Boomerang

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BOOMERANG by Alan Hutcheson

Smashwords Edition Copyright 2009 This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may no be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Cover art by Jason Merrick This is for all my family and friends for not saying “Oh, give it a rest, will you?”

Doubt is not a very agreeable state, But certainty is a ridiculous one. Voltaire 1

The Author Testifies and Maintains that with the exception of J.Edgar Hoover, all characters in this work are fictional. He further Maintains, and as a matter of fact Insists, that all actions in this book, including the bits with J. Edgar Hoover, have been made up by the author, who had nothing better to do that afternoon. If any of this actually did happen it's not his fault.

Please visit Alan at his blog http://writinganovellivingalife.wordpress.com/

PROLOGUE On a bright May morning, in the year 1972, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover was found dead, sprawled across the bedroom carpet in his handsome twostory colonial brick house in Washington DC. One of the most powerful men to ever hold office, appointed or elected, in the United States of America, or any other country for that matter, was discovered by his gardener, James Crawford. Crawford was not in the habit of violating the Boss’s private sanctum, but it was well past the time when Mr. Hoover usually started his day. Annie, his housekeeper, was anxious concerning Hoover's tardiness to the breakfast table, but she was not about to check on him herself. It was common knowledge in the Hoover household that while the Boss had a large and remarkably varied wardrobe, it did not include pajamas. Crawford knocked on the bedroom door. There was no response. He put his mouth close to the door and called. “Mr. Hoover? It's Crawford, sir.” Still no answer. The gardener eased the door open a couple of inches. “Annie’s got a nice breakfast set out. You know how she is if you let her cooking get cold.” Crawford heard something, or at least thought he did. He opened the door wider and poked his head into the room. 2

“Hello? Boss?” In the thin wedge of light coming through the door, by the corner of the bed, Crawford saw a bare arm stretched out on the floor. “Oh my lord!” Crawford rushed into the room and knelt beside his employer. He lifted Hoover's smooth hand in his rough and calloused one. The Boss's hand wasn’t cold, but it was limp and unresponsive. Crawford knew what to do. “Call Mr. Wilson.” As he ran back to the landing Crawford recited Hoover's instructions in case of just such an emergency. “Nobody else. Just Mr. Wilson.” He leaned over the railing. “Annie! It's the Boss! Call Mr. Wilson!” If you read the biographies and ask the historians, that was that. J. Edgar Hoover was dead. Conrad Wilson, Hoover’s longtime confidant and effectively his second in command at the Bureau, was notified, and the world was shaken. What the biographies and history books don't tell us is that James Crawford had taken a course in CPR at the YMCA just a couple of months earlier. Working on a plastic and fabric dummy was a world away from trying to pump life into the Father of the FBI, but what had that training been for if not situations just like this? Crawford hurried back into the room and once more knelt next to Hoover. He took in two deep breaths to steady his nerves, leaned in close, and was just about to pinch the great man's nose when Hoover began to sing. Softly, so softly that if the two men had not been almost lip to lip Crawford might not have heard. “A, B, C, D, E, F, G,” Hoover sang the school house rhyme to the tune of “Twinkle-Twinkle, Little Star”. “You're alive!” exclaimed Crawford. Hoover’s right arm swung up and grabbed the gardener by the back of the neck. “Listen,” said Hoover. “I called Mr. Wilson, Boss. Just like you told me." “Wilson?” “Yes sir. He'll be here before you know it.” The grip tightened on Crawford's neck. “Juh,” Hoover breathed. “Af...ter......juh” Crawford nodded as best he could with the death grip around his neck. “You bet, Boss,” he said. "After juh." What was that all about? “Juh-ee.” Hoover’s voice was fading into near vapor. “After......g.” “G?,” Crawford repeated. "You mean like the letter g?" 3

Hoover’s eyelids blinked in what seemed to be the only response he could muster. And then it came to Crawford. Of course. After G. “H, Boss” he said. “H comes after g.” The grip tightened fiercely around Crawford’s neck, then released, and it was then that J. Edgar Hoover lay truly dead. Conrad Wilson arrived within minutes of receiving the call. A tall and still lean man of something past seventy years, he took two steps at a time up to the second floor landing. Crawford and Annie were standing just outside Hoover's bedroom. Annie was weeping softly. Crawford had his arm around the housekeeper’s shoulders. Wilson nodded but did not pause as he went past them into Hoover's bedroom. He drew aside the comforter Crawford had draped respectfully over Hoover’s body and placed a finger against his neck. Then he took a silver business card case from his jacket and held it in front of Hoover's mouth and nose. Finally Conrad Wilson replaced the comforter and went back out to the hallway. “Which of you found him?” “I did, Mr. Wilson,” said Crawford. “He was just lying there, stretched out on the floor. It was terrible.” “I’m sure it was James, I’m sure it was,” said Conrad Wilson. “Now, I must ask you something and it is very important that you answer me truthfully.” “Yes, Mr. Wilson.” Crawford nodded solemnly. “Was Mr. Hoover dead when you found him?” “Well sir, not exactly.” “And just exactly what do you mean by ‘not exactly’?” “Well sir, I thought he was, but then when I got real close, you know, right next to him, he wasn’t. Dead, I mean.” “How did you know? Did he move? Did he say anything? Anything at all?” Crawford was caught in a dilemma. He was devoted to the Boss, believed him to be the finest American ever. Mr. Hoover had been the Guardian of Democracy without whose firm guidance the entire country would undoubtedly have fallen into wretched anarchy many times over. Was it right that it should be known that the last utterance from such a Great American was a child’s alphabet rhyme? And even worse, that he got stuck on the letter G? Crawford tried desperately to come up with a memorable phrase, the right combination of words, a worthy final breath that should by all rights have issued from a dying J. Edgar Hoover. 4

“It is a far, far better thing...”. No, that was out of a book or a movie or something. Everybody would know it wasn’t original. “Dying is easy. Comedy is difficult.” Wouldn’t do at all. The Boss wasn't much of a comedy fan. “I regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.” Or was it “one life to give to my country”? At least one of those was taken, anyway. Crawford was stumped. But he couldn’t tell Mr. Wilson that the Boss had died singing the alphabet. And even worse, that he had gotten stuck at the letter g. It just wasn’t right. “He didn’t say anything, sir. He just kind of reached out to me and then he closed his eyes and he was gone.” Conrad Wilson studied Crawford for a long moment. An almost imperceptible look of relief passed across his face. “All right,” he said. “Annie, you call Mrs. Gandy. I will contact Mr. Mohr and the Attorney General. I suppose we will have to tell the President.” “It’s the end of an era, sir,” said Crawford. “The Boss is gone and there won’t ever be another like him.” Annie nodded. Wilson gave the gardener and housekeeper a paternal smile of comfort. “Mr. Hoover was indeed one of a kind, James. But remember, nobody ever really leaves us, especially not a person like Mr. Hoover.” “My grandma used to say we all make ripples,” said Crawford. Like a pebble thrown in a pond. The pebble may sink, but the ripples go on and on.” Wilson nodded. “Your grandma was a wise woman. And I think we can safely say that Mr. Hoover made lots of ripples in some pretty big ponds.” “But what happens,” said Annie, “when the ripples hit the edge of the pond?” She caught a tear with a trembling finger. “Do they come back to the middle?” “Well, I suppose they could, Annie,” said Conrad Wilson. “I have never thought about it that way, but yes, I suppose they could.”

1 San Francisco 5

Somewhere around thirty years later April 12th

"Hey, Ted. Marci wants to see you." Ted Hogwood was sitting on the floor of the aisle marked “Poetry Collections” in the Literary Lighthouse Bookstore in the North Beach district of San Francisco. It had been a effort to ease his six-foot eight, three hundred and twenty pound frame down so he could stock the dozen or so hardcover books that were waiting to be squeezed in among the rest of the stiff spined tomes lining the bottom two shelves. He looked up at the twenty-something girl hovering next to him. She was rocking slowly back and forth on the balls of her feet and seemed to be taking inventory of the silver studs in her left ear with her right hand. "What's up?" "How should I know?" The girl shrugged and switched her attention to her right ear. "You're probably fired or something." "Nice." She shrugged and drifted back to her post at the register. Ted pushed himself off the floor. Predictably, his left knee reminded him of the excess weight he made it bear with a crack and a stab of pain. He muttered a resigned and well practiced profanity, then gave himself a moment to get his legs truly under him before heading to the back of the store. The door to the office was slightly open so he knocked on the door frame. "Come in," said Marci. Ted stepped into the store manager's office, a small space furnished with an old metal desk dominated by a computer. There were two secretary chairs with beaten down padding and tired frames. The walls were covered with plain but sturdy shelves packed with books and binders, with just enough space left for a small stereo. Marci had eclectic musical tastes, so Ted never knew what she would have playing either in the store or her office. Now he nodded appreciatively at the sound of a jazz trio: guitar, bass, and drums. Just his style. "'Soft Winds'," Ted said. He held up a big paw and lowered his head to indicate concentration. Eight bars passed. Paw down, head up. "Barney Kessel with Ray Brown on bass and Shelley Manne on drums. Am I right?" Marci smiled at the big man standing in the doorway. The first time she had seen him, just eight months ago, she had been awed by his size and slightly 6

intimidated by his scowling expression, which seemed to hover halfway between menace and melancholy. Balanced against Ted's appearance had been the lines on his job application which listed professional basketball player and jazz musician as his former and current occupations. During the interview Ted confirmed that he had indeed been working-on and off for the past twenty years or more-as an itinerant jazz guitarist, supplementing his income with whatever other work he could find. None of the other jobs, he said, were of any real consequence. And yes, for five seasons he had played in the NBA, on seven different teams. A blown anterior cruciate ligament ended his career and so, the NBA not yet having evolved into the Every-Player-a-Millionaire-with-a-Guaranteed-Contract status it soon after grew into, he had been scrambling to make a living since. The one constant factor was his music, but more often than not it failed to provide a living wage. A couple of weeks after she hired Ted, Marci chanced upon him in his moonlighting role as jazz guitarist at a nightclub called The Sassy Loaf. He was a picture of blissful concentration as he produced sure rhythm and sweet, warm solo lines. Ted had not noticed her, she doubted he noticed anything beyond his blond and gold instrument, and she never told him she had witnessed his other life. “Right, as usual,” said Marci. "Have a seat, Ted." She pushed her wheeled chair the couple feet across to the stereo and switched it off. Ted perched carefully on the other secretary chair. It squealed and tilted, objecting under Ted's bulk. He planted his feet eighteen-inches apart, flat on the floor, and placed his ham-sized hands on top of his tree-trunk thighs. Marci drummed her fingers lightly on a stack of papers in front of the computer monitor. The top sheet was covered halfway with a bold, computer generated print underscored with a signature that consisted of nothing but gradually diminishing waves and troughs. "Ted," she said, "it was just, Monday I believe, when we had a conversation about proper customer interaction. Do you remember that conversation?" "Yes, I do." Ted rolled his eyes. "The person who thought I was making fun of his purchase." "Much the same comment we've had from all these folks." Marci indicated the pile of papers. "Thirty-four, at last count. Not including the customers who have spoken to me personally about your, shall we say, lack of professional detachment regarding their purchases." “I try Marci, and I know you have to stock some of this crap. Sorry.” She nodded. “But you've got to admit, it's pretty tough to keep a straight face when 7

somebody brings a copy of Everybody's Wrong But Me, or Your Liberal Neighbors, Abandoning God, Destroying America to the counter. The people buying this dreck actually believe some kind of thought went into it beyond separating them from their cash and common sense.” “I understand, but when I get a letter like this,” Marci picked up the top sheet from the file folder, “less than a week after our last talk, I'm afraid I have to take some action.” She read from the letter. “‘You may not be familiar with the fact that rolling one's eyes and snorting is not considered decent behavior in a customer-service oriented business. The oversized, middle-aged troll'…“ Marci winced sympathetically, “…‘that you have working in your store obviously thinks he has license to make just such thinly veiled editorial comments concerning my choice of reading material. I have tolerated it in the past, but enough is enough. Please be informed that I have license to choose another bookstore and will not only do so, but will also persuade all of my friends and acquaintances to do the same.’” “Wait, don't tell me.” Ted held up his Man Thinking hand again, slowly, so as not to throw off his balance on the gallant, inadequate chair. “This has got to be the moron who bought How To Be First in Line, EVERYTIME.” Marci put the paper back on top of the pile and shook her head. “Ted, this can't go on.” “He also bought Feel, Think, Do and Work to Play/Play to Work,” Ted said, reinforcing his case. “That’s not the point. The point is that he is a customer. What he chooses to buy doesn't matter. What matters is that I can't let this happen in my store. I've tried to make allowances, Ted, you know I have. You do bring some very positive qualities to the place. But I can't afford to spend so much of my time and energy putting out all the fires you ignite.” “Point well taken.” Both hands went up in submission, again slowly, mindful of his perch. Then the left hand came down, the right staying up in pledge. “Promise. I will keep my opinions to myself. The last thing I want to do is make your life more difficult.” “Ted,” Marci said. “You don't understand what it is I'm having to say here.” “I completely understand, Marci. Business is business and I've just got to control myself no matter how stupid―” ”You're fired.” Ted’s chair tilted forward and deposited the big man, suddenly, and in a very undignified manner, on his keester. 8

That evening, when Ted and Sarah, his beloved Gibson L5-CES jazz guitar, reported to the Blue Raspberry Cafe for the low paying, two night a week gig his quarrelsome, unnamed quintet had had for the last three months, he was informed by the wife of the couple that owned the establishment that her husband had run off with Roscoe, the group’s fiftyish, tie-dye favoring drummer. At the moment she was feeling antipathetic towards the male of the species, jazz players in particular, and could not guarantee Ted's safety if he chose to remain on the premises. She seemed only marginally aware of the large, rather rusty kitchen knife in her hand. Ted felt it best to leave before she became fully alive to the fact.

2 The George Bush (the elder) Intelligence Center Langley, Virginia The next day (April 13th) Hank Berringer, recently minted Assistant Deputy Director of the CIA, looked at the round, slightly glistening man sitting in front of his desk. Berringer made as if to lift up a dark green, one-inch three-ring binder that was sitting on his desk and then seemed to think better of it. Instead he tapped it. “Just how sure are you about the accuracy of this report?” he asked the round man, whose name was Tad Rushmore. Mr. Rushmore was Senior Research Historian for the CIA, and had held that post for over twenty years. “I did have my doubts, at first,” said Rushmore. “Just another apocryphal Hoover story to go with all the rest. But as you can see there is a nearly perfect statistical match in all of the important evaluative criteria. Add that to the current trails I found leading to Australia and Massachusetts and the conclusion is inescapable.” “And this all started when J. Edgar Hoover tried to rig the 1948 presidential election?” “That was the genesis of the situation,” said Rushmore. 9

“But he failed.” “In his objective, yes. But the fact that he was able to manipulate the system as far as he did is, well...” “Not exactly the sort of news the American people are interested in hearing,” Hank filled in the blank. “Or the administration.” “The fallout could be considerable.” “That‘s one way of putting it,” said Berringer. His finger was poised to tap the binder again, but instead eased it away a couple of inches. What it said in the binder was that in the late 1940's FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover had commissioned a group of agencies-strictly without congressional knowledge or approval-which were answerable only to him. The agencies had been established around the country in twenty-six key voting regions and their sole purpose had been to influence, by any means possible, the outcome of the 1948 Presidential election. Hoover had apparently tired of Harry Truman's intrusive and restrictive style of leadership and was intent on ousting him in favor of a more pliable occupant in the White House. The Alphabet Agencies, so called because Hoover had simply assigned each of them a letter as identification, had been covertly funded with money from pork barrel projects that never existed, inserted into bills introduced on the House and Senate floors by members of Congress beholden to Hoover for earlier favors, mostly of the Mum's the Word variety. Only one of the honorable members of Congress had thought it proper to ask just what Mr. Hoover intended to do with his under the table money. His curiosity had been considerably dampened by the next day arrival of a packet of photographs, anonymously delivered to his office, which featured himself and a person who was not anyone's wife caught in moments of tender ecstasy. A promise of express home delivery of a second set was included in the envelope. The Alphabet Agencies were generously funded, but in a triumph of the democratic system they did not succeed. And all would have been well if the only place one could find this potentially damning bit of American history was in the report on Hank Berringer's desk. “I wouldn't have even brought it to your attention,” said Rushmore, “if this curious combination of factors wasn‘t in play.” “You did the right thing,” Berringer said. To himself he thought, “But I wish to hell you had plopped this cowpie on somebody else's desk.” According to Rushmore's research the Alphabet Agencies, or at least one of them, had survived to present day. So chances were somebody knew something that could deeply compromise the position of The United States as World Leader and 10

Sterling Example. Well, further compromise it, anyway. It was Hank Berringer's job to make sure that didn't happen. Actually, it was his job to find someone else to do it. In this case Hank knew it would have to be someone completely unconnected with any United States intelligence agency. Which just added another layer or two of unpredictability. Wasn't that just great.

3 July 8th, 9:47 P.M. About thirty miles outside Brisbane Australia Kenny Lush had never been particularly fond of the dark, an unfortunate characteristic for a person who, for most of his life, had scratched out a living burglarizing homes and the occasional small electronics or musical instrument establishment. That, however, involved "inside" darkness, something for which Kenny had developed a tolerance, and which in any case was seldom as deep as one might first think. There was almost always something that gave off a glow: a digital clock, the display on a DVR, a street lamp one or two doors away, a tiny penlight held in one's teeth while one disconnected the umbilicals of a high definition home theater system. The darkness Kenny was in now was real. Bush country black, and he didn't like it one bit. It didn’t help that the Aborigine he was trying to follow was as dark and silent as the night itself. As instructed, Kenny had parked his ute in an abandoned drive half a mile from the entrance to Queen Mary Falls. He didn’t have to wait long before his guide, a young Aborigine, appeared out of the night and beckoned him to follow on foot. The lights of just one passing car briefly illuminated their path as they made their way along the side of the road. After ten minutes of stumbling behind his guide that seemed like an hour, Kenny was glad for the soft light coming from outside a neat white house on the other side of the road. Some ground level 11

lights were directed at the house and outbuildings as well as the neatly tended flower beds, illuminating the grounds and sharing just a bit of their light with the foot travelers. Kenny paused to look at the house before following his guide away from the roadside and on to the path leading to the falls. They followed the path just a short way before the Aborigine turned off to the right into the thick vegetation. Kenny reluctantly plunged in after, scraping his hands against the coarse, stiff bush that had seemed to open wide for the youth. The black back moved silently ahead between the trees, a dark, moving patch against the darkness all around them. “Hold on!” Kenny raised his voice to carry, but it seemed such an unwelcome intrusion into the black stillness that he was immediately sorry. He thrashed ahead and told himself that once this deal was done he would be set for life. This would be his first really big score. First and last. Kenny cursed the inconveniences and difficulties that big scores apparently required, but hurried after the silent figure, trying and failing to match the youth's combination of speed and silence. He finally caught up with his guide standing next to an enormous gum tree. The youth motioned for Kenny to go ahead. Kenny leaned forward, hands across the tops of his thighs. “No more chasing around the bloody forest,” he said between gulps of air. “Where's Big George?” The Aborigine repeated his go-ahead gesture. Kenny straightened slightly and peered ahead. The darkness seemed to be even deeper in the direction indicated. “I don't think so, mate. You tell Big George this is as far as I go. If he doesn't like it we can bloody well call the whole thing—” Kenny turned to give the youth the full force of his resolve in the matter. But the Aborigine was not there. “Hey!” Kenny searched the shades of black surrounding him, but his guide was not to be found. He turned around twice, or was it twice and a shade more? his eyes straining for a trace of his guide, but his vision extended no more than a few, inadequate feet in front of his nose before the shadows took over and made everything unidentifiable and menacing. As sorely lacking in congeniality as the young Aborigine’s company had been, now that he was gone the night seemed to rush in on Kenny. It was pitch black. Crushed-velvet black. Black as the soul of a rabid dingo. He heard a sound. A rustle or a snap or a shifting aside of a tree branch. “Big George?” Kenny’s voice came out a bit on the high and strangled side. 12

He tried to swallow. “That you, mate?” Kenny's heart thundered with what he was sure had to be an unsustainable fury. Bloody hell, he was going to die. His heart was going to give out and he was going to die in the middle of the bloody bush. Kenny waited to slump forward or backward or whichever way the slumping would carry him as his physical self abandoned this mortal coil. It wasn't so much the slumping and abandoning Kenny minded as the thought that in the process he would be making a mess of himself. That's what Leslie had told him happened when people died and Kenny had no reason to doubt Leslie knew what he was talking about. But he had just acquired—shoplifted, actually—the designer chinos he was wearing in anticipatory celebration of his soon–to–be status as a Somebody. Now the thought of what would likely happen to those chic trousers should he expire in them somehow steeled Kenny's nerve. That was not how he wanted to go, in the middle of the bush with a big pee stain on his Ralph Laurens. Not Kenny Lush, thank you very much. The noise had not repeated itself, at least not yet, but he wasn’t anxious to wait around for it to do so. What he was anxious to do was to get the hell out of there and back to his ute. He would call the whole thing off, at least for now, and count as a victory his continued survival. The hell with the dangers waiting for him if returned without having completed this mission. They would just have to take care of themselves in bloody good time. Kenny would trust to luck and lies in dealing with them. This damned dark bush country with its boogeyboogey sounds was totally unfamiliar territory and best not challenged any longer than absolutely necessary. No more than twenty hesitant paces away from his starting point Kenny paused at the side of a huge gum tree—but then all of the trees were huge gum trees, cousins of the forest—and tried to persuade himself it was one he had passed on his way in. He held himself very still, at once straining to hear the sound again and hoping he wouldn't. There it was again. Choosing an angle calculated to take him in a direct line away from the sound—which seemed to him like it was getting nearer by the second—he stepped as quickly as the darkness, the trees and his quaking limbs would allow. Five paces out Kenny’s right foot found air where it had expected ground and, at the same moment, he heard a low, rumbling sound very close behind him. He screamed and pitched forward down a short slope, coming to an abrupt halt when his right shoulder slammed against a tree stump. 13

The low, rumbling sound revealed itself as laughter. Then a circle of light spread over his sprawled body and a deep voice sounded above his head. “Damn, boy! You going to make me chase you all over the forest?” Kenny twisted around onto his back and squinted up into the brightness of the lantern. He angrily kicked a heel into the ground, which had the unfortunate effect of driving his left shoulder into the stump. “Ow!…damn it! What's so bloody funny?” “Maybe next time we meet at Jo-Jo's like I suggested. Better footing and they serve a nice Morton Bay Bug.” The laughter rolled out once again. “Stop your stupid laughing and give me a hand up, will you?” A big, black hand swallowed Kenny's outstretched one and pulled him to his feet. The laughter quieted, but did not stop. It came from an Aborigine of perhaps fifty, perhaps sixty, years of age. He was a barrel–chested, ebony man, with a large, flat face sprayed with short, white whiskers. His nose was wide and flat and his eyes had streaks of bright red running through the pale yellow that surrounded wide black centers. He was wearing a navy blue warm-up suit and a pair of new looking, high-top athletic shoes. A brown canvas bag with drawstring cord was slung over one shoulder. “So, having fun with your little adventure? Hmm?” “Yeah, well if I'd known you were going to have some ignorant, mute jungle boy leave me in the middle—“ ”Wait a minute,” Big George raised the lantern higher and he leaned into Kenny. “That ignorant, mute jungle boy is my son. He knows this land better than your right hand knows your little twig of manhood.” “Yeah, well, he didn't have to…hey! What kinda shot is that?” “I am very sorry if you were frightened.” “Who was frightened?” Kenny demanded. “Pissed off is what I was. Still am.” “Then I apologize for causing you to piss off, but it was important to make sure about your intentions, and…” Big George looked over Kenny's right shoulder, as if tracking some movement in the shadows, “…that you were alone.” “Of course I'm alone.” Kenny darted a glance back over his shoulder, bringing a smile to Big George's wide face. “Who d'you think I'd've brought? My mum?” Big George studied Kenny for a moment. “It's who you may have brought, shall we say, unintentionally?” His gaze shifted to over Kenny's left shoulder. Once more he appeared to be following some silent stirrings behind Kenny. It 14

brought the same reaction as before, and Big George's laughter once again rumbled through the darkness. “You're a sick one,” muttered Kenny. He poked a finger at Big George, but the forward motion of his upper body caused a backward motion of his feet, and he would have fallen again if the older man had not caught him. “I think we better move to level ground,” said Big George. “After you, Indiana Jones.” He led Kenny to a relatively open, level patch. Big George set his lantern down and reached into the canvas bag. From it he withdrew two thin pieces of wood, nearly identical in size and shape. Each was about eighteen-inches long and three-inches wide. They were rounded on one end and curved in a stubby angle at the other. The wood was highly polished, with stylized inlays or etchings of some sort of fat, low-slung animal. He handed them to Kenny, who knelt and examined them in the light of the lantern. He started to fit one of the angled ends to the other, but Big George stopped him with a gesture. “Don't do that. Not yet. Not unless you brought a saw to open it up again.” Again the rumbling laughter. “Once it is put together, it is together.” “No trace?” “No trace.” “No seam?” “Perfect. Two-thousand dollars perfect.” “How're the compartments?” “See for yourself.” Kenny turned one of the angled ends to the light. The wood was hollowed out, surrounded by a carved lip. The cavities were lined with a thin layer of felt. He nodded approvingly and handed the pieces back to Big George. He untucked his shirt and reached under it to a thick, leather belt circling just above the waist of his pants. There was the faint burr of a zipper being worked, and Kenny drew out two small, yellow, padded envelopes. He gingerly folded back the flaps and slid out two slightly convex-topped disks, each about the diameter of a poker chip. Big George knelt beside him and moved the lantern to shine directly on Kenny's upturned hand. The disks were deepest, shining black. Within the black were glowing patches and streaks of orange, red, yellow and green that danced with a movement beyond the trembling of Kenny's hand. Big George gave a long, slow whistle. “Oh my. I have never seen opals like those, not even when I worked down in Coober.” “Something, aren't they?” Kenny tilted his hand back and forth, letting the 15

light play across the stones. “Very beautiful. And mysterious. Opals like these have secrets in their souls.” “You got that right, mate,” Kenny said quietly. “You got that right.” Big George gave him a quizzical look, but Kenny ignored it and got right back to business. He took two small clear plastic sleeves from a jacket pocket, pressed the sides of one of them between thumb and middle finger to open it and slid in one of the opals. The action was repeated for the second stone. From the opposite pocket, he took a small wad of cotton and a wooden popsicle stick. “Hold one of 'em out.” Big George held out one of the wood pieces, hollowed end up. Kenny tamped a bit of the cotton into the opening, followed by a plastic-protected opal, then another bit of cotton. Big George offered the second piece. Kenny nested the second opal in the other hollow then slid the popsicle stick back into his pocket. Big George picked up the lantern and held it high between the two of them as Kenny brought the two pieces together. There was a soft click as they joined. He held the assembled boomerang to the light, examining it from every angle. He drew a finger across the angle. He tilted it one way and then another, trying and failing to detect any sense of movement inside. “Nice. Very nice.” “Thank you.” Big George nodded. “But I still don't understand why you are going to such trouble and expense for two opals, no matter how lovely. I don't mind doing a dirty deed against Mr. Gatting, he is an evil man, but what is so special to him about these stones? Why a boomerang? And why did it have to have wombats?” “I thought you folk weren't supposed to be nosy.” Kenny tucked the boomerang through his belt into his pocket. “Discreet, you know. Want something done quiet and kept quiet, go to the abos, uh, Aborigines, that's what they say.” “Thank you from my people for the compliment. We 'abos' are also smart enough to know that two opals, even very beautiful ones like these, are not something for which a man risks his life.” “Who said anything about risking his life?” Big George regarded Kenny solemnly. “Anything taken from Mr. Gatting had better be worth somebody's life, or he is a fool who takes it.” “It's worth plenty.” Kenny patted the boomerang. “Don't you worry about that. Kenny Lush is nobody's fool. That bloody Yank has dudded me one too 16

many times. Now I'm going to get a bit of my own.” “You don't make sense to me,” said Big George, “but we'll let that be. Let's finish up our little transaction and get back to our cozy beds. Two thousand dollars and we call it a night.” “I thought we said...Stop that! I told you, it's not funny!” Big George was once again peering intently over Kenny's shoulder. This time he did not break into a wide grin at Kenny's skittishness. He held up a hand for silence. “Not bloody funny,” Kenny said, but he said it very quietly. After a long half-minute, Big George turned his attention back to Kenny. “Two thousand, Kenny.” Big George's voice was lowered to a baritone whisper. “You have the boomerang. I need my money.” “I've got your money.” “Since it is my money, I think I should have it now, don't you?” “No worries, mate, just take me back to the road and I'll take you to the money.” “You don't have it with you?” “Are you crazy? Wander around the bleeding bush with that kind of boodle?” “Until I get payment, I think I will be keeping the product.” Big George advanced a step and Kenny saw there was a knife in his hand. The blade was a good fourteen-inches long, with a ragged edge and upswept point. A nasty looking instrument. “Aw, Big George, you and me, we're mates.” “The boomerang, Kenny.” Big George reached to take the boomerang and, truth be told, what with the knife and all, Kenny was of a mind to let it go without further objection. The bottom end of the boomerang, however, had angled into the coin pouch inside the front pocket of his Ralph Lauren chinos and as Big George tried to pull it up and out, it caught in the narrow pouch and once again Kenny lost his balance. He grabbed at the nearest support, which happened to be Big George, and the two tumbled into each other as something went whoosh over their heads followed quickly by a thwack behind them. From where they landed, Big George on his hands and knees and Kenny across his back, the two men swivelled their heads in the direction of the thwack. In the light of the lantern they saw a silverish, metallic looking thin shaft stuck about five feet up the side of a tree directly behind them. The portion of it that wasn't embedded in the tree was about six inches long, with three evenly17

spaced wings at the end. It was vibrating with a faint hum. Big George threw Kenny off his back and disappeared into the darkness as quickly as his son had done minutes earlier. Kenny rolled out of the lantern’s circle of light and into a eucalyptus tree. Now he was glad to be in the dark. It would give him time to reflect on just what to do and which direction to do it in. His reflections were interrupted by a repeat of the whoosh-thwack motif that this time included the variation of rip as it did business with his jacket. Time to move on. Kenny had no idea where he was moving on to but he had a pretty good idea what it was he was running away from and it motivated him. He scrambled to his feet and ran headlong through the forest, stopping only to crash into the occasional eucalyptus.

4 Outside a home in a lower-middle-class neighborhood just outside Brisbane Late that same evening Oz, an Airedale terrier with a perpetual expression of hopeful resignation, approached the side door of the house. He padded up the two steps to the landing outside the kitchen door and sat. On the landing was a plastic bucket with chew marks around the rim. The teeth marks were his, made in his younger days when he had needed such an aid for reflection. Even as a callow youth he had been careful not to chew it to the point of interfering with its function, which was dinner pail for his after–dinner dinner. Oz's official evening repast was provided by the family of seven next door that considered itself his rightful collective master and benefactor. That is, when they considered him at all. Oz poked his head into the bucket and found nothing. He had found nothing each of the three previous times he had checked that evening. Something was not right here. He was not, by nature, an impatient creature, but he did know that it was well past time for the Quiet One to come stand outside the door, 18

softly call his name, and empty a generous mixture of people food into the bucket. She would pull up a sagging fabric-strap patio chair and they would enjoy each other’s company and the evening air in temporary quietude. The reason this peaceful scenario was temporary was that sooner or later Loud One would shove her head out the door, bark at Quiet One, make a rudely inflected comment in Oz's direction and slam the door as punctuation. He tolerated this distraction for the sake of Quiet One; she obviously needed at least a parttime congenial companion. This evening, as he sat looking up at the door, Oz could hear both women. Loud One was being especially loud. He sat and listened, wishing he could be by Quiet One’s side. He felt she could use a congenial companion as well as, perhaps, a helpful reminder about a regular appointment. There was an exceptionally violent exclamation followed by the sound of something making explosive contact with the inside of the door. Oz decided to check under the perennial border across the street for any forgotten store of bones. “It's eleven o'clock!” said Loud One, known in the human world as Doreen Lush. “The plan called for him to call no later than half past nine!” Amelia Dickey, aka Quiet One, was sitting at the kitchen table, pouring beer from a large can into a tall plastic tumbler. She glanced repeatedly from her pouring to her sister, who was pacing and ranting, bouncing back and forth across the small kitchen, refrigerator to sink, sink to refrigerator. Some of the beer foam slopped over the rim of the tumbler and onto the vinyl tablecloth. Amelia apologetically sopped it up with a couple of paper napkins. “Actually, Doreen dear,” said Amelia. “I believe your plan called for ninethirty or thereabouts.” “Well, is it bloody nine-thirty or thereabouts?” Doreen snatched the ceramic wombat pepper mill from the table. The remains of the matching salt shaker lay scattered in a rough semi-circle on the floor beside the door. “Mother's set!” Amelia implored. Doreen glared at her but relaxed her arm. She kept possession of the shaker and resumed her pacing and fuming. “I ask you. Is it nine-thirty or bloody thereabouts?” Doreen demanded of the walls, the stove, the icebox, and, possibly, Amelia. “No! It is bloody eleven o'clock and he hasn't called, has he?” She launched the wombat pepper mill across the room. It crashed through the small window above the sink, taking an oregano plant in a wombat terra-cotta pot with it. Oz backed away from the hole he had started in the perennial border and stood very still. He studied the stiff, strange smelling little creature that had just 19

landed with a thud in the dirt about a foot away. He sneezed. “I suppose we'll just have to be patient?” offered Amelia. “Patient?” Doreen opened a drawer just to slam it shut. “I've been patient with that puny-brained boil since he was born. He had one simple little thing to do: pick up the boomerang and call to confirm and he can't even do that on time!” “Actually, Doreen dear, that's two things.” “Shut up, Amelia.” Doreen resumed her pacing. Amelia took a long draw on her beer and attempted to withdraw into the wallpaper. Midnight arrived. Oz lay curled up in the back of his doghouse, quietly sneezing as he slept. Amelia was also asleep, head on her folded arms on the table. Three large empty beer cans sat by her head. “Go to bed, for heaven sake,” Doreen said. “You're going to get a crick in your neck.” Amelia shifted slightly but did not get up. “I said, go to bed!” Amelia slowly pushed herself to her feet. “Set your alarm for half past five,” Doreen called after Amelia, who was shuffling slowly down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Amelia stopped and leaned against the wall. “Did we hear from Kenny?” she asked. “Did I miss it?” “You didn’t miss a bloody thing.” “So we’re not going?” “I told you to set your alarm, didn’t I?” “But what if it’s not there?” “It had better be there." Doreen growled as she put out the light in the kitchen. "It damn bloody well better be there."

5 A large, expensively appointed office on the top floor of a high-rise in downtown Brisbane. 20

The next evening Nicholas Gatting was on the phone. As Chairman of Gold Coast Development, as well as Gold Coast Export Specialties and Queensland Limited Inc., Gatting was generally regarded, by those whose business it was to know, as one of the up and coming crime leaders on the east coast of Australia. His voice rang with all the confidence and enthusiasm of a wellpracticed pitchman, but there was a bead of perspiration above his nose and a slight twitch at the corner of his right eye. He nodded wearily into the phone. “I assure you that we have the package and are readying it for delivery at this very―” He listened for a moment. “Yes, of course and once again I do apologize for missing the initial delivery date. Minister Pak surely understands the unique and delicate nature —“ Again he listened. “I do realize that my firm is not the only one expressing interest in this opportunity. But I am certain the minister would agree that we bring something to the table which makes our offer―” His hand tightened around the phone. “Absolutely and without a doubt. One week from today. You may tell the Minister Pak from me―” He threw a Mont Blanc across the room. “Yes, of course―” He regretted throwing the Mont Blanc. The damn thing had broken. “Please tell the minister from me that I appreciate his patience―” He held the phone away from his ear and squeezed his eyes to narrow slits. “There are always complications, unforeseen developments when dealing with such―” He gave the phone the finger. “I give you my personal assurance that there will be no further―” “You goddamned, son-of-a-bitch, squinty-face little pissant!” This last bit was uttered after the hum on the line told Gatting he had been hung up on. He slammed down the phone and gave it the finger once more, which made him feel a little better. Gatting turned to the twenty-three inch, flat-screen computer monitor on his desk. On the screen was a computer-aided rendering of the predominately glass 21

front exterior of a rectangular, beige-stucco, single-story building. Through the representation of glass could be seen representations of washers, dryers, large screen televisions, and plain desks topped with computers, printers, and scanners. Pictured coming through the double glass doors in the middle of the front facade were two computer generated people. Leading was a blond, attractive, thirty-something woman with a big smile on her face. Directly behind her, pushing a handtruck piled high with boxes labeled STEREO, was a young man with an equally satisfied expression. Gatting right clicked on the woman’s face and dragged the mouse along the choices presented in the pop-up box. 1. Caucasian 2. Caucasian blond 3. Caucasian dark 4. Mediterranean 5. Hispanic 6. Eastern European 7. Middle Eastern/North African 8. Black-light 9. Black-medium 10. Black-black (difficult to print) 11. Indian 12. Native American 13. Asian Over half of the world’s population, Gatting thought, an enormous, diverse, largely untapped market, and only one choice to represent it. He clicked on “Asian” and the woman’s features transformed from cheerful Caucasian-blond to cheerful generic Asian. An identical operation was performed on the young man. Gatting turned his attention to the large block letter sign above the double doors. GOLD COAST APPLIANCE AND TV RENTAL SALES AND SERVICE Once again he right-clicked. This time the pop-up window covered the large screen with choices. One-hundred-and-seventeen languages of the world, listed 22

in order of number of speakers. He found the one he wanted. Korean. Nicholas Gatting knew very well that the only reason Minister Pak was even considering his proposal to introduce to North Korea the boon of rent-toown was because he had promised information the Pyongyang government could use to their advantage in dealing with Washington. Forty-eight hours ago it had been his to deliver. But you have got to choose your couriers carefully The one he had tapped to transfer the package from the facility where he produced high quality “simulated” opals—which he usually sold to tourists as the real thing—to the air-freight terminal for the direct flight to Hong Kong had somehow got wind of the importance of the small box and skipped. Imbecile Kenny had taken off with the goods. And so there had been explaining to do. Gatting hated explaining. Especially to people who didn’t really seem to carry on negotiations like anybody he had ever dealt with before. He wasn’t sure how he would, if asked, describe their style, but circuitous seemed to fit the bill. Circuitous and vague and aggravatingly demanding all at the same time. There was nothing to do now but wait and try to stay calm. He would get the baseball scores from the States. If the connection was any good maybe he would be able to download some replay video on the ESPN site. He was logging on under his screen name, “RimKing”, when a soft, blue glow came from the face of his deep green marble desk clock. Roberta, Gatting’s administrative assistant and dinner companion, had strict orders not to disturb him under any circumstances save one. He touched a membrane button set just above the top right hand desk drawer. “It's Leslie.” Roberta's voice came through the speakers on either side of the computer monitor. "Does he have a guest?" "There is somebody with him." Roberta's voice, normally so kittenishly alluring it made him want to have dinner every time she announced a call or visitor, had the uncertain quaver brought on whenever Leslie visited the office. “Lovely. Send them in.” Gatting touched another pad and turned back to the computer as the door connecting to the outer office swung silently open. Two men entered and approached the desk. One of the men was tall and angular, a study of points and edges that threatened to shred his expensive, double-breasted suit as he moved. Bristly blond hair topped his long, pale, humorless face. Cold, metallic grey eyes seemed to focus inward rather than on anything in the room. 23

Next to this singular looking individual was Kenny Lush. Kenny’s appearance was remarkable solely due to the swollen and discolored condition of his otherwise commonplace features. His breath came loudly and with some effort through purple, puffy lips and a nose that held itself at a recently introduced angle. Gatting casually noted the box scores of a double-header between the Giants and Diamondbacks before turning to his two visitors. The tall, spooky fellow looked to be in a state of suspended animation, like some metal wind-up toy that hadn't had its spring released. Kenny just looked like someone who had recently gotten the tar beat out of him. Gatting put his elbows on the arms of his chair, touched his fingertips together and rested his chin on them. “Welcome, Kenny. I see you have chatted with Leslie already.” Gatting's eyes shifted to the man with the cold grey eyes for just an instant before shifting quickly back to Kenny. Leslie gave him the shivers. “I haven't got it,” said Kenny, his voice coming out in a pinched, wheezy tone. It was true. Kenny didn't have the goods. He had dropped the bag with the boomerang somewhere in the bush after smacking into the fiftieth bloody tree. He had offered that information to Leslie, in varying packages, for a good portion of the past twenty hours. Leslie had assumed a skeptical attitude and the conversation had gotten unpleasanter by the minute. Kenny had tried variations of his account, trotting out a number of what he thought were splendidly imaginative chronicles in the hope one might catch the fancy of his audience of one. The reviews had been uniformly negative. “Of course you do, Kenny,” said Gatting. “Cleverly concealed in a boomerang, I believe? Who'd have thought you so ingenious?” He lightly rested his chin on his fingertips. “I want that boomerang.” “I tell you, I haven’t—” Leslie placed a hand on Kenny’s shoulder. “No, please.” Gatting turned back to the screen; the damn video feed had disconnected itself. He clicked to reset it. “I think yes.” Leslie’s hand went to Kenny’s ear, already battered to a messy pulp. The pain was incredible. It left him no breath beyond a gurgling gasp. Leslie released his grip and, without expression, besides the creepy, expressionless expression he carried with him regularly, returned his hand to his side. “Now, Kenny,” Gatting turned back to the pair. “I am sure you don’t want things to get nasty.” Kenny blinked in agreement. “All you need to do is tell me where you hid the boomerang.” 24

“Honestly…Mr…Gatting…I…don’t…” Leslie’s hand shot up and came down hard, open palm, against Kenny’s nose. His pain threshold way behind him, Kenny lost consciousness and collapsed on the floor. When he came to, in a fuzzy, pain-filled, wished he was still passed-out sort of way, Kenny heard Gatting speaking. “I don’t need your excuses. I need what is in that boomerang. They expect delivery and they expect it soon or the deal is off. Now, you do whatever you need to as long as you remember that our objective here is information, not your personal entertainment. Your enthusiasm for the dramatic is not helpful.” That was putting it mildly, thought Kenny. He heard the rumble of Gatting's chair being pushed away from the desk and the soft tread of feet on the thick rug. He felt he could open his eyes now, but decided for the time to leave things be. Gatting’s voice again. “You've got one more chance. I'm not saying you can't play your little games with him, but let's use fear to get what we want before you take it to the next level. Get the information and then you can have your fun.” All right, thought Kenny, Gatting wants him to be afraid. Leslie wants to hurt him. They were both doing pretty damn well so far. Scared and in pain, that was him to a bloody tee. It seemed to Kenny that he had read somewhere, or more likely, as he wasn't much of a reader, had heard on a television program, that knowing the enemy's plan was a valuable key to victory. He hoped this bit of wisdom would prove helpful to him sometime before he died of fear or torture. At the moment, inspiration was elusive. “Let me know when you have results,” said Gatting. The soft tread again, this time retreating, followed by the sound of Gatting settling back into his chair. Kenny then felt himself being hoisted, with minimal regard for the many already sensitive spots distributed across his head and body, and flung across a pair of broad, if pointy, shoulders. It seemed a good time to resume unconsciousness. Gatting pressed the appropriate pad to open the door and watched as Leslie and his cargo exited the office. He turned back to his computer, which had finally finished loading a short ESPN.com video. He tapped on the play button and watched exactly four seconds of jerky video with unsynchronized sound before the tiny inset screen went black and a message scrolled across the bottom announcing something about a buffer. Goddammit all, when was the 25

place going to be wired for a cable modem?

