The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology (19 page)

“Good, good,” he whispered. “Still waiting. And
--”

Finally, an elderly woman who had just sat down at the table behind
Pam turned around, caught Jake's eye and said, “Excuse me.
What is she having?”

“-- there it is,” Jake whispered, and then replied to the
woman, “It's the shrimp and lobster pasta, ma'am.”

“Thank you, sonny.

“George, call the waitress. I want some of that.”

“Sure, Marion. Where's my cell phone?”

Marion rolled her eyes and waved to Beverly, who came right over and
took her order.

Pam looked at Jake and whispered “'Sonny'?”

“Guess I look young for my age. Maybe I'll go to a plastic
surgeon, get some wrinkles added.” Pam chuckled.

Jake continued, “So you're enjoying your pasta?”

“Oh, my god; best I've ever tasted. Really.”

“I'm glad.”

“How's your Angus burger?”

“Great.”

“But you're just picking at it.”

“I don't eat a lot; probably take most of it home. With a half
pounder, I'll maybe get three more meals out of it.”

“Three more? Wow – oh, here, have the last bit of this.
It really is delicious.”

“You sure?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, surf 'n turf.”

Pam chuckled quietly. “Ready?” Jake nodded.

Pam speared the last chunks of lobster, shrimp and pasta, swirled up
the last bits of the sauce and held the fork out to Jake's open mouth
as they both leaned in across the table.

As he began chewing, Pam said, “By the way, you have great
looking teeth. I noticed that when we first met.”

Jake held up a finger apologetically, chewed, finally swallowed, then
said, “Thanks; they go in a glass at night.”

“No. Really? They look positively natural.”

“Need proof? Wanna see my 90-year-old redneck impression?”

Pam grimaced. “Ah, no; I'll take your word for it. But they
do look good.”

“Thanks.”

After an awkward pause as Pam finished her pasta, Jake cleared his
throat and said, “Pam, would it be okay if I use you in the
book?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know; maybe like Secretary of State. Donne's gonna
need a whole new Cabinet and … oh, wait; even better. How'd
you like to be Director of the Secret Service?”

“Oh, no, no.”

“I'd change your name, of course; last name, anyhow. But I'd
love to have a character like you in a senior position.”

“I don't know, Jake. I --”

“Look, Pam, you're smart, you're gorgeous, and you sure knew
how to deal with that sergeant and those Marines on the beach, so all
I'd do is build a character sort of like you. Hmm. But I'd have to
ugly her up some, maybe drop your eye candy rating five or six
points. And I wouldn't have to use your name; it'd just be between
you and me.”

“Maybe – I guess as long as – I mean – Jake,
you've got me speechless, and that doesn't happen often.”

“Look, I'm sorry. No need to rush this. Just think about it
for a while. I just like the idea … and I also like the name
Pamela. And remember, it's just fiction.”

“I know; I just – you caught me totally off guard with
that.”

“I'll do it,” Marion said, turning around and looking at
Jake over Pam's shoulder. “I'm sorry; I couldn't help but
overhear you. You're writing a book?”

“Yup,” said Jake.

“What's it about? Well, if you don't mind my asking.”

“No, that's fine. It's about – well, a guy buys the US
government, declares himself dictator and fixes it all.”

“Fixes it? For real?”

“Yup.”

“Wow. Oh, yes, I'll do it. You can use me and George any way
you want.”

“Marion and George. Cool. Your last name's not Kirby, is it?”

“No; it's Herman. And no, we don't have a dog named Neil.”

“I'll bet you get that a lot,” Jake said, writing in his
notebook.

“Not so much anymore, at least not from the kids these days.
This is my hubby, George.”

“Hi, George; I'm Jake.”

“And I'm Pamela; nice to meet you both.”

George looked at them vacantly and smiled, then looked at Marion.

“They're a nice looking couple. Who are they?”

“They're new friends, George.”

Jake said, “Oh, we're not a couple, just friends.”

Pam got up, gently took George's hands in hers, looked him straight
in the eyes and said, “Hi, George. We've never met before. My
name is Pamela, but you can call me Pam, okay?”

