The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology (60 page)

“Our revenue hit 6.8 trillion dollars last year, and our budget
for this year is only 3.3 trillion, down to 13 percent of GDP, so
we're doing great on paying off our debt. It's down to 8.8 trillion
dollars, and it's looking like we'll have it down to four trillion in
another four years, possibly only three.

“Unemployment is now at 4.8 percent. I expect it to come down
to an even four percent by the end of this first quarter of 2020, and
back down to what we call the “full employment” level,
just over three percent, by the end of this year. Below that,
there's pressure that can lead to inflation above our acceptable rate
of one percent per year, which we have maintained for the past five
years.

“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
2020. Good night, all.”

-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.