6 Martha’s Vineyard The fourth Mrs. Franklin Quincy Wilson II stretched her arms towards the tiny patches of grey-blue water blinking in the tiny gaps between the distant trees at the edge of two acres of lawn in back of the Wilson’s summer home just outside Chilmark, Up Island, Martha’s Vineyard. Upon rising, early for her at quarter-past-noon, she had investigated the unusually bright sliver of light sneaking between the heavily lined bedroom curtains and immediately rushed out to greet the sun. Now she raised her hands to the first sunny sky the island had seen in two weeks and danced around the large deck in a joyous little hopskip, bounce-bounce impromptu that segued into the precisely choreographed routine that had been her favorite cheer at Northside High School in Vidalia, Georgia. Three years on the varsity cheer squad, an unprecedented achievement. Of course that had been three long years ago, almost a lifetime, but she still remembered the moves and yells. “Panther Pride!” (clap, clap, one step forward) “Panther Power!” (clap) “Yell Louder!” (clap, clap, thrust hands forward) “Go!” (pump right fist high) “Go!” (right fist down, pump left fist high) Repeat “Go!,” five times, the last three accompanied by high kicks, left leg with right arm and vice-versa. Super loud “GO PANTHERS! YAY!” (pump both fists high, execute split kick, and finish with individual discretion split kicks, cartwheels, fist pumps or splits). Ooh, a couple of cheer muscles that perhaps weren’t in the best of condition reminded Bethie Wilson that her high school glory days were past. Whatever, she was glad she had gotten up early and wasn’t it wonderful to be alive and young enough to not only enjoy the glories of nature but actually be one too. 26

Bethie briefly considered going back in and putting something on. She slept in the nude and had not bothered to pause at her closet before rushing out to enjoy the glorious sun. But if she put on a bikini she would just have to shed it in order to properly revive her tan, so what was the point? She stretched out on one of the deeply padded chaise lounges on the deck and began soaking in the heaven sent ultraviolet rays. Bethie Wilson’s enthusiasm for this bright New England day was at that moment being shared by FBI Special Agent Darrell Waas. Agent Waas had been assigned to monitor the comings and goings at the Wilson residence and, as there had been no action at the front of the property for the entire morning, he had decided there would be no harm in giving his legs a stretch with a circumnavigation of the perimeter. A movement on the back deck had caught his eye as he moved from the shade of one moss covered evergreen to another behind the house and he had quickly dropped to the ground before bringing the powerful zoom lens of his digital camera into focus. Special Agent Waas sighed deeply, which momentarily caused the viewfinder to twitch and blur. He switched on the image stabilization feature on the camera, and soon found himself lost in a reverie of what-ifs, and wouldn’t-it-be-wonderfuls. There are times for reverie and times when reverie is ill-advised. A dark blue Lincoln TownCar passed behind him on the gravel road approaching the Wilsons' summer residence without attracting the least attention from Agent Waas or his state of the art camera. It turned the corner and pulled up in front of the house. Senator Wilford Farlow, of the Great Southern State of Alabama and Ranking Member of the Appropriations Sub-Committee on Military Construction, stepped out of the backseat of the Towncar. The senator looked about him rather warily, as if suspecting the neatly tended shrubs and container annuals bordering the driveway, or even the prickly blackberry brambles at the edge of the property to be sheltering members of the liberal news media, before taking the outstretched hand of the possibly fifty-something man who had just come out the front door. The man did not approach the senator in the corpulence department, but had a sleek, well-packed appearance that spoke similarly of assured prosperity. “How very nice of you to accept my invitation, Senator Farlow,” said Franklin Quincy Wilson II as he held the door wide and gestured for his guest to enter. The senator waved his driver away. He fixed Franklin Quincy Wilson II with a look full of senatorial importance. “I am not in the habit of interrupting 27

the nation’s work on such short notice. I trust whatever you have to say will be to the point.” “To the point,” Wilson nodded. “A man after my own heart, Senator. Indeed, a man after my own heart.” Wilson led the way down the hallway in the direction of the back terrace. “I thought we could enjoy some iced tea on the terrace.” Senator Farlow shook his head vigorously. “Whatever you want to discuss, we can damn well discuss inside.” He had kept a nervous eye on the terrain during the approach to Wilson’s house and there was just too much vegetation providing too many places for pesky photojournalists to hide. Wilson stopped and opened a door. “Shame to waste the sunshine, but whatever you prefer,” he said affably. “Welcome to my den, Senator Farlow.” Wilson’s den was all dark wood and leather. Walnut desk, walnut cabinetry, walnut bookshelves covering an entire wall. The books on the shelves were leather bound, most of them autographed by their respective authors, and all of them novels of global espionage, world–on–the–brink–of–destruction, one– man–forced–outside–the–system being the world’s only chance against certain annihilation. In a separate, locked, glass enclosed case were the works of Tom Clancy, the genre’s Supreme Grand Master. Wilson pulled one of the leather volumes partway out and the section of bookcase it was in swung out to reveal a mirrored and crystal decantered bar. “Please, make yourself comfortable, Senator Farlow. Most visitors find the Morris chair to be quite relaxing. Single malt I believe.” He lifted a particularly sparkling decanter. “Thirty-five year old Glenlothian.” “I am not in the habit of indulging at this early hour,” said Senator Farlow with practiced inaccuracy. “If you would kindly state your business, there is much of the nation’s work to be attended to.” “Absolutely, Senator Farlow. Let us get right to the matter at hand.” Wilson poured himself two fingers of scotch and took a sip. “There is a minor bill scheduled to be introduced to the sub-committee of which you are the chair. Next Monday, I believe. I have an interest in a minor line item.” “You do?” “Yes, Senator, I do. And I would greatly appreciate it if you would do me the favor of amending that line item.” “Why in the world would I do you a favor?” “Currently it authorizes funding for an agency called the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative. I would like you to redirect the funds to an entity known as Scholastic Punctuation Interest Test Study.” 28

“Mr. Wilson, if you fancy yourself a lobbyist, you have a thing or two to learn about the art.” “Oh, I am not a lobbyist, Senator Farlow. I represent no special interest group, no powerful voting block.” “Then why, sir, are you wasting my time, and subsequently the nation's time, with your frivolous request?” “It just happens that I own a minor interest in a business in Florida called Pensacola Gulf Yacht Leasing,” said Wilson. “Interestingly last May three partners from the largest investment firm in the Southeast booked one of PGYL’s more spacious yachts for themselves, an officially unidentified gentleman and their wives. The math of four men in their mature years and nine wives whose combined ages barely puts them in octogenarian territory does boggle the mind a bit, at least outside of southern Utah, but I must say I applaud the senator and his associates on their optimism.” He reached into a drawer in the liquor cabinet and pulled out an unlabeled DVD case. “You did give it a fine old college try, I’ll give you that.” Senator Farlow waggled a plump finger at Wilson. “Give me that!” He reached for the DVD case but Wilson put it back in the drawer and shut it. “Now look here you! I would advise you...I would...I... “Yes, Senator?” said Wilson. “You were saying?” Senator Farlow's jaw continued to move, but no sound came out of his mouth. He was staring at something by the door. Wilson turned to follow his gaze. “Good morning, Bethie,” Wilson said. “Good morning,” said Bethie. She was still in nature’s outfit. “I’m sorry, Quinny, I didn’t know you had company. Hi there.” She gave a little shoulder height finger wave to Farlow. He returned the greeting with a hip height finger waggle of his own. “You are up pretty goddam early, aren’t you?” said Wilson. “Oh, Quinny, it’s such a gorgeously beautiful day!” Bethie skipped—yes, she skipped—into the room until she was right in front of Senator Farlow. “I’ve been waiting for the sun for such a long time. Don’t you just love sunny days?” she addressed the question to Farlow. What a lovely young woman, thought the senator. Absolutely lovely. No, none of that now. He forced himself to turn back to Wilson, who was smiling widely. “As I was saying,” said Farlow. What had he been he saying? Oh, right. “I would advise you to watch your step,” He made a movement toward the door, 29

but the nude young woman was directly in his path. “Bethie, honey,” said Wilson. “This is Mr. Landingham from Five Artists.” “Hollywood?” exclaimed Bethie. She took Senator Farlow’s hand in both of hers and pumped it vigorously. Her right foot did a little rise and point. “Oh, this is so exciting!” “I most certainly am not from Holly...Holly...Holly...“ the third syllable of the world’s cinema capital temporarily escaped the senator, who was doing a little rise and point of his own, an event he would have celebrated under different circumstances. “I was Daisy Mae in our senior class production of L’il Abner,” Bethie said as she worked Farlow's hand. She leaned in close as if confiding a confidence. “And I won Miss Onion Ring Festival twice. In a row!” “Young lady, please!” Senator Farlow detached himself from Bethie's grasp and stepped back. He distributed about the room his best effort at an expression of moral outrage, just in case there were cameras. He sidestepped the nude young woman and marched, not a little stiffly, to the door. At the door he turned, prepared to deliver a combination rebuke and reminder of the reach of senatorial power, but there she was, this delectable and absolutely at ease looking morsel, and Senator Wilford Farlow, the man who had been the terror of four presidents, found that his system was operating at such an unavoidably visceral level the words would not come. His Adams apple just bobbed up and down and his lower lip trembled. Damn it all, his mouth was watering. It was with a heroic effort that Senator Wilford Farlow mentally girded his loins and got himself well and truly out the door. The Lincoln kicked up enough dust on its way out to get even Special Agent Waas’s attention. He tried to take a shot of the Lincoln as it flew past, but found he had used up the entire memory card with pictures of Mrs. Franklin Quincy Wilson II. Inside the Wilson residence, Bethie felt that a pall had suddenly fallen over what had begun as such a glorious day. She slumped into the Spanish leather desk chair. “I thought you said the man from Five Artists was named Something-berger.” “Mr. Landingham is even higher up than Mr. Something-berger, my dear. Much goddam higher indeed.” Wilson walked behind the desk and began twirling the chair gently around, much as a parent would propel a playground merry-go-round for a small child. “It didn’t go very well, though,” Bethie pouted. 30

“Oh, no my dear. It went very well.” Quinny smiled, but the smile was to himself, not to Bethie. “Very well, indeed.” Then, to himself, he said, “Now all we need is a nice call from our friend Down Under and everything will be fine.” “Ooh, Quinny,” Bethie giggled as she spun. She held her hand up to her ear, thumb and pinkie out in a pantomimed telephone. “Mr. Down Under,” she purred. “Call for Mr. Down Under.” “Hmm? Oh. That is not what I meant.” Wilson stopped spinning the chair and gazed at the twenty-two year old, five-foot-four, one-hundred-five pound temptation in his chair. “Doesn’t Mr. Down Under want to take his call?” said Bethie. “It’s prepaid.” What the hell, thought Quinny. As long as it was pre-paid.

7 Doreen and Amelia’s The following morning Doreen Lush was already up and dressed, pulling on her ankle-high boots, when the alarm clock sounded. The clock was a Westclox Big Ben model, the kind with two dome shaped bells on top and a hammer that bounces between them. Danny, her long gone husband, purchased it thirty-seven years ago, claiming it was the only clock he could rely on to wake him out of his deep slumbers. He enjoyed this blissful sleep every night courtesy of the generous quantities of beer he consumed as before, during, and after dinner "stress relievers". The origins of her husband’s stress had never been fully explained to Doreen, although the unreasonable demands imposed by married life upon a free-spirited soul such as himself had been mentioned a time or two. Evidently even beer had not been adequate compensation for the spiritual oppression of wedlock and Danny Lush had disappeared one evening thirty-five years ago. He took all of his personal possessions with the exception of the Big Ben alarm clock and several pairs of his briefs. 31

The latter omission had not surprised Doreen; Danny often as not had forgotten to put on his underwear after being clanged out of bed by Big Ben. He would grumble and crotch scratch his way down the hall to the W.C., take a long and usually poorly directed piss, grumble and butt scratch his way back to the bedroom. Then he would yank on a pair of dungarees, often as not without the preliminary of stepping into briefs. More than once he had been incautious while pulling up the zipper. Doreen would shake with silent spasms of laughter under the covers as he danced about the room, coordination and judgment impaired by stale alcohol and fresh pain, trying to extricate a most delicate fold of skin from the grip of the interlocking teeth. This occasional entertainment was small compensation for the times when the beer inspired him to hit her. When she finally decided to hit back and make it count he left. She was three months pregnant at the time and glad to see him go. Drunken idiot and his scarred Wee Willie Winkie. For the last thirty-four years Doreen had shared her home with her younger sister, Amelia, who had never married. Together they had raised Doreen’s son, Kenny, a lost project from the word go. Along with the Big Ben and the underwear, Danny had left them a smudged carbon-copy of himself in the boy. The day after Kenny's eighteenth birthday Doreen kicked him out and wrote him off. But Amelia retained a soft spot for her only nephew. Many times he had come to her, behind his mother's back, and secured loans from his Auntie Emmie to get himself out of some jam or finance some ill-conceived plot. Not once had she been repaid. Doreen had no use for the lost boy turned irretrievably screwed up man and had made herself clear on the subject many times. “As far as I'm concerned,” she would say, “he's no son of mine. He belongs to his stupid sot of a father. I don't need either of them.” Now she needed him. She was mad as hell at herself for getting into the situation of needing the little good-for- nothing, but there it was and it was her own damn fault. If only she had kept to the No-Men policy that had served her so well these past decades. But then she hadn't counted on Julian Sniders of the Investments Department at Queensland Trust. A polished, well-spoken man with swept back silver hair and a similarly plated tongue, Sniders had shown up in Doreen’s domain in the safety deposit vault one day soon after his arrival from the recently defunct Sumitomo Bank just down the street. His visits became more and more frequent and within a few weeks he had charmed his 32

way into Doreen’s affections. This was a feat remarkable not so much because no other man had previously succeeded as because no man since Danny had been sufficiently inspired to even make the attempt. The arsenal with which he had so skillfully overthrown Doreen’s fortress of misanthropy consisted of white chocolate covered macadamia nuts and Wordsworth. He seemed to have intuited both of these weaknesses of Doreen's but actually obtained them through a bit of skillful pumping of her sister. The combined forces of sweets and quotes from “Tintern Abbey” brought the towers down. They spent long, lovely moments at her desk inside the safety deposit vault, often sharing a picnic basket lunch and reading aloud from “Resolution and Independence”. The man could read poetry like nobody’s business. Gave her gooseflesh. He even volunteered to watch over her domain whenever she had to run an errand upstairs, graciously attending to the safety deposit box keyholders in a way that quite endeared him to each one. Her darling Jules was everything Danny Lush had never attempted to be, could never have conceived of being. He was, Doreen had been convinced, the vastly overdue man Nature had intended for her. Then one day, while she was on a fool's errand four floor up, Julian Desmond Sniders used duplicates of keys he had made over the past several weeks, emptied a score of safety deposit boxes and skipped. To add injury to insult, he also made away with all of Doreen and Amelia's savings. Doreen had entrusted to him this product of their accumulated labors just the day before, trusting in his promise to invest it all in a growth fund which he guaranteed would produce a return that would make her head spin. The actual return on Doreen’s investment was that she was financially denuded and sacked. For a moment her head did indeed spin. After that she was just mad. Intensely, steamingly pissed off. It was, therefore, not a cheerful, nor a tolerantly disposed Doreen who, on the day when both her ego and her net worth had been deflated to near zero, came stomping home from the bus stop four hours earlier than usual. She was deep in her plans of revenge against Mr. May-His-Pecker-Drop-Off-And-TripHim-in- Front-Of-A-Speeding-Motorbus-Snider, when, passing by the high kitchen window on her way to the side door, she heard Kenny's voice. He was talking to Amelia, who had stayed home with a case of irritable bowel. Here was her opportunity. Not that it would be as satisfying as bashing Jules Snider's precisely coifed skull against the side of the Queensland Trust Bank corporate high-rise, but, still and all, it looked to be an excellent occasion to 33

catch one of the men who had served to make her life a misery in the act and hold him accountable. Kenny was, no doubt, about to touch his Auntie Emmie for a sum she could ill afford, even if her savings hadn't been diverted by Julian Desmond to Tahiti or some lesser known speck in Oceania. Doreen figured she would eavesdrop on Kenny just long enough to get the details. Then she would come in with all guns blazing and ventilate the little bunion, and, by proxy, all men. But what Doreen heard coming through the kitchen window was not what she expected. Kenny was not soliciting funds. He was bragging, rhapsodizing about some scheme. Soon, he was saying, he would be in a position to pay his auntie back ten times over for all of her past generosity. He was, of course, being vague about just how he was going to accomplish this, but there was something in his voice that caught Doreen's attention. There was an edge to it, a frightened excitement in place of the sure thing bravado with which he normally presented his cockamamie schemes. The voice told Doreen—for a mother, even such a mother as Doreen, can read a son's voice like no other could ever hope to—that her good for nothing son-of-a-Danny offspring was On To Something. Something high stakes and high risk. Something that was, absolutely and without a doubt, well beyond his pitiful male capacities. Something that, if done correctly, just might rescue her from the financial disaster caused by her ill-considered flirtation. Something requiring a mother's touch. And so, when Doreen burst in on the conference of nephew and aunt, it was not as Angel of Judgment and Retribution, but as self-appointed New Chief Conspirator and Plot Doctor. Kenny had been none too enthusiastic about sharing in the scheme with his dear mother. He struggled mightily against having her supplant him as mastermind. But strength of character will prevail and, as he had little ammunition with which to fight that good fight, it was a matter of perhaps five minutes before Doreen was established as the resident Moriarty. She listened to Kenny's plan, abused it mightily, and improved it beyond hope of recognition. For a person not practiced in the art of plotting criminal strategies, Doreen felt she had shown a remarkable affinity for it. The only possible difficulty, that of finances, had been taken care of by the revelation from Amelia that she kept a “couple thousand or so, just in case” in a plastic container in the freezer, a bit of news that on a normal day would have sent Doreen into a fury, but which then was as the gift of manna from above. And so Divine Providence had provided in her time of need and done it in the persons of her good for nothing 34

son and spineless sister. She should have known something would go wrong. And she should have known it would be Kenny’s fault. All he had to do was get the boomerang to the Knudsons and then call to confirm. But there had been no call. Either something had happened to prevent him from calling or he had forgotten. Doreen's money was on forgotten. Her thimble-headed son had, like as not, engaged in a premature celebration involving several pints and a female light in both brains and self respect and he had simply forgotten. But confirming message or not, Doreen would not allow herself to consider the possibility Kenny had not at least gotten the package to where it belonged. It had to be there. It didn’t matter where the hell her son was, but the package had to be at the Knudsons. Her plan had been elegant simplicity, with just enough twists to baffle detection. The goods, which Kenny was to supposed to deliver to an air freight terminal for his boss, one Nicholas Gatting, were instead to be diverted into a boomerang especially created by an Aborigine craftsman and secreted for a day in a small tourist shop by Queen Mary Falls kept by Paul and Sally Knudson. Doreen had gone to school with Sally Knudson, a determinedly cheery woman who insisted upon seeing the good in everyone, even Doreen. Until recently Doreen had considered Sally a mild nuisance, an unwanted greeting card at the holidays and intrusive phone call on her birthday. But she was just the sort of innocent imbecile to involve without having to answer a lot of probing questions. When Doreen called Sally and asked if her son could drop a package on the Knudson's back porch to be picked up the next day by her and her sister, well, of course it was all right. Oh, and Sally should act like she didn't know them. It was part of a little play-acting exercise for a stupid class in dramatics her sister Amelia was taking to help her "open up". That sounded like fun, said Sally. How wonderful that Doreen was helping her sister come out of her shell. The Plan called for Doreen and Amelia, posing as tourists, to show up at the shop the next day and “purchase” the boomerang containing the precious cargo and then, at the end of their day of sightseeing, get on a flight to Seattle. Kenny said he had a buyer for the goods there. He would meet them there and they would all rendezvous with the buyer. Kenny would take his share and never bother his mother or aunt again. Doreen and Amelia would retire to some tiny town, perhaps in British Columbia. Doreen thought she might like to try her hand at raising some sort of livestock one slaughtered periodically. 35

The insertion of the goods into the boomerang had been part of Kenny’s original scheme, although whether he could legitimately take credit for that bit was not clear. He had tried mightily to present the entire plan as one of his own devising, but it had been clear to Doreen that there lingered in the background a power that had not only put Kenny up to the whole thing but provided his operational expenses. This he flatly denied, but then he would, wouldn’t he? Regardless of the plan’s origins, Doreen had felt it flawed. Outside of the concealment in the boomerang, there had been no further misdirection, no extra false leads or red herrings. That is where she had shone. It was she who introduced the secluded, but convenient to the Knudsons', locale for the boomerang delivery. She who had given the goods a place to rest for a short period of time before sending it on the next leg of its journey. And she who had thought up the characters of Lorretta Scott and Francis Lewis of Canberra, tourists taking an escorted tour of the beautiful countryside surrounding Brisbane. Now it was time for her and Amelia to drive downtown, position themselves in front of the Sheraton and wait for the man from No Worries Tours. Innocent tourists out to see the hills, rivers, and forests surrounding Brisbane, ready to spend some cash on local crafts. She checked the Big Ben. Quarter after six. So far no sign of life from Amelia. If they were going to make it to their post on time they had better get moving. She poked her head out her bedroom door and bellowed down the hall. “Amelia!” A photo of Prince Charles, dressed in full regimentals, astride a chestnut mare-one of several small framed decorations hanging in the hall, all selected by Amelia-tilted five degrees from true as Doreen's voice echoed down the corridor. In her room at the opposite end of the short hallway, Amelia, clad in a denim blouse, thick cotton socks, and full-cut white nylon panties, was kneeling in front of her dresser, rummaging desperately through two formerly neat stacks of underwear. The other drawers had already been ransacked. Where were her new molies? She already had on the coordinating blouse and thick cotton socks, but the molies were nowhere to be found. It was the only outfit she had that was appropriate for an excursion into the countryside and she couldn't find her pants. “Amelia!” Prince Charlie’s mount reared precipitously, but the rider held fast. Amelia padded to her bedroom door feeling not a little frustrated and confused. Life 36

was so trying when one had only five hours of sleep. Four and a half if one deducted several visits to the loo. She opened the door enough to poke her head out. Woman and child, since she had acquired the necessary skills to dress herself, she had never allowed anyone, sister included, to see her in even partial undress. “Doreen, dear, I can't find my molies.” Doreen opened her own door wide and directed a withering look at what was visible of her sister. “WHAT? YOU'RE NOT DRESSED YET?” Charles landed with an explosive shattering of glass, managing, nevertheless, to retain the inimitable Windsor expression of unflappable vacuity. The chestnut suffered a severed leg, and, later, when time allowed, both horse and rider were subsequently destroyed. “We have to be there in less than an hour you know!” A framed cross-stitch scene of a country cottage skipped off the wall by Doreen and landed on her left foot, bouncing harmlessly off her heavy boot. Amelia stared at Doreen, or past her or under her or through her, but in any case, Doreen didn't like it. “What are you looking at?” “My molies,” Amelia nodded at the neatly pressed and pleated slacks Doreen was wearing. “You're wearing my pants.” She squinted a bit, trying to compensate for advancing myopia. “And my belt. You're wearing my clothes, Doreen dear.” “I'm wearing a costume meant to put me in the character of Mrs. Loretta Scott. You've plenty of other clothes to choose from.” “But that's what I had pressed and set out for this morning, especially. I haven't anything else for such an outing.” “Well, if you think I'm going to change clothes now you're mistaken. Get yourself ready, or I'm off without you!” Five minutes later Amelia raced out the side door of the house, just in time to collapse breathlessly in the passenger seat of their tired Cortina. She had on a bright green wool skirt which she had grabbed in a panic as Doreen had stomped down the hallway toward the front door. It had been years since she had last worn it and it was, no denying, more a than a little on the snug side. Her shoes were in her hands, a pair of fleece lined, over the ankle boots that had been the first things to come to hand. As Doreen pulled the Cortina out on to the street, Amelia leaned forward to pull on the boots. There was a faint buzzing sound from the area of her right 37

hip. She sadly contemplated an eight inch gap where the zipper had separated, revealing an expanse of contrasting white nylon peering through the bright green wool. Doreen directed a sideways glance at her sister as they motored down the road. “Would you zip up your skirt!” “I’m trying, Doreen dear.” Amelia tugged at the zipper with no effect. “I’m trying.”

8 George Bush (the elder) Center for Intelligence Langley, Virginia Deputy Director Hank Berringer had a headache. A bad one. He was not normally prone to headaches and had never been able to muster a whole lot of sympathy for people who were regular sufferers. Now he knew what they were talking about. He closed his eyes, put fingers to temples, and rubbed. “Having a vision, Hank?” said Dennis Balderson, Associate Deputy Director of Intelligence. Next to him was Anderson Shipe, Senior Researcher for the CSI, short for Center for the Study of Intelligence. The three sat in a tight circle in the middle of Berringer’s office. “I’m thinking,” said Hank Berringer. “Yeah?” said Balderson. “I’m thinking too. I’m thinking this is the last time I use an Aussie named Lush to make a delivery.” “Brilliant hindsight,” said Shipe. “Bite me,” said Balderson. ”This isn’t helping,” said Hank. He tried rubbing the crown of his head. That was where the pain seemed to begin. “When was the last time we heard from him?” “Sixteen-fifteen Brisbane local time,” said Shipe. “Our man, actually, she’s a woman, made telephone contact with him. They confirmed their next contact time.” 38

“Which was to be?” “Twenty-one-thirty, local time,” said Balderson. “That’s like oh-one-thirty our time, the day before, or something. Anyway, this guy’s missed his contact time by a good fifteen hours.” “Do we know if he has been in contact with anybody else in the past, say, two days?” “Not a soul,” said Balderson. “Guy’s a loner. A loser, a drunk and a loner. We really know how to pick ‘em.” “Actually,” said Shipe, “he has been in pretty regular contact with his mother and aunt.” “Mother and aunt? That’s it? What do we know about them?” “Not much to tell,” said Shipe. “Couple of old ladies working at a bank.” Hank stopped rubbing. Wasn’t helping, anyway. “Well, if dear old mom and auntie are all we’ve got to go on, that’s what we do. Where are they now?” Balderson and Shipe shrugged. “It might be a good idea if we found out.”

9 Downtown Brisbane Amelia spent the twenty minute drive into downtown Brisbane trying, without success, to straighten herself out enough to work her zipper back together. When they pulled up to the parking garage entrance she hastily grabbed the owner's manual from the glovebox and held it over the gap while the attendant handed Doreen their ticket and gave them directions to the Sheraton. Doreen raced the Cortina up three levels to the first available space. Amelia checked to make certain there was no one about before she stepped out, sucked it in, and closed the zipper with a sharp upward tug. She wondered if she would have to hold her tummy in all day. She bent her knees slightly and felt an unpleasant pressure. “AMELIA!” 39

Trying to make as much of the action originate at the knees and below as she could, Amelia trotted over to the open elevator doors, where Doreen stood tapping her foot and glaring. They arrived at the front entrance of the Brisbane Sheraton at five minutes before seven o'clock; the morning light was just beginning to appear in the sky. Doreen planted herself directly in front of the steps leading to the entrance and stared down the doorman, who, to his credit, recognized superior forces and offered no resistance. Amelia stood just to the side of the bottom step and looked uncomfortable. At seven o’clock sharp, a tan Land Cruiser with a caricature of a kookaburra and the words No Worries Tours painted in bright blues and oranges on the side, pulled up in the space left by a departing cab. A handsome, tanned man of perhaps fifty-five years, dressed in tan chinos and a blue cotton shirt, stepped out. Doreen stepped immediately to the curb and motioned for Amelia to follow. “G'day. Miss Lewis and Mrs. Scott I believe?” The man greeted the two women with a wide, genuine smile. “My name is Cy Hobarth. Looks like we've got ourselves a lovely day.” Doreen grunted and eyed the door. “Here we go,” said Cy. He opened the door for the two women. Amelia eased her way in after her sister. She sat with her rear at the very edge of the seat, her neck resting on the top of the seat back. “Seat belts, please!” Cy announced cheerily before he closed the door and circled around to the driver's side. “Amelia, for pity's sake, sit properly!” Doreen snapped. “I can't Doreen dear,” said Amelia. She pointed at her zipper and shrugged. Doreen snorted. “What's that, miss?” Cy climbed in and turned around to face the women. The one in the shamrock green skirt and ridiculous boots seemed to be sliding forward. “Nothing,” said Doreen. She gave Amelia a sharp poke in the side. With a great effort, Amelia bent herself into very nearly the required right angle and clicked on her seat-belt. “That's right,” said Cy. He took a leather-bound book from the front passenger seat and handed it back to Amelia. “If I could ask you ladies to fill out my guest book? You'll find a pen inside the book there. From Canberra, aren't you? Lovely city, that. My wife has an aunt living there. We visit every other year or so. Always enjoy looking about. Perhaps you ladies could tell me 40

about some of your favorite spots there. Always ask the natives they say.” Amelia, trying her best to get into the spirit of her Canberrian character, not to mention get her mind off her compressed vital organs, piped right in. “Oh, it is a lovely city. Of course, Loretta and I don't get out as much as we should, but there are so many lovely spots there. In Canberra. We're from Canberra, aren't we, Loretta dear?” Doreen gave Amelia another shot in the side, resulting in a slight whining exhalation followed by pained silence. “Please feel free to look us up next time you and the wife are in Canberra," Doreen growled. "We will be very happy to give you an exclusive tour at onehundred-ten dollars each. Now, will we be getting on with it? Or do we spend a large portion of our morning observing this section of Turbot Street?” She snatched the guest book out of Amelia's hands, tossed it back on to the front passenger seat and folded her arms. “Off we go, ladies,” Cy said aloud. To himself he thought, it is going to be a long day. Cy disliked running one of his full-day tours partially booked; the Land Cruiser could comfortably seat five besides himself. But, there you were, some days were going to be better than others. Until he had gotten the call booking these two old biddies, the day had looked to be one of replenishing pamphlets at concierge desks. Better make the best of it. As they left downtown Brisbane behind, he began his commentary about where they were headed and what they could expect to see. His encyclopedic knowledge of the area invariably resulted in remarks of admiration and led to more questions and answers. This morning, however, it quickly became apparent that his two guests were not going to respond. The sharp-tongued one just sat there, a presence of irritation and impatience, and the other one seemed to have a sort of nervous disorder. Cy could see her face in the rear view mirror very well by just tilting his head slightly to the left and her expression was a constant, pinched grimace. By the time they reached the outskirts of the city he had given up trying any conversation or education and resigned himself to assuming the role of silent chauffeur. Twenty minutes after they pulled away from the Sheraton the sour one spoke. “How soon do we get to Queen Mary Falls?” “Oh, that'll be right about lunch time, Mrs. Scott. It's a lovely place and we'll spend some time there. Good place for kookaburras and―” ”Not until lunch? It's not that far, is it?” 41

