Jackie Disaster

Jackie Disaster

4.0 1
by Eric Dezenhall
     
 

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Praise for Eric Dezenhall’s Money Wanders

“A riotous parody . . . [Dezenhall’s] superb eye and ear at times call to mind such masters of the journalistic novel as Tom Wolfe.” —Time

“A great read. It’s full of odd characters, quirky locations, and a clever, fresh plot that kept me turning pages.See more details below

Overview


Praise for Eric Dezenhall’s Money Wanders

“A riotous parody . . . [Dezenhall’s] superb eye and ear at times call to mind such masters of the journalistic novel as Tom Wolfe.” —Time

“A great read. It’s full of odd characters, quirky locations, and a clever, fresh plot that kept me turning pages.” —The Baltimore Sun

“It’s a little unnerving to read a spin doctor’s book on how easy it is for a spin doctor and his friends to dupe everybody—but, in Money Wanders, it’s also very funny.” —Philadelphia Daily News

“Dezenhall starts us off chuckling, moves us easily to guffaws, and then winds up with some nicely timed belly laughs. . . . If this debut is any indication, Dezenhall’s career as a novelist shouldn’t need much spinning to take off.” —Booklist (starred review)

“Thoughtful, unpretentious, filled with laugh-out-loud funny scenes and delightfully realized characters. Place your bets on this winner.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

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Editorial Reviews

The Washington Post
The fun never stops. Nor does it ever quite make sense. There are put-ons of the put-ons, send-ups of everything from PC language to mobsters, TV interview shows to tough-guy detectives. The events come in a barrage intended to scramble the brain until, at the end, Disaster explains it all and reveals how neatly he has manipulated the chaos and the reader's attention to his, and Sally's, advantage. By then I didn't much care. Looking for mystery? You won't find it here. Looking for comedy? Give it a read. — Paul Skenazy
Publishers Weekly
The world of the private eye and the spy gets spun for the 21st century in Dezenhall's broadly comic romp, in which Jackie Disaster protects the reputations of corporate clients under attack. Born Giovanni De Sesto, Jackie picked up his moniker as a kid boxer fighting in Golden Gloves and has grown up to head Allegation Sciences, with offices in an Atlantic City casino. Hired by Sally Naturale-kind of a mutated Martha Stewart from Jersey-after a woman claims she lost her unborn baby from drinking one of Sally's soy milk products, Disaster heads out to discredit the accuser and make the daffy Sally look as untarnished as possible. Dezenhall (Money Wanders), who once worked in the Reagan White House and currently is president of a crisis management firm, seems to be extrapolating the action from his popular nonfiction book, Nail 'Em! Confronting High-Profile Attacks on Celebrities and Businesses (1999). The undercover scenes with Jackie and his crew, known as the Imps, are great entertainment, with the Mafia hovering in the shadows and that Jersey setting, where "the Rocky movies had once been to the Delaware Valley what the Koran is to Islam." But the more realistic moments-Jackie's romance, problems with his father and raising his orphaned niece as a single dad-don't quite click amid all the clowning. This novel provides lots of fun in a Carl Hiassen mode. Agent, Kristine Dahl at ICM. (June 16) Forecast: A blurb from Janet Evanovich will signal readers that the novel is set in territory in which Stephanie Plum would feel right at home. The author's background as a real-life protector of corporate reputations makes him a natural for the talk show circuit. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Giovanni DeSesto, otherwise known as Jackie Disaster, runs a firm in Atlantic City dedicated to crisis damage control. He and a select group of likable scoundrels investigate a contentious woman who claims that some tainted soymilk caused her to abort spontaneously. The soymilk company's owner worries about the effects on business, but Jackie catches the flack when three guys invade his house and attempt to kill him. Apparently, something sinister is going on in the south Jersey Pine Barrens, something besides phantom crickets and giant balloon bats. Dezenhall's second novel (after Money Wanders) should win many readers with its inventive plot, comically exaggerated characters, jaunty tone, and intermittent jocularity. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Jackie De Sesto, known ever since his boxing days as Jackie Disaster, has retired from the ring to run Allegation Services, an Atlantic City crisis-management firm, from rooms overlooking the gaming floor of the Golden Prospect Casino. Golden Prospect, under the management of the luscious Angela Vanni, the gone-legit daughter of a dead mafioso (Money Wanders, 2002), is his main client, but even the constant need to fend off the scams of made men like Frankie Shrugs and Petey Breath Mints leaves him and his Imps--the Damon Runyonesque trio consisting of Teapot Freddy, the Lord, and Nate-the-Great--time to salvage other images. Right now he�s bent on refurbishing millionaire Sally Naturale�s reputation, tarnished by a lawsuit Murrin Connolly has brought against her and her company that claims their organic soy milk caused her miscarriage. According to pollster Jonah Eastman, discrediting Murrin is the way to go, but they also have to show Sally eating humble pie, because Cricket Crest, her ne plus opulent enclave in South Jersey�s Pine Barrens, has made the deprived masses unsympathetic to her. From this point on, disasters pile up quickly and satisfyingly--including the destruction of Cricket Crest and the disappearance of Sally--although it takes Jackie and the Imps a while longer to see through the despicable alliance between Frankie Shrugs and Bebe, Sally�s slithery brother, and to understand the reason for all those chirping crickets at the enclave. Barbed and cruelly witty: Jackie Disaster is the best thing to come out of Atlantic City since saltwater taffy. Agent: Kristine Dahl/ICM

