What the Enemy Thinks: A Beck Carnell Novel

By Gail Picco

Beck Carnell is a driven CEO whose upbringing in the fishing village of Herring Neck, Newfoundland, both haunts and comforts her as she battles her demons and her rivals in a world where misery translates to fundraising opportunity.
The marketing press calls Becks Toronto firm, Social Good, an edgy, dynamic shop catering to charities and interest groups. Together with a team comprised of talented political organizers, social media sages, and newcomers seeking success, Beck attempts to carve her way through both personal and professional challenges in the murky waters of modern-day faith, hope, and charity. Now only time will tell if she can simultaneously save the world, her firm and her sanity as she copes with heartbreak, wades through the stickiness of childhood memories and fights for what she sees as justice.
In this dark comedy, a shrewd charity marketer on a fast-paced journey to achieve professional triumph is forced to walk a fine line between her past and present, ultimately discovering the true meaning of unconditional love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491770054

Gail Picco

Gail Picco is an award-winning fundraising and communications consultant who ran a consulting firm for sixteen years. She has designed and executed advocacy and fundraising campaigns for some of Canada’s largest charities. Her blog, yourworkinggirl.com, offers commentary on media, marketing, and the nonprofit sector. She was born and raised in Newfoundland, Canada.

Book preview

WHAT THE ENEMY THINKS

A BECK CARNELL NOVEL

Copyright © 2015 Gail Picco.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover illustration by Wallace Ryan

Author photo by Sandy Tam Photography

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7003-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7005-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015909250

iUniverse rev. date: 07/28/2015

CONTENTS

Prologue

PART

ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

PART

TWO

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

PART

THREE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

PART

FOUR

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

PART

FIVE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

PART

SIX

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

PART

SEVEN

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

PART

EIGHT

Conclusion

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Simple Twist of Fate

Words and music by Bob Dylan. Copyright © 1974 by Ram’s Horn Music; renewed 2002 by Ram’s Horn. Used by permission.

Heaven Knows

Words and music by Andrea Corr, Caroline Corr, James Corr, and Sharon Corr. Copyright (c) 1995 Universal, Songs of Polygram International, Inc. and Beacon Communications Music Co. All rights administered by Universal, Songs of Polygram International, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

Behind Blue Eyes

© 1971 (Renewed) Fabulous Music Ltd. Published by Fabulous Music Ltd. Administered in the USA and Canada by Spirit One Music (BMI), Spirit Services Holdings, S.à.r.l., Suolubaf Music, and ABKCO Music Inc., 85 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY, 10003. International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

A Salty Dog

Words by Keith Reid, music by Gary Brooker. Copyright © 1969 (Renewed), 1971 (Renewed). Onward Music Ltd., London, England, Tro–Essex Music International, Inc. Controls all publication rights for the USA and Canada. Used by permission.

High

Words and Music by Lindi Ortega and Bruce Wallace. Copyright ©2012, Ole Purple Cape Music. Used by permission.

Demons Don’t Get Me Down

Words and music by Lindi Ortega. Copyright ©2012, Last Gang Publishing. Used by permission.

Allikas, Greg and Ned Nash, Four Seasons of Orchids, Creative Homeowner, © 2007 Salamander Books

For Katie and Evan

and

in loving memory of Bob and Lilly Picco

Always remember the first rule of power tactics; power is not only what you have but what the enemy thinks you have.

—Saul Alinsky

PROLOGUE

Herring Neck, Newfoundland, 1975

B eck was sitting next to her poppy in a trap skiff that had been pulled up onto the beach rocks next to the wharf. They had mugs of tea in their hands, and Nanny had just brought them down a few raisin biscuits wrapped up in a tea towel, still warm from the oven. Beck’s tea was mostly water, Carnation milk, and sugar. Poppy’s was almost b lack.

Poppy was teaching her a song. Okay, my duck. You sing it now, he said. I’ll start, and then you finish it off, all right?

Beck nodded.

Clearing his throat, Poppy began, We are coming, Mr. Coaker, from the east, west, north, and south …

Eyes straight and chin in the air, Beck picked up the verse without missing a beat.

"You have called us, and we’re coming, for to put our foes to rout.

"By merchants and by governments, too long we’ve been misruled;

We’re determined now in future, and no longer we’ll be fooled.