“No, not so very far, as the highway goes. But we do have a lot of beautiful land to see between here and there. Wouldn't want you to miss out on any of your hundred and ten dollars worth, now would we?” Cy felt ashamed of himself for the last comment, but out it had come and had to take care of itself now. They drove on in silence. The entire morning fell flat. None of Cy's warm, sincere enthusiasm for the beautiful land and its people—both of which he knew so well—created any spark of interest with this curious pair. Even the time he had to get out to check the depth and current of the Condamine River before fording brought no comment. Usually he would leave the key in the Land Cruiser and designate a replacement driver “Just in case the crocs get me.” but this morning there was no point. By quarter past noon they were within a mile of Queen Mary Falls. At this point, Cy’s usual routine was to try to build some anticipation by describing the beauty and drama of the falls along with the possibility of sighting crimson rosella, kookabura, and perhaps even the elusive platypus along the trail that wound from the road to where the water tumbled one hundred and twenty feet to the misty pool at its feet. This afternoon he broke the long silence by simply announcing, “Queen Mary Falls coming up ladies. We'll be stopping for lunch.” “Lunch?” said Amelia, sounding doubtful. “The Knudsons put out a wonderful meal. I promise you won’t go hungry.” “How long?” said Doreen. “Soon,” Cy said aloud. But not soon enough, he said to himself. Two minutes later the Land Cruiser was crunching its way over the gravel drive leading to a neat white house across the road from the path to the falls. Doreen was out of the door almost before the Land Cruiser had come to a full stop. Amelia followed with an almost desperate enthusiasm. In what resembled an unpracticed dismount by an aging gymnast in a unique national costume, she managed to swing her legs around, heels together, grab the upper ledge of the door opening, and jettison herself onto the driveway. Her boots traveled somewhat farther and faster than the rest of her on the gravel surface and she ended up sitting quite suddenly. “Here you go Miss Lewis.” Cy held out a hand, but Amelia waved it off with one hand; the other hand was in front of her mouth. “I think I’d like to sit for a moment,” she said softly. “Which one is the shop?” Doreen demanded. “Just to your left, there, Mrs. Scott,” said Cy, keeping an eye on Amelia, 42

who had closed her eyes and was taking in slow, shallow breaths. “We'll have a chance to visit the shop after lunch.” Amelia moaned and leaned forward. Her zipper gapped again. “Mrs. Scott, I think perhaps we might need some assistance here,” said Cy. “Mrs. Scott?” But Doreen was stomping around the side of the indicated outbuilding, following a path bordered by whitewashed stones roughly the size and shape of trod-upon grapefruit. At the back corner of the building she found a white door with a bright brass knob. She yanked on it. It was locked. “What do you want?” A voice, sharp and cold, like thin winter mountain air without the bracing quality some find in it, came from behind her. Doreen turned to see a man, seemingly made of all angles and edges, leaning on a spade. He was about thirty feet away, standing in the middle of a well tended vegetable garden that occupied the land stretching directly behind the house and outbuildings. He was staring at Doreen with ball bearing grey eyes. Doreen had never met Sally’s husband. This fellow seemed an unlikely mate to her gregarious classmate, but then, she thought, opposites did attract, usually to disastrous results. She returned his stare. “Are you Mr. Knudson?” she said. The man didn't say anything. He studied Doreen for several seconds. Then his gaze drifted left from center, back to her and then to her right. “Mr. Knudson,” he finally said, “is not available at the moment. I didn't hear your car.” He took a couple of steps toward Doreen. She could see his shoes, expensive looking Italian loafers like the ones Mr. Snider wore. Overpriced, dainty things with tassels. “You got your lovely shoes dirty,” she said rather acidly. The man looked slowly down at his feet and then fixed his eyes once more on Doreen. She tried to meet his stare, but there was something disconcerting in his cold, gray gaze. She was the first to look away and she didn't like that at all. Again he looked from side to side. He shifted the spade to an angle across his chest, blade end up. “Unusual outfit for weeding.” Doreen tried once again to meet his eyes and, once again, found herself aggravatingly rattled by his glacial gaze. “Planting,” he said. He twirled the shovel in his hands, small clods of earth flying from the spinning blade. He took another step toward Doreen. “Hello, there you are Mrs. Scott.” Cy came around the corner of the 43

building. “I'm afraid Miss Lewis isn’t doing very well.” He stopped when he saw the man. “G’day, sir.” Leslie stopped twirling the spade and dropped the blade end to the ground. His face betrayed little of the annoyance he felt at the sudden appearance of Cy. He judged Cy to be perhaps fifty or fifty-five years of age, slightly over six-feet in height, with a muscular torso that had acquired no noticeable paunch, and a stride that spoke of a well-founded physical self-assurance. Not at all the same as a stumpy, loud mouthed, henna-topped old woman. This called for a different approach altogether. “Good day to you, sir,” Leslie said. “I was just explaining to the lady that the proprietors were called away. I'm afraid the shop won't be opening today.” He gave a cold, angular version of a resigned, apologetic shrug. “Is everything all right?” Cy came up beside Doreen. This man with the shovel had put the unfortunate Miss Lewis temporarily to the back of his mind. “The Knudsons have always been very good about keeping regular hours.” “I'm afraid they were called away,” said Leslie. “Suddenly.” “Well, I came here all the way from Canberra and I want a look around your shop,” said Doreen. “I'm sure you could open up.” “Are you a friend of the Knudsons?” said Cy. He was getting a cold, prickling sensation along the back of his neck. Leslie considered his answer for a long moment, fingering the handle of the spade the while. “I’m their cousin,” he said, finally. “From Perth. Been staying with them this past week. Were they expecting you?” Cy ignored the question. He nodded toward the garden. “So, is Peter setting out more of his secret variety tomatoes this year?” Leslie hesitated, studying Cy for signs to tell him which way to go with his response. He came up empty. “That's right. Thought I'd help while they were away. We don't see soil like this in Perth. Rare chance for me.” “Quite. Well, sorry to have bothered you.” “Not at all.” “We're off then. Come along Mrs. Scott.” Cy touched Doreen's elbow and gestured for her to lead the way back to the Land Cruiser. She pulled away and stood with her arms crossed, a look of resolve on her face. “I came here specifically because this shop was so highly recommended and I'm not leaving until I see it,” Doreen said. “Mrs. Scott,” Cy tugged gently on her arm. “We really should leave this gentleman. Come on back with me and tell me what you'd like to purchase. I'm 44

certain I can take you to the best shop in Queensland for whatever you have in mind.” Doreen dug in her heels. “What I have in mind, Mr. Hobarth, is something I know for a fact can be found only at this shop, and I am sure that this gentleman…” She spat out the word in a way calculated to give offense. “… could let us in if he chose.” Leslie cocked his head to the side, his eyes returned with fresh interest to Doreen. “Might I ask what my cousins would have in their humble shop that could be considered so unique?” He had already searched the shop and come up with nothing. Plenty of boomerangs, but none of them matching what he had seen by the light of Big George’s lantern. “You'll know as soon as you open up that door.” Doreen glared at the infuriating man, determined not to be put off by his damnable chilly stare. Cy tugged at her with increased urgency. “Mrs. Scott, we really ought to be―” Leslie held up a hand of submission. “Please,” he said. “I apologize for being so…” he smiled a glacial, knife-edged smile, “…unaccommodating. Wait here. I'll locate the key.” He went into the house through the door at the side corner, leaving the shovel leaning against the wall. As soon as Leslie disappeared, Cy renewed his grip on Doreen's arm and began pulling her in earnest after him. “Quickly, Mrs. Scott, we must leave, now!” Doreen pulled back. “No!” “I must insist! Something is very wrong here. I can feel it!” Cy took her arm in both hands and tried to slingshot her past him toward the front of the building. “I am not going anywhere without my boomerang!” Doreen dug in with one thick-sole booted foot and kicked Cy in the knee with the other. He let go of her and fell backward. As he fell there was a sharp thwack against the wood siding of the shop. A thin, golden-colored shaft, about six inches long, vibrated where it had pierced the siding directly behind where Cy had been standing. Three golden wings were spaced evenly about the end of the shaft. Leslie stood in the doorway, a suit jacket and a small crossbow added to his ensemble. He was fixing another bolt, for such is the term used to identify what we would, if not otherwise informed for the better, call the stubby arrows or overgrown darts used by Leslie’s modern, carbon–fiber version of this weapon from the early ages of Killing from a Distance. He raised it to fire again, his 45

cold eyes locked on Cy, who was still stretched out on the ground. But just as Leslie’s finger began to tighten on the trigger, something very solid caught him on the left side of his head. He was thrown against the side of the house and his aim jerked up and to the side. The bolt released, arcing harmlessly over the corner of the shop. Leslie staggered briefly, but he quickly regained his footing. Ignoring the blood dripping from his left temple, he reached into his jacket to the specially designed pouch that held another halfdozen bolts. His face was still a cold, angular mask, but now it was a cold, angular mask with blood dripping down one side and an expression of silent rage. As Leslie raised the crossbow once again, his thoughts, however, were shifted to a consideration of the size and relative hardness of the white, squashed-grapefruit size rock that was speeding its way through the air in his direction, and doing so at a remarkably vigorous rate of speed. This train of thought was, in its turn, interrupted by the arrival of the white rock at his nose. Leslie plunged back through the doorway and onto the slate tile flooring of the entryway. The crossbow, possibly owing to the fact that it spent so much of its time in his grasp, did not abandon that familiar harbor. It came to rest, bolt intact and pointing out the door, directly where his belt buckle would have been had he not instead been wearing a set of very stylish braces. Doreen was at once irritated at herself for not delivering the knockout punch with the first effort and smugly satisfied with the effectiveness of the second. She dusted her hands and triumphantly glared at the soles of Leslie's Italian tasseled loafers, the rest of him being obscured from view by position and shadow. “Now,” she said, “maybe we can have a look inside that shop.” She headed to the doorway where Leslie lay, intending to search his pockets and, if necessary, the house, for a key to open the shop door. Failing that, she was more than willing to exercise the break-and-enter option. If Sally was not going to be around to keep her appointments then it was her own bloody fault if her guests found it necessary to smash a window or jimmy a door. “Mrs. Scott!” Cy called after her. “Stay away from that man!” “Oh, shut up.” Doreen waved him off and continued toward the Italian loafers. She intended to give them a good, swift kick. All Italian loafers with tassels deserved a good, swift kick. They broke hearts, stole life-savings and tried to kill people with stupid little bow and arrow thingamajigs. It was time they got what was coming to them. She was within ten feet of the hated loafers when they moved. They had been in a position more or less parallel to each other and perpendicular to the 46

ground. Now the toes were fanning out and the soles were forming into a distinct V shape. “MRS. SCOTT!” Cy hurled himself at Doreen, catching her around the knees and flinging both of them to the ground just as another golden bolt went whizzing above them and buried itself in the eaves of the shop building. His adrenaline flowing at a rate he hadn't experienced since his days thirty years agoon the National Rugby Team, Cy sprang back to his feet, grabbed Doreen with a vice-like grip around the wrist, yanked her to her feet and dragged her, sprinting, around to the front of the property, back to the Land Cruiser. “Miss Lewis!” shouted Cy as he yanked open the driver’s side door and shoved Doreen in. He gave her a push over and stood on the door frame to give himself a higher vantage point to call out. “Miss Lewis! Miss Lewis!” Doreen poked her head out the other side and bellowed in a voice that humbled Cy’s by a couple-hundred decibels. “AMELIA! AMELIA!!!” “Miss Lewis!” In a tiny window of silence within the wall of yelling Cy and Doreen heard a small voice coming from the back of the Land Cruiser. “Doreen, dear, I don’t feel very well.” Barely visibly above the middle seat was a pale-looking Amelia. “Amelia!” scolded Doreen. “What are you doing back there?” Cy didn’t care what she was doing as long as she was in the vehicle. He had the Land Cruiser started and in gear in two seconds. Substituting a terse, commanding "Hold on!" for his usual announcement regarding safety-belts, he jammed his foot on the accelerator and sent the big vehicle fish-tailing across the gravel drive toward the road. If Cy had taken a look in the rear-view mirror, he might have noticed a bloodied and staggering Leslie come around the corner of the shop, raise the crossbow once again, and squeeze off yet another shot. As it was, the sound of the bolt scraping against the side of the Land Cruiser mixed in with the gravel ricocheting off the sheet metal and the only person to register any response to the effort was Leslie. He looked disappointed.

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10 About a mile from the Knudson’s Cy slammed on the brakes and jerked the Land Cruiser into a narrow dirt road. They bounced along for several seconds, eliciting moans from the rear and a barrage of criticisms from Doreen. He brought the vehicle to a halt in front of two huge gum trees that nearly filled the windshield. “All right now.” He turned to Doreen. “You shut your yap.” This was something new for Doreen. Perhaps, if the past few minutes had not themselves been quite so extraordinary, she would have responded in a more characteristic manner, but, taken all in all, it shocked her into silence. “You all right back there?” Cy called to the back of the vehicle. “I’ve been ill.” Amelia’s voice rose faintly from the back seat. “Twice.” “Lovely,” said Cy. He turned back to Doreen. “What in the bloody hell is going on?” “Mr. Hobarth,” Doreen said. “I demand you take us back to the Knudsons’” “Not likely. At least not until I get some answers. I booked an excursion with two passengers named…” Cy had to refer to his comment book, the recent events having driven certain details from his mind, “…Loretta Scott and Francis Lewis, did I not? So why, may I ask, are you calling each other Doreen and Amelia? What is going on here?” An unpleasant sound came from the rear. “Ooh, Doreen dear, I’m afraid it’s happened again.” “Be quiet, Amelia,” Doreen growled. “All right then,” said Cy. He reached under the seat and drew out a large handgun. Doreen began yelling murder. “Shut up. I’m not going to shoot you, though goodness knows it might do you some good.” He checked the weapon and got out of the Land Cruiser. He leaned back through the window. “The Knudsons are friends of mine and I’m going to find out what’s going on. You can stay here or start walking back to wherever it is you really came from, it’s no difference to me.” He shut the door and began trotting back to the road. In seconds he had disappeared. Doreen sat fuming. She became aware of an odor in the vehicle. “Open the window, Amelia.” “Yes, Doreen, dear.” The sound of window cranking. “Is he gone?” 48

“Yes, he’s gone.” “What shall we do now, Doreen dear?” Amelia’s voice came from closer quarters. Doreen looked around and saw her sister in the middle seat now, looking not quite so pale, but minus her skirt. “It’s the only thing that made me feel better,” said Amelia, trying to cover herself with the opened comment book. “Did he say how long he would be?” “No, he didn’t say how long he would be.” “Well, I suppose we had better make the best of it then, hadn’t we?” Amelia was sounding almost cheerful, as if with the release of stomach contents and shedding of her gut pinching skirt she was finally able to get into the spirit of the adventure. “What shall we do to pass the time?” “Shut your trap so I can think, that’s what you can do.” “Yes, Doreen dear.” Amelia tried to occupy herself with observing the scenery, but it was really just trees, trees, and more trees and they all looked very much the same to her. She thought of the book spread across her lap. Something to read would help to pass the time. She began leafing through the pages. So many people from so many different places had taken a No Worries Tour. It was quite fascinating really, to just look at the names of the people and where they were from. Mr. and Mrs. Clyde Gordon of Edinburgh, the Fujimoro’s—apparently a family of five—of Osaka, Albert Modinsky and Clare Bennett-Scarabo-Modinsky—now what was that all about?—of Sydney. On the page opposite each listing Cy had entered notes concerning the day’s events, what had gone well, what had not, things to remember for future reference, whether there was a prospect of future excursions with that particular person or persons, and what appeared to be miscellaneous musings concerning human nature. Either Mr. Hobarth had been keeping his journal for just a short time, or this was simply the latest volume in a series, but barely twenty pages in Amelia came to the next to the last entry. It was for just the previous day. A couple from the States: Mr. and Mrs. Davis Tracey of Gilbert, Arizona. Amelia read the notes Cy had made concerning the day with the Traceys. Charming couple. Restaurateurs. Mr. Tracey an amateur photographer. Ran long due to his occasionally lengthy photo sessions. Otherwise smooth running. For some reason Mrs. Knudson seemed a bit distracted. After lunch and shopping with K’s, Mr. Tracey found interesting boomerang along trail to Falls. Wonderful workmanship, wombat design. Probably dropped by other 49

tourist. “Ooh, that’s interesting,” she said. “Will you please be quiet,” Doreen said. She had about made up her mind to follow after Mr. Hobarth. She didn’t feel particularly happy about walking the mile back, and how Amelia would be able to fend for herself was a question, but time was wasting, wasn’t it? “But Doreen, dear,” Amelia said, tapping at the page. “They found a boomerang. Just like the one we want.” “What are you going on about? I don’t care about a boomerang like the one we want; I care about our boomerang.” “Of course. Still, I thought it was interesting.” Amelia began thumbing back to previously read pages. Nothing else to do. “Give me that.” Doreen whirled around in her seat and snatched the book from her sister. “What boomerang? Who found it?” She leafed madly through the pages. “What are you talking about? Where is it?” Amelia quickly reached back over the seat for her skirt and draped it over her bare legs. “The couple who took the tour just yesterday, Doreen dear. The man found a boomerang with wombats on it. I just thought it was interesting, that’s all.” “Which page?” Doreen flipped the pages furiously. She thrust the book back in Amelia’s hands. “Find the bloody page!” Amelia began turning the pages. Slowly. “Where is it!” barked Doreen. “Let’s see. It was after this page I believe. No, I don’t think I’ve read this entry yet.” Doreen was just about to grab the journal back when Amelia said, “Oh! Here it is.” She began reading aloud. “‘Charming couple…” “Give me that!” Doreen once again snatched the book away. She stabbed it with a angry finger “’along the trail!’” Another stab. “’wombat design’!” She thumped the book angrily. “They’ve got our boomerang!” She shifted her attention to the facing page. “Mr. and Mrs. Davis Bloody Tracey have our bloody boomerang! Where did he pick them up?” Her finger darted up and down the page until it landed on the line she wanted. “The Hilton. We must get to the Hilton!” She ripped out the page, folded it over three times and stuffed it in the pocket of her blouse. In an instant she was out of the Land Cruiser and, if not exactly cutting the same figure as Cy had managed, was vigorously stomping her way back toward the main road. “Doreen!” Amelia leaned out of the window. Even in the company of 50

nothing but eucalyptus and the reclusive kookaburra, she was loath to step out of the vehicle incompletely dressed. “Doreen! Where are you going!” Doreen ignored her sister’s pleas. She had to get back to Brisbane, to the Hilton. She pounded along the tracks made by the Land Cruiser, heading back to the road. After several minutes following the tracks and still no sign of the road, Doreen began to wonder if it had been a considerably greater distance they had traveled off the main road than she had estimated. Persons with the most forceful of personalities are not necessarily also possessed of the best aerobic condition and she was becoming winded. Just as she was about to succumb to the need to take a breather, she heartened by the sound of an engine. Once at the road, there would surely be someone who would be foolish enough to give a lift to an older woman of benevolent mien. She would then commandeer the chucklehead’s vehicle and speed off to the Brisbane Hilton. Yes, the motor-sound was getting closer, but it seemed to be coming from behind her. Had she gotten turned around somehow? That couldn’t be. The trees must be bouncing the sound around and making it appear to be coming from behind her. Spent though she was, she nearly jumped out of her skin when there came a blaring toot from right behind her. She sprang off the trail and turned to face the Land Cruiser, idling not three feet away, Amelia stuck her head out the window. “I hotwired it,” Amelia said, looking at once shamed and exhilarated. “Kenny showed me how.” In half a minute they turned on to the road, headed back to Brisbane. Doreen was all for going straight to the Hilton, but not with a knickersshowing, car-sick sister, and especially not with a stolen Land Cruiser with No Worries plastered across the sides. They would have to ditch the vehicle first. Then she would call the Hilton to make sure the Traceys were still there. From there she had no idea. But she would figure it out. Not far behind on the highway, headed the same direction, sped a black BMW coupe. But the driver of the BMW didn’t notice the Land Cruiser any more than Doreen or Amelia took notice of the Beemer. Leslie was having problems enough just keeping the car inside the lines. But he did have an idea about the woman who had just flattened his nose and he wanted to check it out with Kenny. If Kenny could still communicate.

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11 Martha’s Vineyard It was nearly ten o’clock on a still bright, gorgeously cool New England summer late evening. Bethie Wilson was sitting on the deck watching the sun sink slowly, shimmeringly below the horizon. She was fully clothed—if one is not overly particular concerning undergarments—and she was thinking. Mostly what she was thinking was that it had been a good day. To lift the funk she had fallen into on account of the quick exit of Mr. Landingham, Quinny had taken Bethie shopping. As usual during this time of year here were too many tourists clogging up all the really good shops, but the sales people knew the regulars who actually spent money and so she and Quinny had gotten lots of attention. The end result had been a dozen new outfits, each one absolutely more like what all the movie stars were wearing than the last one, and she looked fantastically awesome and sexy in each and every one of them. Then, after all that simply exhaustingly super shopping, they had gone to her absolutely favorite restaurant on all of the whole Martha’s Vineyard. It had been ages, nearly a week or more, since Quinny had taken her to the Beach Plum Inn and they had had the four course Prix Fixe menu, which she still thought was a pretty funny name for a meal. First a big plate of mussels, which she adored, and then little steak thingies on pasta and then this lobster soup and the best filet mignon she had ever eaten. She filled in the corners with a completely stupendous chocolate and raspberry poofy thing at which point she could have died because she was already in heaven anyway. Heaven with frozen banana daiquiris. The phone was ringing when they got home which meant Quinny had to go because all the calls were always for him. But that was just fine with Bethie. It gave her a chance to try on her new outfits again. Using the floor to ceiling mirror in her dressing room for feedback, Bethie choreographed a unique routine for putting on and removing each new article of clothing. It was true that she looked really awesome in every single outfit and equally awesome whilst in between ensembles. What she wanted was the one that worked just 52

right both on and coming off. Ah, the Monet inspired sundress was perfect! Time to say thank you to Quinny. She could hear him through the den door. He didn’t sound very happy. She opened the door a crack and peeked in. Quinny sounded like he was really truly upset with the person on the other end of the line. “You are a goddam waste of money,” Quinny growled into the phone. “A goddamn waste of the taxpayers’ hard earned money.” Bethie softly stepped across the room to behind Quinny’s chair. She reached over and began to gently rub a single fingertip along the rim of his right ear. “I’ll tell you one thing, you useless, goddamn-” He waved absently at the tickle. “I don’t care who you have to follow or where you have to go!” Another wave at the ear. The left ear began to receive identical attention. Another wave, this one necessitating the shifting of phone holding hands. “What’s the matter with your voice? You sound like you’ve got a cork in your nose.” He tried to wave at both ears. “What the hell?” Bethie turned the chair ninety-degrees, took the phone out of his hand, and set it on the desk. “And just what in the goddam hell do you think you’re doing, little missy?” Bethie held a finger to his lips and straddled his legs. “Comma,” she said. Wilson pushed her hand away. “Not now,” he barked. The hand he had tossed from his lips went looking for a more receptive harbor. “Goddammit all Bethie, hooo!” A pleading tone entered Wilson’s voice. “Maybe later?” Another voice, thin and pinched and complaining, was coming from the unattended handset on the desk. “Parentheses,” sighed Bethie. Her other hand reached back and drew down the zipper on the back of the sundress. The front not so much fell down as tilted forward. Wilson raised a hand to give gravity an assist but then in an exemplary example of iron will jerked his hand away at the last moment. It came to rest on an exposed thigh that was not his own. “I really have not got time for this,” he said. Bethie gently guided his hand under the bunched folds of the sundress. “I’ve got business to attend to.” “Yes…you…do,” breathed Bethie. She unbuttoned his shirt. Her fingertips traced a dancing line down his pale, sleekly flabby chest and belly. At his belly 53

button she applied a slight pressure. “Asterisk,” she sighed. Wilson’s eyes popped wide and a tremulous little “Ha…ha…ooh” shivered from between his lips. Bethie loosened his trousers and spread apart the zipper. “Ooh, exclamation point,” she cooed approvingly. “Little Bethie and Big Quinny and his great big exclamation point.” Wilson’s eyes crossed and he squeaked rather merrily. The complaining voice from the handset droned more insistently in the background. Without looking, Bethie found the handset and cradled it. She stood, shimmied out of the sundress and kicked it away. She turned Wilson onehundred-eighty degrees from the computer screen and keyboard, knelt, and, with the dexterity of a slight-of-hand artist flicking a tablecloth out from under a china and crystal setting for twelve, removed Wilson’s trousers without displacing his quivering self. She adjusted the chair a few inches and resumed her straddle. “Ampersand,” she whispered so, so softly. Wilson gathered her in hungrily with the result that she could see over the top of his head to the computer monitor. “That’s right,” she breathed. “Ampersand your little Bethie and everything will be okay.” She reached her hands around the back of the chair to the keyboard, pressing her breasts into Wilson’s face. His squeaking became muffled but it acquired no note of objection. “If Mr. Exclamation Point is nice and patient,” she sighed, “Bethie has a special Ampersand surprise.” She dragged the mouse point across a section of text on the screen and right clicked. “Ooh, yes. A surprise for her Quinny.”

12 Brisbane Hilton Davis Tracey was looking out the window of the suite on the fourteenth floor of the Brisbane Hilton watching the evening shadows lengthen across the city. His wife, L.C., sat on the side of the king-sized bed, loosening the laces on 54

her stylish, but functional, walking shoes. L.C. was short for Loretta Claudette, her father being a devoted fan of beautiful screen actresses of eras past. Both husband and wife were in their thirties, he more solidly than she, and both looked young for their age. “Back home tomorrow,” Davis said, drinking in the Brisbane skyline, glowing in the early evening light. “How did we let two weeks go so quickly?” “Southern Hemisphere phenomenon. Makes us Northerners lose track of time.” L.C. waved an instructional hand in the air, then, with the same hand, indicated her feet. “The feet need rubbing.” She let the shoes fall to the floor with a thump, then let herself fall back on the bed. Davis turned from the window, but made no move toward the feet. “Best thing about the trip,” he said. “What’s your vote?” “Hmm,” L.C. put her hands behind her head and gave it a thought. “I did enjoy holding that koala at the park, whatever its name was, and today’s shopping trip was good, if hard on the feet. But I’d have to say my favorite was the day trip with Cy.” “Once again my lady fair we think as one. And I’m sure I got some great shots.” He pulled a large, gray ballistic nylon camera bag off the floor and started searching through its compartments. “How about we stay an extra couple days and take another of his tours?” “Did we win the Australian Lottery?” “Didn't buy a ticket,” Davis confessed with a shrug of regret. “Screwed up. No more money. Got to go home.” “Well, at least I can grab another shot or two of the city.” Davis pulled out a battered black Nikon F camera body and then dove back into the bag, looking for an appropriate lens. “Haven't you taken enough pictures the past two weeks?” L.C. once again lifted her feet from where they were dangling over the bed. This time she gave them additional emphasis by pointing. “I need my feet rubbed.” “You're never going to make it in the restaurant business if you can't stand being on your feet. Just one more shot of the city from up here.” He twisted on a stubby lens and clicked off several shots. “There we go.” He turned to look at his wife and smiled. If he could find the flash quickly enough he could get a shot of her before she could object. “Think the place is still standing?” “Don't even say that.” “Two weeks and eight thousand miles,” said Davis. “Real leap of faith.” He began to fish around again in the camera bag. “After six years without a break, 55

I'd say we deserved it.” Where was that flash? Something else came to hand. “Oh, almost forgot about this.” From a long compartment along the backside of the bag he pulled out a boomerang. Its polished surface, decorated with stylized images of some low, fat creature, was dirty and scratched in places, but it was still an impressive looking piece. Davis held it up to show his wife, who cocked an disinterested eye in its direction for a moment before repeating: “Feet. I said feet.” “Never know what you'll find flat on your stomach looking through the allseeing eye of the camera.” “Right. ‘American Photog Locates Rare Souvenir of Taiwanese Manufacture dropped by Discriminating Tourist. Full coverage in Evening Edition’” L.C. lifted a foot once again and pointed. “Foot. Rub.” “I'd say this would look good hanging in a place of honor in our home. The dining room perhaps.” “Or coat closet. Rub.” Davis struck a pose, left arm extended straight from the shoulder, fingers stretched out tight, right hand holding the boomerang cocked just behind his right ear. “Here's the famous Outback Bob.” He crouched slightly and began a bent knee stalk around the hotel room. “On the prowl for the rare, elusive swallowtail wallaby. How d'ya like your marsupial, ma'am? Fricasseed or ala-mode with nuts on top?” “There's only one nut I'm interested in right now and he is supposed to be doing his sweet darling's bidding.” Davis' stalking took him to the bed. He took delicate hold of her right big toe between his thumb and forefinger, held up the foot and inspected it. He made a face. “You sure this is the part of you that needs rubbing?” L.C. tilted her head up from the bed and gave him an arched eyebrow. “Feet first, my amorous hunter.” “As you wish.” Davis tossed the boomerang back over his shoulder, sat down on the edge of the bed, and began gently pulling on the toes of L.C.'s right foot. “Dad always said you can learn any business better by starting at the bottom.” A few moments later the telephone on the nightstand rang. Davis reached across the bed, and picked up the phone. “They’ve gone to the billabong mate” He tapped the button to hang up the phone, opened the 56

drawer, dropped the handset in, and closed the drawer. “Now, where were we?” L.C. laughed. “You were just about to show me how to play a game called ‘Tie Me Kangaroo Down.”

13 Doreen and Amelia’s The following morning Oz poked his head out of the doghouse. Something strange was happening. He wasn’t sure what, but he knew when things weren’t right. The next-door women had come home, late, after having been gone the whole day. That made two days in a row without his supplementary dinner. And then, before light, they had gone again. Each carrying some sort of big, heavy package which they hoisted into the back of the noisy, smelly thing on wheels which then carried them away. And now, just a short time later, as Oz was settling into an mid-morning nap, another thing with wheels, but not nearly so noisy or smelly, had rushed up to the womens’ house. A man got out of the thing and crept around the house for a bit before crouching at the door, fiddling around a bit, and walking in. Men never went into the house. Except for the slouchy one, but he hardly seemed to matter. This warranted looking into by a concerned neighbor. Perhaps the Quiet One had sent the man to fill the bucket. It was possible. Oz approached the door. It looked to be closed. He could hear noises coming from inside. He pressed his nose against the edge of the door and sniffed. There were the familiar odors of fried food, beer, and bath salts that he associated with the house and the women, but there was also a smell that made him uneasy. He put his nose to the bottom of the door, to see if he could better define what it was, and the door swung open a few inches. The smell came to him stronger now. He stepped back and considered the open door for a moment before nudging it again, easing it open just far enough to allow him to squeeze 57

through. He was in the kitchen. The sounds were coming from somewhere down the hall. Step upon ginger step, eyes straight ahead and ears tense, Oz crept through the kitchen and down the hallway. A shape loomed in front and above him and the uneasy odor was overpoweringly strong. Without thinking Oz lunged at the shape and sank his teeth into something that tore, popped, and made a warm, wet feeling in his mouth. He let go just in time to dodge an Italian loafered foot aimed at his head and was halfway to the door when a heavy thump sounded and the wooden floor shook under his paws. A couple of minutes later, from his position well down the street and behind a shrub that smelled like it would require a good marking, Oz observed a man hobble out of the house, look around for a moment, and then drive off. Good riddance. But where was his dinner companion?

14 Offices of the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative Somewhere in Virginia or maybe Maryland The next day, although this can be a bit confusing what with that International Date Line and whatnot Phillips Steve spun around once, twice in his cappuccino-brown, diamondpattern, leather desk chair. He tapped the eraser end of a pencil on the armrest at the back side of each twirl and the edge of the dark cherry and tooled leather, ergonomically designed for computer use desk as he went past it. He had a good rhythm going, driving the beat of the band on the LouisianaRadio website playing “Sweet Georgia Brown”. The office in which he was doing his twirling and tapping was a large and airy room, tastefully done in expensive, functional furniture. He continued to twirl and tap, for that was what he did at this time of day, after he had finished reading the sports sections of the five newspapers he received daily. Following the twirling and tapping he would practice his putting on the nine-foot long, automatic return green that was rolled out at the window end of the office. 58

Phillips Steve was not a golfer, but the putting green helped pass the time. The music died. Steve, which is what his friends and co-workers had called him back when he had such, whirled around to check the computer monitor and saw a bit of text that said something about rebuffering. Several seconds ticked off. The message blinked and repeated itself. It did it again. Then it just stood there. The little ISP logo that usually spun around at the top right corner of the screen was frozen. He clicked here. He clicked there. He pressed “CTRL-ATL-DEL” and got a message that told him the program had stopped responding. He knew that. He clicked on “End Task” and the screen blinked to black. He slumped back in his chair and frowned. Phillips Steve was bored. He had been bored for quite some time. Three years. Ever since he had joined the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative-a job he had not heard of until he had been informed it was his-he had been bored. At first he hadn't realized he was bored, telling himself this job was kind of like a vacation. His former work life, as a member of one of the more recognizable Intelligence Agencies, had had its share of danger and discomfort. Mostly there had been too damn much paperwork and, more than often, really bad coffee. It had been the bad coffee that had gotten to him; he considered himself pretty good at moving paperwork. Apparently just not good enough to keep his job. Luckily, he had fallen into the AABC gig very soon after being discharged. As part of AABC Steve had a beautiful, airy office in a well-kept suburb of the nation's capital. The office had a large, apparently bulletproof window overlooking a garden and lawn that somebody, he had no idea who, maintained year-round in perfect seasonal splendor. The comfortable, good looking furniture included a sofa that was custom made for post-prandial napping. The paperwork, if it could be called that, consisted exclusively of a form that was downloaded monthly on his computer requiring him to detail the agency's activities for that month and since the AABC never engaged in any activities it was-once he got the hang of checking the twenty-five squares that signified no activity and sending it back to the mysterious source from whence it camenever more than a five minute process. The computer itself had been upgraded half-a-dozen times since he had assumed the post. The change always took place over the weekend or late at night when he wasn’t there. Every one of the machines had the same damn screensaver though: Tom Clancy marching across the screen with an animated arsenal zooming around and about him. 59

In the outer office was the other functionary of the AABC. Mrs. Kinsbury, his administrative staff of one, was a pinch-face, high-collar, hair-color-of-themonth woman. She looked to him to be on the far side of sixty—Steve would have been the first to admit he was not good at guessing ages—and she served up both very good coffee and an extremely unapproachable attitude. The two of them had little other interaction outside of coffee, which she always had ready for him in a handsome, modern design thermal carafe, ready to be picked up on his way to the inner office. He had no idea where the coffee was actually brewed—there was no machine in the office—but it was always there and it was always very, very good. Steve brought a clean coffee mug with him every day. Mrs. Kinsbury had made it clear the first day they co-habited the Offices of The Associated Advisory Board Cooperative that cleaning up after him was not what God had put her in this world to do. What the Almighty’s ambitions might have been relative to Mrs. Kinsbury he hadn't a clue. There always seemed to be something that occupied the woman at her more modestly proportioned, but still ergonomically designed, oak desk, sitting on her comfortable, fabric-upholstered task chair, but she never let on what it was. Their first couple of weeks together he had tried to engage her in conversation, hoping she could shed some light on his duties as the head of the AABC, but it had been an unproductive exercise. Kinsbury’s responses to his queries and conversational starters had been brief, politely phrased and completely devoid of information. If he didn't know what he was supposed to be doing then it certainly wasn't her job to presume to tell him. She knew her job, thank you very much, and trusted she would be allowed to get on with it if this interview was approaching its conclusion? She called him “Sir” during these brief, non-illuminating conversations, indicating she recognized just who had the inner office with the nap-sofa, but it always came out sounding like “Junior” or “Shit for Brains”. Since then they had limited their verbal encounters to him thanking her for the great coffee and her responding, “You're welcome, sir (Junior/Shit for Brains).” Then she would wait, with obvious impatience, for him to disappear into his office so she could begin, or resume, doing whatever it was she did. So there was no blood to be gotten from that turnip and he had no idea who else to approach with the subject and three years passed. Steve had been offered the job with the AABC by a man who had introduced himself shortly after he had been discharged from his previous position due to non-performance related issues. Essentially, his superiors had taken issue with Steve’s non-performance. 60

The very next day he had been contacted by telephone by a person identifying himself as Mr. Ell. Mr. Ell had suggested that Steve’s release had been orchestrated solely to free him up for a much more important—if difficult to define—position with a much more vital—if impossible to describe— agency. Mr. Ell made it clear that the opportunity to join the AABC would be quite a feather in Steve’s cap and highly recommended he accept. References to alternate assignments in places with which the staff of the National Geographic Society had at best only a faint familiarity made the offer particularly attractive. He was given the address of his new office and told to make himself comfortable. He would be contacted concerning his first assignment when the time was right. Under no circumstances should he attempt to establish communication with any member of the Organization— although of course Steve had no idea who any of the other members might be —neither was he to discuss his position with anyone outside the organization. And so he had been reporting to the office and doing nothing for three years. Daily darkening the door of the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative, biweekly having his generous pay automatically deposited into his checking account, and month after month doing absolutely, positively nothing. Many among us may feel they could do with three years of nothing but naps, automatically deposited paychecks, and very, very good coffee. It should, however, be pointed out that this type of routine, regardless of an individual's perceived need for a reduction in workload, can begin to grate, to wear thin, to become something of a bore. There are few fates, outside of the more gruesome types of torture, such as purchasing an automobile or sitting next to a hygienically challenged person in coach on a trans-Pacific flight, that are worse than being bored for three years. Even if one is being paid. Really. Some people may live the life and believe it suits them, but they are mistaken about this and it may be confidently supposed that they are mistaken about many things. So Steve twirled about in his leather chair and tapped rhythmically on his cherry wood and tooled leather desk and thought maybe later he would shoot some hoops. He had recently added a freestanding executive basketball hoop with sand-filled base and half-size foam basketball to the office. His hook shot from the far side of the sofa could use some work. His computer belched. Clarification. His computer, an example of the latest the world of consumer high-tech had to offer, made a belching sound. Computers don't have gastro-intestinal tracts or larynxes or resonating chambers such as chest cavities and sinuses needed for the production of an 61

actual belch, but they can give a very satisfactory approximation. His could also render an accurate fart, sonically speaking. A sharp, tight, trumpet mouthpiece type of toot. It was a capability he had discovered several months earlier when he couldn't get to sleep during nap time and was, for the umpteenth time, attempting to exorcize the Tom Clancy screensaver. But at this moment, this turning point in his career with AABC, it did not fart. It belched. He had never heard it belch before, so it attracted his attention. He stopped spinning. The ever-present screensaver, showing an animated version of the iconic author striding about the screen in his signature flight suit, cap and aviator shades, while submarines, tanks, fighter jets, and stealth bombers swooshed around and about him, blipped off the screen and black, italicized type on a white background appeared. Removal Operation required. Phillips Steve looked at the three words on the screen. Must be a mistake. Something intended for somebody else. Lines had been crossed. He resumed his spinning. After he had swung around twice he noticed that another line had appeared on the screen, under the first one. Acknowledge receipt. Somebody, somewhere, was going to find themselves in trouble for not responding to this message. Maybe he should tap in a note to let whoever it was who was sending it know that it was being misdirected. Best not to interfere. None of his business. Time to resume spinning. Damn it, Steve, stop that goddamned spinning and respond! He spun past the screen once, twice, three times. Then he stopped spinning. He stared at the screen. He said a rude word. Shit, if you must know, said in a way indicating amazement or incredulity. He cautiously lifted his hands to the keyboard and typed in: hello 62

The screen spit back a reply. Hello? What kind of goddam reply is that? We have a removal operation, goddammit. Steve remembered from his days as a member of a rather more conventional intelligence agency what a removal operation was. Somebody had something that it had been decided they shouldn't have anymore and so it was removed from their care. Typically without that somebody's consent. Usually these procedures were simple, but sometimes they required weeks of planning, intricate, synchronized execution involving considerable risk. Sometimes the person or persons who had the required object would have to be removed first. Could get nasty. That he understood. What wasn't clear was what the item was, who had it, and most particularly, who was sending him this message. He typed back. Please identify yourself and authorizing authority. This time the reply took a moment before appearing on his screen. Look at your goddam screen! Okay. Steve looked at the screen. Except for the cryptic messages that had layered themselves in the center, black on a white background, it was blank. Another message was added at the bottom, pushing the rest up. Upper right hand corner, for chrissakes! Steve looked in the upper right hand corner. There was an ampersand, that "&" symbol meaning and. Steve knew that it meant and. He had no idea it was called anything, much less an ampersand. Not a word he regularly encountered in the sports section. The phone rang. Steve eyed it suspiciously. The phone rang again. A confusing computer message and a phone call all at the same time constituted a bit of communications overload for the nerve center of The Associated Advisory Board Cooperative. It rang a third time, acquiring an air of irritation in its tone. 63

Another line of type flashed on his computer screen. Pick up the phone, goddammit! The computer and telephone were in cahoots. A fourth ring, unmistakably cranky at having to get involved, began before he plucked the receiver from the base. Steve’s eyes remained focused on the monitor. “Hello?” “I don't like being ignored.” A totally unfamiliar voice, a plump, gruff voice, sounding at the moment a tad irritated at the incompetence of the world but expecting no better, came across the phone. “Completely unintentional, sir.” The circumstances seemed to indicate this was someone to call sir, and not with a Kinsbury inflection. “I'm sure it was, Phillips, I'm sure it was. You've been lacking guidance over there, haven't you?” It was true that he had had to come up with his own job description. Coffee, read, nap, putt, hook shot, twirl/tap. “Doing my best.” “Haven't done a goddamned thing for what, four years?” “Three years," Steve said, a bit defensively. "Three years, one month, this past Thursday.” “Well, young sir, you've got a job, now. Not much to it, but a job.” “Yessir. Sir?” “What?” “I think it would help if you could tell me who you are.” “Look at your screen, man. Didn't Ell tell you anything?” “I'm afraid not, sir.” At least whoever he was talking to knew about Ell. “After I reported here I really haven't heard from anybody.” “Well, for the last two years and who the hell cares how many months there hasn't been any Ell. Not that he ever did anything besides recruit, and get handsomely paid to do it too. But goddammit man, didn't you ever wonder just what in the hell you were supposed to be doing?” “I really didn't know who to ask. Never seemed to be an issue until now.” “Right man for the job all right.” There was a pause, then a gruff chuckle. “ So, what’s Kinsbury been up to lately?” Steve was embarrassed to admit it, but had to say he had no idea what Mrs. 64

Kinsbury had been up to, lately or otherwise. “She's a goddam corker,” said the plump, gruff voice. “Writes romance novels, lots of heaving bosoms and throbbing you-know-whats. Goes by Dolores deLacey. Wouldn't think it to look at her, would you?” No, thought Steve, one wouldn't associate throbbing anythings with Mrs. Kinsbury, with the exception, that is, of the occasional migraine. “Old prune’s been cranking out her low-octane, low-paying porno for decades.” The gruff chuckle was repeated. “Well, Phillips. See that little symbol at the top of your screen? The one that looks like a locking cup hook with a loop on top?” Tom Clancy was making a reappearance; Steve had to tap a button to bring back up the message screen. He wasn't exactly sure what a locking cup hook was, but there was really only one thing on the screen beside the curt messages and he figured it could answer. “Yes, I believe I see what you are referring to, sir.” “That's me.” “And?” “And what?” “You're called 'And'? That's what that symbol means, isn't it?” “Yes, that's what that symbol normally means. And no, goddammit, you are not to call me ‘And’. The symbol is called an ampersand.” “Ampersand,” repeated Steve. “That’s right. And when you see that by-god ampersand on your screen it means me.” “Ampersand?” “Don't say it. Just understand what it means. I'm not ‘And’. And I'm not ‘Ampersand’. I'm the goddam symbol you see on the top right hand corner of the goddam screen.” “The symbol that means 'and' and is called ampersand?” “That's right.” “But I don't call you either one.” Steve felt he was following along pretty well. It was stupid, but he was following. “For the purposes of our relationship, I am that symbol. Got it?” “Yessir, I do believe I do. And I report to you?” “It's about goddam time you reported to somebody, don't you think?” “Yessir. May I ask another question?” “I suppose.” “What do I call you? I mean if you're not And and you're not Ampersand.” 65

“You don't call me. Any contacting that needs to be done will be from me to you.” “Yessir.” “Fine. Dammit man, pay attention!” Phillip Steve’s eyes had wandered to the scene outside his large, bulletproof window; an attractive young woman in a snug-fitting skirt was leaning over to take in the scent of a low-growing rose. “Sorry, sir.” This was disconcerting. The voice known by the unspoken symbol & continued. “In…” the voice paused for a moment, “…one minute and twelve, eleven, ten, about one minute from...now, your screen will show you your assignment. Don't try to print it out. It won't print anyway. Just learn it and get it done. Well, I suppose you can make some notes if you have to, but shred them when you've got it. Welcome back to the land of the living, Phillips. Don't bollux it up.” The line went dead. Phillips Steve looked at the phone for a moment, as if it had some explaining to do. Then he looked at his computer screen, which was now blank. He looked at his watch, noting the position of the second hand, even though he had no idea where it had been when & had given him the about oneminute marker. As the second hand on Steve’s watch clicked over the fifty-two second mark, his computer gave a popping sound. Like some people can make by inserting an index finger into their mouth while forming a tight O with their lips and sharply pulling said finger out against one side of the O. A nice snug cork coming out of a wine bottle, only juicier. Damn thing must have been programmed by a seventh grader, he thought. The signifying symbol and a short paragraph appeared. & Acquire boomerang. Currently held by citizen Davis Tracey in Gilbert, Arizona. Use operatives Gerald Kwiatkowski and Theodore Hogwood. Deliver boomerang intact at place to be specified. Do not attempt contact with this office. Post progress on daily report. Here it was. Finally. An assignment for the AABC. At last something for the three year-one month veteran to sink his professional teeth into. Steve experienced the delicious thrill, the anticipation that came with the announcement of the objective. He felt like a neglected hound finally being called to the hunt. 66

He jotted down “boomerang”, “Gilbert, AZ”, ”Davis Tracey”, “Gerald Kwiatkowski” and “Theodore Hogwood” before Tom Clancy took over the screen. He tapped on the keyboard, but there was nothing but blank screen. So, Steve thought, there were field operatives for the AABC. Kwiatkowski and Hogwood. He wondered if they were it or just two of many? He wondered if Kwiatkowski was pronounced kwee-at or “quiet”? In any case, what had they been doing the past three years, one month this coming Thursday? Drinking coffee, taking naps, reading the sports section and collecting checks? Regardless, he had comrades in arms, fellow travelers out there, no doubt as thrilled as he was to get back in harness. Then it occurred to him that he had no idea who or where either Gerald Kwiatkowski or Theodore Hogwood was. This was a problem. Steve leaned back in his leather desk chair and thought. “&” had seemed to take for granted that Steve had the information available to him necessary to take care of this particular mission. The assumption that he had to make at this time was that & was assuming correctly. Therefore the information necessary to initiate the assignment must be contained within the offices of the Associated Advisory Cooperative Board. He scanned the familiar surroundings of his office. He looked in his desk drawers, but the only thing he found in there was the previous year's Sport's Illustrated Swimsuit issue which he had forgotten was in there. He was glad to find it but doubted it contained anything helpful concerning operatives Hogwood and Kwiatkowski. The computer. Any machine capable of producing such realistic farts, belches, and mouth-pops no doubt had the capacity to retain and recite a galaxy's worth of information. Problem was, Steve had no idea how to get the thing to regurgitate anything on command. Even the Tom Clancy screensaver appeared without his involvement or approval. Did Mrs. Kinsbury have files on her computer? Or did it serve only as processor and repository of the steamy novels said she wrote on company time? Cranky old Mrs. Kinsbury, feeding the libidinous longings of the American housewife. Incredible. How could he have worked, in a manner of speaking, with the woman in the same two room office for over three years and not have had enough curiosity to find out what she was doing eight hours a day, five days a week? Some spy he was. But then, some people were very good at making you leave them alone. Some people were masters at hiding their true character and making it seem like it was your decision not to investigate any further than the facade. Some people were just cranky and 67

made you want to leave them alone. But who else was he supposed to ask? As his hand reached for the intercom button, the door opened and in came Mrs. Kinsbury. She was holding two manila file folders which she slapped on his desk. “Kwiatkowski,” she said, pronouncing the first part like the word quiet, “has been living in Mesa, Arizona for the last two-and-a-half years. Hogwood is in San Francisco. Kwiatkowski has a phone. The number is on his file.” “Thank you, Mrs. Kinsbury,” said a rather dumbfounded Phillips Steve. She gave him a look that made clear what had just transpired qualified as service above and beyond and he damn well not expect a repeat performance any time soon. The truth was, the information had just printed up, unbidden, on her printer, pissing her off royally since she had been printing something of her own at the time, which just seemed to disappear. “You are welcome. Sir.”