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781429972925
Publisher:
St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
04/01/2007
Sold by:
Macmillan
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
416
File size:
0 MB

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Chapter One


"My job was to make bad news go away."

Is this class?"

This was more of a commandment than it was a question that Sally Naturale wielded to smite her customers. She signed off all of her television advertisements this way. From Cricket Crest, her baronial estate in South Jersey's Pine Barrens, Sally hawked promises ranging from organic food that would nurture a prize-winning fetus, to home furnishings, such as Naturale's Classware, that could be emblazoned with a customized family coat-of-arms "betraying your clan's noble lineage," which Sally pronounced in two syllables, LIN-yidge. This was the Philadelphia-South Jersey accent known as Phlersey. Class was pronounced klee-es; water was wudder. I spoke Phlersey myself and had not been aware that there was something odd about my speech until I made the mistake of "branching out" during college by leaving my local Glassboro State to become an exchange student at Notre Dame. A girl there, with whom I wrongly suspected I had been making progress, introduced me to another Fighting Irishwoman with the addendum, "Jackie De Sesto grew up in a place where they speak less than one language."

"Yes, Sally, it's klee-es," I answered with a touch of self-loathing, freezing the videotaped image of Sally gesturing toward the hemorrhaging vastness of Cricket Crest. In that frozen still, I made out swanlike people floating about in the background at a party that made one of Gatsby's affairs look like a tractor pull. Sally herself had sent me the reel of her ads via courier, as if it would explain why a Salem County woman, Murrin Connolly, was suing her. Murrin was claiming that Naturale's Real(r) Soy Milk had made her so sick that she lost her unborn baby. This was not an allegation she made frivolously. During the past few weeks, the most dangerous place to be in the Delaware Valley was midway between Murrin Connolly and a news camera. As a result of Murrin's media crusade, shares in Naturale's Real Living were plummeting.

Every news presentation of the controversy featured a wailing Murrin, her finger pointing somewhere unspecific, crucifix-a-swayin' (Murrin was a strict Catholic), juxtaposed with a stock photograph of Sally with her hands raised triumphantly toward the oak buttresses of Cricket Crest.

In a brief note, Sally asked me to call her as soon as I was done reviewing the tape. She wanted "a consultation," a term I associated more with interior design than my racket. She scribbled her private telephone number to underscore the sensitivity of the matter, and signed off with the observation, "A unique situation!" as if I didn't get the point. Unique situations, of course, were the kind that my firm, Allegation Sciences, Inc., was often called upon to, well, make a little less unique.

The truth was that, in my ghoulish specialty of damage control, all of my "complex" cases could be summarized in a moronic narrative that could be twisted into a vivid headline by a Pulitzer-horny reporter. I kept the headlines from my favorite cases on the corkboard beside my desk: ARTIFICIAL TESTICLE EXPLODES ... ANTI-DEPRESSANT ISN'T ... WASHING MACHINE LOSES QUARTER (GAINS ARM) ... CONCIERGE TRIPS PARAPLEGIC ... FAKE SWEETENER SOURS GENUINE COLON ... PILOT: "WHAT RUNWAY?" ... HAMBURGER GROWS TAIL ... SKANK SUES DEEJAY FOR CALLING HER "HOSEBAG" ... HUNGER STRIKER STARVES.

My job was to make bad news go away, which, in the age of the fabled spin doctor, was thought to be eminently doable with the right trick. To pull off disappearing acts, I needed to prove that the allegations against my corporate clients were false and that something other than justice motivated the charge. I then had to translate this intelligence into some form of communication for mass consumption-after all, my clients hired me because of the public relations implications of their problems. I accomplished these things with the help of a merry band of middle-aged adolescents who had prudently decided to work for me instead of going to prison after I nailed them in mid-con. Not that my clients appreciated what I did for them. People hate it when you save them, because it reminds them that they couldn't do it themselves.

