Gentlemen of Decision

A well written, fast moving book on a major theme, GENTLEMEN OF DECISION is a work of true excellence.    −M. Scott Peck, author of The Road Less Traveled

  Gentlemen of Decision is a crackerjack example of the myth of the ‘Illuminati’ genre—the notion that there exists a certain secret group of intellectuals, military men, scientists, business men, and politicians who run the world to their own selfish advantage.  Stein has done time in Hollywood, teaches film, and knows how to plot a thriller.                  −Dartmouth Magazine

 Gentlemen of Decision is a political thriller that pits idealism against oligarchy in its protagonist’s search for redemption.  Computer mogul Martin Offenbach marshals the courage to blow the whistle on a Trilateral Commission type “Star Chamber” that orders the assassination of a “destabilizing” environmental leader.  As the largest March on Washington in history progresses along The Constitution Route from Monticello to the Civil War battle site known as The Wilderness, a deadly cat and mouse game ensues that sets off another American cataclysm. 

 Winner of  Honorable Mention in National Writer’s Club Novel Contest.  Hard copies can be ordered through your favorite online or neighborhood booksellers. Here’s the link at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/GENTLEMEN-DECISION-J-Stein/dp/9651466502

Or you can contact me to get a great twofer discount if you’d like to get   Gentlemen of Decision along with Keeper of the Planet for $20 or with Mediaevil for $23 plus $4 shipping.

For a preview, here is the first chapter of Gentlemen of Decision (not book formatted):

I.

The only way evil can spread is through people. Without

human beings, it is impossible for evil to survive.

—from AN INVESTIGATION OF EVIL by Lewis

J. Kronick, Professor Emeritus of Theopsychology,

University of California at Los Angeles

 

     Among the few reasons to meet in Centreville, Virginia, is its

closeness to Dulles International for anyone contemplating a

quantum getaway. It’s also far enough beyond the Beltway not to be

frequented by anyone associated with power. Even so, the man in

the trench coat, Harpo wig and Groucho mask was not taking any

chances. He dodged between cars and night shadows until he

slipped through the back door of Thorne’s Virginia Grill, a moldering

holdout against the exurban sprawl of the century’s end.

     He swung down and sat across from a stylish woman who sat on

the cracked vinyl of a rear booth. His appearance didn’t amuse her.

It was close to eleven P.M. in some dive near where the Union lost

both times to the Confederacy, and, from what she knew of that war,

she already felt as though the last two days had been her own

personal Bull Runs.

     “Oriana Velasquez?” the man said. His low voice, muffled by the

nose and mustache, told her it wasn’t any comedian that lurked

beneath the get-up.

   “You should have described yourself over the phone,” she said.

“I could have gone to bed knowing I hadn’t missed anything.”

     The man stared at her through his glassless frames. Then he

swiveled to take in the rest of the diner. Beyond the empty tables

and half partition, three rednecks sat at the counter watching the last

inning of a ball game on an overhead TV. Satisfied their attention

was focused on the tube, he turned again to face her. His

movements made the little curls of his yellow wig lift up each time he

jerked around.

     “You want more coffee?” he said.

     “What I want is to get back to my motel room. I’m tired, I’ve got a

long trip tomorrow, and I don’t make a habit of meeting crackpots in

rat holes like this.”

     He stared at her again. His intensity made his comic disguise

appear ghoulish. “Did they give you the grant or did they make you

wait?”

     “Okay,” she said. “So you know who I am and why I came to

Washington. Let’s drop the masquerade. What do you want?”

     “They’ll make you wait, you know. Wait and wait, pretending

you’re in the running. But when you press them, they’ll turn you

down. You’re asking for support for a study that’ll expose them for

what they are. They know that. They’re not idiots.”

     The woman’s worst fears welled up. Five years of work would not

only go unsupported, it might even be suppressed. “My grant

request has nothing to do with the granting agency,” she said.

     “Don’t be coy, Dr. Velasquez. What do you think you’re asking for

when you draw parallels between East L.A. gang behavior and

American war crimes? You’re asking for money to study the

dynamics of group responsibility from a group that can’t recognize

responsibility for anything as minor as a hangnail, much less war

crimes. The cabal that runs this country has learned to be very

careful with women like you.”

     The man’s insight unsettled her. The arrival of the smirking

proprietor unnerved her even more.

     “Where’d you come from?” the proprietor said to the man.

“Halloween ain’t for another two weeks yet.”

     The man in the mask pulled a hundred dollar bill out of his trench

coat. Without looking up, he said, “We’ll be gone in a few minutes. I

hope this covers it.”

     The proprietor seemed to transform from a goat to a lizard right

before their eyes. “Whatever you say,” he said. “You want privacy,

you got it.” He collected the money and slithered away.

     The woman waited for the proprietor to perch on his stool by the

TV before she said, “You were there when I gave my presentation,

weren’t you? That’s the reason for the mask? You’re on the Board of

the Foundation?”

     The man didn’t answer. Instead, he reached back into his trench

coat and removed a three-inch thick stack of hundred dollar bills. He

laid it neatly on the table. “I want to fund your study,” he said. “I want

to help you.”

     The woman observed the offering. Her jaw stiffened. “You know

the money isn’t the important thing. It’s the authority I need. It’s the

granting source that gives validation to my work. Put your money

away.”

     “I’m telling you, they’ll never give it to you.”

     “Why, because you’ll vote against it?”

     “To a man, the entire Board will vote against it.”

     “Pigs!” the woman hissed. For the first time, her voice exposed a

Spanish inflection.

     “Take the money,” the man said.

     “You think I’m a fool? Or a whore?” The woman rose to her feet.

“What is this, a set-up? Are you wired or something? Well, if you

are, fill your ears with this—stick your money up your ass!”

     She tried to move past him, but the man was already out of the

booth blocking her way. Her outburst had the proprietor and three

rednecks gaping at them.

     “Sit down, please,” the man said.

     “Not on your life.”

     “I can help you,” he whispered. “I can tell you things you’d never

find out in a hundred years of research.”

     “I’m not in the habit of citing clowns as resources. Let me by.”

She tried again to maneuver around him, but he grabbed her arm

and pulled her close.

     “Hey, buddy, take it easy,” the proprietor yelled.

     Heedless, the man rasped in her ear, “You want proof, some

terrible proof? You see that long-haired Indian leading the protest

there on the screen?” He was pointing at the television above the

proprietor’s head where the late news was now in progress. “The

Indian’s name is Caleb Jarreau and he’ll be dead in ten days. I know

things. I know terrible things.”

     The man’s plastic nose brushed against her ear. His breathing

through the mask made him sound like a troll. She wrenched against

his grip. “I know things, too,” she said. “One is, you’re a scary

mother and I don’t want anything to do with you.” She jerked herself

free and stalked past the proprietor who had come back to help.

     The proprietor watched her go, then looked down at the stack of

bills on the table. “Some pricey broad, huh?” he said. “Maybe if you

took off that dumb mask you’d have better luck.”