15 An apartment in Mesa, Arizona Gerald Kwiatkowski's shoulder hurt. The left one, the one he slept on. Being asleep he was aware of the pain only in a rather distant way but it was definitely intruding on the serenity of his slumbers. Jerry, for that is what he went by, had been drifting in and out of a dream involving Felicity Ambrosia, his favorite M'Lady's Boudoir catalog model. In his dream, Jerry and the leopard-pattern bikini and push-up bra attired Ms. Ambrosia were mere moments away from the ultimate union of man and woman, or at least the ultimate as far as Jerry’s philosophy of life was concerned. Ms. Ambrosia was giving him lavish assurances of word and touch that their joining would be the fulfillment of every wish he had made since adolescence, which took in a lot of territory. All that was required of Jerry was 68

that he sweep her off her feet and carry her through the veiled doorway in front of them into her chamber of unspeakable ecstasies. That’s what it said above the door: “Enter Here For Unspeakable Ecstasies”. Jerry’s dream body seemed to be singularly well equipped for such a task, resembling as it did that of a chiseled beach volleyball warrior, complete with wrap around reflective sunglasses. But every time he attempted to gather her in his arms, a twinge, more than a twinge, a stab of pain in his left shoulder, brought him up short and he was forced to make apologies. After Jerry’s third failed attempt sweet Felicity indicated that perhaps it would be in the best interest of all if the festivities were postponed. She showed no enthusiasm for his suggestion that perhaps they could achieve a reasonably close approximation of unspeakable ecstasy right there on the threshold. Such things had to be done correctly and with a proper regard for tradition. If Jerry felt equal to another attempt it was fine with her but would he please get on with it? He tried again with the same results. Once more the pain shot through his arm with an intensity that made him gasp. She gave him a such as an impossibly luscious fifth-grade teacher might give a rather dim student struggling mightily with a particularly tricky sentence dissection. The reason Jerry’s shoulder was in such a state of crippling pain was because his plastic air mattress had lost nearly all of its air through a slow leak and he had spent the couple of hours essentially sleeping on the floor. He had purchased the air mattress as part of his efforts to get a comfortable night’s sleep without having to turn on the air-conditioner, which he could not afford to run more than maybe an hour a day. The cool vinyl on his bare skin had afforded a slight measure of relief as he had struggled to get to sleep on nights with a forecast lows of around ninety-five degrees. But now as he shifted and rolled on the deflated vinyl the damned thing had become epoxied to his skin. Ms. Ambrosia, weary of the wait, was drifting away from him, floating up into the pink sky, her perfect body now tantalizingly enveloped in a sheer black robe that floated about her in the breeze as she rose, offering fleeting, ever more distant glimpses of what was never to be his. Jerry tried to leap, to catch her by the ankles, the toes, whatever he could get his hands on. He was frantic to pull her back to him and prove his worth, but his arms would not reach, his legs would not bend. All he could manage was a feeble hopping action. Hardly adequate to achieve the standing vertical leap required. All was lost. But what was this? She was turning to him, calling his name! Floating above him, angelic now in a white lace teddy, she was reaching out to 69

him, calling his name. And now, what was this? he was rising, lifted by her voice. “Jerry!” “Jerry!” she called, arms reaching, eyes promising. “Jerry!” “Jerry!” She gathered him in and pressed him to her. This was more like it. He wanted to reciprocate, but his arms were pinned to his sides by the strength of her embrace. That was okay, he could deal with that. She put her lips to his ear, doubtless preparatory to a soft, wet nibble, and screamed. "Brrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!"

16 The outer office of Gold Coast Enterprises Roberta tapped peevishly at the screen of the combination cellular phone, personal data assistant, digital camera, Bluetooth something or other that Nicholas Gatting had handed her when he came back from his lunch almost three hours earlier. A long lunch that had not included her and from which he had returned in a very peevish mood himself. Such moods are contagious. The telephone was sitting nearly upright in a cradle which she had just finished umbilicaling to something called a USB port behind a panel on the front of the box that apparently held the workings to her computer. News to her. There had been a disc that looked like a CD that had been in the package with the thing, but instead of playing music through the speakers at the sides of her monitor like her other CD’s did when she put them in the tray and slid it shut, it had put her through all sorts of nonsense about file transfers or something. This was not how Roberta had planned on spending her afternoon. Not with Savannah Son Rise, a perfectly delicious Dolores DeLacey romance novel, waiting in her purse. A chime sounded, alerting her to the presence of someone at the outer office door. Roberta punched the “F7” button on her computer keyboard, bringing up on her monitor a picture from the surveillance camera trained on the threshold to the offices of Gold Coast Enterprises. Roberta gasped. 70

The chime sounded again. It took her two tries to find and press the intercom pad. “Yes, what is it Roberta?” Gatting answered after a long wait. His tone was still peevish. “I’m busy.” “It’s Leslie,” she said, barely able to get together the breath she needed to speak. “What? Speak up, Roberta, I can’t hear you.” She brought her mouth closer to the microphone. “It’s…” She forced herself to look away from the screen. “…it’s Leslie.” “Well, what are you waiting for? Send him in!” Leslie had always given Roberta the shivers, but now his specter-like face had a stark white square covering his nose and in place of his normal, rather eerie gliding walk his gait had taken on a stiff, jerking hobble. The effect was to put him over the edge from creepy human to monster assembled not quite right. Roberta tried not to look, tried to immerse herself in the problem that was the cell phone, but she saw and he saw that she saw. He gave her a look over that white patch that made her blood freeze. Less than a minute after Leslie walked into Gatting’s inner sanctum, the door glided open and he walked back out. Strangely, the door did not shut behind him. He walked, jerkily, across the outer office and practically had his hand on the door when he turned and seemed to study Roberta. This made her attempt to at least pretend to be concentrating on the frustrating little electronic gizmo in front of her all the more difficult. Actually, it made it impossible. Leslie hovered around the door for what seemed to Roberta to be an eternity. He leaned slightly toward the door as if going and then he tilted back into the room. On the very rim of her peripheral vision Roberta saw the knifeedged, nose-patched assassin’s hand drift under his dull gray suit jacket and then drift back out again. And then he was out the door. As soon as her heart decelerated to no more than twice her aerobic target, Roberta became aware of a dull humming sound coming from the speakers on either side of her computer monitor. She put down the PDA and pressed the intercom pad. “Yes, Mr. Gatting?” There was no reply. Roberta tapped the small microphone. “Mr. Gatting?” The hum answered. She stood and went over to the door, stopping just to one side. 71

“Nicky?” There was no answer. Roberta hesitantly stepped into the inner office. Nicholas Gatting was sitting bolt upright at his desk facing his computer monitor. His right hand was on the control mouse and his left hand was over the intercom touchpad. Both hands were held in place, nailed to the desk with what looked to Roberta like stubby, slightly glittery arrows. His mouth was gaping open. If Roberta had been inclined to inspect the scene closer she may have noticed the feathery end of another of these arrows tickling the backside of his teeth. She felt no such inclination. But Roberta did see the stream of blood cascading over Nicholas Gatting’s lower lip, bouncing off his chin, and splashing on the ergonomically designed keyboard and that was enough for her to make what she felt was an accurate assessment of the situation. She hurried back to her desk and sat. She stood. She sat again. She picked up the tiny cellular phone and punched in a many-digit number. “Eagle Daddy?” Roberta’s voice had lost all traces of kittenish allure as well as any indication of an Aussie accent. She sounded like a genuinely scared sorority girl two years out of Ole Miss. “This is Deskset. Rental Man has forfeited his deposit.” She nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.” she said. “It was Leslie. No, I don’t know who he’s working for or where he’s going. Are you out of your freaking mind? I am not following him! Listen, I don’t like this game anymore. You can just have my money ready in the morning, usual spot, okay? Okay? Fine!” Roberta turned and walked, none too steadily, out of the office. A moment later she came back, retrieved her copy of Savannah Son Rise, and left again. On Gatting’s computer monitor the screen saver blinked off and a small window message appeared. Logged off due to inactivity

17 Offices of the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative 72

While Jerry's phone was ringing—and a good fifteen rings sounded before he managed to extricate himself from the embrace of the deflated air mattress and locate the clanging phone—Phillips Steve was doing a quick scan of the dossier Mrs. Kinsbury had brought him. What was this guy's skill? Why was he an AABC operative? There were several references to temporary jobs playing music at various establishments around Chicago and Detroit. Evidently Mr. Kwiatkowski was an expert on something called a Hammond B-3. Steve had no idea what exactly that was—it sounded like a World War II bomber to him—and could not see how such a skill would have brought anyone to the attention of a covert intelligence agency. Then, a couple pages in, he found it. A police record. Three, four, six arrests for auto theft. Another four for trespassing and illegal entry. Each time, Mr. Gerald Alexander Kwiatkowski had pleaded innocent and each time, with the help of a court-appointed attorney, he had been convicted and served a fraction of his sentence. A cumulative six months or so. Model prisoner, overcrowded jails, no real danger to society, get him out of there and make room for the bad ones. The story Mr. Kwiatkowski told his probation officers, and which, according to his file they had found both amusing and strangely persuasive, was that he only stole the cars and entered the forbidden buildings because he could. He believed himself to be blessed with a gift and he felt obligated to exercise it every once in a while. If a person didn't, he had told his P.O.'s, a person risked losing the gift and then when it was really needed a person would be SOL, now wouldn’t he? Besides, whenever given the chance, that is if he wasn’t caught first, Jerry returned the vehicles without any further damage than a few extra miles on the odometer. On the rare occasions when he had some cash he would even put a splash of gas in the tank. As for the felonious entries, he never stole anything from the businesses and homes he entered. Just opened the doors and checked the places out. There were reports of rearranged furniture which he confirmed as a result of having briefly dated an enthusiastic proponent of feng shui. Exercising a gift, that’s all. So that was what made him an AABC operative. He could get into places. He could move cars that their owners didn't want moved. In the intelligence business such skills could be quite valuable. And having somebody not officially connected with the government take care of such tasks definitely had its advantages. Nobody ever believed them if they said they were doing it for 73

Uncle Sam. The conversation, once Jerry finally got to the phone, had been brief. Steve introduced himself as Head of the AABC and thanked Mr. Kwiatkowski in advance for his time. He hoped he was getting the pronunciation right? “You got it,” said Jerry. “Quiet, just like it looks.” There was a pause. “Wait a minute, did you say you were with the ABCD?” “Actually, Mr. Kwiatkowski, that would be AABC.” “Whatever. Listen, I did the best I could. Wasn’t my fault if things got out of control. Besides, it was what, over three years ago. You’re not calling to get your money back, are you? Because I’m telling you there is no way. You guys never told us what was going on there in the first place. I mean nobody said anything about anybody getting killed, did they?” Steve tried three or four times to cut this little tirade. He finally succeeded by virtually shouting that he wasn’t after any money, that he had in fact a job to offer. “A job?” said Jerry. “For money?” “Yes, Mr. Kwiatkowski. For money.” At least Steve assumed there would be compensation. “It doesn’t have anything to do with Chicago mobsters does it? If it involves those wackos you can forget it. I’m not about to risk my life spying on crazy-ass killers. Once is enough, you know what I mean?” Steve really had no idea what Jerry was talking about, perhaps the details of the Chicago job would be revealed in the files before him, but he assured Jerry that the current assignment had nothing in common with the unfortunate occurrences in the Windy City. Steve didn’t know that for a fact, but it sounded reassuring. But before he would go any further, he must inquire about possible phone security issues. Jerry didn’t think his phone would be tapped. Damn thing didn't even work half the time, although it was possible that was due to the insistence on the part of U.S. West or Qwest or whoever the hell was running the phone lines that he was not doing his part by sending them compensation on a regular basis. In any case, why in the world would anybody want to tap his phone? Go ahead and spill what you want to spill and it had better be good, because it had been no small task extracting himself from bed and the lovely young lady of his dreams. Steve, forming an inaccurate impression of Jerry's social situation, apologized for the inopportune timing. He told Jerry that he should ask his company to leave the room for a moment to assure privacy. Jerry assured him 74

that his "company" was gone and unlikely to return any time soon. That was fine, said Steve. That’s what you think, said Jerry, but never mind, what’s the deal and how much does it pay? This was a poser. & had not said and Steve had not thought to ask what the remunerative standards or methods of payment were for AABC operatives. His computer belched. On the screen there appeared: & Ten thousand each to be paid at time of delivery. Steve was happy to have an answer, but a bit nonplused nevertheless. He quoted the figure on the screen. “Straight up,” Jerry said, although he was not as of yet capable himself of managing much better than a cramped stoop. His shoulder pain had worked its way across to his upper spine. “Sounds about right,” he said, trying to sound professionally nonchalant as he peeled the last bit of air mattress from around his ankles so he could do a little naked dance of glee. Ten grand! That would do with a tidy bit left over for a rainy day. But hold on. “Whaddya mean ‘each’?” he said “Who else are we talking about here?” “You are to team with a Mr. Theodore Hogwood in this operation.” “Ted?!” Jerry let out a little whistle. "You have Ted lined up?" "Excuse me?" "He’s actually said he’d do it?” “Ah, well, we have yet to make contact with Mr. Hogwood.” Steve shifted Jerry’s file and flipped open the one labeled “Theodore Hogwood”. “How you figure on getting in touch with him?” Jerry asked. Steve hastily thumbed through the Hogwood file. There was no phone number. He passed this information to Jerry. “Ted never has a phone. Hates ‘em. Always said it was just another way proving Mose Allison’s point.” Jerry chuckled at this recollection. “You know where he is?” Steve referred to the front page of the file. “We have a recently confirmed address in San Francisco. I suppose I will need to contact him in person and arrange for you two to meet in Phoenix.” “Whoa,” said Jerry. “You don’t want to do that.” “Why not?” “Ted never had anything nice to say about the ol’ AC-DC even before everything went bad in Chicago. You want him back you better let me talk to him. I know how to get on his good side.” 75

Steve scanned through the file on Theodore Hogwood. His eyes lit on a couple of underscored phrases: “occasionally uncooperative” and “history of violent behavior”. Quickly he traced back to the top of the first page where it gave the man’s vital statistics as six-feet-nine and last estimated weight of three hundred fifteen pounds. Former profession, journeyman power forward in the NBA. The indiscretion they had played upon was a short stint as a muscle man for a loan shark in Boston. Ted had been auditing Romantic poetry classes at Harvard at the same time. Ted Hogwood was an uncooperative, three hundred pound, potentially violent poet. “Perhaps it would be a good idea if we allowed you to put the team back together yourself,” he said into the phone. “There you go. He’ll listen to me, man. We’re tight. He trusts me.” The thought of a respite from the blistering Valley of the Sun monsoon season, even for a day, appealed greatly to Jerry. It was probably a good thirty degrees cooler in the Bay area right about now. “Just get me a shuttle ride to the airport, a ticket to San Fran and we’ve got our man.” “Well, ah, let me see what we can arrange,” began Steve. An itinerary sheet headed YouFly.com-Personal Travel Arrangements for Gerald Kwiatkowski and Theodore Hogwood was slapped on his desk.

18 Later that day Outside Cafe Verdi, North Beach San Francisco “You know,” said Jerry, “for a big, tall, fat guy, you sure are hard to find.” Ted looked up from the San Francisco Chronicle crossword puzzle on the table in front of him. He had yet to take his first sip from the big blue mug of steaming Guatemalan Antigua Supremo next to the newspaper and that, combined with the fact that some cretin with a rollerball—doubtless the individual who had purchased the paper and then left it hanging half in-half out of the waste receptacle next to the entrance—had scrawled a dozen pathetically incorrect answers across the crossword, meant Ted was predisposed at this point to be grumpy. He liked a nice, clean crossword in his second–hand paper. 76

What he saw when he looked up did not improve his disposition. “I am not seeing you,” he said. He returned to the crossword, erasing the man standing next to his table from his consciousness the way he wished he could erase the bold, black ink from the crossword. Seven letter word meaning cylindrical in shape. “ROUNDED”? Some feebleminded clod was wandering the City with a permanent writing instrument, probably a Mont Blanc, confident that he had conquered a line of the crossword with “ROUNDED”. Ted clicked another measure of lead through the point of his mechanical pencil and squeezed “tubular” into the violated squares. “Ted, man, it's me.” “No, it’s not you.” Fourteen across, “A public clown”. Eleven letters. The cretin had trieddoubling up the letters in the last three squares-to fit in R-O-N-A-L-D-M-C-DO-N-A-L-D. Ted grudgingly admitted the cretin had a point, in a mentally deficient sort of way. He squeezed in the correct answer: M-e-r-r-y-A-n-d-r-ew. “Okay, okay, sorry about the big, fat crack. You want to stop acting like a jerk?” Ted took a sip of his freshly poured coffee. Black, couple packets of the tan sugar crystals. Still too hot. He set it back on the table and checked the “Across” clues. Jerry shook his head and thought for a couple of seconds. He ran a hand over his carefully slicked back hair, held it for a moment on the back of his neck and frowned. “Look, Ted, just gimme a minute here, ok?” Ted inserted another word; “Roald”, for “Author Dahl”. Jerry turned to the two men holding hands across the table to his right, said, “Hey, guys, mind if I borrow this?”, referring to a third, unoccupied chair at their table. Not waiting for a reply, he pulled the plastic, patio style chair in front of himself, its back to Ted's table. He swung a leg high to straddle it. If Jerry had been more observant he would have noticed that the chair had molded-in armrests. All parts of him above the knee swung down and all parts below the knee pivoted up. His head smacked sharply against the sidewalk just as his foot came up under the table. It lifted on his side a good twelve, fourteen inches into the air. The newspaper slid off the table, fluttered across Ted's lap, and drifted in fragments down the sidewalk. The still steaming coffee followed, but only the cobalt blue stoneware cup made it as far as the sidewalk. The coffee arced directly onto Ted's lap. 77

“Aiaiaiaiaiai!” Ted shot up, sending the table in the opposite direction with no little vigor. Jerry, knocked just the wrong side of sensibility by the sudden meeting of the sidewalk and the base of his skull, got a quick wake-up from a corner of the table, which landed sharply about six inches south of his naval. “Ooooooph! Nrrr.” The patrons at the half-dozen other outside tables belonging to the Cafe Verdi, as well as passersby in the vicinity, were treated to the sight of Ted dancing vigorously about, hopping from one foot to the other, and pulling his slacks away from his crotch. He looked like a Kodiak bear auditioning for Bring on da Music, Bring on de Funk or one of any of the other testosterone heavy dance spectacles so popular in recent years. Jerry served up an accompanying low ostinato moan as he rocked back and forth on the sidewalk. Not as entertaining as the human robot on Union Square or even the guy who played guitar, after a fashion, and sang, after a different fashion, at the trolley stop by Fisherman's Wharf, but a passing appliance dealer from Iowa thought it merited a quarter. Ted's coffee cup, which had landed, miraculously enough, upright and unscathed, received the coin with equanimity. A minute later and half-a-block away, Jerry caught up with Ted. Each man's gait was a little out of the norm. Ted swept his right arm up and back as he heard Jerry approach. Jerry ducked under and ran ahead, then turned to backpedal for a mobile face to face. Ted reversed direction, quickening his pace back toward Cafe Verdi. “Ted! Ah, man, c'mon!” Jerry sprinted after. Ted's right arm flashed up again and, as Jerry tried once again to duck under, Ted spun around, caught him under the arms with both hands, and lifted him a foot off the ground. He held the little man there a full thirty seconds, nose to nose, chin to chin, eyeball to eyeball and fixed him with a stare that had caused many an opposing forward in both college and the NBA to honor his personal space. “Go,” he said. “Away.” He lowered Jerry back to ground level, enveloped the little man’s shoulders in his massive hands and turned him around. “That way.” “But—” A shove at the small of the back sent Jerry involuntarily lurching in the direction indicated. Ted looked mournfully down at the large, dark stain spread across his crotch and slowly walked away. 78

Jerry, after the shove inspired stumble and couple of steps, took three or four more steps on his own, stopped, turned back, and called after Ted. “We've got a job!” The big man kept walking. “It's money, Ted! Good, real good money!” Ted did not stop. Jerry chanced a small advancing step. “Piece of cake!” Ted kept going. Jerry had to raise his voice to carry over the traffic sounds. “I know you lost your job! You need the bucks!” Ted raised a single-digit response high over his head and kept going. Jerry returned the salute. He had a little argument with himself, decided the issue without looking like he was entirely happy about the outcome, raised his eyes skyward, closed them and yelled. “Ted! She pawned your guitar! I been to your apartment and your landlady PAWNED YOUR GIBSON!” Ted froze in his tracks, rather as if a street lamp had sprouted from the sidewalk and introduced itself to his chin. Jerry made a face and tried to make himself smaller. Not there at all would have been nice right about then. Ted turned slowly and said in a low tone that had no problem carrying over the city sounds. “What?” He leaned slightly forward, head cocked to one side, presenting an “I-don'tbelieve-I-caught-that-the-first-time-would-you-care-to-repeat-it-and-it-damnwell-better-not-be-what-I-thought-I-heard-you-say” expression. There was no turning back. Jerry had not wanted to be the one to break the news, had not wanted to be forced to play that card. But now it had to be played. His throat felt so dry and his chin was so quivery, the words came out as reluctantly as a gay mayoral candidate in Alabama. “Your landlady, man. She pawned your guitar.” A cry rose from the big man. A great cry of mythic volume and pathos that echoed through the farthest reaches of the City by the Bay. A cry that made Jerry want to be any place but where he was. A cry that gave everyone within eyeshot an excuse to stop and stare at the big man with the large dark stain over his crotch. As the echoes of Ted's wail faded off toward Marin County, Candlestick Park, the Sierra Nevadas and Hong Kong, he retraced his steps, holding Jerry in a paralyzing glare. As the big man approached, Jerry set the world record for intensity and duration of a wince. 79

“You have money?” Ted said, calmly, when he was within a foot of Jerry. “Uh…,” said Jerry. He was thrown for a loop by the quiet tone of the question and the fact it hadn't been accompanied by an act of violence against himself. “Money?” “Yes. Money. I need a cab.” “You kidding?” “No, I am not kidding. It's a forty-minute walk to my apartment,” Ted said. “If Sarah is in some pawn shop, I can't waste any time.” “Our wheels are just around the corner.” Jerry took off past Ted and crossed the street at a fast jog. “Don’t move, I’ll be right back!” “Oh great,” Ted muttered. Jerry disappeared around a corner a quarter of a block away. A minute later, a sunflower-yellow AMC Javelin came leaning around the corner, more a result of a weary suspension than Jerry’s driving, and pulled up next to Ted. The passenger door popped open and Jerry said. “Hop in and tell me where to go.” “Would that I could. Oh, would that I could.” Ted folded himself into the car. His knees pressed painfully against the dashboard. The Javelin, which had been leaning off to port, now took a distinct tilt to starboard. “Straight ahead until you get to Market. I'll let you know when we're getting close. GO!” Ted's apartment on Evans Street, South of Market, was the first floor of a four story converted rowhouse cheek to jowl with other converted houses on either side. Actually it was half of the first floor, the other half being the garage. Jerry double parked next to an vintage Civic hatchback and in an instant Ted was down the four steps to his front door. He put a key in the deadbolt. It went in, but wouldn't turn. “Damn!” He took the four steps back to street level in one enormous stride, ignoring the complaints from his knee, then attacked the six steps up to the main entrance to the building. He reached it just as the door was being opened from the inside. It smacked him sharply on the nose. “Ow!” A woman the height of an undernourished sixth-grader confronted Ted from the doorway. “You bring my money?” She was belt-buckle high to him and weighed in at perhaps seventy pounds. Ted rubbed his nose as he looked down at her. “You come to pay rent?” The miniature woman thrust out a miniature hand, 80

palm up. “Mrs. Yee.” Ted's hand against his nose made his voice come out pinched and ridiculous. He removed it, checked the palm for blood, and tried again. “Mrs. Yee—“ ”One tousand, five hunnahd, sisty-six dollars,” Mrs. Yee said, hand still outstretched. The index finger of her other hand tapped out each word on the upturned palm. The stain on Ted's trousers caught her eye. “You spend money on drink, all the time get crazy drunk, now you pee on yourself. That,” she pointed accusingly at the brown, irregular blot, “why you have no money for rent.” “Mrs. Yee, you know I don’t drink. I will pay you. I promise. You just need to give me some time.” Three months back rent plus interest. Even with the job at the bookstore, Ted had found it impossible to keep up with San Francisco rent. Without that seven dollar an hour position he had been hard pressed to afford guitar strings and food. “Three month I give you! Three month free rent!” “My guitar, Mrs. Yee. Please tell me you didn't pawn my guitar.” “Hunnahd-fifty dollar all I get!” Mrs. Yee dismissed the guitar and the paltry sum it had commanded at Topp Dollar Pawn. Ted staggered down two steps. He had to grab the railing for support. “Sarah!” Mrs. Yee was not acquainted with anyone of that name and saw no relevance such a person could have to the issue at hand. “Hunnahd-fifty lousy dollar. You still owe me big money.” This time the outstretched palm received a sharp downward slap from the other hand. “My guitar, my Sarah! You pawned her? Mrs. Yee you can’t do that! She’s...she’s...the only way I have of making a living. I need her back.” “You not make a living,” Mrs. Yee corrected. “You not paying rent three month!” Three tiny fingers held high over her head, the level of Ted's chin. “Person make living pay rent.” “I need that pawn ticket.” The hand came down, once again parallel to the landing. “One tousand—“ ”Gahahhhhhhhhhh!” Ted gave a strangled cry, fists raised to either side of his head, his face turning the color of a warm alcoholic's nose. Mrs. Yee waited until the noise subsided and repeated herself, slowly. “One tousand, five hunnahd—” 81

“Nyaahhhhhhhhhhhh!” This time the head was down a bit, fists raised to each side and slightly above, face perhaps a bit richer in tone and with the additional interest of a visible throbbing above each eyebrow. “You can’t pawn my guitar! That’s stealing!” “You say I steal?” This was outrageous; Mrs. Yee had never been accused of anything illegal in her life. Now this out at all hours, oversized drain on her sweet nature and bottom line was calling her a criminal. “You steal from me! Every month no rent, you steal! One, two, three month you steal from me!” Verbally she backed Ted down three steps, one for each month in arrears. “‘Soon I pay’ you say! ‘Soon I pay.’ All you do is drink and pee! Three month! No pay! You steal!” “I need that pawn ticket.” “One tousand—” “Mrs. Yee! I don't have that kind of money right now. It's just not there.” A voice came from the bottom of the stairs. “It could be.” “Stay out of this, Jerry.” Ted growled. Mrs. Yee descended two steps to achieve striking distance and whacked Ted on the wrist. “You be quiet. I talk to him now.” When Jerry had approached her earlier, looking for Ted, Mrs. Yee had assumed he was some sort of bill collector and had purposely been evasive about where Ted might be located. No point letting somebody else have first crack at him. In any case, she had had no idea where the freeloader would be. Another tenant must have given the weaselly little man on the sidewalk some idea of Ted's favorite places. Probably dragged him out of a gay bar. “You his friend? You pay for him?” Jerry, butt perched against the hood of the Civic, picked a phantom food particle from between his bottom front teeth with his pinkie and fixed his gaze on Ted. “I can help him get it. He'll be back in two days—three tops—with your money. In the meantime, you'll want to get that guitar out of hock.” Mrs. Yee snorted. “I don't want guitar. Rent money. One tousand, five hunnahd—” “In three days we'll be back with all your rent money. There’s an extra five hundred dollars if you get him back his guitar. If he's not back by then, you can easy sell that guitar for what he owes you.” “No!” Ted's face went ashen, his hands reached out to implore Mrs. Yee to 82

forget this idea Jerry was planting in her head. “Don't sell her, please don't sell her!” Mrs. Yee ignored him. To Jerry. “One-hunnahd-fifty dollar all it worth,” is what she said. Her expression said, “Convince me”. “Mrs. Yee.” Jerry pushed away from the Civic and sauntered to the foot of the steps. “Do you know what a natural finish, 1958 Gibson L5-CES in excellent condition, as I’m sure Ted’s still is, is worth to a collector?” Mrs. Yee made clear with a look that she didn't know and honestly didn't give a rat's ass. Jerry proceeded as if she had humbly asked for enlightenment. “We’re talking about a rare and desirable instrument here. Gibson only made maybe forty of them. We’re talking Wes Montgomery’s guitar here.” This struck no nerve in Mrs. Yee. If Jerry had said it was Stern’s or Menuhin’s instrument, she might have been impressed. Nothing she enjoyed more than a good violin piece. Kreisler wrote some fine stuff, not too long. Jerry went back to the dollar motif. “These guitars just don’t end up on the market that often Mrs. Yee. And when they do the asking price is usually at least twelve grand. That’s twelve thousand dollars.” She gave him a look that said she knew perfectly well what a grand was. The look also told him he had made some progress. “So,” said Jerry. “either the guy at the pawnshop has no idea what he’s got or he’s planning his trip to Aruba right about now.” “No guitar worth that much money,” Mrs. Yee scoffed. But she was wavering. “That's not the point!” Ted moaned loudly. “This is Sarah!” “You be quiet!” Mrs. Yee commanded, waving a dismissing hand at Ted. “Talking to...what your name?” “The name is Kwiatkowski, Mrs. Yee.” Jerry bowed ever so slightly. “Gerald Kwiatkowski.” Ted groaned. Mrs. Yee studied for a bit. Jerry was, no doubt, a habitual liar; she knew a liar when she saw one. Problem was that even habitual liars will tell the truth when they think it will serve their needs. Ted's reaction to what Jerry had suggested certainly gave the story some validity. All the back rent plus five hundred dollars. It was enticing. Even if the instrument was not as valuable as Jerry the liar said, it was probably true that she had shorted herself by trusting the greasy man at Topp Dollar Pawn. “Two days,” she said to Jerry. “You shut up!” This directed to Ted, who 83

looked like he might want to interject an unsolicited comment, which he did, want to, that is. “Two days and you back here with—” “Two thousand, sixty-six dollars,” Jerry finished her sentence. “Three days max. We should be done in two, but you've got to give us three or it's no deal.” Mrs. Yee's eyes bored a hole in Jerry's skull, right between his thin eyebrows. “You said two.” Jerry frowned slightly. “I said two, maybe three.” Jerry was on the step below Ted, Mrs. Yee on the step above. Jerry reached out his hand, holding it in place for a count of three before it was grasped, with amazing strength, by the little woman who owned the building behind her and seven other income producing properties around the greater Bay Area. “Monday, two-twenty-five P.M.. One minute late and I sell Sarah Ah 5CCS, the famous guitar.” “Mrs. Yee, you're a fair woman. C'mon Ted, we've got work to do.”

19 Hank Berringer’s office “Okay,” said Hank. “What’s the latest?” The headache was back. It had shifted epicenter to about an inch and a half directly above his nose and it was making his eyes water. “Not a hell of a lot,” said Balderson. “Something’s happening with the AABC. The guy there called Gerald Kwiatkowski in Phoenix.” “What did they talk about?” asked Hank. “Dunno. We had a problem with the equipment. But we do know that immediately after they talked Kwiatkowski hopped a flight to San Francisco.” Shipe dragged in and collapsed on the sofa. “You gave me your friggin’ headache, thank you very much,” he said. He grabbed a Washington Wizards logo pillow, clapped it over his face and pressed hard. “You’re welcome,” said Hank. He thought about offering Shipe a dose of Tylenol but there were only four tablets left in his bottle and he wanted them 84

for himself. “What have you found out?” Shipe began to answer but his voice was muffled by the pillow. “What?” said Balderson. “Get that thing off your face, we can’t hear a damn thing.” Shipe shifted the pillow so his mouth was mostly uncovered. “You don’t have to yell,” he said. “Gatting, or rather Gross, that’s his real name, is dead,” he said. “His own hired gun, some albino named Leslie, put an arrow in his brain. Geez, just saying it makes my brain hurt worse.” “Ow,” said Hank, and meant it. He tried hard not to think about arrows in brains, but it was a futile effort. “What about Lush?” “Dead too. Found him bobbing in Morton Bay. That’s just outside Brisbane.” “I know where Morton Bay is. Same method of dispatch?” “No arrows. Looked like he had been pretty well beat up though. We’re pretty sure it was the same albino. Our person on the scene has decided to retire so it took us a while to get a tail on this guy. We’re not sure what he did in the meantime, but now it looks like he’s tracking Lush’s mother.” “His mother?” said Balderson. “And his aunt. He’s followed them out of the country.” “Where are they off to?” said Balderson. “They’re heading for Phoenix.” “Phoenix?” said Berringer. “What’s in Phoenix?” “Heat and thunderstorms,” said Shipe from under his pillow. “This time of year it’s nothing but heat and thunderstorms.”