Heh heh heh. Poppy laughed as he clapped Beck on the back. Listen to you, sure, saying that rhyme as strong and true as any fisherman who ever fished off these shores. Yes, my darling! That’s the anthem of the Newfoundland Fishermen’s Protective Union you’re after reciting that time. You’re Poppy’s little fisherman girl, you are, he said, putting his arm around her as they turned to look out at the longliners making their way toward the wharf. Beck rested her head against his wool sweater, the one Nanny had knit for him last winter.

PART

ONE

Well, I wish I had some whiskey

And I wish I had some weed

On nights when I feel so alone

Baby, that’s just what I need.

—Demons Don’t Get Me Down

Words and music by Lindi Ortega and Bruce Wallace

CHAPTER 1

B eck leaned over the side of her bed and threw up into the wastebasket she had remembered to put there the night before. When she figured she was done, she blew her nose, wiped her mouth and gave herself a pat on the back for being organized. After a couple of sips of water, she lay back on her pillows, the endorphin rush from vomiting making her feel better.

She remembered leaving the office at six o’clock the previous evening and meeting Henry at the Blue Door. They had been watching the news and imploring the bartender to switch the channel to MSNBC. He always made a big deal of it, but had given in, since they were the only ones there. She had drunk about four glasses of their house white, which was so bitter she’d added ice. They’d left the bar at some point and walked the three blocks over to Henry’s house because she had needed a cigarette. He’d had a bottle of Fevre Chablis in his fridge, which she remembered drinking most of, as well as smoking two or three of the joints he’d rolled with tobacco from her package of duMauriers. They might have danced around his massive kitchen to the Black Keys’ Lonely Boy. Or maybe that was just a dream—she couldn’t be sure.

When she’d called a cab to come home, she’d thought the clock on Henry’s kitchen stove had said twelve-thirty, but it could have been two-thirty. The time would be on her Visa slip. Today was Friday; the kids were away at school. Anthony was long gone.

She did a quick calculation of her company’s billings for the month. On retainer, they were invoicing one client $50,000 and one client $30,000; that was $80,000. Then, four clients were being billed $20,000 each; that was another $80,000. There were another three clients at $10,000 each; that was $30,000. Altogether that came to $190,000. Then she had about $100,000 in project billings and another $80,000 or so in production markup. That was $370,000 in all. Expenses were $300,000. All this added up to $70,000 in profit for October if all the non-retainer work was completed and billed on time. It seemed like a safe enough margin for one month.

She pulled back the covers and put her feet on the carpeted floor.

Kneeling down, she tied up the four corners of the white bag she’d just thrown up in and headed downstairs to the kitchen. After putting the bag into the organics bin under the sink, she washed her hands. Her purse was on the kitchen table. She took out her wallet and found the Visa slip. She had arrived home at 12:43 a.m. Rummaging in the outer compartment of the purse, she found her cigarettes and lit one with a lighter from the kitchen counter. She took a puff and then turned on the kettle to make tea.

Make sure the kettle is filled up before you go to bed, my darling, her mother used to say as she stood in the old kitchen in Herring Neck wearing her nightie and holding the kettle in her hand. You never know if the water is going to come out of the tap in the morning.

Beck doubted she’d be her mommy’s darling girl now, seeing as how she was as hungover as a pissed cat and not for the first time this week, either. Thanks be to Jesus it’s Friday, was all Beck could say, and she did say exactly that, standing there alone in the kitchen where no one could hear her.

She laid her cigarette in the ashtray and checked her iPhone. It was 7:40 a.m. Her first meeting outside the office was at one o’clock, a regular lunch with her friend Samantha Reed. But the possibility of an illegal strike by their biggest client, the province’s 100,000-member teachers’ union, would be the day’s award-winning shit show. Figuring out how to keep parents lining up to give their favourite teacher an apple while one million of their kids were out of school and the union leadership potentially in jail would be job one today. Beck shook her head and muttered, Oh, for frigging, fucking fuck’s sake, as a rejoinder to the whole mess. She walked out to the front door to pick up her Globe and Mail. When she stood up and looked down her tree-lined street, the cool breeze found her cheek. The sun was shining, and the leaves were beginning to fall. All she wanted to do was vomit.

CHAPTER 2

A lthough she had managed to choke down a slice of white bread toasted and a cup of tea, Beck’s stomach still felt queasy as she rode across Harbord Street and through the University of Toronto campus in the back of a cab. Beck felt soothed riding in a taxi. She didn’t have to worry about parking or her blood-alcohol level.

The campus was ablaze with colour. The red, orange, and yellow maple, beech, and elm trees flamed against the sky, their branches moving like merry old burlesque dancers, as they tossed their gloves over the heads of the groundskeepers rolling out spools of plastic orange snow fencing below. Pale apparitions of the school’s celebrity alumni gazed from taut canvas flags hanging on the utility poles lining the street—an unearthly honour guard performing a haunting benediction for the school’s $2-billion fundraising campaign.