“Okay, Pam.” George beamed at Pam, squeezed her hands
tightly, tears welling in his eyes. “You're a good daughter,
Patty, and I hope you're as happy with your new husband as I've been
with Martha.”

Pam kept her eyes on George's, sighed deeply and finally whispered,
“Thank you, Daddy; I hope so, too.”

Marion leaned across the table and said, “George, it's Marion.”

“Oh, hi, Marion. Are we heading home now?”

“No, George, not yet – ah, here comes our meal.”

Pam gave George's hands a final squeeze and stood up, as Beverly
arrived and placed the Hermans' orders in front of them.

Jake gathered up his things and said, “Bev, we're gonna head
out to the patio for a smoke,” looking to Pam for her
agreement; she nodded. “Can we take our drinks out there, and
get a doggie box?”

“Sure, Jake; I'll pack up your burger. Anything else?”

Jake glanced at Pam, who shook her head absently, still looking at
George. “Nah, we're fine, Bev; thanks. And don't pack the
pickle.”

Pam touched George's shoulder and said, “Enjoy your meal,
George,” and then smiled at Marion. “And I'm sure you
will, Marion.”

“I sure hope so. Nice to meet you, Pam.” She nodded at
George, who was meticulously cutting his first conch fritter into
four pieces. “And thank you so much.” Pam smiled and
nodded as she and Jake headed out to the patio, drinks in hand.

-31-

Thursday, December 15, 2011

3:00 p.m.

The Oval Office

Washington, DC

At the stroke of three, Emily led the Cardinal, in a black cassock,
scarlet fascia and scarlet skullcap, into the office, where Donne was
seated behind his desk, still dressed in jeans and tropical shirt.
Emily gave Donne another piece of paper, whispered in his ear, nodded
at the Cardinal and left the room.

Donne glanced at the paper, set it on his desk, stood up and walked
over to the Cardinal, who had his hand extended, palm down. But
instead of kissing the prelate's ring, Donne shook his hand and said,
“Welcome, Your Eminence; good to see you again. It's been
what, four years?”

“I believe so; when the curia signed the contract with DEI.”

“I trust the software and maintenance are all going well for
you.”

“Technically, all is working fine.”

“Well, if you have any problems with it, just call Wes; I'm
sure he'll be glad to take care of it. As you know, as of last
Friday, I'm no longer involved with the company.”

“Yes; I watched your speech.”

“Please, let's sit over here,” Donne said, as he guided
his guest to one of the couches and took a seat on the opposite one.
Again, he took the clipboard off the coffee table and set it beside
him.

“I understand the Pope is not happy with me and my policies
here, from what I saw in the papers over the weekend.”

“He certainly is not.”

“And you are here representing the entire Church, and speaking
directly for the Pope?”

“I am.”

“Well, let's get down to brass tacks, then. What are the
Church's specific problems with my policies?”

“You're not a religious man, are you?”

“Not relevant. Go on.”

“Do you even believe in God?”

“Again, not relevant. Go on.”

“But I need to understand the man to whom I'm speaking.”

“That didn't seem to keep the Pope from excommunicating me, and
I'm not even Catholic. Go on.”

“We have concerns for your everlasting soul.”

“I appreciate that, but that is frankly none of your concern.
You are here talking to the guy who owns the whole friggin'
government of the US of A, and I have faith that your agenda has more
concrete items on it than my soul. So let's get to it.”

“Well --”

“Oh, before you do, I also have faith that you read and
understand the document you signed before you came in here.”

“I did and I do.”

“Okay. Now you can go on. Brass tacks, padre.”

The Cardinal glared at Donne, then pulled several sheets of paper
from a briefcase at his feet.

“First, the Holy Church strenuously objects to your condoning
and encouraging the sin of murder of the unborn.”

Donne picked up the clipboard, made a note and said, “You're
talking about my legalizing abortion.”

“Murder.”

“As you call it. Are you referring to abortion or not?”

“I am. Murder of the unborn --”

“All right; Church objects to legalizing abortion. Next?”

“We strenuously object to your condoning and encouraging the
sin of same- --”

“Gay marrage; got it. Next?”

“We strenuously object to your condoning and encouraging the
sin of self-murder.”

“Assisted suicide; got it. Next?”