20 I-10, south of Phoenix It had been almost half-an-hour since Amelia had said something about them possibly being lost and had gotten her head snapped off for her trouble. But she was more convinced of it than ever as she studied the Phoenix metro map she found in the glove compartment of the LeBaron convertible they had 85

rented at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. Luckily there had been no problem changing the destination on their prepaid tickets on Qantas from Seattle to Phoenix. Doreen had growled impatiently through all of the necessary customs and security procedures associated with international travel and had fidgeted throughout the eighteenhour flight time, pacing the aisles and thumping seatbacks until—at the request of several of their fellow travelers—a pair of male flight attendants had been obliged to escort her back to her seat. When they finally made it to the rental car area of the Phoenix terminal, Doreen chose the company with the shortest line, accepted the first car offered, and practically rode the shuttle driver’s shoulders on the way to the lot. Once there they found they had rented a convertible. The lot attendant began to instruct them in the use of the top, but half way through the lesson Doreen just snatched the keys out of his hand, shoved him away from the automobile, and rocketed them out of the lot with the top still down. Amelia found the correct button to operate the top, but she had no experience in these things and found that apparently it was not a button one was supposed to push while the vehicle was going sixty-five miles per hour. The top stalled at the one-third mark and froze there, refusing to either advance or retreat. This set up a tremendous swirling wind inside the vehicle that made it a real challenge to open and hold still the map By the time she found the least turbulent spot to fold the map down to a manageable square so she could study the route between Sky Harbor and what looked like the turn-off that would take them to Gilbert, Amelia had some doubts about whether they might have already passed it. She had to repeat herself four times and ultimately raise her voice to an uncomfortable decibel level to make herself heard above the wind and road noise. Might it not be a good idea, she said, if they stopped and asked for directions? Doreen would hear nothing of it. She just kept the convertible hurtling down the freeway, cursing the awkwardness of driving on the right and insisting Amelia keep an eye out for any signs that said Gilbert. They came to a sign that said they were approaching the town of Casa Grande. Amelia compared its location to where Gilbert showed on the map. “I think we’ve missed it,” she said. “Gilbert should be back that way.” She pointed behind them. Doreen snatched the map. While she was studying it, the LeBaron drifted halfway into the middle lane, back to the left, and across to the right lane. She thrust the map back at Amelia. Doreen did not go so far as to admit her sister 86

may have a point, but—on the pretext that they were in need of some petrol— she did pull off at the next exit, much to the relief of the motorists who had been executing quick and desperate evasive maneuvers.. Doreen screeched the LeBaron to a halt in the parking lot of a combination gas station-convenience store and stomped inside to the counter. Amelia followed after and began studying the multi-nozzle soft drink dispenser. So many choices. A radio behind the counter was playing a song about some young man's desire to find a kind-hearted woman since he was finding little—or at least diminishing—satisfaction from the contents of a whiskey bottle. There was no indication that he anticipated giving up the bottle, merely that he desired variety. Doreen rapped on the counter. Unnecessary, as the sixtyish, heavyset, red-faced man behind the counter was standing right before her. His name tag identified him as Eugene. “We need directions to Gilbert,” Doreen said. “Gilbert?” repeated Eugene. “Yes, Gilbert. Can you tell us how to get to there? We’ve just come from the airport and appear to have missed the exit.” “The airport in Phoenix?” “Yes, the one in Phoenix.” “That’d be Sky Harbor International Airport,” Eugene said. “You ladies went way out of your way if you want to be in Gilbert.” “Yes, we know that,” said Doreen. “We would like directions to the town of Gilbert, if you don’t mind.” “I don’t mind a bit,” said Eugene. “The missus and me flew ourselves a couple years ago. Went out of the Barry Goldwater terminal at Sky Harbor. You ladies see that terminal? The Barry Goldwater?” “I have no idea,” said Doreen. “That’s a big terminal, all right,” said Eugene. “Named it after Senator Barry Goldwater, you know. We went to Las Vegas. The missus wanted to stay at that pyramid place but I’m not much on foreign nonsense. It’s the Riviera for us, I said.” “I could care less,” Doreen began. “Oh, now I know the Riviera’s not the newest place in town, but they do put on quite a show there,” Eugene assured her. “Yes, sir, quite a show.” Images were coming back to him of pretty girls dancing around wearing little more than a smile. It had been a sight all right. Doreen gritted her teeth. She leaned across the counter and glared at 87

Eugene. Perspiration flowed from her forehead, down either side of her nose, off her cheek, and on to the counter. “We have been driving around in this God forsaken heat for much too long and would appreciate it if you would simply tell us how to find Gilbert.” The heat, now that was one of Eugene's favorite subjects. One of the few capable of pulling him back from memories of the theatrical wonders of Las Vegas. He indicated the radio. “You bet it’s warm. Fella says it's one-hundredsixteen.” Emphasis on the sixteen, as if it were significantly different from onehundred-fifteen or one-hundred -seventeen degrees. “Pretty unusual for this time of year, you know; monsoon season. But when we got the winds it usually don’t get much above, oh say, one-ten or so. Can get pretty nasty out with the humidity though.” Another nod to the radio. “Said it’s forty-three percent humid and thirty percent chance of thunderstorms tonight. But heck, they say that every night this time of year. Haven’t had a good rain yet. Nothing but a lot of show in the sky. That's the temperature at Sky Harbor anyway. Onesixteen. He ran for President you know. Back in sixty-four.” “The man on the radio?” Amelia asked. She was still puzzling over her beverage selection. There must have been two dozen choices. No ginger ale, though. Amelia liked ginger ale. Eugene laughed at her joke. “Now there was one hell of a man, if you’ll pardon my French,” said Eugene. “Named part of Sky Harbor after him. He liked to fly. Airplanes.“ ”I don’t give a bloody damn about the airport or who likes this or that,” snorted Doreen. “Will you please give us directions to Gilbert!” “And you just came from Sky Harbor,” said Eugene. “Doreen, dear, would you like a Coke?” Amelia asked from in front of the soda machine. She thought she might like a Mountain Dew but wasn’t quite sure yet. It sounded refreshing. “No!” Doreen snapped. “Now if its one-sixteen at Sky Harbor,” said Eugene, “you can pretty well count on it being close to, oh, say, one-twenty down here.” He nodded in agreement with his own assertion and got on with the other subject at hand. “He would have shown them Veetnimese a thing or two in pretty quick fashion, yessir.” “Are you or are you not going to tell me how we can get to Gilbert?” Doreen thundered. “Sure, I can tell you how to get to Gilbert.” Eugene looked hurt. “All you need to do is head north about oh, maybe ten, twelve miles.” He winked at 88

Doreen, which she didn’t like one bit. “You know, the direction you come from? Then take the…” He paused. There had been an especially cute brunette in that Vegas show, second from the left. Reminded him of his cousin Wynetta before she put on all the weight and let her teeth go bad. If it hadn’t been for her beefy arms and green incisors Wynetta would have made a dandy Las Vegas entertainer herself. “And then?" Doreen glared impatiently. “Hmm? Oh, just keep going until you almost run out of Chandler. That would be right along about Guadalupe Road.” Eugene cocked his head to the side and chewed his lip for a moment, mentally reviewing the route he and the wife used to take to visit her brother and his family. Had a business in Chandler but lived in Gilbert. Brother passed on two, maybe three years before. They had a good for nothing son; Eugene could never remember the boy’s name. Stupid name, just not memorable. “That's it, you want to take a right on Guadalupe. Before you know it, you're in Gilbert.” He rapped his knuckles on the counter and nodded his head, satisfied with the accuracy and completeness of his answer. Doreen was already heading out of the door, bellowing at Amelia to follow. “Coming Doreen, dear.” “How much is this, please?” Amelia scurried up to the counter with a quart sized drink. “Ninety-seven cents, including the governor's take.” Eugene pronounced with certainty the oft-repeated total. Amelia searched out a dollar bill from the bundle of cash she had changed in Honolulu. “I do so miss our dollar since it was changed to coin,” she said, half to herself. “You ladies from out-of-state?” Eugene had a map of the USA in the back room dotted with colored push-pins indicating customers' hometowns. Maybe he could add another pushpin today. Blue would be good. “AMELIA!” Doreen’s voice rang in from the parking lot. Several packs of cigarettes fell out of their rack above Eugene's head. Amelia set down the dollar and scurried for the door. “Thank you.” she said, holding up the jumbo drink. “Australia, actually.” “AMELIA!!!” A blast of oven-dry heat enveloped Amelia as she opened the door. She tried, without success, to fit the straw into the perforated X in the middle of the cup lid as she quick-stepped across the parking lot to where Doreen sat fuming 89

in the LeBaron. Doreen snatched the cup and straw, jammed the straw through the lid, siphoned half the contents past her lips, and set the cup into a holder in the console. Amelia watched, her mouth half open, her hand still formed around a cup that was no longer there. Doreen gestured impatiently. “For pity’s sake,” she barked, “we didn't come halfway 'round the bloody world for you to catch flies in the middle of a car park.” Amelia scooted obediently around to the passenger side. She was barely in the seat when Doreen jerked the car into gear and sent them tearing back out into the street. The seat-belt buckle was scorchingly hot; it took Amelia three tries to get it to engage without burning her fingertips. When at last she had it secured, she reached for the soda just as Doreen was setting the cup back in the console. A loud slurping sound followed by a reluctant dribble of liquid was all her pull on the straw produced. She thought of saying something to Doreen, perhaps suggest that they might go back to purchase another soda, but the look on her sister's face as they raced back to the freeway was a familiar one and Amelia knew conversation of any type would be unwelcome. She would wait for some of the ice to melt. Shouldn't take long. Eugene watched the LeBaron fly out of the parking lot, but his thoughts were lost in a mix of the '64 election, the big airport terminal in Phoenix and especially the little dancer he had decided to christen Little Wynetta. Maybe it was time he and the missus reacquainted themselves with the wonders of modern air travel. “Sweetheart,” Eugene called to his wife, who was taking beer inventory in the back room. "We got a anniversary comin' up some time soon? Ten minutes later and fifteen miles to the north, Doreen jammed the cup— empty even of melted ice—into the holder on the console. Amelia tilted the cup toward her, peeled back the lid, and peered into its dry interior. She had managed to sneak perhaps an ounce of melted ice for herself. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about how hot it was. The air blasting forward from the partially deployed top was pushing her hair up from behind—a most unpleasant sensation. And she was thirsty. Very thirsty. Doreen slowed the car, leaned forward over the steering wheel, and squinted at the street sign on the right. “Germain. That's not it. What was the street we're to turn on?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Guadalupe. That was it. Look for Guadalupe.” 90

Amelia had been close to nodding off when the sudden change of speed got her attention. “Perhaps we could stop for another soda?” she suggested, grateful for the temporary reduction in wind velocity. Doreen's scowl was her only reply. It was sufficient. They accelerated away from the unsatisfactory street of Germain and the roaring wind recommenced. Chandler began to take form along Route 87, which was now identified on street signs as Arizona Avenue. Doreen grew increasingly impatient with each stop sign and traffic light, loudly denouncing each street that had the ill manners not to be Guadalupe. “How is it spelled?” She demanded abruptly as they sped past a cluster of fast food restaurants. Amelia looked longingly back as the Jack in the Box, Taco Bell and Arby’s rapidly receded from view. Her scalp was feeling sore from having her hair pushed forward. She turned to face the back of the car, hoping the wind would push her hair back into place. She turned back around, flipped down the vanity mirror and found the only effect had been to part her hair roughly in the center, resulting in the creation of two gray-flecked, embryonic wings sprouting out of the top of her head. “It must start with a W,” said Doreen. “W-a-d-a-l-o-o-p-a-y. Some sort of Indian name, I suppose.” Amelia closed her eyes and tried not to feel her scalp.

21 Sky Harbor International Airport The plane ride from San Francisco to Phoenix had been a quiet one in seats 17A and 17B. Jerry’s attempts to initiate conversation had been met by a stone wall. He had tried, “So, whatcha been up to, lately?” and “You see the babe in row fourteen? Whoa!”, and “How about Pat Martino’s latest? Got Joey DeFrancesco with him and they cook.” Stony silence from Ted. Jerry tried to open things up in a more roundabout way. Leafing noisily 91

through the ubiquitous catalog of catalogs from the seatback in front of him, he thumped a page with a thumb-launched forefinger and, with a studied disregard for any interest his comment might excite from his companion, offered his opinion of one of the offerings. “What kind of crazy person is going to spend a hundred-forty bucks on some machine that makes the sound of crickets? ‘Masks annoying sounds so you can get a better night's sleep.’. Sure. Crickets. I’d be up all night trying to kill the little bastards.” Ted offered no opinion on the subject of electronically generated cricketsong. Jerry tried a similar tack with the advertisement for a double showerhead: “If you're gonna take a shower with somebody, stay close, that's what I say.”; the one touting a vibrating tongue cleaner, “Oh, that's gotta feel good.”; and the full page spread featuring a stainless steel wastebasket of Italian manufacture, “Ninety-five bucks for something you throw snotty tissues into?” None of these openers garnered results. He gave up on the catalog and opened the in-flight magazine. The ads for a couple of the big hotels in Las Vegas, featuring statuesque young women whose costumes consisted mostly of elaborate headgear, provided a pleasant diversion for a moment or two, but he found nothing that might spark a conversation with Ted. He gave the big man one last sideways look, shrugged, pushed his seatback into the maximum two-inch recline, shifted his slight frame once or twice, and fell asleep. Ted spent the two-plus hour flight trying to both make his body conform to the dimensions of a coach seat and not think about Sarah, spotlighted in the window of the Topp Dollar Pawn Shop. He failed miserably at both. The lingering smell of stale coffee didn't help. Mrs. Yee had let Ted extract a fresh pair of pants from the two big cardboard boxes she had filled with all of his worldly belongings minus Sarah. But underneath he still had on the boxers that had absorbed the cup of Guatemalan Antiqua Supremo; none of the boxes were labeled and he didn’t want to waste time searching for underwear. The coffee smell apparently was not offensive to Jerry, but it did make Ted even more self-conscious than usual. It had not helped that the young woman holding the ticket for the aisle seat had made it clear to the flight attendants, not to mention all within several rows on either side, that she would have another seat in the "non-stenching" section. Luckily for Ted the flight was not full and nobody else was obligated to sit next to him. At least he did not have to appear apologetic for the entire flight for smelling like an unclean percolator. 92

It wasn't until they had arrived at the Phoenix airport and were alone in the elevator on their way to the parking garage that Ted spoke. “What's the job?” “Hey! He speaks!” Jerry said. He punched the button for Level Five Parking. “What's, the job?” Ted repeated, a bit slower. “Y' know, Ted, it's not my fault things haven't been going so hot for you lately. Dunno why you have to act so pissed at me. I’m not the one who pawned your guitar.” Through clenched teeth. “What...is...the...job?” “You been treating me like some kind of leper or something. Jeez. I'm the answer to your prayers.” The elevator came to a halt. Level Five. “I don't even know why I asked to have you in on this job,” said Jerry as the elevator doors opened. “Guess I forgot what a poop you are.” A family with three young children was waiting to get in. An extensive and varied collection of pullmans, duffels, carryons, diaper bags, and backpacks was piled around the feet of the exhausted looking father. The journey from automobile to elevator had obviously taken a toll. Lord only knew how the man was going to survive the remainder of the vacation. Jerry held the door as Ted, unbidden, gathered half of the accumulated load and deposited it into the elevator. “Thank's, but I've got it,” said the father, trying to wave Ted off. After all, this was his family's luggage and he could damn well handle it himself. Besides, the huge, scary-looking fellow just might take off with the diaper bag and then where would they be? “You sure do,” said Ted. He scooped up another half-a-dozen bags and shifted them into the elevator. “There you go.” Jerry tipped an imaginary hat and nodded. “You folks have a great trip, now.” The oldest child, a dark haired girl of perhaps seven years, lifted her face to her mother. “He's a nice man.” The elevator door began to close. The middle child, a boy with freckles circling his face and a pink scalp shining through very short blond hair, nodded in agreement. “But the big one's a poop,” he said gravely. The door shut. Jerry cracked up. “You think that's funny?” Ted said. 93

Jerry shook his head in denial and put some effort into controlling himself. “That's better,” said Ted. “Now, are you going to tell what this job is or do I have to—” “Poop,” said Jerry. The laughter came back, redoubled. Ted lifted Jerry and placed him, none too gently, on top of a tall, cylindrical trash can next to the door leading to the parking spaces. “Poop!” repeated Jerry from his perch. Tears were starting to pool in his eyes. Ted raised a fist in front of Jerry's face. There was a ding and a woman in a dark blue business suit and gleaming white cross-training shoes, pulling a rolling carry-on suitcase, came from the elevator. Ted lowered his fist and attempted a look of nonchalance as she strode purposefully past them, through the outer door, and into the shaded heat of the parking garage. If Jerry had been in danger of regaining his composure this pushed him right back over the edge. The tears rolled down his cheeks and off his chin. He gleefully gasped for breath. “Not having such a great day, are you buddy?” The convulsions began anew. Ted looked at Jerry, the little man’s face wet with tears of hilarity, his body vibrating atop the metal wastecan. It had been a lousy day, and Ted was not so sure that applying a great wallop to this ridiculous, moronic, weasel-faced little boil would not serve some tremendous therapeutic value. But instead he nodded and said, “I've had better.” Ted began to laugh. A low, rumbling, up from several miles beneath the earth's crust kind of a laugh that mixed in with Jerry's higher pitched hilarity. “I must be crazy, going along with anything involving you.” Ted guffawed at his own insanity. “Completely out of your mind!” Jerry howled at the thought. “You almost got me killed in Chicago, you know that?” A fresh rumble of laughter rose from Ted. “Almost don't count!” replied Jerry, He slapped his thigh and fell off the wastecan. Five minutes later, eyes still moist from laughing, Jerry steered a red, very new looking Suburban up to the elevator anteroom door. Ted stepped from the air-conditioned space to the air-conditioned vehicle. As they took the corkscrew ramp to ground level, Jerry began outlining the job as it had been presented to him over the phone by the man from the AABC. He finished just as they pulled in line behind three other cars to pay their 94

parking tab. “A boomerang?” said Ted. “What does the government want with a boomerang?” “HellifIknow,” replied Jerry. “What's the government doing sending a couple of jazzers to do its dirty work? Besides, we don’t even really know if AC-DC is part of the government, really.” He inched the Suburban up as the line moved. “Didn't make sense to me before and doesn't make sense to me now. But what do we care as long as the money's good?” “If it isn’t some government agency, it ought to be,” Ted said. “But I don’t care. I just want to get Sarah back. This is going to pay at least four grand isn’t it?” Jerry grinned. They pulled forward another car-length. He held up all fingers. “Ten.” “Ten thousand dollars?” Ted exclaimed. “Put your hands back on the wheel. You have got to be kidding.” “Hee-hee-hee.” Jerry gleefully ticked the numbers off. “One-two-three-four five-six-seven-eight-nine-TEN! Each!” The last car in front of them pulled away from the booth. Jerry eased the Suburban forward and opened his window, letting in a blast of superheated air that did brief battle with the air-conditioning and won. He lifted the ticket off the top of the dash and handed it to the old man behind the window. “Hot enough for you?” asked the old man cheerfully. It was easily the fiftieth time he had recited the line so far that day, but his duties kept presenting him with fresh audiences. Besides, just reading aloud the amounts showing up on his little screen made the day drag. Today his line was Hot enough for you? and he was prepared to follow it up with Weatherman says a forty-percent chance of thunderstorm tonight! if the occasion allowed. That was especially effective with folks who were obviously out-of-towners. He loved the monsoon season. “It's July, isn't it?” said Jerry. “Weatherman says one-sixteen today! From the look of things to the south and east I’d say there’ll be a doozy of a show tonight too.” He pointed at the digital display facing Jerry. “That's four dollars.” Between what Ted and Jerry dug out of their pockets and the $2.53 in change they scraped out of the Suburban’s console, they totaled up $3.88. The old man patiently counted out the assortment and declared them short. “Twelve cents boys.” “You gotta be kidding,” said Jerry. 95

The toll taker made a show of recounting the offering. “Nope, sorry,” he said. “Thirteen. You got a Canadian penny here.” He flipped the foreign currency into Jerry’s hand. “Oh, c’mon man,” said Jerry. “You gonna let us through?” “You got thirteen cents?” A horn tooted behind them. Jerry turned around and shot a dirty look at the driver in the Hummer H2 behind them in line. The Hummer man made shooing motions with the back of his hand and tooted once more. Jerry turned back to the jolly gatekeeper. “You got a line waiting here. What's the big deal about twelve cents?” “Thirteen. You want to use a charge card?” The Hummer man laid on the horn again, a couple of short toots followed by a longer bleat. Ted leaned across the Suburban's front seat. “Thirteen cents?” he said. “Thirteen cents.” “Hold on a minute. I'll be right back.” Another blast sounded from the Hummer. Ted opened his door and got out of the Suburban. As he unfolded out on to the pavement, the honking stopped. Ted strode back to the passenger side of the H2. He rapped on the window and gestured to the driver that he desired conversation. The man inside was looking back over his seat and, with much the same motion he had directed at the Suburban, was shooing at the oxidized tan Taurus directly behind him, indicating a desire to back up. The chances of this seemed unlikely, considering the fact that all the man in the Taurus could see in his windshield was the rear bumper of the H2. The Hummer man gave up his fruitless appeal and turned reluctantly to face the bearded, hulking mountain of a man looming outside his window. Ted motioned once again that he desired a tLte-B-tLte and the locked door was a hindrance. The Hummer man responded with what he desperately hoped was at least a decent approximation of a “don't-mess-with-me-`cause-I'm-sucha-mean-son-of-a-bitch- you-don't-even-want-to-know” expression. The result came much closer to conveying his real thoughts, which were running along the lines of “Oh god in heaven, please make this man go away.” Ted gestured for a third time that he wanted to talk and made a windowrolling action with his hand, although it is as close to certain as may be that he in no way thought the vehicle would have hand-crank windows. The message conveyed by the pantomime pressing of a button is, however, a vague one. The 96

Hummer man gestured that he felt the window was best left at status quo and perhaps Ted would like to go away? Ted reiterated his intention of establishing dialogue and introduced the topic of a forceful removal of the door if needed. The Hummer man looked about him in a rather distracted manner. He opened the lid to a storage console between the front seats and pulled out a tiny cellular phone. He began to punch buttons, trying at the same time to keep a weather eye on Ted. This double duty created for the man some difficulty in finding, in proper sequence, the desired buttons. As he fumbled about with the thing, he heard a click behind him. A hand, appearing from somewhere over his left shoulder, snatched the phone. Simultaneously, the power door lock on the passenger side thunked open. Ted pulled the door open, hove himself in, and sat down. The air inside the H2 filled with the aroma of stale coffee grounds. The driver's side door slammed shut, and a thin man with a weasel-like face, standing just outside, was holding the cellular phone in one hand and giving the "O-K" signal with the other. Ted returned the "O-K" signal. The Hummer man seemed about to offer an opposing opinion, but was having a problem articulating same. Ted adjusted himself on the seat, bouncing the big SUV more than a bit. He took up the conversational slack. “Sorry to drop in like this,” he said. He pulled the door closed behind him. “Keep the hot air outside. Don’t know how anybody lives in this place.” He directed two of the air-conditioning vents his way. The Hummer man's eyes swivelled back and forth between Ted and Jerry, who was now leaning on the toll booth window, engaging the old man in conversation. What in the world was going on here? All he could come up with was that he was the victim of a car-jacking. Not what he would have imagined a car-jacking to be like, but he supposed they came in varieties with which he lacked familiarity. Damn it, he should have gotten something less conspicuous, less desirable. This would never have happened to him in his Volvo. Ted continued. “We're a little short for the parking fee. Thought since you can't get out until we do, maybe you'd like to contribute to the cause.” The Hummer man gave Ted a look that told him his words were not registering all that well. “Thirteen cents,” said Ted. “Kind of embarrassing, really.” Horns began to blare behind them. This distracted the Hummer man, who, as Ted had observed, was already having problems following the gist of the conversation. “Excuse me,” Ted said. He stepped out, easily holding the door as the man 97

tried desperately to pull it shut. He faced the line forming behind them, some seven or eight cars deep by now, held a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, and waited for the result, which was almost immediate. He had to shift position slightly for better visibility and repeat the command for the benefit of a young lady in a Camaro four cars back, but soon quiet was restored. He stepped back in and closed the door. The Hummer man was gone. Ted scanned the area and spotted the crown of the man's head through the windows of a generic late-eighties General Motors sedan parked a couple of aisles away. The head lifted ever so slightly, revealing the man's eyes and nose, then bobbed sharply back down and out of sight. A lilting musical tone was coming from the dash as a result of the keys being left in the ignition. A shiny black wallet was lying on the driver's seat. Ted removed the keys to stop the tone and opened the wallet. It was thickly packed with bills. He had to sift through many twenties and more than a few hundreds to find a dollar bill, which he plucked from the wallet. He set the wallet back on the seat. The toll taker made change, eighty-seven cents, which Ted placed in the coin-keeper section of the H2's console. The cellular phone he put in the glove compartment. Then he locked up after himself, and, after signaling his intentions in the direction of where he had last seen the bobbing head, handed the keys to the attendant, who was trying to figure out how he could work this little episode into a catch-phrase greeting for the rest of the day. As they pulled away from the parking garage, Ted wiped his shaved head with a large, cornsilk blue handkerchief extracted from a hip pocket. He shook his head sadly. “What?” said Jerry. “We just scared the living daylights out of some poor guy because we needed thirteen cents,” Ted said. Jerry reached over and patted the big man on the shoulder. “Don't worry, Ted, my man. In a couple of days you can send him his thirteen cents with interest wrapped in a twenty. Just relax and enjoy the ride. Life is good.” The Suburban surged powerfully into the traffic swirling around the Barry Goldwater Terminal at Sky Harbor International. “Jerry.” “Yeah?” “Why was the parking fee only four dollars?” “What do you mean?” 98

“The sign at the parking booth said three dollars for the first hour and fifty cents for every hour after. Four dollars would only be three hours and there is no way you started this round-trip just three hours ago.” Jerry squirmed a little. “Oh, for the love of–“ Ted shook his head at his own stupidity. “This isn't your car, is it?” “I only picked this one so you'd have some room to stretch out, you know. I bummed a ride from a friend to get here this morning, but she was going from here to work so she couldn’t pick us up.” “I should have known. Once a car thief, always a car thief.” “I am not a thief,” Jerry objected. “We’re just borrowing, that’s all.” “Not we. There is no we.” Ted looked out the heavily tinted window at the concrete and asphalt shimmering in the record breaking July mid-day heat. He was silent for several minutes as they made their way out of the airport and onto the freeway. Rising in front of them, on the eastern and southern edges of the sky, just as the jolly gatekeeper had said, were towering cloud formations. They looked to Ted like great, ominous, white angels looming over the Phoenix metro area, scanning the city for behavior that merited correction. They gave him the creeps. “Looks like we’re in for a storm,” he said. “Nah,” said Jerry, shaking his head. “Every day we get these big clouds along the edge of the valley and every night there’s a pretty good lightning show. Never actually comes into town, though. Guy in the paper says it’s because Phoenix it too built up. Calls it a concrete desert. Anyway, all we ever get is just a bunch of those pretty clouds.” Ted was unconvinced. Looked like a storm brewing to him. A storm for the two of them. The clouds knew he and Jerry were on their way to perform a felony. Already he had terrorized some poor fellow out of thirteen cents in order to exit a parking garage in a stolen Suburban. The clouds knew. He never should have agreed to come. It would be better to sleep in a doorway in San Francisco than get mixed up with the AABC again. But then there was Sarah. She was in a showcase in Topp Dollar Pawn and if he had to face all the fury of Nature Unleashed and deal with some wacko government entity to rescue her, that is what he would do.

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22 Somewhere in Gilbert, Arizona “We need a map,” said Doreen. She steered the LeBaron around what she felt must have been the fiftieth housing development she and Amelia had explored during the past three hours. It was nearing five in the afternoon, the sun still unrelentingly high in the sky. Back and forth, circling cul-de-sacs, curving around streets that joined, diverged, changed names seemingly in mid-block, and emptied out into other housing developments with different street names but disconcertingly familiar looking structures and paths. Beige stucco and dull red tile. Street after street, subdivision after subdivision, artificial lakes community after artificial lakes community of beige and red, broken only by hot, silver strips of water and patches of struggling, lime green grass in the common areas. And all the time the clouds on the horizon kept getting higher and higher, shockingly white at the top, ominously dark at the bottom. “Perhaps if we went back to the nice little shop where we got the soda, we could buy a map,” said Amelia. She was picturing the multi-nozzle drink dispenser at Eugene’s mini-mart. They had even bigger cups there, didn’t they? She was thirsty. Very thirsty. Shade would be nice, too. She tried to remember when she had last seen a tree. Been a while. That's a lovely idea, sister.” Doreen ground her teeth. Being lost in a strange city in a strange country in an automobile that refused to protect them from the blast furnace that served as the local climate had whittled away at what little store of patience she possessed. “Now, perhaps you could suggest a way to find our way out of here so we can find the bloody shop to buy the bloody map!” “Yes, a drink,” said Amelia. “A drink would be nice. Find a drink, find a nap,” Doreen ignored her. “Seaspray Drive,” muttered Doreen. “Seaspray Bloody Drive. These people live in the middle of the bloody desert and they name the streets like they had the Pacific Bloody Ocean lapping up against their back doors!” In the last ten minutes they had passed Seaside Street, Tidepool Drive, Lakeshore Drive, Sandpiper Avenue, Full Sail Circle and others with similar, mocking and incongruous names. “The people here must be bloody lunatics!” 100

Doreen's muttering floated through the hot air to Amelia's ears, but her sister was making no sense and it was beginning to concern her. Amelia wondered if Doreen was perhaps suffering some ill effect from being out in the heat too long. If only Doreen would realize that the sister-sister relationship was, without a doubt, the most profound union to be found in all creation, and that one Trust Officer, with or without the requisite number of scallions, could scarcely be trusted to make a salad. This epiphany was such a complete and allexplaining revelation that she wanted immediately to share it with Doreen. But the words whirled about in front of her in a red-orange swirl, all jumbled and out of order, until they spun down into a black hole much too fast to do anything other than follow them. Perhaps it would be cooler in there. Out of the corner of her eye, Doreen noticed her sister batting at some phantom insects in front of her face, and vaguely heard her mumble something. Whatever. She slowed the LeBaron as they came to a corner. Clambake Circle joining Spinnaker Drive. A bloody cul-de-sac. Amelia's head drifted forward as the car slowed and then drifted back to bounce gently against the headrest as Doreen accelerated away from the unsatisfactory intersection. Spinnaker Drive finally emptied into West Cove Avenue, which appeared to be a main arterial street through The Cove. Abandoning any thought of finding SeaSpray for the moment, intent now on simply finding a way out of the maze of houses so she could find a place to purchase a map, Doreen jerked the LeBaron onto the wider street and pressed, hard, on the accelerator. Amelia, obedient to the dictates of Mr. Newton's laws, slammed her shoulder into the side of the door, swung back almost to center and pressed the back of her head into the headrest once more. That was when Doreen saw the small, rectangular sign eight feet above the sidewalk on her left. SEASPRAY DR. 1400 EAST Doreen slammed on the brakes. Amelia's shoulder harness made sure she did not exit through the windshield, but it did allow enough slack for her forehead to pitch forward just far enough to make solid contact with the dashboard. Doreen, single-mindedly giddy over her find, let the sudden movement and sound her sister made conveniently slip past her consciousness. She threw the LeBaron into reverse and backed it into position to turn down Sea Spray. Amelia bobbed back halfway between dash and seatback before whacking 101

her right shoulder into the side of the door. “We're getting close!” Doreen’s eyes were wide and her voice quaked with excitement. “Keep your eyes out for fourteen-eighty- three. You check the ones on your side, I'll take over here.” All the odd numbers resided on Doreen's side of the road, so Amelia was up to the assignment. Doreen recited the house numbers as they eased their way down the street. As there was no consistency in the placement of the identifying numerals, some on the curb, some on mailboxes, some displayed with decorative tiles by the front door or to the side of the garage, and some of the houses had no numbers at all, Doreen kept the LeBaron at a snail’s pace. For her part, Amelia kept a patient, if not particularly observant, head turned toward the beige stucco, garage door dominated fronts of the houses on her side, the slow speed allowing her to maintain a more or less upright position. “Fourteen-fifty-one, fourteen-fifty-nine.” The excitement in Doreen's voice rose as the numbers increased by consistent increments of eight. “Fourteensixty-seven, fourteen-seventy-five.” She held her breath, sure that somehow the pattern would be broken, that it would be the wrong Sea Spray, that this damnable desert town with the coastal street names would pull a nasty joke on them. She reduced the car's speed to a crawl as she searched the front of the next house for its number. There it was, to the side of the garage door, big black numbers on ceramic tiles edged with bright, red, chili peppers. Fourteen Bloody Eighty-Three. The home of Davis and L. C. Bloody Tracey, the people who had her boomerang. “We’ve found it!” she crowed, like Brigham Young exclaiming over the site that was to be Salt Lake City. “This is the place.” No sound of cheering. No “ooh, how lovely”. No response from Amelia at all. Doreen felt she was being ignored. Doreen did not like being ignored. She repeated herself, something else she did not like. “Amelia,” she said, her jaw audibly tightening. “I said we have found the place.” “I don't think she feels too good.” The response came from Amelia's side of the LeBaron, but it was not Amelia's voice. Instead, it came from a boy, possibly twelve or thirteen years old, but short for his age, standing by the passenger door, holding a basketball between his arm and side and studying, with a grave look, a slumped over Amelia. 102

“She's breathing,” the boy announced, “so she's not dead.” Doreen poked Amelia in the side with no result outside of causing her sister to drift and bob a bit. She grabbed Amelia by the shoulders and spun her around for an inspection. She did indeed did not look good, not good at all. She was pasty white, her eyes were closed, her lips dry and, although she was, as the boy had said, breathing, the breaths were slow and shallow. “Amelia!” Doreen bellowed into her sister's ear. She drew no reaction. “It's from the heat,” the boy said. “Well isn't that just bloody wonderful.” Leave it to Amelia. No strength of character, no resolve, no bloody stamina. “Probably hasn't been drinking enough water,” the boy said. “Can't be out in this weather without water.” He tapped an insulated plastic sports bottle strapped to his side opposite the basketball, illustrating his belief in and adherence to this basic survival technique. “Well then, pass it over!” Doreen thrust out a hand. “All out,” the boy said. “I’m just getting back from the gym at school. Summer basketball league practice.” He nodded at the cradled ball. “Well then why don’t you run along and bring us some water.” “The way she looks I think it’s too late for that. You've got to wrap her up in some cool cloths, bring her temperature down. Better bring her inside.” Keeping his body away from the sheet metal, he reached into the car and released the door. “Outside handle's probably a gazillion degrees,” he said. “You'd better come over here. No way I can carry her by myself.” Twenty hours on a plane halfway around the bloody world, wandering around the hottest city in the civilized world for hours in a car with a top that wouldn't go up, despairing of ever being able to find her way out of a subdivision designed like an English estate maze, much less actually find what she was looking for, and finally finding it, by the merest of chances, and what happens? Her sister bloody well passes out, maybe worse, and some tot is telling her how to handle the situation. “She needs to get inside, quick.” The boy put the basketball in the back seat of the LeBaron, freeing up both hands to support Amelia until Doreen could get herself around to assist. This was all Amelia's fault, and as soon as the opportunity presented itself and she could be made to understand just what a bloody pain she was, Doreen was bloody well going to let her have it. But for right now the most prudent course seemed to be to take her inside like the tot said and snap her out of this state. Couldn't get anything done with a dead-weight sister dragging her down. 103

“I've got her,” Doreen barked at the boy. She shouldered him out of the way. “Go open up the door.” He retrieved his ball and disappeared into the house to the right of the Traceys’. Like all the rest of the houses in the neighborhood, it was a beige stucco and red tile roof affair. Its distinguishing features were two tall, wide spreading trees in the yard and a basketball hoop set to the side of the driveway. Doreen unfastened Amelia's seat belt, swung her legs out the open door, squatted down and draped her sister’s arms over her shoulders. Taking a tight grip on Amelia’s wrists, she pulled forward, plastering Amelia's face against the back of her neck. “Giyyyyahhhhh!” Doreen lurched up and away from the car and stood there for a moment in a swaying, semi-crouched, double-layered Quasimodo kind of stance, trying to get her balance. She adjusted her feet under her and shifted the sack of cement that was her sister until she felt she could move without landing the both of them on the pavement. Cursing and sweating, she staggered around the LeBaron, across the hybrid bermuda grass lawn, through a narrow flower bed thick with purple alyssum, up the walkway, and through the front door of 1491 Sea Spray Drive, obligingly held open by the authoritative adolescent. “I could've helped,” he said, not sounding put out, just stating a fact that Doreen could file for future reference concerning his level of competence. “Right over there.” He pointed at an unfurled, zipped open sleeping bag spread on the floor in the middle of a formally furnished living room. A purple bed pillow with the Phoenix Suns logo on it was at the far end of the sleeping bag. “My name's Paul.” Doreen ignored the effort to effect a mutual introduction. “Well, young man," she said, “how about some of that water?” “Yeah, sure. Be right back.” Paul closed the door behind them and disappeared into the further reaches of the house. Doreen dragged her load to the near end of the sleeping bag, did a oneeighty degree turn-nearly tripping more than once as Amelia's feet skidded under her own-lowered Amelia as far as she could without losing her balance, brought her sister's behind to within perhaps a foot and a half off the floor, and let go. Amelia's head missed the pillow by no more than three inches. Paul reappeared. He was holding a large, copper mixing bowl. “We'll have to get her temperature down.” 104

He knelt beside Amelia, lifted a dripping, cobalt-blue washcloth out of the bowl, which Doreen saw was filled with water, ice cubes and several washcloths of varying colors. He twisted out the excess water. Then he folded the washcloth over a couple of times and carefully placed it across Amelia's forehead. He lifted Amelia's head enough to slide the pillow under, then draped a longer piece of wet cotton terry, forest-green, loosely over her throat. He stood up and gestured for Doreen to take his place. “You better do the rest. She's going to need some on her, you know, body. You'll need to, you know, loosen her dress. I'm going to get something for her to drink.” He headed back out of the room. “Be back in five minutes.” Doreen knelt by Amelia, who looked to be sleeping a very peaceful sleep, the hint of a smile, damn her, on her pale, dry lips. “Should have bloody well left you home,” she muttered as she unbuttoned the top three buttons on Amelia's flower print dress and placed a cool, damp, carmine-red cloth across her chest. Doreen leaned in close, ear to her sister's mouth. The breathing was deeper already, more relaxed and steady. She placed two hand towels across Amelia's legs, then sat on the floor and watched color drift back into the uncovered parts of her face. “Nothing but a bloody nuisance.” She was exchanging the wash cloth across Amelia's forehead with a fresh one when a knock came from where the living room joined whatever room was next to it. “She decent?” the boy asked from around the corner. Doreen refastened the buttons, leaving the cloths in place, and smoothed Amelia's dress. “Come in.” Paul stepped into the room and looked proprietarially down at Amelia. He held a large plastic tumbler with a bendable straw in it. “I brought her some lemonade. She looks better.” “You've been very kind, young man,” said Doreen, surprised at her own appreciative tone. She accepted the lemonade and took a long pull on the straw. It was good. “I saw it on the web. What to do when somebody's got heat stroke. You'd think they'd teach us in school.” Amelia stirred, lifted a hand to her head, found the damp washcloth, started to lift it off but then left it in place, her hand resting on it. “Doreen, dear?” “Yes, I'm here.” Doreen put her hand under her sister's head, cradled it gently and leaned close once again. She checked the glass; it still had a few 105

ounces left in it. “Here's something to drink.” She held the straw to Amelia's lips. “Just a bit at a time now.” Amelia took a sip. “That’s lovely,” she said, her eyes still closed, her voice tremulous. “Do we have it yet? May we go home?” “You just rest, now. We'll talk about that when you feel better.” Doreen glanced over her shoulder at Paul, who appeared to be observing his patient's progress with some satisfaction. “She's doing a lot better,” he said. “Maybe she won't have to go.” “Go where?” asked Doreen. “The hospital. I called 911. Somebody ought to be here real soon.” Doreen whirled around, pulling her hand out from under Amelia's head, which this time found the pillow. She looked at the front door, as if expecting uniformed somebody’s to come bursting in at that moment. “You called the police?” This was not good. “I don't think so,” said Paul, wrinkling his nose as he considered the question. “Should be just, you know, an ambulance or firemen or something.” A thought struck him. “Unless they need a policeman to help find the place. This neighborhood can be kinda confusing if you don't know your way.” “I like firemen,” offered Amelia, weakly, but with conviction. “Call them back! Tell them we don't need any help!” barked Doreen. “I don't think I can stop them now,” said Paul. “They're probably almost here, anyway.” “Doreen, dear, I should rather like to see the firemen,” said Amelia. “Young, handsome firemen.” “No, no, I don't think we need to bother the nice firemen today,” said Doreen. “You've been very kind young man, but we really must be on our way.” She held out a hand for Amelia to take. Amelia did not take the cue, so Doreen grabbed her sister by the wrist and yanked her to her feet. “Here, have some more lemonade." Amelia took a long sip of the lemonade. A damp washcloth fell out the bottom of her dress, followed by another. “Oh my,” she said. “Have I been taking a bath?” “I don't think she should be standing yet,” offered Paul. “Looks a little woozy.” Amelia giggled and kicked playfully at the washcloths at her feet. “Nonsense, she's right as rain,” declared Doreen. "Come along, Amelia.” A third washcloth, the carmine-red one that had been placed across her chest, plopped out onto Amelia's feet. She looked down at it with some interest. 106

“I think that's all,” she announced. She pulled the neck of her dress away and examined its contents. The cloth wrapped around her neck loosened and fell to the floor. “No, there’s another.” “Then off we go,” said Doreen. She took the lemonade from her sister and pulled her toward the door. Paul shook his head. Adults were so pigheaded sometimes. “You've been a very big help,” said Doreen. She opened the door and thrust Amelia through. “Thank you very much.” She went through the door herself, then reappeared, the half full tumbler of lemonade still in her hand. She held it out to Paul. “Your glass.” He waved it off. “Take it,” he said. “She's gonna need it.” Doreen and Amelia were back in the LeBaron and turning on to Cove Drive East as a Gilbert Fire Department truck rumbled past, going the opposite way. “Hello! Oh, hello!” Amelia waved at the passing fire truck. One of the firemen waved back. “My, what handsome young men. Are they the ones looking for me?” “Shut up and drink your lemonade!” Amelia took another sip. “That’s good,” she said. “Where are we going?” “I suppose now we will have to find somewhere for you to recover,” growled Doreen. “Tomorrow, with or without you, I'm coming back to get that boomerang.” “We're coming back then?” “Isn't that what I just said?” “Yes, Doreen, dear,” Amelia nodded. She felt much better. Perhaps the firemen would still be here when they came back. That would be nice. She sipped her lemonade and sighed.

