The LieDeck Revolution: Book 1 Read online

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  Literaryroad.com

  www.literaryroad.com

  Copyright ©2006 by Jim Stark

  First published in 2006

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  A Literary Road publication

  The LieDeck Revolution by Jim Stark

  ISBN 1-934037-02-8

  © Copyright Jim Stark, 2006.

  This e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by email forwarding, copying, fax, or any other mode of communication without author or publisher permission.

  The LieDeck Revolution

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  People tell (on average) 200 lies every day, new research suggests.... “Society would fall apart if we were honest all the time,” says American psychologist Gerald Jellison, of the University of Southern California. “Society would be terrible if people started telling the truth. Anyone who did would be a subversive."

  Ottawa Citizen, April 7, 1997

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  Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.

  The Ninth Commandment, from the Bible

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  Whoever is careless of the truth in small matters cannot be trusted with important affairs.

  Albert Einstein

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  Beauty is truth, truth beauty—that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

  John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 16, 2014

  Chapter 1

  BANG ON EVERY TIME

  Victor Helliwell had a powerful distaste for Homo sapiens—an acquired distaste. He drove a cab, which explained the chronic pain in his lower back, the little village of hemorrhoids that made even sitting a misery, and his dark attitude towards “human beans,” as he liked to call them when he felt charitable.

  Back in 2002, when Victor first pinned his laminated photo to the faded sun visor of a taxi, he was still a young man, only twenty-nine, with a full head of hair and fire in the belly. He had every confidence that his real work, the work that devoured his off-hours, would take only a year or two to complete. The day he signed up at Blue Line, he had rented a freshly painted farmhouse south of Ottawa and purchased a little white ball of fluff called Lucky, a purebred Samoyed puppy. Now, the farmhouse was in serious need of another coat, and Lucky had died—of old age. “Setbacks,” he'd tried to call them over the years. There had been too many to count, almost too many to bear, and driving cab had become more a way of life than a way of coping.

  Yet here he was, sitting in the cavernous backseat of Senator Cadbury's limo, gliding over the Champlain Bridge from Ottawa to Gatineau, in la belle province. Victor had crossed this bridge a thousand times, a loser in the business of delivering winners from wherever they were last to wherever they wanted to go next.

  He knew there were man-eating bumps from coast to coast, but on this day, the potholes might as well have been warm butter patties. Unlike car #17, his regular cab, there were no rattles or thunks here, and hardly a purr from the engine. Best of all, there was no meter whining for another dollar every twenty-seven seconds, as allowed by law. Some authority had apparently decided that passengers of this luxury liner were above paying for their transport at all, deserving of deep-pile upholstery, allowed to roll to their destinations without having to press pedals or chew out the world's idiots and slowpokes. A symphony orchestra hid behind a state-of-the-art speaker system, ready to perform at the touch of a button, and the power windows were tinted just enough to filter out the odors of the masses.

  He massaged the fingers on his left hand, stubby fingers that jutted out of an unsigned plaster cast. “God,” he said absently, “life will never be the same."

  "I'm ... sorry, sir?” inquired the chinless chauffeur, with a slight toss of the head that let his ears hear better but kept his eyes glued to the tarmac.

  "Nothing,” said Victor. I really must stop speaking my thoughts out loud, he scolded himself privately.

  There were chunks of broken river sliding silently under the bridge, jostling for position, squishing the littler white clumps into slush, helplessly drifting towards the Atlantic, oblivious to the self-absorbed sliver of humanity that passed overhead. Some of the slabs were as big as a bus. A flat bus, at any rate, he thought as he stared at the frigid procession below. “Or a flat van,” he said aloud, unconsciously.

  "I'm sorry, sir?” said the chauffeur, with the same toss of the head and the same modest level of interest.

  "The ice,” Victor explained. “I was just thinking that some of those floes are the size of a van."

  "Well, perhaps a flat van,” said the chauffeur dryly.

