rep.pdf, which we also anticipated.

“However, we have received new information from members of the
opposing side; therefore, we must adjust our discussion.

“They have offered us 30K to keep Dem.pdf in, which is 20K more
than our original suggestion to you. They have also offered 30K to
keep Rep.pdf out. Thus a total offer of 60K.

“If you want to match or exceed that offer, let us know. Else
we will accept theirs in the next week.”

He sent both through the anonymous mail server he used for that email
address, turned off the PC as he usually did, drained and rinsed out
his wine glass and headed to bed.

-77R-

Sunday, August 14, 2011

7:55 p.m.

A tenth-floor condo

Bonita Beach, Florida

“Well, kids, that first round was like all first ones are,
awkward and fumbling and full of fire and passion. It had all the
delicacy and technique of two high-schoolers in the back seat at a
drive-in.”

“At a what?”

“Oh, right; before your time. Used to be places where you
could watch a movie in your car.”

“On your phone? DVD player?”

“No, no, no. There was a big screen out in a field, and lots
of cars would drive in, park, pull a speaker off a pole, hang it on
the inside of the window, go get some popcorn and pop at a concession
stand and then watch the movie after it got dark enough.”

“That's stupid.”

“Look, Jill, it was a long time ago, probably before you were
even a glimmer in your father's eye. When were you kids born,
anyhow?”

“1982,” the twins said simultaneously.

“That explains a lot.”

“What's pop?” Jill asked.

“Soda, tonic, soft drink; 'fizzy drink' in England.”

“Ah, okay. Pop; hmm.”

“Anyhow, I didn't see any teachable moments in that one. Too
bad it's black and white and sorta grainy.”

“I noticed a few things.”

“Okay, Carie. What?”

“Well, first, that ring clasp in front on her top was pretty
cool. She just popped it open and the whole top opened. And when
she said, 'Say hello to your new friends, Mitzy and Bitzy,' that was
great.”

“She sure couldn't have named them Itsy and Bitsy, could she,
CB?”

“That's f'sure, JB.”

“And I noticed she's starting to get some tan lines.”

“Yeah, she is, kid.”

“Hey, Sharon, did you see how I handled that sniffer that was
bugging us last week?”

“Nope; missed that.”

“Well, this one was named … Tim, or Lou, or maybe Tom, I
think, about 50, kind of a paunch, shaved head, gold chains, all the
usual shit. And he was giving us the typical crappy pickup lines and
schmoozing as much as he could, full of stupid, juvenile double
entendre and raised eyebrows, and Carie and I were sorta letting him
think he was getting somewhere. Right, Carie?”

“Yeah,” Carie replied, chuckling at the memory.

“Anyhow, he asked if I was as tan all over as I was on the skin
he could see, leering at me. I told him no, my skin was a lot
whiter. And he told me to prove it. I know he wanted me to pull
out or fold back the top of my bikini, and he just wanted a better
glance at more of my boob.”