23 The El Chiquito Motor Lodge on the south edge of downtown Chandler Sarge Wacknov stood in front of the tiny, window-mounted air-conditioner in the office of the El Chiquito Motor Lodge. It was making a whirring sound 107

but refused to put out any cool air. Actually, the whirring sound was unaccompanied by any air at all, cold, hot or indifferent. He gave a sharp smack to the front panel. The appliance wheezed an objection and fell silent. Sarge swore quietly and ran his fingers through his bristly, sand-colored hair. Sarge’s real name was Ransom. In childhood he had gone by Randy, but at age seventeen he had adopted the name Sarge. The Vietnam War had been in its final, lingering, hopeless months during his senior year in high school, and he had made it known that he couldn't wait to graduate so he could enlist and kick some major Viet Cong ass before all the fun was over. The pansy-assed peaceniks on campus dubbed him Sergeant Wackoff, although of course none of them had the stones to call him that to his face. But he found out about it, claimed the first part as his own, and wore it with more pride than Ransom had ever afforded him. Unfortunately for Sarge’s ambitions, the festivities in Southeast Asia ended before he had been able to participate. Hopeful that another governmentally sanctioned opportunity to kick some other Third World backside would present itself before too long, he went ahead and enlisted anyway. But soon it became apparent that the military life was not to his liking. For some reason, nobody, especially the non-coms, saw fit to address him by his adopted name. In fact, instead of addressing him by his surname, as they did the other recruits, they made a point of referring to him by the despised "Ransom". Three weeks and four days into his military career Recruit Ransom Wacknov threw a poorly aimed right hook at the jaw of one Staff Sergeant Landers. The Sargeant responded with a practiced combination to Sarge’s midsection and nose and a recommendation to the commanding officer that Recruit Ransom Wacknoff be given a dishonorable discharge. After that there had been a year-and-a-half on the loading dock at a department store in Scottsdale, resulting in a wardrobe of a quality and variety Sarge had never before enjoyed. But word came to him that another member of the dock crew was on the verge of turning state’s evidence, so Sarge embarked on a northward trek that eventually ended with a job on the Alaska Pipeline. Alaska had been good to him and he had stayed for almost twenty years. The money was good, the drinking better and there had been Charice, who had alternated between warming his sleeping bag and flinging large objects at him, performing both with equal and admirable vigor. It had been a man’s life. Then, two years ago, his father died and left him this piddly-ass little fourteen room “motor lodge”. The first thing the man did to him was saddle him with "Ransom" and the last thing he did was to saddle him with "The El 108

Chiquito". Sarge didn't even know what the name meant. He did know that it was turning from warm to hot in the El Chiquito’s office. The air-conditioner had picked the worst day of the summer to conk out, although one could make an argument that metro Phoenix enjoys approximately one-hundred-thirty days each year that could vie for that distinction. The past few days had been topping out at around 105, 107, or so, with typical monsoon humidity to boot, and the A/C had struggled to keep the tiny office below 85. Today the idiot TV weatherman on the local morning show had gleefully predicted a high of 117, with the usual thirty-percent chance for a thunderstorm. One-hundred-seventeen friggin' degrees. The slick-haired, grinning little fart had said it like he thought it was neat or funny. Let him bring his little candy ass down to this miserable dump and swelter for a day in front of this ancient, under-powered, terminally sick little piece of crap air-conditioner. Then see how funny he thinks 117 degrees is. Sarge slid the control lever back and forth a couple of times and then tried another whack, landing it just to the right of the last blow, in case exact placement of impact was crucial. The air-conditioner came back to life, but just barely, then threatened to fade again. He backed away a bit, brought a lugsole booted foot up high, and kicked the air-conditioner's bottom right corner. The whirring increased in intensity for a few seconds, built on that with the encouraging sound of the compressor switching on, then the unit buzzed, clattered, and stopped. A smell of burned insulation drifted out of the vents. Sarge looked at the combination clock, thermometer, barometer on a faded, plastic-veneer, walnut-tone slab hanging behind the counter. Fifteen minutes to five o’clock, eighty-nine degrees, and whatever the needle in the barometer meant when it was pointing mostly to the left. He sure as hell wasn't going to hang around and suffer for the sake of attending to the business. The only room that was occupied was number 113, and the crabby old lady with the stupid accent who had checked in half-an-hour before had made it pretty clear that she wanted to be left alone. Fine, he would close up and bowl a few lines down at the FairLane. Then maybe go to the bank branch at the grocery store and empty the El Chiquito's account. If there was enough to buy a new air-conditioner, maybe that's what he'd do. Or maybe he's just take the money and head north. He pulled open the drawer under the counter where he kept the slim ledger and checkbook that comprised the business’s financial records. As Sarge leafed through the check register, cursing himself for being 109

several months in arrears in balancing it, the door opened. He looked up, putting on his best hospitality trade professional expression, which was the visual equivalent of “What the hell do you want, asshole?” The late afternoon sun came glaring in the open door, silhouetting the man who had opened it. Intense heat, radiating off the walkway and pavement outside the door, rushed inside, as if trying to find relief from itself. Sarge squinted against the glare. “In or out,” he growled. “I'm not paying to cool the whole state, you know.” It was a stock phrase of his, another of the valuable items he had inherited from his father. He immediately realized its inappropriateness but didn't care. The man stepped inside with a jerking, awkward sort of gait. He did not respond to Sarge's welcome and he did not close the door. He sneezed. Sarge did not say “Bless you”. “Vacancy?” said man. “You know, we just had a room come free this morning, otherwise you woulda been out of luck.” Sarge slid the guest register around to face the man. “Close the door, would you?” The man shut the door and the small room was suddenly dark to Sarge, whose eyes had just started to adjust to the flood of light. He shut his eyes for a moment in an effort to dilate his pupils. When he opened them the man was at the counter. Sarge found himself inadvertently looking into the coldest pair of ball-bearing gray eyes he had ever seen. But what really caught his attention was the bandage, big and white and held on with two long strips of adhesive tape, that covered the man's nose. Sarge jerked his focus away from the nose and saw that the man was dressed expensively and inappropriately for the weather, in a suit that matched the cold metal of his eyes. “You it?” he asked. “Am I what?” The man's voice was as frosty and hard as his eyes, although it did have an incongruous, but quite definite nasal quality. “Nah. I mean is anybody else with you? The missus? The kids? The secretary?” Sarge would have been just as happy to have the guy stomp out as book a room. Screw the business; he should be halfway to the FairLanes by now, almost tasting the cold long neck and feeling the refrigerated air. “Just me.” “How long?” “Two, maybe three days.” 110

“I don't take credit cards. Cash up front.” “How much?” The man took out a shiny, gold coin money clip, thick with new looking bills. “Well, let's see. Three nights at forty-nine-fifty a night, plus seven dollars state and city tax, per night…” Sarge started to scribble on the counter. Two crisp one-hundred dollar bills, neatly creased at their midsections, were placed above the scribbling. “That should take care of it,” said the man. “Local map?” Sarge palmed the bills, opened a drawer, pantomimed putting them in, then slid them into his pocket. Unnecessary, considering he owned the place and it would end up in his pocket anyway. “The Texaco down the street has maps.” He picked up the blue stick pen that served as placemark in the guest register. “Name?” Leslie hesitated for just a moment, then said: “Gatting. Nicholas Gatting.” He smiled without parting his lips, as if enjoying some private little joke. “Room 111, Nicholas Gatting.” Sarge tossed a key on the counter. “Think you can find it yourself, or you need a tour?” Leslie plucked the key from the counter and fixed Sarge with a steady stare above his big white bandage. “May I ask your name?” “Sure.” Sarge made a show of referring to the resister. “Nicholas. They call me Sarge.” “Well, Sarge. I'll let you know if I need you.” Leslie turned, rather awkwardly, and limped back out. The outside light once again flared into the hot room before the door creaked closed again. Sarge heard his guest sneeze again, followed by a curse and another sneeze. He squinted back up at the clock/weather station. 4:22 P.M. and ninety-one degrees. Sarge Wacknov shivered.

24 Washington DC The office of the Director of Central Intelligence 111

James Fatherday, Director of Central Intelligence and husband to Angela Benedict-Fatherday, to whom he had been married exactly twenty-four years, and with whom he was supposed to be having an anniversary celebration in one hour, gave an over-the-reading- glasses look at Hank Berringer, Assistant Deputy Director of the CIA. Hank was standing on the other side of Fatherday’s desk. An inch-thick bound report sat on the desk between them, the only object on a desk that had been clean just a minute ago. “Seven-thirty,” Fatherday nodded at the antique school clock that hung on the wall to his right, a thank you gift from his daughter on her graduation from Berklee College of Music with a degree in mandolin performance. “Yes sir,” said Hank Berringer to the man who, as Director of Central Intelligence, was not only in charge of the CIA, but also the entire United States Intelligence community. Thirteen agencies altogether, including the FBI, the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms, and all the intelligence agencies associated with the Armed Forces. A busy man with much on his mind. Hank knew it was Fatherday’s anniversary. He also knew it would not be a good idea to continue to sit on the information contained in the report. The other thing he knew now, which he had not known before, was that he would never again play scissors-paper-stone with Balderson or Shipe, the little shits. “I am sorry to bother you at this time, sir.” “Not that we all don’t keep much later hours most of the time.” “Yes sir.” “But this just happens to be a bad time.” “I am sorry sir, but well…” Hank lifted and dropped his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It’s that important?” “Yes sir. We, rather, I, believe it could be very important.” “It’s not a good idea for a man to be late to his own wedding anniversary dinner.” “Yes sir, congratulations to you and Mrs. Fatherday.” “Benedict-Fatherday,” said Fatherday, almost to himself. Damn hyphenated “keep my own identity” last name. Why, if she was such a committed feminist, hadn’t she appropriated her mother’s maiden name? But then, Fink just didn’t have the cache of Benedict, now did it? Not quite the correct social or religious connotations. “So I am sure you will understand if I suggest we either take care of whatever it is early tomorrow or you take it directly to the appropriate agency.” 112

“Yes sir. No sir. I mean…” Hank swallowed rather noisily as he pointed to the untouched report. “This really is important, sir.” “Too important for say, handling it over the phone at about eleven-thirty this evening?” Before dinner they were to attend a modern dance concert. Fatherday hated modern dance. A lot of atonal honking and splatting coming from a small ensemble of earnest, incompetent musicians who couldn’t hack it playing real music where people know if you are screwing it up, while a troupe of expressionless young women with no breasts and mincing, cod-piece padded poofters posture and trot across the stage. Occasionally there was nudity, which was sure to put him off his feed. He would try to catch an inconspicuous nap during the leaping and honking, wake up enough to enjoy a nice steak at Adams, and by 11:30 they would be home. Mrs. Benedict-Fatherday would retire to her bedroom and he could finally settle in his den with a cream soda and whatever was on ESPN. “I’m afraid things have come to a bit of a head, sir.” Fatherday took off the reading glasses and tapped the report with them. “How long is this report?” “I’m not sure, sir. Two-hundred-forty pages maybe.” “Well, Hank, I’m a fast reader, but suppose you just summarize for me and we’ll take it from there?” “Summarize?” “We both know there might be a good paragraph’s worth on information in most two-hundred-forty page reports. Just give me that paragraph.” “Yes sir. Well, sir,” Hank began. “You may be familiar with the stories some of the older, uh, veteran folks around here tell about the Alphabet Agencies.” Sure, Fatherday had heard the tales. Supposedly, J. Edgar Hoover had created a number of tiny entities, answerable only to him to an even greater degree than the FBI. Also supposedly he had used those quasi-agencies to further his political agenda without the mess of official paperwork trails or interfering Congressional subcommittees. According to some old-timers, there definitely had been such Hoover playthings; according to others it was all, or at least mostly, apocryphal. In any case, why was Hank Berringer plopping a report on his desk on his anniversary evening? Fatherday’s expression said as much. “We all thought it was just one of those stories, sir,” Hank said. “But it seems that they really did exist and that one of those agencies has survived, sort of, just getting their funding and being left alone. But for some reason, about three years ago, it was, well, active.” 113

“How do you mean, ‘active’?” “Well, sir, it appears that the front man at the time for the Department of G, at least we think that’s what it started out as, it could possibly have been L or B, but we’re pretty sure it was G, decided to try to infiltrate a minor Chicago mob headed by a fellow by the name of Scratcher DiMaritano.” “Scratcher?” “A nickname, sir. Given name Sidney.” “Go ahead.” “Thank you, sir. It seems this Mr. DiMaritano was serving as a conduit, as it were, for a large number of illegal union political donations to the Democratic Party. Apparently, the head of the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative—” “The what?” “The Associated Advisory Board Cooperative, sir. AABC for short. It was formed as a subsidiary of the Department of G, solely for the purpose of increasing cashflow. It was supposed to be dormant, like the rest of the organization. Just collecting funds and doing nothing. But the man they put in charge decided to use it for his own purposes.” “Messing about with our Mr. Scratcher.” “Precisely, sir.” “Why?” “Well, we’re not sure. But the most likely reason seems to be that he took exception to the illegally collected campaign funds being exclusively directed to Democrats. Stock market motives may have played a part.” “Way past your paragraph, Hank.” “I’m trying sir.” “I know you are. Now, without being any more trying, tell me why I should be interested in this ramble.” Fatherday looked pointedly at his Casio watch. Last anniversary Mrs. Benedict-Fatherday had given him a Rolex he couldn’t stand. Too much flash and glitter. A man didn’t need a fancy piece of jewelry to tell time. Nevertheless, he knew it would be wise to swap watches before the concert. “What is the point?” “The point. Yes sir. Well, this front man for the AABC recruited three jazz musicians to infiltrate Mr. DiMaritano’s operation through his night club, a place called the Diminished Seventh I believe. But before they could do much one of them was killed and the operation went south.” Fatherday nodded. Hank took the nod as a go-ahead. “We think we have a pretty good line on the top man, and we definitely 114

have identified the front person who started the Chicago operation. As a matter of fact we’ve been following his activities and monitoring his conversations. It seems he took information with him when he left the Department of G that, in addition to exposing any higher-ups involved, also provides a great deal of detail on matters of a more historical nature. Matters I’m sure you would agree the intelligence community would rather not be made public.” “Do we know if this person has any intention of releasing this information to the general public?” “No sir, apparently he does not.” “Then what is the immediate problem?” “Well, sir, it appears that his intentions are to sell the information to the North Koreans. From what we can tell, he wants to exchange it for permission to establish a business in their country.” “A business?” “Yes sir. A chain of appliance stores. The type where you pay a monthly, or, I guess, sometimes a weekly rent, with a portion of each payment going toward the purchase price.“ “You want me to miss my anniversary dinner because somebody has information he thinks can help him establish a rent-to-own store in Pyongyang?” “Well, sir, it’s the nature of the information. If you’ll recall, we were discussing the Alphabet Agencies?” “Hank.” Fatherday looked significantly at the school clock again. “Yes sir. I’m sorry. Apparently, as I said, the Alphabet Agencies did really exist and they did have a mission and from what we can tell, they did fulfill that mission.” “And that’s what this sensitive information is about?” “Yes sir. It could be construed from this information that the Alphabets had a material impact on the results of the 1952 election. Specifically as regards the Presidential contest.” Fatherday was a man learned in the political history of his country, but it did take him a moment to recall the particulars of the Presidential campaign of 1952. He raised an eyebrow at Berringer. “Eisenhower and Stevenson? Hank, that was as lopsided an election as could be.” “Yes sir, I know. Although Stevenson did carry even fewer states in ‘56 and the Goldwater-Miller ticket got fewer electoral votes in ‘64. But, nevertheless, I think you would agree, sir, that if it became known that there had been wideranging interference in the political system by a group of renegade agencies 115

answering to a highly placed person within the government. Well, if this type of information got into the hands of the Koreans, they could make things very uncomfortable for us.” “Who is this fellow with the rent to own dreams?” “He went by the name of Nicholas Gatting, sir.” “Went? What has he changed his name to now?” “Nothing, sir. He’s dead.” “That’s too bad for him. So are you telling me that Nicholas Gatting was not his real name?” “Yes sir. During his time with the Bureau his employee file had him listed at Norbert Gross.” “He worked for us?” “Unfortunately, yes sir.” “Where is he? This dead Gatting/Gross?” “Brisbane.” “Australia?” “Yes sir.” “Hank, it seems to me that all you need to do is locate where he kept this information and bring it home.” “Well, sir, we had a operation in progress to relieve him of the information and minimize any appearance of actual U.S. involvement, and…” He paused, considering the best way to put it. “And you subcontracted an amateur and the job got screwed up.” Berringer thought for a moment to see if there was a less harsh way to characterize what had transpired. He couldn’t think of any. “Yes sir.” “So, somebody in this Gatting’s organization still has the information.” “Well, no sir.” “The Koreans have it.” “No sir.” “Dammit, Hank, I’m not going to play twenty questions with you on the way to divorce court! Who has got this information?” “It’s in Arizona, sir. At this moment it is in the possession of a Mr. and Mrs. Davis Tracey of Gilbert.” “And how do they fit into all this? Who are they working for?” “Nobody, sir. They own a restaurant called Fuud. That’s with two “u”s, no “o”s, and one “d”. They found the information while they were on vacation. In Australia.” 116

“And have they been in contact with us? What do they want for this Pandora’s box?” “As far as we can tell, they don’t know they have it. But there are others who are pursuing it and we would like to get to it first.” “Of course. And just how many others are there?” “At latest count?” “Yes, Hank, at latest count.” Hank got the players mentally in order before reciting. “There are the two surviving musicians hired by the Department of G—through their front of the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative. The drummer was the one who got killed. With a crossbow, so we think his killer may this the same one who killed Gatting.” “A crossbow?” “Yes sir. They use bolts. Kind of like arrows. I saw pictures. Not pretty.” “I imagine not. Who else is in this parade?” “Well, the mother and aunt of the operative we hired in Brisbane, and of course the crossbow killer, who at first we thought was working for Gatting, but who really turns out to be in the employ of somebody known only by the punctuation symbol called ampersand.” “Ampersand?” “Yes sir, ampersand. But not the word, just the symbol. My theory is that the Department of G has morphed its identity into more of a punctuational sort of thing, rather than letters of the alphabet. Ampersand is the symbol that means and. It looks like a fishhook with a diagonal line through it.” “I know what an ampersand is, Hank.” “Yes sir. There are indications that he, or she, or they, we’re not sure which, may be becoming personally involved tonight. Plus there are the staff members of the AABC.” “Quite a little group.” “Well sir, yes. We have all of these unpredictable individuals converging in one place to remove a small object from a couple of citizens who have no idea what they have, and frankly, we’re not sure what to do.” “And you want to shift the accountability a little higher.” Fatherday indicated the unopened report on the desk. That was it precisely. On United States soil, involving United States citizens, with a situation that could, ultimately, be very unwieldy all around. Nobody wanted to take responsibility. “You want me to tell you what to do.” 117

“We believe the situation warrants your input, sir.” “All right, Hank, this is what we are going to do.” Fatherday stood up and went across the office to his coat rack. He put on the suit jacket he had shed earlier in the day and the Irish tweed driving cap he wore while driving his armored Lincoln. He plucked the report from the desktop and tucked it under his arm. “You take care of things at this end. I’ll coordinate the Arizona operation.” “Sir?” “Call the folks at Bolling and tell them I want a plane ready to go to Phoenix within the hour.” “Yes sir.” “Then I want you to see about this Ampersand fellow. Drop by his Associated Whatever and shut it down.” “Yes sir.” Fatherday paused at the door. He straightened his cap. “But first, call Mrs. Benedict-Fatherday and tell her I will not be able to make our anniversary date.” “Sir?” “Call my wife and—” “But, sir!” “Hank,” said Fatherday. “If you want me to take care of this mess for you, I think it only fair you deal with the domestic fallout.” Hank didn’t think it was fair at all. “What should I tell Mrs. Benedict-Fatherday?” “The truth. A matter of urgent national security requires my personal input.” “Wouldn’t you like to tell her yourself, sir? It being your anniversary and all?” “No. No I would not.” Fatherday held up the report as he stepped through the door. “Too much reading to do. I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

25 Across the street from the Traceys’ 118

Ted and Jerry looked at the fire truck parked next to 1491 Sea Spray. A fireman was standing next to the truck, talking into a walkie-talkie. “Whaddya want to do?” asked Jerry. “We wait until they leave, and then we go get the boomerang.” As far as Ted was concerned, the sooner this whole episode was over the better. Whatever was going on next door didn't seem to be that big a deal; there weren't any flames leaping out of windows, no frenzied rushing about of firefighters in heavy gear. Probably rescuing a cat in a tree. “Here comes another one,” said Jerry, nodding at the rear view mirror. A paramedic van pulled up and parked behind the fire truck. He gave another nod to the mirror. “Must be a slow day.” Ted turned and saw a police car, then another, make the turn onto Sea Spray. One cruiser pulled in behind the Suburban, the other angled in front of them. “Isn't this just peachy.” “Put on your best smile for The Man,” Jerry said from the corner of his mouth. “Oops, scratch the Man part.” A humorless face, half hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses, appeared at the back edge of the driver's window. A faint trace of natural color lipstick and a lack of facial hair indicated they were being accosted by a female member of the Gilbert Police Force. She motioned for Jerry to lower his window. “I don't believe this,” Ted muttered. “Hey, officer, how's it going?” Jerry put a smile on his face and into his voice. “You live here?” the cop asked, indicating the house they were parked in front of. Jerry looked at the house, pointed at it, turned back to the cop and said, “This house?” “That house.” “Nope,” Jerry said, shaking his head. “Just visiting. Nobody at home though. We were just leaving when the fire truck pulled up. Thought we'd stick around and find out what's all the excitement.” “You'd better move,” said the cop. “Clear the street for emergency vehicles.” “You got it.” “Have a nice day, now,” said the cop. She turned and strolled over to the other police car. She said something to the cop in that car, stepped away and 119

the cruiser pulled away from in front of the Suburban. “Hate to say it, Ted,” said Jerry, as they headed out of the subdivision. “But it might be better if we hold off for a day or so before we make our move.” “Hold off for a day? I am not spending another day in this blast-oven you call a city,” said Ted. “The cops and fire trucks can’t stay around forever. We’re getting that boomerang and getting our money and I’m going back to rescue Sarah.” His manner was, if not positively frantic, at least undeniably insistent. “All right-already,” said Jerry. “Listen. The ABCB guy said that the Traceys usually don’t get home from their restaurant until at least midnight, sometimes later. We’ve got plenty of time to take care of things. Besides, it would probably be better if we waited until after dark, don’t you think?” Ted digested this bit of reasonable reasoning from a source he regarded as generally deficient in all areas of deliberation and grudgingly found no fault. “And in the meantime?” he said. “In the meantime, we eat!”

26 The Burger Works Restaurant Chandler, Arizona Doreen swung the LeBaron into the parking lot of the Burger Works, having been referred to the place by a flyer sitting on top of the television set in their room at the El Chilito Motor Lodge. After they checked in and she deposited Amelia in a cool, if chipped and stained, bathtub, she had realized she was very hungry. She stomped inside and got at the back of the line of half-a-dozen individuals waiting for the attentions of the lone front-counter employee. A small child clutching an enormous basket of french fries appeared at her side. When the line shortened and Doreen took a step closer to the counter, the child adjusted to match. Doreen tried harsh looks, aggressive gestures, and explicit verbal commands to rid herself of the unwanted attention. All to no avail. 120

When it was finally Doreen’s turn to choose from amongst the offerings listed above the front-counter person's head she opted for two Number Five Combo Values, and no, she did not want the drinks and fries bumped up in size to "The Works" for only ninety-nine cents extra. Within thirty seconds a couple of warm, bulging paper bags were handed across the counter to her and she was half heartedly instructed to have a nice day. She turned to shoo off the hovering child, maybe give it a swift kick in the shins for good measure and found it had drifted to a gathering of several children and one woman in the far corner of the room. As Doreen pulled the LeBaron out of the parking space, she nearly ran into a large, red SUV just pulling into the lot. She honked her horn and stared daggers at the occupants of the offending vehicle. The driver was a weaselly looking little greaseball and the passenger had an expression of angry melancholy that to Doreen’s mind labeled him a likely mental patient. She flipped the Suburban the bird as it pulled into a space near the back of the lot and then sped back to the El Chilito.

27 The Burger Works “I’ve got a friend who works here,” said Jerry as he pulled into the Burger Works parking lot. “Always good for some free eats.” A car began to pull out of its parking spot, nearly bashing into the side of the Suburban. “Whoa!” said Jerry. “Somebody’s in a hurry.” “Fine, whatever,” Ted said. Any place called Burger Works was not exactly on Ted’s top list of places to dine, but he was hungry. It had been a long time since last night’s home cooked meal of a three day old bagel and five day old banana. As Ted stepped from the chilled air of the Suburban to the blast furnace of the parking lot and then to the refrigerator like air inside the second of the airlock doors to the fast food establishment he wondered just how all these sudden shifts in temperature played on a person’s nervous system. How many 121

thermal shocks did the average Phoenix resident suffer during the course of a single summer day? Wasn’t it inevitable that such inescapably frequent and sudden hot-cold-hot-cold transitions would result in grave and irreversible consequences to a person’s health and psyche? What a stupid place to put a city. Jerry disappeared as soon as they entered, leaving Ted to either stand uncomfortably or try to wedge himself on to one of the dark-purple plastic chairs welded in a fixed position too close to its light-purple plastic table. His knee was bothering him so he chose to wedge and sit. The cracking and popping of his joints seemed to attract the attention of a small child who wandered over from a nearby gathering of several boisterous youngsters and one frazzled looking woman. The girl—Ted surmised its sex on what little available evidence of manner or attire presented itself—had an enormous container of french fries clutched to her chest with one hand. From this motherlode of starch and palm oil, the other hand plucked, with machinelike efficiency, french fry after french fry, feeding them into the child's mouth which, with a similarly mechanized regularity, accepted, chewed, and swallowed. The child stared at Ted as she ate, much like a moviegoer shoveling in popcorn while being held enthralled by the goings-on up on the silver screen. Ted tried to ignore the child, but she remained. He tried to bore the child by sitting absolutely still, consciously providing no entertainment value in the hope that the urchin would move on to a livelier section of the bistro. She found his lack of movement diverting and worthy of scrutiny. He tried a stern look with no result. He summoned up the expression he had used with great success on members of opposing teams after applying a hard foul to prevent a lay-up or slam-dunk, effectively communicating the folly of any retaliatory thoughts the foulee might be entertaining. The child met his menacing glare with a calm, unblinking gaze and thoughtful chew. Ted tried to shoo the child away, but it seemed not to recognize the significance of his gestures and continued with its munching and staring. He tried to get the attention of the frazzled woman, to see if she would gather the lost lamb back to the fold, but she was engaged with those who had not strayed and their experiments with the cosmetic properties of condiments. Little assistance would be coming from that corner. “No luck,” said Jerry, plopping down opposite. “Who’s the squirt?” “How should I know? What do you mean, ‘no luck’? Where’s my food?” “Sheila’s not working now. Had to switch a shift with somebody else. Hey, 122

kid, those for me?” Jerry reached a hand toward the bucket of fries, but the child took a lively step to the back and side and went in search of other amusements. Ted chastised himself silently for not thinking of that particularly effective strategy. “Anyway, we’ll need to come back later.” “Later? I’m hungry now.” “Me too, buddy, me too. But until Sheila clocks in we’re out of luck. Have to catch her later. Would have had to rush it anyway, I almost forgot I’ve got a rehearsal this evening.” “A rehearsal?” “Yeah.” Jerry looked a little defensive. “Nothing special, just a little gig I latched on to couple months ago. It'll only take an hour or so, but I gotta be there in fifteen minutes.” “What kind of a rehearsal starts at six on a Friday night and only lasts until seven?” “You'll find out." Jerry was halfway to the door. "C'mon, I don't want to be late.” The elderly woman at the table near the window and silently leaning over her deep fried fish sandwich looked at the little child with the huge bucket of french fries standing by her table. “My, aren’t you a pretty girl,” said the old woman. The child nodded in agreement and munched a fry.

28 The bedroom of Phillips Steve The telephone next to Phillip Steve’s bed rang at 8:02 Friday night. He was already in bed, but far from asleep. This business of the boomerang retrieval was weighing on his mind. The whole thing was fishy. That much and only that much was clear to him. The rest, the reason or reasons why it was fishy, was murky as hell. After a dinner of microwaved frozen stuffed pasta shells in marinara sauce, salad from a bag, and decaf iced tea from a can, he had brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas, and crawled into bed, where he lay wide 123

awake and tried to sort things out. Then the phone rang. “Hello?” The person on the other end spoke in a hushed, urgent tone. “You've got to come down here.” “Mrs. Kinsbury?” Steve sat up. Mrs. Kinsbury never called him at home. She never had any contact with him outside of the office. Hell, even there she hardly ever spoke to him. What's the matter?” he said. “Mrs. Kinsbury, are you all right?” “You have to come down here, Phillips. Now!” The phone went dead. Phillips? Not “Sir”, with its various uncomplimentary connotations? His first name. Something was up. Something that made her call him at home. Something that had put what could only be described as a note of fear in her voice. Something that had made her call him Phillips. Eighteen minutes later he was leaning over Mrs. Kinsbury's shoulder as she sat in front of her computer in the outer office of the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative. Both their faces were bathed in the glow from the monitor, the only light in the room. She tapped a few keys, clicked twice with the mouse, and, as a screen dense with text appeared, she leaned back slightly, bringing her cheek to cheek with him as he read a document that filled the screen in single-spaced, small font print. He reached over and scrolled to the end of the document, which ended just a couple of lines past the initial screen. Then Mrs. Kinsbury took the mouse back and scrolled past several inches of blank screen. As the little gray square on the right side of the screen bottomed out against the downward pointing arrow, there came into view on the bottom of the screen, in ten point Ariel font: & “Holy mother of–“ Phillips Steve touched the cursor button to begin scrolling back up to the top of the text. “Does it mean what I think it means?” asked Mrs. Kinsbury. He took a moment before answering. He wanted to make sure his interpretation was correct. There was much misleading verbiage, but, as far as he could tell, that was the extent of the obfuscation. It was a crude, out dated form of code. If there had been one thing Steve had been good at in his former 124

life as a real agent, it had been deciphering crude, outdated codes. He read through once more, hoping his first reading had been mistaken. It hadn’t. According to the text on Mrs. Kinsbury’s monitor, the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative was being downsized to zero and the severance package was not pretty. “How did you find this?” he asked. “Mrs. Kinsbury, how did you find this?” “It's bad, isn't it?” “It’s not good. How long have you been here? What were you doing when you found this?” “Just a minute before I called you. I switched on the computer and there it was.” “There it was? It just popped up on the screen?” “Not exactly. When I tried to use my password it said `Access Denied'. I tried again and got the same thing.” “What were you doing here after hours?” Mrs. Kinsbury hesitated before replying. “I needed a copy of a little something I've been working on,” she said, adding, with emphasis, “on my breaks and lunch time. I wanted to work on it at home.” Phillips Steve smiled as the revelation about her secret life as a romance novelist came back to him. “I always wondered what it was you did all day.” “My breaks and lunch times,” she repeated. “OK, your own time. So you needed your file and came back to get it.” “That's right.” “And the computer wouldn't let you in.” “Not with my passcode.” “So how did you get this?” He pointed at the screen. “I typed in your passcode. This is what came up.” “My passcode?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Kinsbury. “Your passcode.” “Wait a minute. How did you get my passcode? Do I have a passcode?” It was news to him. “I assume it’s your passcode,” she said. “The last time your computer was changed out there was a scrap of paper on the floor with this on it.” She jotted down “deptg-code&steve” on a notepad. Isn’t that your passcode?” “Must be.” Steve wondered what marvels he could have accessed over the past threeplus years if he had known he had a passcode. “And then this,“ he nodded at the screen. “This just popped up?” 125

“Yes,” said Mrs. Kinsbury, a bit of the old impatience creeping back into her voice at the redundant course the conversation was taking. “And I read it and called you and now you have read it and from what I can tell from your reaction it is at least as bad as I thought. Now, the question is, what are we going to do about it?” It had been quite some time since Phillips Steve had really done anything about anything, much less anything so pressing as saving his own life along with the lives of who knew how many other individuals. Although his work prior to the AABC had put him in many uncomfortable situations, seldom had he been involved in any really significant amount of personal danger. He had never been one of the glory boys of the intelligence world, one of those crazies who thrived on hopeless, suicidal situations and who, years of training and experience notwithstanding, almost inevitably get their butts blown off anyway. “Well?” said Mrs. Kinsbury. “I’m not really sure, Mrs. Kinsbury. But…” He spun her chair around, placed his hands on the armrests and looked in her eyes. They looked as scared as he felt. “…I am pretty damned sure we should do our deciding some place other than this office.” They were at the door when they heard a slight scraping sound. They paused, listening. “What’s that?” whispered Mrs. Kinsbury. Steve held up a hand for silence. All he heard were the ever present noise of traffic and city life that city dwellers only really hear when listening for some other sound. He slowly opened the door and was inspecting the area just outside when there came a thump from behind the door to his inner office. He grabbed Mrs. Kinsbury by the wrist and sprinted away around the corner of the building. A moment later a figure, dressed from head to toe in black, hood and gloves included, stepped out the door of the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative then quickly stepped back in. Then the same, or at least identically attired, figure stepped back out and headed to the left in a quick trot. He was followed by another figure in black who headed to the right, also moving quickly. Inside the office, another figure in black tapped at the keyboard of Mrs. Kinsbury's computer. A video of Phillips Steve and Mrs. Kinsbury, their faces bathed in the glow of monitor light, appeared on the screen. Operative Sid, which shall be our purely arbitrarily assigned name for the otherwise dark and nameless menace at the computer, played the video documenting the recent 126

conversation between the two AABC staff members over and over, pausing and backtracking frequently. Five minutes later he was joined by Operative Lou, the one who had taken the path to the left. “Well?” said Sid. “Gone,” said Lou. The same was reported seconds later by Operative Bud. As expected, both Steve’s and Mrs. Kinsbury's cars were still in the parking garage. Both had been expertly disabled by Sid. “What did they say?” asked Bud. “Not much,” answered Sid. “Where are they going?” asked Lou. “Didn't say,” said Sid. He played the video once more, for the benefit of Lou and Bud. “We had better tell him,” said Lou. “Not going to be happy,” said Bud. “Wasn't our fault,” said Sid, not sounding too confident in his assertion. “That basketball thing was right on top of the trap door.” Lou and Bud nodded in hopeful agreement. The computer screen suddenly went a blank, glaring white. In the center appeared a single word question, followed by a symbol. WELL? & Bud looked at Lou, who looked at Sid, who made a face at the screen, but nobody noticed it on account of his mask. “Hey there fellas, looks like a Halloween party,” said Agent Killkannon, standing in front of the desk. He, along with Agents Reid, Everett, and Caswell, had been sent by Assistant Deputy Director Hank Berringer to shut down the AABC. “Shit,” said Sid.