Allegations Sciences is anchored in a very simple principle: Not every attack on a successful business or public figure is noble, and not every defense of society's "Haves" is sleazy. This philosophy conflicts with everything that modern journalism and Naderite activism stands for, namely that the merchandising of grievance and, accordingly, the destruction of any target is God's work. Fact is, when facing a lynch mob, the businessman has nowhere to turn. The media hound him, the government extorts him, and the courts rob him. In my experience, while my clients are often flawed (and occasionally guilty), their critics are invariably worse,
fs20something that rarely gets out because, after all, they're each the virtuous "little guy" who always cries foul when I go after him. Myself a child of the Jersey-Shore working class, I learned long ago that it's possible to be both financially and morally bankrupt at the same time. Sometimes the little guy is just another grifter. I plead guilty to suffering from compassion fatigue, having a hair-trigger alarm for emotional sleight-of-hand, and smelling a Boardwalk hustle whenever I hear the word "empowerment." Anyhow, when my clients' enemies call me unethical, it just means I caught them.

Not only do I come up against blatantly awful corporate stalkers and extortionists, I was increasingly encountering an even more insidious predator among America's chronically violated, folks who wrapped up their dirty agendas in the mantle of the sanctified whistleblower. My clients are the biggest companies in the world, and they live in mortal terror of a nun with a guitar showing up at a shareholders meeting. There were, of course, the SNEGs (Subversive Nuns with Electric Guitars), who could give a CEO a stroke with one strum of a chord; ASPs (Armageddon Science Projects) done by precocious little shits who wanted to get into Princeton by leveling a hideous safety allegation against a conglomerate; the dreaded BLUCS (Bored, Loud Utopian Chicks from Suburbia), who never had a divorce that wasn't caused by a food additive; and occasionally a Rebel Without Applause, a twenty-something activist who didn't care what he railed against as long as it drew a crowd and got him laid. Most Rebels were rich kids, which I had used against them on more than one occasion. A few years ago, I disrupted a particularly worrisome protest by seeing to it that the lead Rebel-a young heir to a real estate fortune whose parents had set him up in a townhouse near Philadelphia's Rittenhouse Square-didn't get his mail for a month. No trust fund check, no revolution. In addition to receiving two grand, the mailman got a bang out of it.

Sometimes my client work was improvised. A few years ago, a big pharmaceutical company called me in because somebody broke into their North Jersey plant where they made a drug to enhance sexual performance. They wanted me to help keep the break-in quiet, and discreetly investigate whether or not a competitor had been behind it. They were thinking about pursuing legal action. I had a different approach. Rather than engage in a long and fruitless investigation and lawsuit, I suggested that my client embrace the break-in and leak it to the press and online chat rooms. The endgame: Create a buzz that the drug was so hot that people were breaking in to steal it. The drug became a blockbuster. The company's ad agency got all the credit, but I didn't care; I got a bonus.

Allegation Sciences' offices were in Atlantic City's Golden Prospect Hotel & Casino. It may seem strange that a corporate consultant like me would rent offices in a casino, but it actually makes a lot of sense. Legalized gambling is far and away the fastest growing business in the U.S. Casinos are habitual targets of scams and shakedowns, everything from blackjack dealers with unfettered fingers to vacationers who conveniently slip on tiles by the swimming pool shortly after losing their mortgages at the baccarat table. All of these hustlers were convinced that their scams were original, and were stunned to discover that guys like me existed for the express purpose of stopping them. In the days when the gangster Mickey Price and his boys ran the Golden Prospect, accidents didn't happen. Nobody fell down. Nobody cheated. People must have been nicer then.

Everything changed when Mickey died a couple of years ago, and ownership passed from his gang to Ivy League MBAs who think skim is what you pour on your All-Bran. This includes Angela Vanni, who runs the place now. Angela was my original client. Even though her dad, Mario, was a stone-cold racketeer, Angela is all software and "focused marketing," a term I nodded at knowingly when she said it. In truth, I was distracted by that little dimple in her cheek that appeared and disappeared when she spoke. While the New Jersey Gaming Commission respected Angela's moral hygiene, the creepy crawlies that teemed beneath the boardwalk did not, and the Golden Prospect became a target for veteran scam artists.