  A fine set of ears, thought Victor, with a crooked smile. Humor was something he'd missed during those twelve lost years. Oh, there was no end to the dirty jokes down at the cabbie shop, but that wasn't the same as actual humor. He had long ago stopped laughing at sitcoms, and to him, people were ... well, they just weren't very funny.

  "What's Whiteside like?” he asked.

  "He's a prince,” said the chauffeur. “Mind you, it doesn't pay to get into a tussle with him."

  "He freaks out?” asked Victor, forgetting for a moment that he no longer had to limit himself to the lexicon of the brotherhood. “I mean ... he has a bad temper?"

  "Not to worry,” assured the driver. “You have to act like a real jerk before he—uh—freaks out, as you put it."

  Not to worry, Victor repeated in his mind, looking at the endless parade of flat vans through smoked windows. My life is in danger, and this guy with no chin says not to worry.

  The Champlain Bridge had two spans, rumbling rapids beneath, and a smallish island marking the mid-point. On the island was an overpriced restaurant, Chez Gaston. Victor had often picked up or dropped off fares at Chez Gaston, and it wasn't his favorite call. Every driver knew the economic facts of life: Rich folk—even those barely able to afford Gaston's haute cuisine—were lousy tippers. That's what I need, he said to himself, my own island.

  "Aren't you curious about why Senator Cadbury asked you to take an ordinary guy like me to the Royal Oaks to meet a big shot like Randall Whiteside?” he asked.

  "Not at all."

  "Liar, liar,” sang Victor, in the manner of a child.

  "Maybe a little."

  "Pants on fire."

  "Have it your way,” sighed the chauffeur. “If you don't tell me what's going on, I'll stop the car and bust your other arm with a tire iron. Satisfied?"

  "Yep,” replied the improbable passenger, and nothing more.

  To the west, the sun was hovering about twenty degrees over the Ottawa River, waiting to dive into oblivion for another ten-hour snooze. Not a bad idea, considered Victor as he leaned back and allowed his eyes to close. He had worked the graveyard shift the night before, enduring the usual assortment of drunks, druggies and deadbeats. Normally he would be dreaming at this hour, or just crawling out of bed, preparing for another nine-to-nine shift behind the wheel. Of course, had he been dreaming, he might well have been dreaming about this, about making his move, at long last.

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  As the limousine eased into the parking lot of the Royal Oaks Golf and Country Club, Randall Byron Whiteside had just finished a feast of rare roast beef. He passed on the dessert tray, as usual, then slapped his beach-ball stomach and peered over half-moo
n reading-and-eating glasses as his wife kibitzed with the kids about whether fourteen-year-old Sarah usually ate faster than her nine-year-old sister Julia, “Gobbleguts.” He had spent his adult life struggling to nurture and expand the corporate empire known as Whiteside Technologies, the robust network of interlocking corporations that dominated the Canadian electronics industry and played fairly effectively below the 49th parallel, as well as across the two big ponds that cradled his home nation. While he gave himself full credit and top marks on that front, he counted himself plain lucky to have a fun-loving, normal family in spite of the myriad stresses and burdens of the moneyed class.

  "Okay, hon,” he said loudly. “The pro opened the driving range this morning now that the snow's almost all gone. Me and Mikeyface are going to hit a bucket of balls before the sun sets—a half hour or so. We'll keep the limo here. My sticks are in the trunk. The agency will take you and the girls back home. We'll have a game of ping-pong in an hour or so, okay kids?"

  "Dad,” complained Michael, “I'm eighteen and I'm off to university in a few months. Could we lose the ‘Mikeyface’ bit for—ooooh—like the rest of my life?"

  "My son, my son,” said Whiteside. “You beat the crap out of me out on the course and I'll never call you Mikeyface again. Until then, tough bananas. Us gazillionaires aren't supposed to be that nice, you know. We're supposed to eat our young and—"

  "Excuse me for interrupting your dinner, Mr. Whiteside,” said the maître d’ as discreetly as he could.

  "It's all right, Charles,” Whiteside allowed. “We're finished. What is it?"