29 A church parking lot 127

In something under ten minutes from The Burger Works, Jerry pulled the Suburban into a parking lot that, according to the low profile sign at the entrance, belonged to the Grace United Methodist Church of Mesa. There were a half-a-dozen or so other cars in the lot. “Here we are,” said Jerry. He turned to Ted after the Suburban was parked and silenced. He assumed an almost parental air of instruction. “You can come in and watch if you want, but you gotta behave yourself.” “I don’t understand,” said Ted. Why are we stopping at a church?” “This is my gig,” Jerry said. “Your gig?” “That’s right,” said Jerry. “My gig, if you don’t mind.” “I do mind,” said Ted. “I do not do churches.” “Waddya mean, you don’t do churches?” “A thinking person does not need the drivel poured from the pulpit. I’m not interested in some sanctimonious clown in a robe to tell me how to run my life.” “So who has been telling you how to run your life?” “I make my own decisions, thank you very much.” “And you’re homeless and you lost your guitar. Seems to me you could use some help.” “You steal cars and…” for a moment Ted was stumped for his “and”, but having put it out there felt obliged to fill in the hovering blank. “…and you are a moron.” Not exactly crushing, but it would have to do. “Whatever,” said Jerry. “I’ve got a rehearsal to run. You do what you want.” Other cars were pulling into the parking lot. Most were just pulling up to the buildings, disgorging riders and leaving, but a couple of them took parking spaces. Jerry hopped out of the Suburban. The sun was nearing the horizon, but the heat had not noticeably diminished. The clouds in the south and east, the ones Ted had observed earlier hovering on the fringes of the sky, loomed closer and taller, towering over them, a hint of red and orange playing around the edges of the blinding white and lowering gray. The air was thick, hot, and still. Ted opened the door and called to Jerry. “Hey! At least leave the engine running so I can used the air-conditioning.” He was ignored. Jerry waved at four teenage girls who had just emerged from a recent model Volvo. The girls were singing, in reasonably close harmony, what Ted supposed was a popular song of the day. One of them, a 128

diminutive redhead in an outfit that could have come from the closet of Darla Lee, Ted's former co-worker, waved back. “Hi, Mr. Kwiatkowski!” “Evening, Jordan. You ladies are sounding good this evening.” The girls giggled. Jerry waved them ahead toward the double doors into the sanctuary. Ted closed the door and sat in the Suburban, hoping that the effects of the air-conditioning would hold for at least a while. But within two minutes he was wiping sweat off his brow and searching for something to use as a fan. He tried to open a window, but as is the case with power windows, when the ignition is not engaged they refuse to cooperate. He opened the door, hoping for a breeze. There was none. The air was still and heavy and very, very hot. He weighed his antipathy for organized religion against his discomfort and the discomfort won. He got out and headed for the sanctuary. Another car pulled into the parking lot. A girl of perhaps sixteen, thin, with straight, shoulder-length brown hair, and the look of one who prefers to move through the world quietly and elegantly but isn’t as yet quite sure how that is best accomplished, emerged from the front. From the back bounded a boy, perhaps three or four years her junior, clutching a battered guitar case which was plastered with dozens of iridescent stickers. The two scooted past Ted and through the door. Ted heard the sounds of talking and laughing mixed with the strains of “Heart and Soul” being thumped out on a piano as he followed the youngsters through the door and into the blessed air-conditioned atmosphere. The gathering inside the church was a lively one. Around three-dozen teenagers were talking, laughing, flirting, beating out rhythms on the backs of pews, concentrating intently on handheld electronic games, and otherwise reveling in or carefully avoiding social interaction. Two girls, seated side by side at an upright piano, were responsible for the loud, very untender version of Hoagy Carmicheal’s oft-mutilated classic. The young fellow with the guitar was plugging into a small amplifier next to the piano. The guitar, from what Ted could tell from the back row pew where he took a seat, was an old Gretsch. It had double humbucking pickups, a Bixby tremolo bar, and some fancy fretboard inlays. The color of the body of the guitar was cherry red, but little of it showed, as most of the instrument was covered with stickers and faceted plastic “jewels”, the effect being much like that of a sixties-era VW microbus from the Haight Asbury district. Not, in Ted’s opinion, a proper way to treat a guitar of some value. The amplifier 129

looked to be an old Fender Champ, small but capable. The boy placed the guitar across a couple of chairs and took a seat in the back row of the choir platform. Jerry clapped his hands twice, reducing the cacophony by perhaps half. “C'mon, people, time to get down to business.” There was a further, but by no means complete, reduction in chatter. “Heart and Soul” changed to “Chopsticks”. Jerry stepped to the console organ, which was just to the side of the piano and in front of a three-tiered choir platform stage left of the pulpit. He switched it on, made a couple of stop changes, and started playing. It was a song Ted recognized from a recording by Mississippi John Hurt he had heard several times over the PA at The Literary Lighthouse. The title, as far as Ted could remember, was “Here am I, Lord” and Jerry was giving it much more of a swing feel than the old blues master. Within eight bars the teenagers had taken their places on the choir stage and were singing and clapping along. For the next half-hour, Jerry held the attention of thirty-eight teenage Methodists and one large, middle-aged agnostic. After “Here am I, Lord”, Jerry guided the choir through two other pieces and Ted had to admit to himself that the kids sounded better than passable. “That’s good,” said Jerry. “Now I want to try something new. Everybody knows the Doxology, right?” Of course they knew the Doxology. What was new about it? One of the girls offered the opinion that she had sung that particular song about a trillion times, she guessed. Besides, didn't the congregation usually sing it, not just the choir? Jerry agreed that it was familiar beyond words, but that this Sunday the congregation was getting a wake up call during Offertory as the choir was going to be singing it as the plates were being passed and they were going to do it as a fugue. This raised a general giggle and titter. “You sure that’s legal?” joked one large boy sporting a thatch roof hair style and a pair of pants that had drifted south of his waist by a good six inches, exposing a pair of red and blue thrown box pattern boxer shorts. “We’re minors, you know.” “Carl,” said Jerry, for that was the thatch-coiffed teen’s name, “there might be a few people who don't know what a fugue is. How about you fill them in?” Carl attempted a clever reply which fell flat and resulted in his peers calling for him to behave himself, at least until he had stronger material. A tenor in the back row instructed Carl to “Shut the fugue up.”, which was met with nearly 130

universal approval. The phrase was repeated by both its author and his neighbors until it ran out of steam. “Funny,” said Jerry. “Not to mention original.” He waited for quiet. “A fugue, loosely speaking, is another name for a round. Each of the voices, bass, tenor, alto, and soprano, are going to take a part, so we're going to have us a four-part round, or fugue, and we're going to swing it.” “We're supposed to swing the Doxology?” said a soprano. "Swing it `til it can't see straight,” said Jerry. And we’re going to do it a capella.” “Carl better sit this one out then,” said a girl in the alto section. This raised a wave of giggles and guffaws. “Okay, okay,” Jerry said. “Let’s take it a step at a time. First time through let’s just do it the same old, same old.” He led them through the song once as they had always sung it, with familiar organ accompaniment. Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Praise him all creatures here below. Praise God above ye heavenly host. Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost. “Okay,” said Jerry. “Now let’s try it without the organ.” They sang it again. “Nice, but boring,” Jerry said. “Time to give it a little life. Pick up on this.” He played the Doxology through again on the organ, this time giving emphasis to the off-beats, the two and the four. “That's our groove,” he said. “Now, we're gonna start with the basses, and guys, let’s give a little effort in the pitch department.” Hoots from the tenors. “Cause the tenors follow you and ain't no way they can hit their note without some help.” The basses had their turn, gleefully aided by the altos and sopranos. Even—or perhaps especially—in church, tenors hoe a pretty lonesome row. Jerry continued. “Ok, basses, here's your pitch.” He touched a key, playing it softly and holding it until the chatter subsided. “Now watch me for your entrance. Gonna give you three beats and you're in. When you get to `heavenly host', I want you to stop, wait for my cue and then hit the last phrase as another round one time around. When the sopranos finish that one then everybody in unison on a repeat of that phrase. Got it?” There was some stumbling on the first time through. Second time was 131

better. By the third time, the choir was rocking. “Tasty, very tasty,” Jerry said, after he joined them in a self congratulatory round of applause. “Now, some new business. Korie and Paul have been working on something. Ready to bring it to the public, Kor?” The thin, quiet girl and the boy belonging to the Gretsch moved down front. The boy picked up the guitar, tossed the strap over his shoulder, reached back and flipped on the amplifier. A howl of feedback pierced the air. Noises of approval from the basses and tenors encouraged him to sustain and embroider the effect by holding the instrument closer to the amplifier and turning up the volume. Korie gave him a whack on the head and said something Ted couldn’t hear above the howl. Paul said something back, also drowned out by the noise, but turned down the volume and moved away from the amplifier. The feedback ceased. “Can't I do this with piano?” Korie pleaded to Jerry. Jerry shook his head. “Pastor Lloyd really wants to work a guitar into the music program and Paul is our man in the six string department, aren’t you, Paul?” The boy shrugged. “All right,” said Jerry. “Let’s have a listen.” Paul tapped off three beats with his foot and launched into a short, strummed chord introduction. Korie began singing “Morning Has Broken” in a sweet, if slightly breathy, voice. But by four or five bars in it had become clear that the two had diverged rhythmically. Korie stopped singing and rolled her eyes. “You're doing it again!” “What?” said Paul. “It's not my fault. Keep up.” “Try again,” said Jerry. Paul once again began strumming. Once again Korie joined in and once again, within a few bars, it sounded as if one of them had decided to change repertoire without consulting the other. “See?” Korie said. Paul stuck out his tongue at her. She sat down, folded her arms, and accepted, with the grace of one who has stoically resigned herself to the role of artistic martyr, the consolation offered by her fellow sopranos. “No biggie,” said Jerry. He turned to Paul. “Let’s see what we can do about this time signature thing.” Jerry tried tapping the beat, clapping the beat, thumping the beat on the organ. Paul assumed a look of concentration, bent over the strings, and tried. But each time, sooner or later the nine-four became four-four. Jerry scratched his head, not sure what to do. 132

A voice rumbled from the back of the sanctuary. “Maybe I can help.” All eyes turned toward Ted. Not that he had gone unnoticed during the previous forty-five minutes. There had been much whispered speculation regarding the very large, very bald, grumpy looking man in the back pew, but after the rehearsal had gotten into full gear, he had taken a subordinate position in their collective consciousness. As Ted lifted himself from his pew and approached, Jerry gave himself a palm slap on the forehead. “What's the matter with me? Kiddoes, this is my really good friend, Ted.” Ted marveled at the ease with which such a patent falsehood rolled off the choir director's tongue. “And he just happens to be one fine guitar man.” Ted acknowledged the few muted Hi's from the choir with a nod. He stopped in front of Paul, who did not seem at all pleased to be the object of the big man's attention. “May I?” Ted asked, indicating the Gretsch. Paul looked loath to hand over the guitar, but thought better of denying the unknown enormity. “Yeah, well just be careful with it,” he said as he handed the guitar up to Ted. Ted turned the garishly ornamented instrument over in his hands, as if cataloging the insults it had suffered. The guitar was not only plastered with stickers, but there were several plastic jewel-like abominations stuck on it. He sat on the piano bench and ran a couple of scales up the neck and back down. He adjusted the tuners on a couple of the strings, strummed a slow blues chord progression, gave a slight twist to another couple tuners, and ran a two octave scale. A slow smile came to his face. Admiring noises rose from the choir. Paul sulked. “Nice neck,” Ted said, to nobody in particular. “Way overdue for new strings.” Then, to Paul. “I'm going to show you a simple strumming pattern you can use for a nine beat signature.” Paul granted him grudging attention. “Just treat each measure as three three-beat bars and make your changes after whatever multiple of three is indicated. Like this.” Ted played through a verse of the song, strumming a simple pattern and using basic, first position chords. He handed the guitar back to Paul. “Give it a try.” Paul tried again, this time making it a bit further before falling into his old trap. “I can’t do it,” the boy said. 133

“Yes you can,”said Ted. He assumed an air guitar pose. “Watch me and just follow along.” Paul tried to follow along with what Ted did but once again got lost. He thrust the guitar back at Ted. “You do it!” “What we really need is two guitars so you can follow along with me,” said Ted. Nevertheless, he did not look unhappy about accepting the Gretsch. If one can not hold one's own love, there is a certain sad consolation in embracing a stranger. “Okay,” said Ted. “Let’s try this. Just close your eyes and listen. Get the feel of the rhythm. You can do this.” Once more, Ted began to play. But this time, instead of stopping at the end of the first verse, he continued. As he repeated the chord pattern, a sweet voice rose from the first row of the choir. Ted's basic instructional strum gave way to a progressively more intricate fingerpicking accompaniment, weaving its way around the melody. Korie seemed to draw inspiration from her newfound musical partner and her voice filled the sanctuary with a lyrical, delicate strength that, in turn, lifted Ted's playing to an even higher level. As if preplanned, Ted took a sixteen bar cadenza before Korie came back in for a glorious final verse. The choir exploded in approval. Korie, who had moved to stand beside Ted midway through the second verse, acknowledged the praise with a bow and a wide grin. Ted held the Gretsch rather apologetically out to Paul. “Sorry, kid,” he said. “I guess I got a little carried away.” Paul gawked at the guitar. It was a stranger to him now. He had never really considered the possibility that it might be the means to actually making music, not really. Not this hand-me-down from his Uncle Doug, who had started the ornament application in the late sixties while learning the chords to “White Rabbit”. Paul held the guitar at arms length and studied it suspiciously. “She's sweet,” said Ted. “Be nice to her.” “You don’t know my sister very well.” said Paul. He made a face. “I was talking about your guitar,” said Ted. “Although I’m sure your sister has her good qualities too.” Paul rolled his eyes. “That was wonderful!” exulted Korie. “You are going to play Sunday, aren't you? “What? No.” Ted held his hands palms forward and shook his head. “I enjoyed that. You've got a nice voice. But I'm leaving town tonight. Your 134

brother has plenty of time to smooth off the rough edges.” Korie turned to Jerry. “Mr. Kwiatkowski, please make him play for me! We sounded so good! Please!” “I'll work on him,” Jerry said. “But I can't guarantee. I know Ted's kind of anxious to get back home. I don’t think he’s ever been away from his own guitar this long before. Gotta get back to Sarah, eh, man?” Ted looked embarrassed but said nothing. Korie turned back to Ted. For the next couple of minutes she brought to bear all the power of feminine persuasion available to an intelligent and observant—if unpracticed—girl of sixteen. She pleaded eloquently with all the resources propriety and venue would allow and touched the part of Ted that he shared with every male of more or less standard construction. The part that argues against all the dictates of logical thought, even, at its extreme, against self preservation itself, when inspired by the entreaties of a pretty, young female. If she had not had as her rival a mature blonde of eternally shapely figure and lush, enthralling voice, she may very well have prevailed. Ted repeated his polite refusal and retreated to the narthex, which is to a Methodist sanctuary what a lobby is to a theater, minus the wet bar. Jerry tried to rally the choir with another run-through of the Doxology in Swing, but a cloud had descended upon the proceedings and would not lift. He released the group with instructions to report to the choir robing room at 8:15 sharp the next morning. The young people pretended not to notice Ted as they exited through the narthex. He in turn pretended to be deeply involved in a daily devotional guide he had picked up from a rack on the wall as the youngsters filed out. “Uh, I just wanted to say I thought you sounded real good,” he said. Ted looked up from his tract. Paul was standing in front of him, holding his guitar case close. The instrument and player relationship seemed to have taken a turn toward the tender. “You'll get that nine-four, you know,” said Ted. “Just keep at it.” “Yeah.” Paul nodded, glad for the words of confidence if unconvinced by them. He started to move away, but hesitated. “You come here much? You know, to visit Mr. Kwiatkowski?” “Can't say I do.” “Oh.” “Why?” “Oh, nothing. I just...I mean...well I thought maybe if you did, maybe I could, you know, maybe pick up some tips. But that's okay.” 135

Once more Paul made to leave. “Listen, kid.” Paul stopped and turned around. “Next time I'm in town I'll look you up,” said Ted. “Show you some tricks of the trade.” “Yeah, sounds good.” Paul shrugged. He knew when he was being blown off by an adult. “Find out what her name is,” Ted said.” “What? Whose name?” “That red beauty hiding under all those stickers and crap. She’s got a name. You’ll get along better if you find out what it is.” Paul looked skeptical, but nodded. “Yeah, okay.” He followed the last of the young people out the door. A minute later Jerry came out. “Choir director,” Ted muttered, as they exited the building. “And church organist,” Jerry said, nodding, as if he didn't quite comprehend it himself. “And car thief,” Ted said as they approached the Suburban. “Nobody's perfect.” Neither man said anything else as they pulled out of the church parking lot. It was almost 7:30. Jerry switched on the radio to cover the silence. The deejay was giving the weather; the thermometer at Sky Harbor had dropped to 114 degrees.

30 Martha’s Vineyard Bethie Wilson was tearing through her eighteen by twenty-one foot closet in search of the perfect outfit. She knew she still had it, she just had to still have it, because it was just so perfect for the little surprise she had planned for Quinny. He had been in another one of his old man grouchy moods ever since 136

Bethie had gotten out of bed, just after noon. Grouching away in his old dark den, grumbling and swearing over his computer. Well, she knew something that ould take his mind off his current problems. She just needed that outfit. There it was! Jammed in the back corner of one of the built-in drawers that mostly had shoes and old 98 Degrees CDs and those yucky dark gray pearls Quinny had gotten her on their trip to Tahiti. She held up her find and shook it a couple of times to work out the wrinkles. Good enough. Wasn’t going to stay on her long anyway. This piece of apparel had a special significance in Bethie and Quinny’s relationship. She had been wearing it when they met. She had been visiting her best ever friend, Cyndee Stecker, in New York City the summer after Cyndee graduated from Vidalia Community College with an Associates Degree in Fine Performing or something like that. Cyndee had taken all the money she had saved up working at her folks’ Hardee’s franchise and moved to the Big Apple to be a Broadway star. In between auditions she worked at the cartoon store that was right on Times Square, where, Cyndee had assured her, lots of Broadway producers did their own shopping all the time. Later Cyndee had had to go back to Vidalia to take over the family’s Hardee’s franchise after her dad slipped on a puddle of soft serve ice cream her little brother Randee had dribbled on the floor. Poor man had reached out to try and steady himself and instead put his hand smack in the deep-fryer. He went down anyway and hit his head so hard on the floor that to this day he still can’t recognize his wife and kids and keeps asking everybody just how long he left his hand dangling out the car window for it to end up like that. But when Bethie met Quinny Mr. Stecker was still just fine and Cyndee was still in New York. Cyndee was taking a break from her job at the cartoon store to talk to Bethie. They were standing in front of the keychain rack when this really older man came over and started talking to them. It had been kind of creepy at first but Bethie had just figured that was the kind of experience a girl was going to have in a place like New York City and nobody was getting hurt anyway, were they? So she and Cyndee listened to him talk and giggled and made faces at each other when he wasn’t paying attention. Right before the man left he took a business card out of a totally shining gold case and slipped it right into the overall’s pocket that was right between Bethie’s boobs. Well, she had given him a look that said she really thought he had way too much nerve but he just smiled and gave the top of the card a couple of little finger-taps to get it all the way in. He told her she should call 137

him about career opportunities sometime and then he left, joining some older woman, thirty if she was a day, over by the fuzzy character slipper display. It had given Bethie and Cyndee something to scream about for the whole rest of her visit. When she got home she just had to tell all her friends and somehow one of those friends must have told somebody else who must have blabbed to Lorie, Bethie’s sister. Lorie, of course, turned around and told their parents. Bethie’s dad had gone completely ballistic. He said she was never ever going anywhere by herself ever again as long as she lived or even maybe longer. Then he demanded to know who the animal was who had treated his precious daughter with such disrespect. He actually sounded like he wanted to hunt the guy down and shoot him or something. Bethie didn’t want her dad going to jail for shooting some disgusting New York City old guy, so she said she didn’t know the man’s name and she had thrown away the card, anyway, which wasn’t really true. But Lorie found the card and gave it to their dad. He looked at it for a minute and went totally quiet. He dropped the card and sat down. Bethie’s mom picked it up, looked at it and made a little Oh my Lord. She took Bethie back to her parents’ bedroom and sat her down and told her stuff about her dad’s side of the family that she had never, ever known. And that’s when Bethie decided to go to Washington DC., which was the address on the man’s card. She borrowed the plane ticket money from Robby Killian and she went to the nation’s capital. It took her almost two days, but she found the address and just like the man had said he would he gave her a job. Bethie’s daddy tried to find her but he hadn’t thought to write down the address on the card and Washington D.C. can be a baffling place for a man with limited funds and no connections. Six months later the thirtyish woman in the cartoon store was the third-in-arow ex-Mrs. Franklin Quincy Wilson II and a month after that Bethie and Quinny were husband and wife. Bethie sent postcards to her parents whenever she and Quinny traveled, posting them on the last day of their stay in places like Palm Springs and Paris and the Cook Islands. She wanted her mom and dad to know she was okay but didn’t want them to try to find her and take her away, not, at least until she had finished what she came to do. She slipped into the outfit, which was nothing but a pair of overalls, shorts style. The overalls were made of a stout, if faded, blue denim with brass hardware all over the place: brass buttons on the side by the hips, brass loops 138

and buttons on the shoulder straps, and five big brass snaps along the crotch, kind of like the arrangement on those little one piece outfits babies wear that allows their diapers to be changed without removing the entire garment. Five big brass snaps that had been very convenient in the back seat of Robby Killian’s old Ford LTD and five snaps that, at the beginning of her employment at Affiliated Brackets in Washington DC, had simply rotated Quinny’s tires. The overalls were scooped low on both sides, nearly her hips. Normally Bethie would have worn some sort of tube top or long tail T-shirt under it. But this evening the overalls were going solo. Quinny was still hunched over his computer, cursing and jabbing at it when Bethie used the key she had made months ago and opened the door. She almost made it to his side before he noticed she was in the room. He quickly clicked on a corner of the screen and, whatever had been on the monitor, some sort of text, immediately changed to an animated scene of a tough guy in a kind of Air Force—only not really—suit walking back and forth and around and nearly being smacked by a bunch of jets and helicopters and submarines and things. “I’m busy, young lady,” he said, sounding not very pleased at all. “And I’m not going to have any goddam interruptions tonight. Not tonight. Now go away.” “But Quinny, I need help.” Bethie had her best little girl in distress voice on, using it with the confidence of long practice and great success. “It will just take a second.” A trembling note came into her voice. “Please, Quinny.” “I told you, I’m busy.” He turned back to the screen and waited for her to leave. She stood right next to his chair, and bent forward in a show of spousal interest in his work. “What are you working on sweetie?” she asked, aware that Quinny was aware of the view created by her loose cut overalls. “Never mind what I’m working on. But I need to get back to it right now.” She bent further as if in study of the arsenal-laden screensaver. “I just love submarines,” she said, tracing a finger along with the progress of a Los Angeles class attack sub. “I think most young girls love submarines, don’t you?” “I don’t give a good goddam what young girls like or don’t like.” Quinny said, contradicting a personal history indicating that the predilections of young girls were of at least passing interest to him. “Now what did you need this help with and will you leave me alone if I help you?” “I knew you’d be a sweetheart!” Bethie gave him a brief, smothering hug. 139

She spun his chair 90-degrees from the computer station to face the massive writing surface. She hopped up on the desk and placed her heels on the arms of his chair. She indicated the five big brass snaps that kept the crotch of her overalls together. “One of them is stuck,” she said. “I can’t get it undone.” “Oh, for goddam pete sake, Bethie.” Quinny started to push her feet off the chair. She bent down and undid the bottom one on the right leg. This redirected his attentions. “I don’t remember which one it was,” she said, rather ashamed. She tried the corresponding snap on the left. It released easily. “Those two are fine, I guess.” “Bethie, you are wasting my time!” said Quinny’s voice, but his eyes spoke of an interest in her little exercise in process of elimination. “Maybe it’s this one,” she said and tried the next one up, left side. “No, that was easy. I guess it has to be one of these. There, that one is OK. So it must be that one.” She indicated the remaining fastener, the one in the middle. “It’s just one little snap Quinny, but I can’t get it. I tried and I’m not strong enough. I just need some help, Quinny. Please.” She moved her knees in and out in front of his chin and repeated her plaintive cry for assistance. “Please.” “Oh, goddam it all, Bethie. Just stop that wiggling and I’ll see what I can do.” Franklin Quincy Wilson II applied his keyboard strengthened digits to the allegedly problematic snap and released it in a trice. “There,” he said. With a fine show of self-control he lifted Bethie’s feet from the chair. “Now you really must excuse me.” “Yes, Quinny.” Bethie slid off the desk and bent forward to deliver a thankyou kiss. She straightened and lifted the overalls above her head. “There, that’s better.” Franklin Quincy Wilson III couldn’t help it. His gaze was pulled to his young wife. It was certainly true, he thought, that of all the Mrs. Wilsons there had been the current one certainly stood alone. Bethie smiled down at him, acknowledging his frankly appreciative stare. She took hold of the overalls by the bottom hem. “You’re my naughty little boy, aren’t you?” she said. She bent close as if to deliver one more smooch of appreciation and brought the denim garment over his head and down nearly to his waist, pinning his arms to his side. The shoulder straps hung up around his ears. “Bethie!” Normally he would have loved to find out what variation on his favorite game of Helpless Middle-Aged Male/Inexplicably Horny School Girl she had in mind, but not right now. “Goddammit, girl, I really don’t have time 140

for one of our little gamesS” Bethie straddled him, locking down both his arms below the elbows and eliminating any chance he had of standing. She knew that, as much as he outweighed her, his lower body strength-the man had never taken so much as a real walk in his life-was inadequate for him to throw her off. She reached over to the computer keyboard and tapped. The text filled screen he had been cursing at earlier came back up. There seemed to be more that had been added in the last couple of minutes. She scrolled up to see any earlier entries. “Just what in the goddamned hell do you think you’re doing, young lady?” Quinny bellowed. “Hold on, sweetie.” Bethie made a shushing gesture. “I’ve got a little catching up to do.” Quinny shushed for a moment and looked puzzled. “It’s been a whole day since I read your messages.” She gave him a gentle squeeze on the cheek. “And I’ll bet you thought I fell asleep same time as you.” “You need to get this goddamned whatever off of me!” “Now Quinny,” she remonstrated sweetly. “I can’t read if you make so much noise, can I?” She pried up two of the keys from the keyboard with not too long, very strong fingernails. The G and the 7/&. She stuffed them, one each, in Quinny’s nostrils and told him to behave. His curses took on a hollow tone but he kept at it. She pried up a couple more keys and, at an opportune moment, popped them in his mouth. One he managed to spit out, the other went down. Partway. His face turned red and his breath took on a whistling quality. “Calm down, sweetie,” Bethie remonstrated. “I’m almost done.” He tried to voice an objection, but it came out like a leaky accordion. “It looks to me like you’ve really messed things up.” She frowned at the monitor. “No wonder you’ve been so upset.” She shook her head and waggled a finger at him. “Of course, if your granddaddy hadn’t taken the Department of G away from my great-granddaddy, maybe things wouldn’t have gotten so kinda screwed up.” Quinny’s eyes bulged with surprise and he tried furiously to throw her off his lap. But he hadn’t adequate oxygen and the effort was pathetic. Bethie shook her head. “It wasn’t very nice, you know, just because your family had all these connections and stuff and my poor old greatgranddaddy was just trying to do the best for his family.” Wilson stared at her, bug-eyed. Of course, whether his expression had anything to do with this sudden revelation about his wife’s knowledge of the Department or was due to the fact that his inability to draw a decent breath was making him concerned is the question. 141

“You shouldn’t hit on young girls in cartoon stores,” said Bethie. “You never really know, do you?” She continued to read, following the text with a finger and sounding out some of the tougher words. She came to a part that was of particular interest and read it over twice. “Arizona? That’s a long way away, isn’t it, Quinny? Way farther than Vidalia.” Quinny had stopped struggling. All his efforts were now focused on somehow easing oxygen past the obstacle in his windpipe. Bethie reached around and found a note pad. She jotted down a couple of lines. Then she opened a drawer, removed a blank floppy diskette and inserted it in the computer. She clicked on the file titled “contributors”, clicked on “SaveAs” and waited the half-minute for the whirring to complete. Her husband stared and made very faint wheezing noises. She removed the diskette and stood. Quinny was going limp, his eyes barely open. “I’m going to go now, sweetie,” she said. “I think the family business needs to come back to the family it belongs to. You know, maybe your big mistake was going from letters to punctuation. I mean G is so much sexier than ampersand, isn’t it? But then you always had a problem with finding the G, didn’t you? Maybe that’s why none of your wives stayed around very long. You think?” She shrugged prettily. “Now if you want to ampersand you’re going to have to do it all by yourself.” She gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek, checked the snugness of the overalls, which she hated to leave, looked to make sure his business card was still in the center breast pocket and, as it had started to come out, shoved the G back firmly into his left nostril. Bethie’s departure in the Audi TT was observed only by neighbor Martinovsky. FBI Special Agent Waas was back at the office in Tisbury, being royally chewed out by Senior Agent Alicia Samples over the contents of the memory card from his government issue digital camera.

31 The El Chiquito Motor Lodge Room 113 142

Amelia was asleep, sprawled across the bed next to the window mounted air-conditioner, when Doreen returned with two bags of The Burger Works finest. One of Amelia’s arms was alongside her body, the other flung up over her head. She hadn't a stitch on. Evidently she was not long out of the bath; scores of water beads were skittering across her white, doughy backside, pushed along by the noisy gale coming from the clatter-clanging window mounted air-conditioner. Doreen snorted disapprovingly and began rummaging through her sister's suitcase. After a short search she pulled out a pair of pale yellow floral pajamas and flung them at her slumbering sibling. The bottoms landed across Amelia's mid-section, the top overshot its mark and fell to the floor between the bed and the wall. “Wake up.” Amelia twitched slightly. “Amelia!” Doreen turned up the volume. “I will not have a meal in the same room with a fat, naked old woman.” She gave the bed a sound kick. Amelia moaned softly and thrashed her legs about a bit. “AMELIA!” A few hundred thousand dust motes rose from the brittle, crusty lampshade. They hovered in uncertainty for a few seconds and then distributed themselves about the area. Amelia rolled over, stretched mightily, and, with prodigious effort, cocked open one eye. The first thing she saw was the variously yellowed, blown "popcorn" ceiling. Then a spectacle of considerably greater color and animation in the shape of Doreen face entered her field of view. “What in the hell are you about?” demanded Doreen. “Laying about starkers, dripping wet. What's the matter with you?” A moment passed as the words sorted themselves in Amelia's brain. She herself would have readily admitted that, even at her most alert and rested, in any group outside of a rest home or hospital nursery, she would seldom be voted the quick one. After a day of trans-Pacific travel, unbearable heat and liquid deprivation, followed by the soporific effects of a cool bath and welcoming, if not exactly luxurious, bed, it was not at all remarkable that Doreen's comments took a moment to register. After that moment had passed, however, her reactions were fast and took the following course: Her other eye popped open. The hand that had been at her side made a hurried exploration of her torso. Her eyes widened. 143

“Oh! Oh! Oh, my good Lord!” She hopped from the bed and executed the dance that people do when "caught naked". Arms are clasped about the torso in various patterns, searching for the most complete coverage. Often, one of the legs is bent up and swiveled past center. The ablest practitioners of this terpsichorean technique are blessed with a piano hinge along their spine, meaty arms for cover, a better than fair sense of balance, and a forward terrain remarkable for its lack of variety. Such combinations occur rarely in nature and Amelia was not a product of that select gene pool. As an additional handicap, the arm that had been draped above her head had, as arms in that position will, lost all sensation, or “fallen asleep”, and so contributed little toward the effort to conceal. Doreen regarded her sister with undisguised disapproval. “Stop your hopping about and screaming, will you, please! I am going outside now. You have five minutes to cover…,” she made a waving gesture at Amelia's person, “…that. Your pajamas are there and there. Put them on.” She opened the door to leave. “Oh! Oh! Oh my!” Amelia held up her good hand to block the view of any person unfortunate enough to be passing the door of Room 113 at that moment, realized that by doing so she was acting in a decidedly counterproductive manner and so, not knowing what else to do, bolted for the bathroom. Her good hand went into a rear-guard action, the other flapped about in what was possibly a diversionary tactic. The outside and bathroom doors slammed shut simultaneously. It took a couple of minutes of slapping and rubbing for Amelia to get her insensible arm back to life. She wrapped a threadbare bath towel of less than average dimensions around her and stuck her head out of the bathroom. Keeping her eyes on the door and sliding her trembling feet across the floor so as to be ready to reverse course and dash back into the bathroom at the least sign of another human being, she crept back to the bed by the window where her pajama bottom was still on the bedspread. It took her a moment to recall Doreen's indication of where she could find the pajama top, but then it came to her and she stepped between bed and air-conditioner, finding it on the narrow strip of floor. After a careful examination and slight adjustment of the drapes, she unwrapped the towel, tossed it across the bed and bent to pick up the top. There was a click behind her. “Doreen! It can’t have been five minutes!” Amelia snatched the pajama top from the floor, grabbed the bottom off the 144

bed, and clutched them both in front of herself as she spun around in time to see Doreen step through the door. Her protest caught in her throat as a man stepped into the room directly behind her sister. He had a big, square, white patch under cold, gray, cruel eyes. But what really caught Amelia’s attention was the even colder, crueler looking knife he was holding to Doreen’s back. The room began to spin, the swirling oranges and reds came back to visit and, for the second time that day, Amelia passed out.

32 Still in Room 113 It was rather more than Leslie had bargained for, but it takes a lot to rattle a real pro. If there was a naked, lumpy old woman sprawled in a dead faint across the floor of Room 113, well that was just the way it was. The loud one he had found in the parking lot would be enough of a handful for now. Doreen made a move toward her sister. “Get away from her,” Leslie snarled nasally. He emphasized the command with the tip of his knife against the small of her back. With his other hand he gingerly checked the bandage on his nose. Doreen ignored him. She hastily snatched a bedspread and threw it over her sister. Leslie grabbed Doreen by the back of the collar and threw her against the dresser. He put the knife to her throat and they engaged in a staredown for ten seconds or so. Leslie lost by virtue of a sneeze he could not hold back. It had been a growing problem the past few hours, some kind of allergic reaction to something in the air he supposed. He seldom sneezed, but since landing in Phoenix he had been suffering with major fits that played holy hell with his battered and sensitive nasal passages. “Sit down,” he said in a soft but menacing voice that barely traveled the six inches between them. That was a good way to make somebody pay attention; make them strain to hear you. Besides, he was trying to hold back another sneeze. 145

Doreen hesitated, which was just fine with him. It gave him an excuse to press the knife just a little harder and back her into the chair. She sat with a thump. He drew the blade lightly across the top of Doreen's hand, drawing a yowl of pain and anger from her that should have awakened the dead, much less her passed-out sister. But Amelia remained insensible. Leslie sneered a gruesome sneer. That little cut was just the first and least of the installments he was planning. He tore up a sheet and trussed Doreen, arms and ankles, to the chair. Leslie moved to stand over Amelia, bringing the toe of his Italian loafer against her bare shoulder. He would soften up the loud one by threatening her weak sister. “YOU LEAVE HER ALONE!” The lone piece of artwork on the walls, a faded print of a still life with citrus, set in a glassless frame, rattled against the wall. Particles of the yellowed popcorn ceiling began to fall, including several that settled, like ancient flakes of dandruff, on Leslie's head and shoulders. “Quiet,” he hissed. If he had known her better he would have realized it was rather a stupid thing to say to Doreen, trussed and with a bleeding hand or not. He would have gagged her, but the idea at this time was to interrogate. Before he killed them he wanted to know how much they knew about the boomerang and its contents. How much did they know about him? Had they told anyone else? He didn’t want any more surprises than necessary. “YOU BLOODY TOUCH HER AND I'LL RIP YOUR KIDNEYS OUT YOUR ARSE!” The citrus print hammered against the wall, dust rose from every surface in the room, and more bits of yellow ceiling began drifting down. Doreen kept up the verbal barrage as she pulled furiously at the bands of fabric binding her to the chair. Leslie tried to dodge the fallout from the ceiling, which along with the dust motes shimmering excitedly around the room, was playing havoc with his sinuses. He started to sneeze uncontrollably. “Shut (sneeze, sneeze) ouch!, damn it! Shut up!” Doreen kept at it. The entire room seemed to dance demonically to the vibrations from her vocal artillery. For a moment Leslie lost it. “Grrrrahhhhhh!” he said.And he made a rush for Doreen, his knife raised and ready to do violent business. This caught Doreen's attention. She summoned up her finest effort of the evening. The citrus print jumped from its nail and crashed to the floor. The 146

gentle snowfall of ceiling material turned into a veritable blizzard. Doreen pushed her toes against the floor, tilting herself backward far enough to dodge the oncoming blade. This sudden and unexpected shifting of his target, along with a particularly violent sneeze, threw Leslie sufficiently off course to send him headlong into the screen of the television set on the dresser. The question could be raised as to whether Leslie or the television suffered more damage from the encounter, but it may be said with confidence that Leslie felt it deeper. Doreen continued her barrage of invective, scarcely noticing that her hands were now free, courtesy of Amelia, who was crouched next to her, the bedspread wrapped tightly around her. When she did take notice she did not bother to immediately determine the cause, although she did take advantage of the fact by pounding Leslie on the back and neck. This inhibited his efforts to remove his head from inside the television screen, an operation requiring no small amount of delicacy and concentration. Amelia had Doreen's right ankle free before her sister noticed who was liberating her. “I thought you were out!” Amelia waved her back to business at hand as she attended to the strip of sheet binding Doreen's ankle to the chair leg. “Perhaps you should hit him again, Doreen, dear.” Doreen was normally ill disposed to take advice from anyone, especially her sister, but this had some sense to it, and in any case fit in with her inclinations, so she gave Leslie a double fisted wallop to the shoulder. It had its intended effect of injury, both to the shoulder and to the opposite ear, which was making its way past a jagged edge of television screen. It also had the unintended effect of motivating Leslie to speed his progress. He rose, roaring, from the nineteen-inch screen, took Doreen's throat in his hands, uttered something that we shall represent with “Brooof”, and slumped over on the floor. Doreen gave Amelia a look. “For pity's sake, cover yourself!” Amelia looked down and saw that, indeed, the bedspread had fallen about her feet, probably as a result of her swift actions in grabbing her hardshell overnight case and swinging it with all her strength against the side of Leslie's head. “Oooooh!” she cried. She hauled the blanket back up and around her. “Where are my clothes? Oh my, oh my!” 147

Leslie stirred a bit. “Out!” commanded Doreen. She undid her left ankle restraint, sidestepped the prostrate assassin, and began shoving Amelia toward the door. “My clothes!” “Never you mind about your clothes! Go!” Doreen pushed Amelia out of the room, followed, and slammed the door behind them. “OOH! OOH!” Amelia clasped the bedspread tightly about her in the hot night air. She looked all around her, searching the dim parking lot for signs of a leering audience, a lurking photographer, a crew from the local television news department. Woman Running About Arizona in the Altogether-Film at Ten. Doreen hopped into the LeBaron and started the engine. “BLOODY HELL, AMELIA, GET INTO THE BLOODY CAR!” Amelia did as she was told. In another moment the LeBaron was screaming out of the parking lot of the El Chiquito Motor Lodge. Actually, the LeBaron made a slightly throaty hum; the screaming was coming from Amelia.

33 Jerry’s apartment Ted stretched, pushing his size-sixteens well past the end of the sofa where he had spent a very warm, very uncomfortable last hour-and-a-half. Light from the street and the convenience market on the other side of the block wall around the apartment parking lot was coming in through the tired curtains of Jerry's front window. There was just enough to allow Ted to navigate to the one lamp in the room and switch it on. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes past ten o’clock. He had gotten maybe thirty minutes of sleep. He checked out the thermostat on the air-conditioner box mounted just under the window. Eighty-six degrees. He pushed the plastic lever to seventy. A muffled roar came from the box, accompanied by a draft of rapidly cooling air. He stood in front of the vent for a minute and examined the room. There were two pieces of furniture: a bar stool leaning against the kitchen counter, and the sofa. The sofa was a dark stained, pine frame, green 148

and yellow plaid affair that would have won no awards for taste when new. Now it looked like an old man in a loud jacket who had been dragged behind a truck for a couple hundred miles. The walls were decorated with several posters—none of them quite level— tacked up with push-pins. All of the posters but one featured young women, some in bikini swimsuits, some in denim cut-off shorts and bikini tops, one with nothing but judiciously placed pieces of brightly colored candy between her most feminine of attributes and the camera’s eye. The lone out-of-theme decoration showed a slightly built black man at the keyboard of a Hammond B-3 organ, a tremendous smile on his face and a joyous gleam in his eyes. On the bottom of the poster was the caption, “The Incredible Jimmy Smith.” Ted continued his stretching, punctuating it with noisy exhalations and a variety of pops and grunts. His one minute workout complete, he ventured into the kitchen section of the apartment. He gingerly picked through the debris strewn counter, looking for anything resembling a coffee maker. No luck. Perhaps there was some instant coffee in one of the cupboards. There were only two cupboards, one up and one down. The up one contained only a small bowl of questionable cleanliness and several plastic cups advertising various fast food establishments and popular movies. In the down cupboard Ted found a rusted wok ring—no wok, just the ring—a battered cookie sheet, and a tiny stovetop percolator. He fished the percolator out and began rinsing it in the sink. He bellowed in the direction of the bedroom door. “Jerry! Where's the coffee?” No reply came from the bedroom. Ted finished washing out the dull, gray pot as well as possible, considering he could find neither soap or detergent. “Jerry! Wake up!” A cup. Did the numskull have anything remotely resembling a coffee cup in the place? Ted marched over to the bedroom door and pounded. “Wake up! I want to get this over with! Where's the damn coffee?” “And a jolly good evening to you, too.” Jerry was standing just inside the front door, holding two grease-spotted, white bags with The Burger Works logo splashed across them. The smell of hot, high-calorie, high-fat, high-cholesterol fast food filled the tiny apartment. “Ta-da!” He held up the bags and closed the door behind him with his heel. “Dinner is served! Actually, breakfast. That’s what Daphne rustled up for us.” “Daphne?” Ted gave the bags a look of something less than wholehearted enthusiasm. “I thought your paramour’s name was Sheila.” 149

Jerry dumped both bags on the counter and plopped himself on the lone bar stool. “There’s another Burger Works maybe five, six blocks from Sheila’s. Daphne’s great. She loves me. Should have checked with her earlier.” Quickly emptying the bags, he took out six egg and whatever on some sort of bun sandwiches, three plastic trays filled with scrambled eggs and toast, six danish, four individual boxes of sugar-coated cereal, three plastic cups of orange juice with peel-back foil lids, four cartons of milk and two cups of coffee. “Here you go,” said Jerry. He slid a cup of coffee and one of the egg sandwiches in Ted’s direction. “You are generosity itself.” Ted lifted the edge of the wrapping around the egg sandwich, eyed it suspiciously, and left it on the counter. He popped the lid off the coffee and let the familiar aroma—surprisingly enticing considering its source—penetrate his weary head. He took a sip. Not bad. He turned his back, leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee. For a few moments there was only the sound of Ted sipping and Jerry wolfing. Each seemed content. “Don't like your sandwich?” Jerry said. “What is it? “EggWork sandwich.” “I don’t think so.” The sound of the paper wrapper sliding across the counter. A few more moments of sipping and wolfing. “I'll take one of those danish,” Ted said. Jerry rifled through the pile of paper, Styrofoam and plastic. “Sorry, all gone.” “What?” “No more danish. Want some cereal?” Jerry said as he shoved aside the last of the scrambled egg trays and opened a cereal box. There was a mound of empty fast food containers and wrappers on the counter next to him. “There were at least five danish,” said Ted. “I saw them.” He didn't see them now. “I always eat the danish first. You want some OJ?” Jerry held out a half empty cup, cover-foil suspended from a tiny section of the lip. “No. I do not want your unclean, backwashed orange juice.” Jerry shrugged and drained the cup. “Very well, I suppose I'll have to eat that simulated egg monstrosity.” “Gone.” Jerry gave his teeth a once over with his tongue. “For the love of…” Ted strode over to the pile of wrappings and Styrofoam 150

and picked it over in search of survivors. Suddenly he felt hungry. Quite hungry. Ravenous. There was nothing but crumbs and grease stains. “Holy mother of pearl. You ate all that food?” “Hey, if you wanted something you should have said so.” Jerry noisily slurped soggy cereal flakes from a plastic spoon. Within two heartbeats the carton was empty. He raised it to his lips to drain the last drops of sugarsweetened milk. “You are not a human being! You are a trash food compactor!” “Thank you.” Jerry belched sonorously. “And you snore like a lake full of horny bullfrogs. Could hear you halfway down the stairs to the parking lot like you were right next to me.” “Couldn’t have had anything to do with the accommodations, now could it? Now what are you looking for?” Jerry had gotten up from his stool and was poking around in the refrigerator. He rose, a look of disappointment on his face. “Great, no beer.” “You can have a beer after we're done and I am on my way back to civilization.” Jerry shrugged. “I don't have my beer, I get gas. Bad sometimes.” “I recall that particularly charming infirmity of yours. It couldn't have anything to do with your diet, could it?” “Diet?” Jerry looked puzzled. “I'm not on a diet.” “My mistake.” “Healthy as a horse.” Jerry slapped his flat belly. “My fate harnessed to a greasy, flatulent beast of burden.” “Yeah, well, I'll try to give you some warning.” “How kind.” “Sometimes it kinda sneaks up on me, though.” “I'll bet it does.” Ted drained the last dribble of his coffee. He went over to the lone window and parted the curtain. Jerry's apartment was on the second level of a two story building, all of the apartments letting out on one side to concrete walkways that ran the length of the structure. A scratched and pitted metal railing ran along the walkway outside Jerry’s door. One door to the left was the opening to the stairs. The view from all of the apartments was largely of the parking lot. A gray block wall surrounded the lot. On the other side of the wall Ted could see the back of a convenience store and a couple other small shops that shared a common parking lot. They faced a wide street that was busy with traffic. It all looked dreary and gray and hot. 151