When she’d stepped out of the shower, Beck had thrown open the door of her closet and stared. Given the monumental size of her hangover, she’d wanted an outfit that looked dressy enough for work but felt like a housecoat. In her cupboard, suits hung next to suits, tops with tops, dresses with dresses, jackets with jackets. Everything was size 8. Beck had worn size 8 ever since she could remember—size 8L, actually, as in 8 Long. See if they’ve got that in an 8L, my love, her mother would say as they’d flicked through the Sears catalogue. The L is better for you because you’re tall. You’ve got long legs, like your father. So size 8 it was, and Beck never deviated from that. Some months her clothes felt loose. At other times they felt tight, but she always kept a steady course concerning the size of her outfits.

Beck held high expectations of her clothes. For her part, she treated them well—paid good money for them, hung them on wooden hangers, sent them to the dry cleaners if instructed, washed them on the delicate cycle if they needed it, and never threw them on the floor. In return, she required them to pick up the slack when necessary. And, Christ knows, today was a day she needed them to work hard—very hard—for her, because she totally felt like shit.

After pulling a long-sleeve cashmere tunic off the rack, she’d chosen black velvet leggings and a grey calf-length raw silk vest that swished when she walked. She’d gotten down on her hands and knees to recruit a pair of low-heeled black suede boots that had taken up residence at the back of her cupboard. They were stuffed with newsprint to keep their shape. It was the first time she’d worn boots since March.

When Sarah Palin was preparing for her television debate, the vice-presidential candidate had asked the McCain strategists whether her brand was hair up or hair down. Beck considered her own brand and pulled the top half of her long mane of red hair away from her face into a large clip, resulting in a diplomatic do that was half-up, half-down. She’d drawn dark brown eyeliner around her green eyes and brushed powder on her face to even out the palest of freckles that someone would only ever notice if they leaned in close enough to kiss her. To finish it off, she’d clamped on her Tag Heuer watch and added a dangly pair of earrings that might, subliminally at least, reinforce the sashay of her silk vest.

The cab dropped Beck off at the Starbucks around the corner from her office. She picked up a grande Earl Grey tea and walked the rest of the way to her work in a renovated warehouse on Adelaide Street. Standing in front of the elevator, she pushed the Up button with the middle finger of the hand that was holding the tea. The door lurched open. She got in and pressed 3.

Leaning against the elevator wall, she closed her eyes and listened for the familiar groaning of cables, which to her sounded as though a sailor were hoisting her up in the elevator car, hand over hand, in the same way he’d raise a sail. Rumble-rumble-creak, rumble-rumble-creak, rumble-rumble-creak. The elevator stopped with a lurch, and the doors opened. Her sailor was shooing her out, and if his grunting was any indication, she should think twice before getting in his way again that day. Beck opened her eyes and stepped into the hallway. The elevator door closed behind her.

When they had moved into this building, her company had had a two-room office and four staff. Now they had 35 employees and took up 10,000 square feet of space on the third floor. She was the CEO of what the marketing press called an edgy, dynamic shop catering to charities and interest groups, an agency that simply spilled over with raw talent. The third-floor hallway was wide and bright, its walls painted white, or more precisely, orchid. The glowing floor was so thick with varnish it looked as if clear molasses had been poured over it.

The two doors to the firm were made from translucent glass, tall and heavy, with the words SOCIAL and GOOD, the firm’s name, etched one to each door. With the letter C at eye level on her left and the letter O on her right, she took a deep breath and opened the door on the right.

CHAPTER 3

Y vonne Precipa stared at the three screens on her desk, her eyes wide as if what she was seeing surprised her. One monitor was streaming Canadian cable news, one was on CNN, and the third screen was her laptop. Yvonne’s dark hair was parted in the middle and hung on the sides of her round face like quotation marks ready to frame the words that came out of her mouth. She was waiting for Beck to arrive and was starving—starving and freezing. She had taken her two suit jackets to the dry cleaners yesterday after work and paid extra for a one-hour cleaning, but with all this teachers’ shit going on, she had forgotten to pick them up.