  "There's a—uh—gentleman from Ottawa who is determined to see you. He says he'll only talk to you. He insists that Senator Cadbury sent him over. Your security chief, Ms.—uh—"

  "Kozinski, Helen Kozinski."

  "Yes, well this ... gentleman wouldn't tell her what it was all about, so when I was called in—that was maybe forty minutes ago—I listened to his story—or what little he would tell me—and I wasn't about to interrupt your meal, so I asked him to wait in the library, but if you'd rather I can just—"

  "Thanks, Charles,” said Whiteside. “You did the right thing. I owe the senator a couple of doozies. Come on, Mikeyface. This won't take long. See you at home, hon?"

  It sounded a lot like a question, but it wasn't, and “hon” put on her lopsided mug, the one with the circumpolar eye-roll. This scurrying-off routine was typical of the man she loved to pieces but wanted to strangle six days a week. She could remember a hundred other outings that had been unilaterally waylaid by an unexpected business deal or by some emergency at the charitable foundation that her husband virtually owned.

  "Sure ‘nuff, okay boss,” she said in a tone he knew well. “Macho golfers go to jungle, bring home birdies and bogies for cook in black pot. Ooga booga."

  Sarah always laughed at her mother's “ooga booga” routine, and little Julia giggled uncontrollably whenever Sarah cracked up. They loved it when Mom stood up to Dad in public, especially if she could make him blush. It was almost as much fun as hanging out at the tennis courts, ogling the hunks—or pretending to ogle hunks, in Julia's case.

  Randall Whiteside peeked at the adjacent tables and was relieved to see that the other diners were minding their own business, or pretending to. “Honey,” he scolded gently.

  Doreen Elizabeth Dawe-Whiteside relented, as always. She'd seen her man cry real tears. She'd seen him grow from a gangly, blond boy with runaway hormones to an aspiring grandfather. She'd seen him vilified as a bleeding-heart liberal and/or a union-busting Hun, she'd seen him fêted, roasted and toasted as an industrial wunderkind and a pillar of everything except salt, and through it all, he'd been a sensitive, decent human being—and a pain in the ass. He was the way he was.

  "We'll go home and do girl stuff,” she muttered. “I hope we do see you later, sweetheart, but I'm not going to sit on my hands waiting."

  "Oink oink!” said Sarah in the general direction of her dad.

  "Oink oink oink oink!” mimicked Julia, with her tiny chin jutted out and her eyes scrinched into playfully accusing slits.

  "Hush, Julia,” said Doreen as her eyes darted around the dining room. “We're not at home."

  Randall kissed his wife on the cheek and whispered “I love you” in her ear. Forgiveness, although not instantaneous, would be assured. There were kisses for the girls too, and not for show, either.

  "The man,” as he was often called by the financial media, was in a bulletproof mood as he strode down the red-carpeted, wood-paneled hallway with an arm around his son's shoulders. He always looked forward to smacking balls in April. It signaled the defeat of snow for yet another year, the beginning of the only Canadian season he had any real use for, golf season.

  As they passed through the foyer, they were joined in lock step by Cameron O'Connor, Whiteside's longtime right-hand man and the titular head of Patriot Security, a key piece of the corporate empire. “The fellow's name is Thomas Victor Helliwell—goes by Victor,” said O'Connor with his typical air of urgency. “He wouldn't tell Helen anything—that's why I took over. He's forty-one, single, a cab driver, of all things. He's got a mustache and he's wearing a black bowling jacket, and he's got a cast on his left arm, from his knuckles almost to the elbow. The thing that gets me is he seems scared, afraid of something. I'm not comfortable with this whole deal. I recommend an appointment at the office, tomorrow, so we can figure out what his game is."

  "He said he'd only talk to me?” asked Whiteside, without missing a step and with the full snap of authority in his voice.

  "Well, that's true, but it's my feeling that—"

  "And he's scared?"

  "Well, from the way he—"

  "And Senator Joe sent him over?"

  "That's what he says, but—"

  "Then I'll see him, Cam."