“You have no responses to those?”

“Not yet. What else has your panties in a bunch, padre?”

“Mr. Donne, you are speaking to a Cardinal of the Holy Catholic
Church. I do not appreciate your flip attitude on these issues of
major importance to all God-fearing Christians.”

Donne leaned forward and pointed toward his desk. “See that
sign, the one that says 'No BS Zone,' and the one next to it that
says, 'No Ego Zone'? That means I'm here to get this country back on
its feet and not to pander or massage anyone's ego, and I don't
tolerate any BS at all. Zero tolerance on both scores.

“So you and I can dance around semantics and philosophy and
talking points and ego, or we can dig in, roll up our sleeves and get
down to brass tacks, down to the bottom line, and get something
sorted out, man-to-man. Your choice.”

The Cardinal simply stared at Donne, expressions of shock, anger and
confusion alternately fleeting across his face.

“Or maybe we could just arm-wrestle and settle it all, padre.”

Suddenly, shock predominated the Cardinal's face, then he laughed
aloud, but nervously.

“I heard you weren't big on protocol, young man.”

Donne chuckled. “Well, that's progress; okay.

“I'll bet you guys are pissed off about the tax on churches and
nonprofits, too, of course.”

“We object to that as unconscionable and an assault on
religious freedom, as guaranteed in your Constitution.”

“Okay; abortion, gay marrage, assisted suicide and the church
tax. Anything else on your list there?”

“Legalizing marijuana and encouraging smoking of tobacco.”

“Anything else?”

“We are concerned about the moral decay of this country and
will be opposed to any policies that support or continue that, and to
any further assaults on our religious freedom.”

“Anything else?”

The Cardinal looked at his papers and finally said, “I believe
that's it … for now.”

“Okay. I've noted your objections, but all of those policies
will stay.”

“But --”

“No buts, Your Eminence. My government is not a means for you
to impose your beliefs on everyone else and control their behavior,
just as it won't do that for Muslims or Jews, Hindus, Buddhists or
atheists … or voodoo priestesses, for that matter. You'd
agree, I trust, that not everybody in this country believes what you
believe?”

The Cardinal fidgeted, puffed up his chest, then let it sag, but he
stayed silent.

“Yes or no?”

Cowed, the Cardinal muttered, “Yes.“

“Well, you and your church will have freedom of religion, as
you have always enjoyed here, but there will also be freedom from
religion for non-believers. My government will always remain neutral
on that issue. It will never be a theocracy … of ANY brand.
That is not our role. And we will not set foot on the slippery slope
on those issues you brought up. My policies there will stand.”

“And you are also firm on the tax on the Church?”

“Absolutely.”

“But our work for the poor will suffer.”

“Well, Your Eminence, if that is really as important to you and
the Church as you want me to believe it is, you will come up with
some creative solutions to keep that from happening, perhaps by
finding other ways to economize, MAYBE at the upper management levels
of the Church. Word to the wise.”

The Cardinal glared at Donne, who stared right back. The silence
continued for a good thirty seconds, and then the Cardinal spoke.

“I will advise His Holiness of your position.”

“You do that, Your Eminence.”

“And may God have mercy on your soul.”

“I'm pretty sure She will, padre. Good day.”

The Cardinal angrily gathered his papers, stuffed them into his
briefcase and started to head for the door.

“Oh, Your Eminence, if you would like a DVD or audio CD of our
discussion here, just ask Emily or Jodi for one. No charge.”

The Cardinal glared one last time at Donne and then left the Oval
Office, trying to slam the door, but was prevented from doing so by
the hydraulic door closer.

“Pompous sonofabitch,” Donne murmured to himself as he
returned to his desk and the stacks of papers on it, which he got
separated into the two piles in a little less than an hour.

-32-

Five Months Earlier

Saturday, July 9, 2011

12:15 p.m.

The Seafood Shack

Bonita Springs, FL

As soon as Jake and Pam found a table at the far end of the outdoor
patio, overlooking the canal, Pam tore a paper towel from the dowel
in the middle of the table, took off her sunglasses, dabbed at her
eyes and blew her nose.

“I'm sorry, Jake. He was so dear, and it's so sad.”