She tugged at her clothes and squirmed to get comfortable in her chair. Her leggings had shrunk in the wash, and she pulled her top down to cover her belly and the tops of her thighs. Yvonne felt nervous, and she knew she was nervous. She was going to be responsible for the media relations on the teachers’ illegal strike—if they actually went on strike, that is—and it would be her biggest assignment yet. On the one hand, she couldn’t wait; on the other hand, she didn’t want to go near it with a 10-foot pole, because she didn’t want to fuck it up. Contrary to the image of a free-thinking, plain-speaking person Yvonne thought people had of her, Yvonne felt she was in reality an unedited mess, blurting out all the wrong things at all the wrong times. She got especially nervous around Beck and then fell into the trap of what she categorized as the archetypal girl who tries too hard. She knew she had mother issues, but what a cliché. It was essential that she try to smooth out her rough edges, Yvonne thought, and so she lately had been investing in a library of self-help books to improve her workplace communications.

A talent for small talk would help her cause, Yvonne knew, and she had been trying to cultivate that in herself. But most of her work experience had been with political campaigns, and in politics she found that even the best professionals had very little in the way of interpersonal communications skills. Yet she was prepared to work hard at improving herself. Social Good had hired her when she hadn’t had anywhere else to go. In addition to making use of her skills, this job was basically keeping her out of hell.

CHAPTER 4

I t was six in the morning, and Asmi shook her husband’s shoulder with a little more vigour than usual.

Jaisalminder Awashti, it’s time to get up. I have your chai here. You must get up now, she said, continuing to shake his arm.

Jaisalminder groaned. Why so early, Asmi? I haven’t to be at work for three hours. Where are you off to? he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Asmi sat down on the edge of the bed, dressed in a black skirt and matching jacket, fuchsia top, black tights, and black high heels. Her long, dark hair was draped in a ponytail over her left shoulder. Her legs were crossed at the ankle, and her back was ramrod straight.

I have to go to work early, Jai, she said with flinty impatience, her dark eyes sparking and her generous lips pressed together in a frown. We have a matter of urgent importance to deal with at work today, and there is other business to which you must attend. And I mean for you to have it dealt with this day.

Ah, Asmi. Do we have to go through this again? I tell you, my mother is not yet ready for the news, he said, throwing his hands up in the air as if they had to let fate decide.

Asmi set the chai on the nightstand. Am I your wife, or am I not your wife, Jaisalminder? she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Of course you are my wife, he said as he put an arm around her shoulder and gave her an affectionate squeeze. Come and show me how much of a wonderful wife you are.

Oh no, you don’t. If you do not do something about our wedding, I will do nothing about being your wife, Jai. On that matter I am quite serious.

Asmi thought Jaisalminder Awashti a fine-looking man. At almost six feet tall, he towered over her. When Jai wore a kurta and Asmi dressed in one of her sarees, they looked as if they could have walked off the set of a Bollywood movie. He wore his dark, wavy hair brushed back, showing off his medium brown face and a high forehead; he had a gentle mouth and defined cheekbones. But at that moment, Asmi, in her impatience with him, noticed that underneath his T-shirt, he was beginning to get a bit soft around the middle.

Jaisalminder flopped back down on the bed.

A justice of the peace at Toronto City Hall had overseen their wedding vows one year ago today. Asmi’s two cousins from Brampton had been witnesses, and the man who owned the pizza shop where Jai worked on the weekends had hosted a small reception at his house. It had cost a total of $250, and all 15 guests had been sent home with enough food to eat for the next day. Both Jai and Asmi had been very pleased with how well it had all worked out.

But Jai had not told his parents. I just can’t do it to them. Not yet, Asmi, he’d been saying for months. You know what they are like. They are my parents. I must have respect for that.

Putting his hands together as if in prayer, he’d added, "We have to do this at the right time. This is not the right time. I have to break it to them in a gentle way."

Asmi had been impatient when Jai said this. Now she was growing alarmed. Jaisalminder Awashti had been born into a different caste from Asmi. In the order of things, he was a direct descendent of Krishna; he would laugh and tell her he was someone the goats once bowed down to.

Suffice it to say, Asmi was not. Although her caste was respectable enough—her father had a shop in the village and her mother owned a small import-export business—to Jai’s mother she would always be the little girl from the Punjab. Jai had been to Asmi’s house many times to visit. He told her he was proud of the fact that he would be the first in his family to break out of caste. He felt it showed courage and was in keeping with the times. But telling his mother was another matter. Now a year had gone by, and still Jai could not find the right time.

Asmi was stuck. If Jai wouldn’t tell his mother, then what kind of progress were they going to make? She and Jai had every intention of starting a family and being together for life. Having the respect of marriage in the eyes of his family, her family, and their town was not negotiable. And what of the children they would have?