This lurch in larceny had actually begun when Mickey Price's health declined in his final years, so he hired me to spread hideous stories about what was still happening to cheats under his rule. Given that my conventional media contacts were off-limits to gangster work, I used a gossip chain of degenerates that I had cultivated over the years. In return, Mickey shared a tip or two about how he had dissuaded cheats. Hint: The graphic leveraging of mob lore on the Internet and in the gambling community had more utility than actually killing people, something I didn't do because, as Richard Nixon once said, "That would be wrong."

After setting the Golden Prospect straight, word got around in the broader business community that I didn't screw around. My skills at stopping casino maggots turned out to be transferable to squelching a growing mob of anti-corporate hustlers. Make fun of New Jersey all you want, but just off those turnpike exit ramps lie the most powerful corporations in the world: After decades of legalized shakedowns by trial lawyers, activists and labor unions, the boys and girls of Business Casual had stopped screwing around, too, thus my opportunistic formation of Allegation Sciences. As I once told my priest, Father Ignacio, I spend my life in search of a lower truth.

Sure, I had gotten offers over the years to work directly for a big corporate client, but during the few all-day "business meetings" I had attended during my career, all I kept thinking as I looked around the conference table was, It's twelve forty five in the afternoon, where's the fucking food? Corporate people didn't eat, they didn't have human needs. I'm Italian. I did.

Among other criteria, I specialized in companies that were close to home, companies like Naturale's Real Living, which was a short drive away. In addition to my general opposition to new experiences, I would not fly to meet clients, and for good reason: I didn't think I'd ever get there. Friends always told me that my fear of flying was irrational, that driving was more dangerous. Bullshit-what are the chances that I was going to plummet thirty thousand feet into the side of a mountain while driving my Cadillac on the Atlantic City Expressway? Besides, working for industry as I did, I knew that companies-say, airlines-offset their investments in safety against the low probability that bad things would happen. In other words, they played the odds, which was very different from guaranteeing that flying was safe. Given the horrors that had already befallen me in my life, I calculated that the odds of being pulverized into rose-hued pus were pretty damned good.

The thing I liked best about my job-in addition to the fact that when clients needed me, they needed me so badly that they didn't quibble about invoices-was my office. From my vantage point behind a curved glass cockpit of a desk, a huge window was on my right overlooking the boardwalk where the May morning sunlight, greasy illusions and the scent of roasted peanuts indistinguishably mingled. I had never been comfortable with Atlantic City by day. I always preferred it in the night, when neon made the town look like a giant dessert counter, all sparkling toppings-jimmies Gummi Bears and M&Ms. Maybe Atlantic City by day made me so anxious because the place didn't look so great beneath sunlight. In the evening, even homelessness had the patina of mystery, a man with a past. There was nothing romantic about a bum pissing on a mailbox as he squinted into the morning sun.

Sometimes I would stare out at the ocean for a long time. I had always been fascinated with pirates. Ever since I was a little kid cutting catechism and fearing Hell, I would sneak books on pirates out of the library and then stare at the waves rolling in, thinking that if I hung around long enough I'd see Blackbeard's galleon wash ashore. It's embarrassing to admit, but I actually thought about stuff like this. My dad did, too, in a way, but he liked shipwrecks in particular, and memorized the big ones that sunk off of New Jersey. There had been many.

Beyond my guest chairs was an interior window-a one-way mirror, really, that offered a panoramic view of the winking casino floor. I didn't really spy out the casino or the boardwalk from my office, but the design conveyed a certain omniscience, and I played it to my advantage. Consulting was three quarters optics: Any consultant who wasn't on amphetamines knew damned well that the key to marketing was implying that you had some influence in things that would have happened anyway. For moral support, I kept a quotation from the Bible (Book of Samuel) above my office's exit: "Thou art the man."

Behind my desk, there was a solid beige wall centered by a giant photo of my brother, Tommy, who was pumping a fist moments after winning the welterweight title that qualified him for the U.S. Olympic Boxing Team in 1992. He was shooting that DeSesto snarl that we shared. The Death Snarl, as The Philadelphia Bulletin had once called it. Not long before he was set to fly out to become an Olympian, he died in the ring during a routine sparring session. Tommy's wife responded by jumping off the Ben Franklin Bridge (on the Jersey side), leaving me to raise their infant daughter, Emma, who was now ten. I had done this without the benefit of a wife or kids of my own. I framed every painting and drawing that Emma had ever made for me, and displayed them inside a cabinet that I kept closed when I had guests. I didn't like people to know I cared about anything.


Copyright © 2003 by Eric Dezenhall

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