  One thing about Whiteside; once he'd made up his mind, that was pretty well it. Cam O'Connor came from a distinguished family and had a PhD in chemistry. He could never quite adjust to having his advice dismissed like so much New Age drivel. On the other hand, he had built a university friendship with Whiteside into a very rewarding thirty-year career, from Patriot administrator to principal advisor to “the man.” He bit his tongue and reminded himself that it was Randall Whiteside who signed the paychecks.

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  Since the interrogations by Helen Kozinski and Mr. O'Connor, Victor had been standing alone in a room filled with antiques—antique lamps, antique furniture—the things, he imagined, that made antique people feel good. He had visually taken in every section of the ceiling-high bookshelves, and wondered when those unreachable tomes at the top had last seen light on their ancient pages. He had leafed through the carefully arranged Wall Street Journals, impeccably written, he supposed, in the holy language of the well heeled—Greek to him. He had leaned on the windowsill and absorbed the sun's reflection from the Ottawa River. He had gazed at the steep brown bluffs on the Ontario side, at the gray Parliament Buildings above the bluffs, at the famous and phallic Peace Tower, with its oxidized copper cap and the ever-present red and white maple leaf flag on top, wiggling patriotically.

  He looked down at the black marble sill he'd been leaning on with his good hand and noticed that he'd left a smudge. He glanced at the door, pulled the sleeve of his bowling jacket over the butt of his right hand, breathed on the print, and rubbed furiously until the area was as shiny and perfect as the rest of the sill. He felt awkward to find himself in this bastion of Anglophone power and privilege. He knew he didn't belong in this elitist club any more than it belonged in the aggressively francophone city of Gatineau. He wasn't dressed properly, for one thing, but he had decided earlier that he should blend out of the field of vision of those who mattered for this one, final time.

  Whiteside walked into the library, smiled broadly, and held out his hand as he would for any old friend. “I'm Randall Whiteside,” he said cheerily. “This is my son, Michael, and you've met my friend and colleag
ue, Cameron O'Connor."

  Throughout his illustrious career, Whiteside had placed a great deal of trust in his own first impressions. This chap should have had hoagie crumbs on his shirt or brown teeth or scuffed shoes—some sort of professional badge. His attire was dumpy enough to make him resemble a thousand other hapless hacks, but something in his bearing hinted at a touch of class. His fingernails were immaculate, no different from those of the aesthetically obsessed Cam O'Connor, even on the fingers that stuck out of the frayed plaster cast.

  After everyone had done the obligatory handshake, Whiteside asked his visitor about the cast.

  "I got mugged,” said Victor. “Six weeks ago. This will be on for another day or two,” he added, clunking the knuckles of his right hand on the cast. “It—uh—hurt pretty bad for a while there."

  "Sorry to hear it,” said Whiteside, with as much sincerity as he felt was appropriate. “So, Mr. Helliwell, what's on your mind?"

  "Thanks for seeing me,” he replied. “I'm sorry to just drop in on you this way, sir, but I'm afraid I'll have to ask if we could speak in private, just for one minute. Would it be all right if ... would you two, uh, mind if...?"

  At least the broken bowler has manners, thought Whiteside. “One minute it is,” he said as he glanced at his son and O'Connor, who indicated “no problem” with their eyes, and with their feet.

  The clock on the cabbie started ticking as the door clicked closed. Victor sat on the arm of an easy chair and looked up into the heavily guarded eyes of Canada's most celebrated high tech entrepreneur and big league philanthropist. Here was a man who would understand, with no need for prancing preliminaries. Victor had been anticipating this meeting with Whiteside for the last three years, but now that the moment had finally arrived, all his mirrored rehearsals seemed pointless and trivial. Just ... say it, he told himself silently.

  "I can tell if people are lying,” he said flatly.

  Whiteside scratched the underside of his chin and wondered if his golf pal Senator Cadbury had taken up an interest in practical jokes. “This isn't ‘Candid Camera’ or something like that?” he asked.