But Jai would not budge, and the longer he wouldn’t tell his mother, the more he couldn’t tell her, thought Asmi.

Jaisalminder, if you do not speak up to your mother on behalf of our family today, tonight I am calling my mother to tell her what you will not do, Asmi said with finality.

Jai sat up with concern. You will call your mother about this?

Yes, I will, Jaisalminder, Asmi answered. You may not possess the state of mind for this. But I most certainly do. She turned and walked out of the room.

CHAPTER 5

J ust as Beck stepped into the reception area, Yvonne Precipa burst out of the office kitchen, juggling her coffee and cellphone in one hand and her breakfast in the other.

Hiya, Beck, she called out. "Did you see Jon Stewart eviscerate Rob Ford on The Daily Show last night?" she said, walking over to greet her. She was pleased to be offering up the newsworthy nugget made possible by her late-night vigilance.

Didn’t get to it. Do you want to send me the link? Beck asked.

"Nah, you don’t need to see it, said Yvonne, shrugging her shoulders, unless you want to see something hilarious. Do you want to see it? I’ll send it. It’s funny as hell—but also tragic too, of course. She hoisted herself up on the reception desk, set her eggs and her cellphone down, crossed her arms, and looked at Beck with expectation. Her cellphone vibrated on the desk. Yvonne picked it up, looked at the caller ID, and put it down again. Can we talk?" she asked.

Okay, said Beck, pulling an armchair from the reception area and sitting down at eye level with Yvonne’s knees. She could see thin white check marks on the sides of her calves, dozens of them. Beck had seen that kind of mark before. There was a family of children who had lived around the back of the bay in Herring Neck and had them all over their legs too. Her mother had told her they were scars made with the buckle of a belt.

You warm enough in those capris, Yvonne? asked Beck.

Jesus, Beck, I know, Yvonne said as she pulled at her top. My jackets are at the cleaners. I forgot to pick them up this morning.

The smell of Yvonne’s microwaved eggs was turning Beck’s stomach, and she took a sip of her tea to quiet it down. Where are things at with the teachers?

They’re pissed, of course—no news there, said Yvonne. This morning they are calling on all public-sector unions to join them in general strike to oppose to the legislation.

Highly unlikely, responded Beck.

Well, yeah. Teachers are not known for walking other people’s picket lines, so there are not many favours to call in on that front. The executive is meeting right now. Bain is over there. He should be back in about an hour. Jack Bain was Social Good’s director of campaigns.

Beck’s stomach was starting to pain now, and she bent over a little in her chair. Can you summarize the media for me? she asked Yvonne.

Predictable. They’re focused on the wage freeze, which makes the teachers look greedy. Reporters are hanging around in school parking lots, asking parents what they think. The teachers are sending out spokespeople today to change the channel to the right to strike, and we’ll see how that plays out over the next 24 hours.

We’re going to have to build an alternative narrative here, said Beck, and we’ve only got between now and Christmas to get it firmly entrenched. Any thoughts on that?

I don’t know about that. I’m not the one to tell you what to say, Beck, said Yvonne. I just spread the word. You’re going to have to figure that other part out— Yvonne stopped in mid-sentence with an expression of alarm on her face, as if she’d just thought of something.

But … but, she stammered, "whatever strategy you and Nick come up with, I will do my very best work to make sure it’s entrenched—that’s an excellent description, by the way, Beck—entrenched. Our goal is entrenchment before Christmas. Your media-relations department will make that happen for you and will be behind your strategy 110 percent.

Now, if it’s okay, I just think I’ll get back to work. She hopped down from the desk and headed into the production room to where her office was, disappearing around the corner and leaving Beck somewhat surprised at the suddenness of the adjournment. The production room was a large rectangular space with cubicles for about 15 people and little meeting areas with comfortable chairs and coffee tables. People came and went all day, having little tête-à-têtes about the work, or whatever tête-à-têtes they felt like having. Five smaller offices branched off the production area, for the managers responsible for the work in the big room. Asmi had her office in here, right next to Yvonne. A couple of dozen people were on the phone or hunched over their desks, most of them eating. The smell of eggs was nauseating to Beck. She wished people would eat their breakfasts at home.

Beck could see Tilda Grubbs, the bookkeeper who worked three days a week, going through some files in a cabinet that she kept locked. She’ll come after me at some point today, thought Beck. I know it.

***

Beck’s office ran almost the width of the firm and was roughly half the size of the production area. Her desk was to the left of the door, with an Aeron chair behind it. On