Open Doors (Suncoast Society #27)(39)

“Do you think they’ll be back?” Marcia asked.

“Hard to say,” Ed admitted. “They could instigate another group to protest in their stead, along the street, but what’s that going to do? Not a damn thing. You can’t even see the club’s front door from the street because of the other building.”

“And it’ll get even harder to see,” Kel said. “I’ve got a landscaper coming tomorrow to add extra shrubs along that front swale until I can get the permits to put up a stockade fence there and completely block the view from the street.”

“What about your other tenants?” Marcia nervously asked.

“I believe about half of them are already members of the club,” Kel said.

“Yeah, I know that, but what about the other half?”

He shrugged. “You realize how quickly these units go when one comes up available?” He snapped his fingers. “I might have one sitting for three weeks, if that, once I list it. I have waiting lists for a couple of my units, like the front corner ones. And, to be honest? I’ve told all of the new tenants I’ve rented to since you opened what kind of business you are, so they can’t come back later and claim I didn’t. Haven’t lost a single renter over it. You don’t operate during their business hours, and you aren’t doing anything illegal, and the crime rate in this complex so far is zero. They’re happy there is a business open on weekend nights, when most crime would happen, that actually discourages crime from happening in this complex.”

“Huh,” Derrick said. “I never looked at it like that.”

“Hell, yeah,” Kel said. “I mean, a bunch of guys who enjoy beating people for fun basically providing weekend security for free? Um, yeah, what’s not to like about that?”

Marcia nudged Derrick. “You should call Larry Bartwell.”

“Why?”

“Uh, why? To do a pre-emptive strike.”

“Again, why?”

She shrugged. “It’s out there about Shayla’s articles, now. Let’s get ahead of it and control the message.”

“I can’t ask one of our accounting clients to do a fake story for us for the newspaper.”

“No, but you can give him the story and let him write it. I’m sure he’d be fair.”

“She’s got a point,” Kel said. “He’s been here a couple of times.”

“As your attorney,” Ed chimed in, “I say do it. As your friend, I’m telling you you’d be an idiot not to do it.”

The next day, Tuesday, Derrick had lunch with Larry and spilled the whole story to him while Larry took notes on a reporter’s pad. “Do you want me to use your scene name or your real name?” the man asked.

“I don’t know. My attorney says I’m okay liability-wise.”

“I’ll just list you as Derrick,” he said, smiling as he looked up from his notepad. “That’ll make it easier for you.”

“Look, I don’t want you to write what you think I want you to write. I want you to be fair.”

“Oh, I will be. Religious nuts who think they can impose their morality on other law-abiding people. Got it.”

Derrick laughed. “Your editor will let you write the story like that?”

He shrugged. “This isn’t a political race. I’ll find this dingleberry who was their ringleader and interview him and cherry-pick the craziest of quotes from him. Anything you’d like to add?”

“Well, Shayla’s articles did increase our membership by quite a bit.”

“Got it. The quote from you will be, ‘All this attention has helped get the word out about what it is that we do, and helped dispel the completely erroneous myths and lies that are out there about us. We aren’t breaking the law, we’re not bothering anyone, and we’re having fun while ensuring people are being safe. And our membership has grown by explosive numbers after all this coverage, so we’re glad to take the scrutiny. I’d like to thank our protestors for that.’”

“Wow. That makes me sound smart. Do you often write good quotes like that for the people you interview?”

He grinned. “Only the ones I really like.”





Wednesday morning, Marcia walked into Derrick’s office without knocking and closed the door behind her. In her hand, a newspaper that she must have purchased on her way in, because they didn’t have a subscription.

She’d already turned it to the right page and laid it in front of him on the desk before sinking into one of the chairs. “Read it. I’ve already had twenty-six new e-mails today from people wanting info on how to join the club. And five more whackadoodles.”

“Is it a good story?”

“Read it.”

He did, nervously. He’d resisted the urge to go online and read the story there.

But five minutes later, after having read the story three times, and giggling at the picture of the Rev. Paul Mark Bartholomew—which made him look even crazier than he had during the protest—Derrick laid the paper back on the desk.

“Well?” she asked.

“I don’t think we could have bought anything better in terms of advertising. He made the guy sound like a lunatic.”

“He didn’t have to work very hard to do that.”