“So, what’s the deal with the church?” Ted said. “Hmm?” Jerry belched again. “’Scuse me.” “You’re excused. The church. What are doing with a bunch of adolescent Presbyterians?” “Methodists,” Jerry corrected. “Big difference as those things go. Ask me anything you want to know about John Wesley. Pastor Lloyd’s been teaching me. He’s writing a book about the guy.” He came to stand next to Ted at the window. “I needed a job, you know? This gives me a chance to play. Besides, I like the kids.” “That doesn’t answer my question. How did you get hooked up doing church music?” Jerry put his hands in his pockets, leaned a shoulder against the wall. “Angela.” Ted should have known. Everything in Jerry’s life began and ended with women. Jerry liked them, and, for some reason Ted believed must surely belong among the Great Mysteries of the Ages, a great many of them liked him right back. Jerry seldom lacked female companionship and Ted seldom experienced it. During the relatively short time Ted had known him, Jerry’s social life had inevitably been as complicated due to his entanglements as Ted’s had been dull beyond description. “Angela.” Jerry repeated the name. “She used to come to The Ball Jar Tuesday nights. I was playing there with a group called Penny on the Tracks every Monday and Tuesday and she was there every single Tuesday for like months. We used to talk in between sets. Nice girl. Thought she was a nice girl, anyway. She drank iced tea.” As if this was a usually reliable sign of niceness in a female. “She talked you into this church thing?” Jerry shook his head. “Not really. What happened was one Tuesday I showed up for the gig and all of our stuff was gone.” “What stuff?” “Our instruments. Some jerk-off broke into the place and hauled away everything. The drum set, the amps, mikes, monitors, everything. They took my B-3, Ted. The bastards stole my organ. The other guys had insurance on their stuff but I couldn’t afford any. You know what they want to insure a B-3? It’s a crime. Anyway, I was screwed. The owner felt kinda sorry for me and he wasn’t too pissed off about the break-in ‘cause nothing of his had been taken and they didn’t wreck any doors or windows. He let me sit there for a while and kept the beers coming just to show he felt bad for me.” 152

“And while you were getting sloshed God came to you and told you to devote your life to introducing syncopation to the Methodist liturgy.” “Hmm? No, but I stayed there all night and she never showed.” “Who?” “Angela.” “Oh, right, Angela.” “I mean she had been there every Tuesday for what, maybe three months and then all of sudden she doesn’t show. I asked some of the other regulars if they knew anything about her and one guy tells me he thought she said something about working at a Methodist church in Mesa. So the next day I found it, I mean there’s about a hundred Mormon churches in Mesa, but not that many Methodist ones, and the second one I go to the lady in the office says Angela used to work there as kind of a custodian, cleaning up the office and Sunday School rooms and stuff. But she wasn’t there any more because they had caught her swiping toilet paper and dish soap and stuff. Anyway, while I’m talking to the office lady, Pastor Lloyd comes out looking kind of panicky and asks her if any applications had come in for the organist spot and she said no, and I said I played organ, and next thing I know I’m in the sanctuary auditioning for him, you know, playing the dots, which I hadn’t done in a long time. But I did okay, if I do say so. That Sunday I was leading the congregation in “Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy’.” “How appropriate.” “Thanks.” “Don’t mention it. But that doesn’t explain the choir.” “Yeah, well that part is kinda weird.” “That part is weird.” “Yeah. A couple weeks after I started doing the hymns and stuff, the Youth Choir leader gets arrested for possession of stolen goods, including, get this, a whole crapload of musical instruments and equipment.” “No, wait. The choir director had your B-3?” “I wish,” Jerry shook his head. “But it turned out that this guy had been working with Angela, letting her use his place to stash all the hot goods. Word is she paid him for it in, you know, certain ways.” “No! The little hussy.” “Just goes to show, doesn’t it? Anyway, I figure she was involved in the heist at the Ball Jar and she skipped with my B-3 and left all the crappy stuff with the choir director. I mean the other guys were playing with some pretty cheesy instruments. From what I heard, some of the stuff they found in his 153

place coulda been the beaters the other guys in the band were using.” “And so you were enlisted to take over the kiddie choir.” “Youth Choir. Mrs. Tenneson has the little kids in the Junior Choir.” “Of course.” “You can’t hear the kids over her singing. Even with her back to the congregation. She’s a nice lady, but loud.” The two of them stood at the window and looked out on the parking lot for a moment in silence. “So that’s how I got the gig,” said Jerry. “Like I said, kinda weird, don’t you think?” “Passing strange. We’ll file it under the heading of ‘God Works in Mysterious Ways’.” “’His Wonders to Perform’,” Jerry filled it in. “You have picked up enough religion to be dangerous, haven’t you? But right now the only wonder I want performed is ten thousand dollars finding its way into my hands. Where are we supposed to deliver this boomerang once we get it?” “Oh, that’s right!” Jerry went back over to the kitchen counter and began shoving bags and Styrofoam containers aside. “Here we go.” He consulted a faint scribble on the counter. “The AceyDuecy guy said we’re supposed to deliver it to the El Chiquito Motor Lodge in Chandler.” He leaned in studying the defaced counter. “Someplace on Arizona Avenue.” “You wrote it on the counter?” “I didn’t have any paper.” “I’m surprised you had a pen. And who are we meeting?” “Dunno. He didn’t say. If you ask me, he didn’t know any more than he was telling me. It was like somebody was feeding him his lines, you know?” “Whatever,” said Ted. He consulted his watch. “Let’s get going. I want to be in and out of the place long before these people are due home.” “Off we go.” They stepped out into the hot, still night air. “Is it this hot all the time?” said Ted. “Nah. Most years it cools down ‘round Halloween, sometimes a little later.” “And people live here. Amazing.” “Millions.” At the base of the steps Ted stopped and looked around. “Speaking of heat,” He said, “where is our hot car?” “The Suburban? I took it back,” Jerry said matter of factly. 154

“Back? You steal a car and then take it back?” “I don’t steal cars,” said Jerry. “I borrow. Of course I took it back. We’d had it all day, practically. Left a nice thank-you note on the dashboard. Said we really appreciated the loan.” “I suppose you signed it and put your return address on it too?” “That woulda been kinda dumb.” “What could I have been thinking? So, you took it back, good for you.” “Thank you.” “You’re welcome. Now, do we grab a cab on credit or panhandle fare for Phoenix mass transit to the site of our planned felony?” “There’s no mass transit in Phoenix. Couple of buses I think, but they never go where you want.” “What a surprise. How is it you propose we get to this boomerang?” “We’re gonna drive, of course.” Jerry grinned. “We have no car.” “Says who?” said Jerry. He swept his hand across the narrow vista that was the parking lot. “"Guess which one,” he said. “Oh, wonderful. Now you want to steal, no, I’m sorry, today’s term is borrow, from one of your fellow slum dwellers. Good way to build neighborhood relationships.” “Nope, I found this one on my way taking the Suburban back. C'mon, guess.” “I am not going to guess.” “C’mon, Ted, it’s easy. Guess.” Ted glared at the little man by his side, shook his head, and then studied the vehicles in the parking lot. He knew Jerry's penchant for the unusual, the sorry, the deservedly snubbed. This lot certainly had its share of qualified candidates. “The Gremlin,” he said, nodding in the direction of a small car dipping to the right rear and missing a tail light lens. “Nope. Guess again.” “I am not going to guess again.” “Oh, c'mon, don't be a poop.” “I am not—just stop calling me a poop." “All right, you’re not a poop. I'll give you a hint. It's the only one in the lot with a neon license plate frame.” Ted scanned the lot once more. “How in the hell am I supposed to tell from here if one of those junkers has a neon license…Oh no.” Ted's eyes fixed on a vehicle near the end of the lot, 155

next to the trash dumpster, farthest away from the street entrance. “I am not riding in that.” “It's going to be fun!” Jerry grinned from ear to ear. “Gotta be careful, though, It's got one of those little chrome chain steering wheels. Took me while to get the hang of steering.” “I am not, I repeat, not about to place myself in…in…that.” Ted waved at the iridescent purple, mid-seventies Monte Carlo that seemed to be creating its own dull glow against the grim gray of the block wall at the end of property. Even from where he stood he could see it cleared the asphalt by no more than two inches. “Go borrow something else. Oh, my lord!” He waved his hand furiously in front of his face and stepped away from Jerry. “What?” “Send up a flag; make some sort of noise; give a person a warning for pity's sake!” “Hey,” Jerry said. “I told you I needed a beer.”

34 The manager’s lodgings at the El Chiquito Sarge could sleep through practically anything. It was a blessing and a curse and sometimes it was tough to decide which applied to any specific situation. Like the time Charice, his lady in Alaska, just picked up and left, leaving him stranded halfway between Homer and Soldotna. She took the campstove, the food, the old four-wheel drive Dodge Ram, and the tent over his head while he slumbered on, dead to the world in post-coital unconsciousness. It had taken five hours of steady hiking—at least she had left him his boots—before he came across another campsite. By that time he was hungry and tired and had gotten himself a couple of dramatic rashes from God only knew what and was glad as he could be to see other human beings, even if they were a couple of guys dressed in inexplicably clean and pressed denim and flannel. Brian and Kenneth fed him stew and noodles and gave him some sissy 156

smelling but very effective ointment for his rashes. They also gave him a ride into Homer in their sparkling CJ-7. He could have done without the Judy Garland tunes Kenneth insisted on playing and singing along with as they jounced along the road, but Brian pressed a couple twenties into his hand before they parted and Sarge had had to admit that, all in all, for a couple of fairies, they were almost human. So there it was. If he hadn't been such a sound sleeper he probably wouldn't have been stranded. On the other hand, the stew and noodles had been damned good and the forty dollars had financed a pretty decent drunk. Besides, he had been with Charice nearly three years at that point and her company outside the sleeping bag had begun to wear thin. So, all things considered, Sarge’s ability to sleep despite all was a good thing and he had come to take it for granted. Like many a good thing a person comes to take for granted, when it is denied it can be particularly irritating. So when Sarge was awakened shortly after tumbling into bed from an evening spent, finally, at the bar in the FairLanes down the street, he was not happy about it. Not happy at all. At first Sarge did not know what it was that had roused him. It couldn't have been a noise, because noise never disturbed his sleep. Must be the damned heat. He kicked the thin sheet back from his body, turned his pillow over to get the cool side and closed his eyes. There it was again. Damned if it wasn't noise. Noise like he had never heard before. Somebody shouting. Shouting through a megaphone or something. Sarge rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. But he found himself waiting for the next burst of shouting. If somebody was making that much racket there must be a reason. Why he should give a flying hoot in hell he had no idea, but there he was, wide awake, waiting for the noise to come again. There was no way he would getting back to sleep soon anyway. Just another lousy stinking end to another lousy stinking day at the lousy stinking El Chiquito Motor Lodge. There it was again, and this time it was going on and on. Sarge still couldn't make out exactly what was being said, but it sounded like it was coming from one of the rooms. A hell of a ruckus. Sarge supposed he had to go find out what was going on. See if the cops had to be called or he needed to pound somebody or something. Maybe that spooky guy was having a party in his room. Sarge couldn't imagine that the old lady who had checked in early that evening would be making any noise. Closest she had come to any conversation had been a kind of growl. The shouting continued, with just a pause here and there. Sounded like a 157

woman. A woman with lungs the size of an airplane hangar. Sarge stepped out of the office in his sleeping attire, a pair of Confederate flag boxer shorts, just in time to see two figures bolt out of room 113. One of them hesitated on the walk while the other one practically leapt into the driver's seat of the convertible parked in front of the door. The one on the walk looked to have on some sort of bulky, tent-like garment. Pretty stupid on such a damn hot night. The one in the car barked an ear splitting command that identified her as the source of the noise. “BLOODY HELL, AMELIA! GET INTO THE BLOODY CAR!” The one in the tent dress practically leapt into the convertible. The car flew past Sarge and out of the parking lot. Sarge scratched the back of his head. He muttered a profanity meant to express surprise at his guests' sudden, unexplained, and loud departure. They were paid up in advance, but what was all the shouting about? He shifted his scratching to just south of the Mason-Dixon line that was the low riding waistband of his boxers and gazed through the dim night at the door and window of room 113. He repeated the profanity, this time nuanced to express his recognition of the fact that he ought to go see if anything was amiss in that particular part of his property. At the very least he needed to turn off the lights. Sarge wasn't interested in paying for wasted electricity. He hopped gingerly across the narrow asphalt parking lot, the pavement hot against his bare feet, radiating back the energy absorbed during the day. He heard the air-conditioner running, too. More wasted electricity. Just as Sarge reached for the doorknob, the door to room 113 opened and a man, all hunched over, shoved his way past Sarge and began staggering down the walk. In the light from the window Sarge could see that the man’s face was badly cut; there was blood dripping onto the walkway. He also saw the big white bandage across the man's nose. It was the spooky, gray-eyed son-of-a-bitch in room 111. “Hey! Whaddya think you're doing?” Sarge shouted at the staggering Leslie. “What's going on? Hey! You!” Leslie kept going, so Sarge, his irritation level at maximum from the heat, the noise, the interrupted sleep, and a few over even his usual limit of ice cold long neck beers, rushed him. He gave Leslie a huge shove on the small of the back that sent him crashing into the wall. “Asshole, I’m talking to you. Leslie turned to confront his attacker. He straightened himself to nearly full height, a very sharp pain around his shoulders kept him from maximum 158

altitude. His head was pounding viciously. And he had a sneeze coming on that hurt in anticipation. He was having a really shitty day. Sarge stopped short when Leslie turned around. He was so transfixed by the gruesomeness of Leslie’s injuries that he almost didn’t see the roundhouse right. But he did catch it out of the corner of his eye and by pure reflex responded with an uppercut of his own. If the sneeze hadn’t come when it did, Leslie’s punch would likely have not only landed but done damage. But once again his nasal explosion threw him off course and directly into the path of Sarge’s wildly thrown uppercut. The punch snapped Leslie’s head back and he dropped flat on his back on the walkway in front of room 111. Leslie was out cold on a hundred degree night. Sarge stared down at Leslie, shifted his gaze to his own fist, and then contemplated Leslie once more. He smiled. He hauled out the multi-purpose profanity once again, this time shaping it to express his claim to sovereignty over all he surveyed. If anyone cared to dispute it they could have a little of what the creepy bastard had just sampled. He tried to snap the waistband of his Confederate flag boxers but the elastic was tired and the only effect was that they drifted a couple more inches south. Sarge Wacknov didn’t care. He knew one thing in his heart. The Army had lost out on one mean fighting machine.

35 Sea Spray Drive It was a long twenty-five minute ride from Jerry's apartment to Sea Spray Drive. Jerry insisted on checking out all of the hydraulic controls on the Monte Carlo. They hopped, leaned, bounced, and pitched at every stop sign and traffic light. The car could go from pavement-scraping level to off-road truck heights and back to earth again and do it with remarkable speed. It could dance, it could shimmy, it could practically do the Texas two-step and Jerry activated them all. 159

Somewhere in the ultra-plush red crushed velvet seats there might have been a seat belt but Ted hadn’t been able to find it. He held on as best he could with his hands wrapped around the padded and upholstered door-pull and chrome chain link window crank until he could not take it any longer. “Would you stop that!” he finally cried out as Jerry gleefully exercised the car's ability to elevate and lower each corner sequentially. There was nothing in his stomach, but he was beginning to feel it was producing a particularly vile bit of something on its own and it wouldn't be staying down long. “Okay, okay.” Jerry reluctantly set the car to even keel. He waved to the honking motorists behind them and eased the Monte Carlo forward. They reached Sea Spray Drive. There was no activity along the block. All the garages were shut, few house lights were on. But there was one car, a convertible with the top part-way up, parked along the curb across the street and a door down from the Traceys' house. As they drove by they saw that there was a woman was in the convertible, sitting in the driver’s seat. She gave them an unfriendly look as they drove by. Jerry kept going down the street and turned at the corner. As soon as they were out of sight of the convertible he parked the Monte Carlo against the curb. “We got an audience,” he said. “An audience?” asked Ted. “You mean the old lady?” “She's scoping out the same house.” “You're imagining things,” said Ted. “Give her a minute. She's probably either going in or on her way out.” “I don't think so.” Jerry shook his head dubiously. “Looked to me like she was camped out. Somebody's on to us.” Ted made a show of looking all around them before replying. “Must be the North Koreans,” he whispered, leaning close. “They found out the boomerang has a secret kim-chee recipe etched on the bottom and don't want it to fall into Imperialistic Western hands.” Jerry digested this for a minute and then gave him a look. “Yeah, right.” “Let's just get this over with, all right already?” “I think she’s a spy or something.” “Just move it.” “Whatever.” Jerry shrugged. He checked the Monte Carlo’s clock, a round, chrome-bezeled, analog piece in the center of the dashboard. It said the time was 10:43. He pulled the car away from the curb and executed a slow, careful U-turn and then back on to 160

Sea Spray. The convertible was still there, but now the woman was standing next to the car, facing it and apparently addressing somebody. A somebody they could not see. Jerry cruised slowly down the street. As they approached, the woman turned away from the car and spread herself, arms out, against its side. Ted and Jerry were both curious to see who or what the woman had been speaking to, but the Monte Carlo was flying low, giving them a poor viewing angle. The fact that they were trying to look like they were not looking was another hindrance, as was the realization that it was not particularly wise to present themselves for extended view to anybody in the neighborhood belligerently they had scheduled themselves to commit illegal entry. As they came to a stop at the corner, Jerry looked in the rear view mirror. “She talking to the car,” he said. “She’s doing what?” “Talking to the car.” Ted grabbed the mirror and angled it so he could see. Damned if it didn't look like the woman was giving the car a good chewing out. As he was looking, the woman turned and saw the Monte Carlo paused at the corner. She folded her arms and leaned against the car, staring belligerently their way. “You better get us out of sight,” said Ted. Jerry pulled the Monte Carlo around the corner and up to the curb. “Who talks to a car?" said Ted. “Maybe she's got a dog in there,” Jerry suggested. “A dog?” “Yeah, a little dog. That's why we couldn't see it.” “A little dog.” “Or a cat,” said Jerry. “It could be a cat. *** Doreen had seen those men before. The ones that just passed by for the second time in the ridiculous purple and chrome car. Somewhere she had seen them. She couldn't for the life of her begin to say where or when she had seen them, but the way things had been going lately who could blame her? Too much travel, too little rest, attacks from crazed assassins she thought she had left outside Brisbane. And now Amelia would not get out of the car. Amelia had pulled the blanket up over her head and dived down in front of the seat and under the dashboard as they approached the first traffic light after exiting the El Chiquito Motor Lodge. All that could be seen of her now was a wisp of hair poking through a gap in the bedspread. A heap of laundry with a 161

tiny toupee. And now she was refusing to budge. Petrified by the fact that there was nothing more than aan ancient bit of bedclothes between her nakedness and an unsuspecting, judgmental public. But she was getting hot again. Uncomfortably hot. “They're gone,” Doreen said. “Let's go!” The wisp of hair swivelled back and forth in negative reply.“Just keep the stupid blanket wrapped around you and let's go! Nobody is going to see you.” “I heard a car.” Amelia’s muffled voice came from under the bedspread. “It's gone. We don't have all night. Do you want me to leave you here?” “No! Please Doreen dear, don't leave me!” “Well then, come on.” “I can't.” “That's it. I'm off.” “Oh! Oh! Doreen dear, please don't leave me here!” The bundle of bedclothes wiggled miserably. “For the last time, Amelia, will you get your fat arse out of there?” “I told you, Doreen dear, I can't.” “What do you mean, you can’t?” “I can’t move my legs. I’m stuck.” “Oh, bloody hell!”

36 Around the corner Ted and Jerry were perched with their backsides against the Monte Carlo, arms folded, right feet crossed over left with toe to the sidewalk, staring at one of the narrow ribbons of water that gave The Coves claim to being a "lakes community". This particular ribbon of water separated the backyards of the houses facing south on Sea Spray Drive from the backyards of the houses facing north on Oceania Avenue. “Go see if she’s still there,” said Ted. 162

“I already went,” said Jerry. “You go.” “I’m thinking,” said Ted. “Yeah? Well maybe I’m thinking too.” “And maybe I’m Joe Pass. Go.” Ted gave Jerry a shove and went back to staring at the water. Jerry shrugged and then tippy-toed to the corner of the house at the end of the block. He looked down the street. The woman was still there, but now she standing in the convertible. As best as he could tell, she was attempting to yank the dashboard out of its moorings. Clearly, something strange was going on. Jerry reported his observations. “It’s this heat,” said Ted. “Drives people insane. Well, that settles it, we go in from the back.” “What? You want us to swim there?” Jerry was not a swimmer. He could appreciate lakes, rivers, oceans and even well designed swimming pools on a visual basis, but he never voluntarily placed himself in any body of water larger than a hot tub. “Who said anything about swimming?” said Ted. “We’re going to take a ride.” “A ride? In what?” “On…” Ted enveloped the top of Jerry's head in an enormous paw and swivelled it—the entire head that is, not just the top of it—to face the left bank. “…that.” It took a couple of beats before it registered with Jerry what Ted was pointing him in the direction of, but then he spotted it. Tied to a small concrete dock at the edge of the first yard on the Oceania Avenue side was a small paddleboat. The type of craft let out for five dollars an hour at many a municipal park pond. A platform suspended between two pontoons with a bench in the middle, tiller centered in front of the bench. Four pedals in front of the bench for two people to drive the rear-mounted paddlewheel. A striped and fringed canopy overhead. “Cool,” said Jerry, getting the idea. “We use the boat to get downstream to the Traceys’, right?” “Right.” “But how are we gonna get to it? That’s a big fence around the yard, Must be seven, seven and a half feet high.” “Simple. I boost you over the fence. You unlock the gate.” Jerry rolled the plan around for a moment. “Sounds good to me.” “It’s a good idea anyway. Let's get on with it.” 163

*** As Ted and Jerry were beginning their assault on the seven-foot, eight-inch high block fence, Doreen was indeed standing on the passenger seat of the LeBaron, trying to find the right grip and angle in order to extract Amelia from between seat and dashboard. “Amelia, you’re not helping.” “I can’t. My legs have gone all locked up somehow.” Doreen tried to work her hands under her sister’s arms. “Let go of the blanket. I can’t get a decent hold of you.” “No!” Amelia’s death grip tightened on the only thing between her and public exposure. “That's it," Doreen said, finally. She hopped out of the car and slammed the door behind her. "I'll take care of this myself. As far as I'm concerned you can stay there until we get back to the airport.” She started across the street. "The men at the rental park can figure out how to extract you.” “Oh, Doreen, please!” “Of course, there may be something to wear inside the house, but now you’ll never know, will you?” Before Doreen had reached the opposite sidewalk, Amelia was by her side, quickstepping across the hot pavement, bedspread held tight under her chin. “Made it out, did you?” Amelia danced past her and buried her burning feet in the cool grass of the Traceys’ front yard. The sprinklers popped up and began showering her lower half. It felt good. *** Ted crouched next to the block fence and cupped his hands to create a foothold. Jerry stepped up and stretched to try to reach the top of the fence. He came up six inches short. “Up,” said Jerry. “What do you mean, `up'?” “I mean you're gonna have to bring `er up,” said Jerry. He began to sway a bit, then found a secure point of support for his right hip against Ted's nose. “Almost lost it there. Go ahead.” Ted turned his face enough to free up one nostril for breathing, unbent his legs by a few degrees, and felt a subtle, ominous shift in his left knee. “Almost,” said Jerry encouragingly. “Couple more inches and we got it.” Ted cursed silently, mostly because his jaw was pressed into an unnatural angle that would have rendered any speech unintelligible anyway. He tried to 164

unbend further but found his knee had decided to stay where it was for the while. “Ergh,” he said. It was a muffled, misshapen “ergh”, but an “ergh” nevertheless. “You ok, buddy?” asked Jerry. “All we need is an inch, maybe two. Whoa!” Ted, acting in an entirely reflexive manner, his brain instructing his body to divest itself of all unnecessary freight if he wanted to avoid turning his knee in pudding, launched Jerry using only his upper body muscles. The result was very like a tossing of the caber at a gathering of the clans. Caber tossing, a sport of ancient Celtic origin, usually involves a large man, often as not decorated with red beard and tartan kilt, and a junior edition of a regulation telephone pole. The large man hoists the telephone pole, runs or stumbles a few steps, preferably forward, and, with a lusty vocal ejaculation and heroic upward thrust, flings the telephone pole as far as he is able. As if this were not enough of a challenge, any toss, however great in distance, if it is to be considered a truly successful effort, must result in the pole landing first on its head and then flipping over, tail pointing away from the tosser. Any Highland game official open-minded enough to disregard the facts that Ted had not the advantage of neither a step nor stumble to build momentum, lacked both the red beard and kilt, and was working with a non-regulation projectile, would have been hard pressed to find fault with his effort. Jerry cleared the fence by a good foot-and-a-half, arced gracefully past the desert landscaping that occupied the five or six feet immediately next to the fence, touched, crown first, on the interior grassy patch, and flipped over to rest on his back. For a moment the only sound on either side of the fence was the soft clicking of Ted's joints as he ratcheted himself back into a nearly upright position. That accomplished, he tilted an ear toward the fence for a report. “Well?” he whispered. No reply. “Jerry!” he hissed. Silence in the night.

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37 Up in the air Down on the ground It was Mrs. Kinsbury who had suggested, as she and Phillips Steve sped away from the parking garage outside the offices of the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative in a hot-wired Subaru Outback, that if they were going to get themselves to Arizona to try to save their butts, it would be best to avoid the scheduled airlines. “But then how are we going to get there?” said Steve. “You were a spy, once,” said Mrs. Kinsbury, who was handling the driving duties. “Don’t tell me you don’t know somebody we could hire for the trip.” “I used to know somebody,” said Steve. “If he’s still around he can get us there in a real quick hurry. But I’d be surprised if he’s not either dead or in a prison in Estonia or something.” “He’d better not be,” Mrs. Kinsbury said, making it sound like death or a Baltic prison cell would be no excuse for disappointing her. “Where do we find this man?” Forty-five minutes later they were speeding west, the only passengers in a scarred on the outside, stripped to the essentials on the inside, noisy as hell private jet. The flight had been purchased through a combination of a long standing debt to Steve, which the pilot, a pale, balding fellow who answered to the name Pedro and who for some reason addressed Phillips as Sven, had found a little difficult to recollect, combined with Steve/Sven’s promise to intervene on Pedro’s behalf involving a "misunderstanding" about flying over a military installation. Steve had said nothing to disabuse Pedro of the impression that he possessed any current meaningful connections within the intelligence or military world. A couple hours into the flight a thought occurred to Steve. “We’re going to need ground transport!” he yelled up to the cockpit. “No problem!” Pedro called back. He radioed in a conversation that Phillips and Mrs. Kinsbury could not hear well at all. He turned back to his passengers. “Got you all set!” he shouted. “Five hundred dollars.” “What?” Phillips exclaimed. “Impossible. I used to get cars for a hundredfifty. Tell him we'll give two.” He didn't mention that he did not have two hundred dollars, much less five. He had gotten out of the habit of carrying 166

emergency cash with him. Debit card purchases had become the norm. “No go,” Pedro shouted back after another short headset conversation. “Five hundred. Includes unlimited mileage and collision waiver though.” He grinned back at them. “Sorry, buddy, but that's about the best we can do. You wanna stop by a ATM on the way?” Might have to, thought Steve, trying to visualize a jet-sized, taxi-through banking machine. Probably existed somewhere. Kuwait maybe. But whoever was doing the downsizing of the AABC had probably gotten to his accounts by now anyway. Damn it! How in the hell did he let himself get into this? “Tell them we've got the five hundred,” Mrs. Kinsbury shouted up to Pedro. For the first time, Steve noticed the small designer handbag she was holding tightly on her lap. “You always carry that kind of cash with you?” he asked. “I have always believed,” answered Mrs. Kinsbury, “that it's a good idea to be prepared.” They landed at 10:19 p.m., Mountain Standard Time, on an airstrip that had been part of Williams Air Force Base, just east and south of Mesa. The base, which had served primarily as a training facility for pilots from all the military branches of the United States, as well as their peers from countless other ostensibly allied nations, had been closed down as part of the military belttightening of the early nineties. Some of the facilities had been taken over by a local community college. The majority of the property had recently been converted to a commercial airport, complete with all that is necessary for such an establishment, with the exception of any airlines interested in landing or taking off from that location. The runways had a few weeds poking up, but were otherwise in prime condition. When Steve, Mrs. Kinsbury and Pedro climbed out of the plane the air was hot and heavy and lightning was playing around the sides of the sky. They were greeted, although that may be too suggestive of cordial welcome, by a short, stout young man in skin tight, faded Wranglers and black plaid shirt. His left cheek bulged conspicuously. The fellow was leaning against a twenty-plus year old Chevy pickup generously decorated with stickers announcing, among other things, a No Fat Chicks policy, a disdain for all things Ford, a warning that trailing vehicles were in danger of being splattered with “chaw juice”, and a declaration that true Americans ate beef with every meal. “You got my money?” said the young man, punctuating the question with a turn and tilt back of the head, followed by the noisy launch of dark projectile 167

spit that sailed over the bed of the truck. Steve examined the pickup as Mrs. Kinsbury handed over the cash, all twenties, which she extracted from her purse one bill at a time. The wind was beginning to kick dirt in their faces. A rumbling of not too distance thunder rolled across the runway. “This thing run?” Steve asked, leaning on the back bumper and then releasing. The pickup jiggled for several seconds. The young man waited until he had counted the money twice before replying. “Sure she runs,” he grinned. “Just watch that throttle, she'll getcha in trouble before you know it.” “Right,” muttered Steve. Mrs. Kinsbury snatched the keys from the young man and climbed into the driver's seat. Steve, relegated to passenger status once again, gave the young man and Pedro a two fingers to the temple salute, sprinted for the passenger door and hopped in just as she popped the truck into gear and shot forward into the night.

38 The streets of the East Valley Ricky Montoya was about to come unraveled. His prize, his baby, the reason that he woke up each day with a song in his nineteen year old heart, was gone. Stolen from the very driveway of his home. It was less than a week until the Southwest Regional Lowrider Competition and Rally and Ricky's violet beauty Monte Carlo was gone. Ricky had supplied the responding police officer with half-a-dozen photos of the car, along with all the vital information dictated by the stolen vehicle report form, but the cop had said nothing to make him think there was a snowball’s chance in Phoenix of finding his baby soon and unmolested. “Chop shops love lowriders,” the cop had said. So Ricky, his friend Cesar, and Ricky’s cousin Roberto began patrolling the 168

streets of the East Valley in Roberto's compact pickup, searching for the missing Monte Carlo on their own. The pickup was an extended cab, with bucket seats and stick shift in the front and those little flip-down seats that face center in the back. Cesar, by virtue of being neither owner of the vehicle or chief mourner, drew the back. “You shoulda put in one of those satellite dish things, man,” Cesar said for the fourteenth or fifteenth time in the two hours they had been searching. “You just call up the cable people or somebody and they look on a radar screen and tell you where your car is.” “It doesn't work quite like that,” said Roberto. “Let’s try in here.” He turned the pickup into an apartment parking lot. A narrow drive between two rows of misfit vehicles. “What the heck is that?” asked Cesar, pointing to a squat car along the right hand row. “Gremlin,” said Ricky. “Hardly ever see ‘em any more.” “Yeah, I can see why.” “It’s not here,” sighed Ricky. “Let’s keep going.” A bolt of lightning shot across the sky. Thunder rolled through the night air. “We’ll find it man,” said Roberto. He backed the pickup into an open parking space and turned it around to exit the narrow lot. “We’re going to find it.”

39 Ted and Jerry and the wall As Ted stood on the outside of the block fence and fretted over the fate of his partner, especially as it might affect his ability to reclaim Sarah, Jerry was on his back, looking up at the night sky. He would have been more than glad to respond to Ted’s calls, but the fact was that the flight had literally taken most of his breath away and the landing had completed the job. And so, for the moment, he had to content himself with enjoying the view. Lots of clouds up there. Not quite so dramatic looking as they had been in the 169

daytime, huge and white and looming, but now, instead of being on the horizon, they were right overhead. Dark gray and kind of mournful and glowering, although Jerry did not specifically associate either of those words with the view. Especially glowering. “Jerry!” Ted called again, trying at once to keep his voice down and make it carry. "Jerrrrrreeee!” Still no reply. “That’s just great. He’s dead. The moron landed on his head and broke his neck.” Jerry heard this and his thoughts were diverted from the wonders of the night sky. It was true that he had landed on his head. What if he had, indeed, broken his neck? Jerry had no idea what a broken neck felt like, but on television shows it usually called for enforced inactivity on the part of the sufferer. Risk of further damage and that kind of thing. But if he didn't move, how could he tell if he was injured? Maybe if he just tried a little at a time it would be okay. Start at the toes. He wiggled them inside his sneakers. They seemed to wiggle okay. Next, he tried his fingers. Okay there, too. He was concentrating so hard on assessing his condition that the sudden silencing of Ted's lamentations on the other side of the fence failed to register with him. He moved his left foot at the ankle. Check. His right foot. Check. A slight bend of the left knee yielded satisfactory results. Then the right knee. He ventured to bring his right hand up to touch the tip of his nose with his forefinger. Not sure exactly what that told him, but it seemed like a good test of overall physical control. He tried the same with his left hand, this time with his eyes shut for added difficulty. Landed just under the left nostril. Not perfect, but pretty good. Eyes still shut, he tried both hands together. The left found the mark an instant before the right, but they both hit the mark. Jerry decided to employ a "snow angel" movement as an overall test of the extremities. He was just completing his third repetition when Ted's voice came back into his consciousness, this time sounding much closer. “What in the hell are you doing?” Jerry stopped in mid wing-flap, opened his eyes, and saw Ted standing over him. A mournful, glowering face against the background of a mournful, glowering sky. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t break my neck,” Jerry said. “I’m so glad. The gate was unlocked. Let's get going.” Jerry, all thoughts of broken necks behind him, sprang to his feet, clapped his hands a couple times, and followed Ted down the gently sloping lawn to where the paddleboat was tied up. 170

Ted climbed aboard first, the small craft listed considerably to starboard as he made his way to the far side of the bench and sat. Jerry lifted the mooring rope off the rustic pole set into the cement dock, tossed it across the front of the paddleboat and leaped onto the port pontoon. The tilt to starboard did not change significantly. They circled to the right, away from the dock. Jerry straightened the tiller to direct it toward the backyard located fifth from the right on the opposite shore. They continued circling to the right. ‘There's too much weight on your side,” said Jerry. “Thanks.” “You need to scoot over.” There was not much space between them, but Ted scooted toward the middle and took over the tiller. He pushed it over as far as it would go. The circles became wider, but no matter how they manipulated the tiller or leaned their bodies, they could not get the paddleboat to go straight. “Stand up,” said Ted. “Whaddya mean, `stand up' ?” “We need to center the load and that means I need to be in the exact center of the bench. You're taking up too much room.” “Looks who’s talking about taking up too much room!" “Shut up. Now get up, and stand in front.” Jerry looked down at the water; he saw himself tumbling out of the paddleboat, flailing about furiously and ineffectively, and then sinking to the bottom, only to bob to the surface days later very bloated, very purple, and very dead. “How about you get up,” he said. They had stopped paddling and were drifting back to the dock. “If I stand at the front we might tip over,” Ted said reasonably and Jerry had to admit that he had a point. Jerry grabbed on to the canopy framework and eased his way in front of Ted. His toes stuck out over the edge, but, as Ted got himself positioned in the middle of the bench the boat did even out. And so with Jerry as a sort of temporary, living figurehead or hood ornament and Ted as pilot and engine room, they began to make progress. Jerry hung on for dear life and called out directions. They made their way across the water in just a few minutes. Jerry leapt desperately from the prow to the lawn, just making it. “Toss me the rope,” he said. Ted tossed, Jerry caught, but there was no convenient post or pillar or tree 171

or stump or bench near the edge of the water, just some potted plants. “There's nothing to tie it to,” Jerry said. “I can see that. Hold on.” Ted eased across the bench to the shore side The paddleboat bucked and bobbed with every tiny movement, leaning further into the water as Ted made his way nearer the edge. “Careful,” said Jerry. “I am being careful. Just hold the damn rope.” Jerry gritted his teeth and dug in his heels. Neither had any effect on the dipping or bobbing. Ted stood slowly, drew a breath in anticipation of possibly ending up in the water and needing the oxygen, gauged his distance to the grass, and made a desperate leap. The boat shot backward, ripping the rope out of Jerry's hands. Ted made it to terra firma but did not stick the landing. He employed the time honored method of flapping his arms and saying “whoa-oh-oh” to keep himself from falling backward into the water, then sat, suddenly and heavily, on a concrete pot containing a wilted hearts and flowers plant. “Ow!” He stood, arched his back inward and rubbed his tailbone. “Damn, that hurt.” “Grab it!” said Jerry. “Grab what?” Ted withdrew his hand from his backside. “The boat! It's coming back!” The paddleboat, as if unwilling to part company so soon, was drifting back to the edge of the yard, . Ted flattened himself against the grass and fished the rope out of the water. “Hold this,” said Ted. While Jerry held the mooring rope, Ted lifted up the concrete flower pot. “Lay it down under this.” Jerry put the rope on the ground and Ted put the pot on top of it. “Well, that oughta hold it,” said Jerry. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with.” A sudden stir of breeze hurried across the water and went away and the air was still and hot again. A bolt of lightning shot through the sky to the southeast. “Great,” said Ted as he strode toward the patio. “I thought you said this place never has storms.” Jerry, lagging behind several feet by virtue of his shorter legs, paused to give the sky an inspection. “It’s just show. Probably nothin’ll happen but some wind. Hey!” he said, just as the boom of thunder rolled over them and 172

something came spinning out from across the water to smack him in the forehead.

40 The Traceys’ front yard “Will you get out of there!” hissed Doreen. Amelia was standing in the Tracey's front yard, quite still, eyes closed, a goofy smile on her face as the sprinklers rained cool water on her. “It's so cool, Doreen, dear. Such a hot night.” The water from the sprinklers was only getting as high as Amelia’s hips, leaving the upper part of her dry and feeling left out. She sat. Even better. Now the water was arcing over her, falling in a gentle mist over her head, her shoulders, her back, all over. Just what was needed on a hot night like this. Perhaps, if she lay down, the effect would be even better. Ah, yes, that was lovely. A few minutes of this and she would be a new woman, ready for what life had to hand her. “Bloody hell!” Doreen stormed into the midst of the spray, grabbed Amelia under the arms, yanked her up on to her feet, and pushed her along up to the front door. The two of them stood there, dripping. “How are we going to get in?” asked Amelia. She shivered. The combination of the breeze that had been building the past few minutes and the soaking wet bedspread draped around her meant she was actually feeling a bit chilled now. Good question, thought Doreen. How were they going to get inside? It had seemed like such a tiny issue, one not worthy of much thought or preparation. After all, didn't Kenny do it all the time? If her idiot son could burgle places it couldn't be all that difficult, now could it? But now that she was on the brink of her first burgle, she had to admit—to herself anyway—that she had no idea how to go about it. The door in front of them was a large paneled affair with a big, antiqued 173

brass handle with lock. Matching deadbolt above. Narrow, stained glass windows with a random, geometric pattern bordered both sides of the door. There were no other windows looking onto the entryway. “Is the door locked?” asked Amelia. “Oh, my! Doreen dear…” “Of course, it's locked. Now be quiet Amelia, I’m thinking.” What a moronic question. Of course the door was locked. But what if it wasn't? What if she had spoken too soon? Shecould give it a try. Make it look like she was just illustrating a point, showing Amelia what a stupid question she had asked. It would, of course, be quite wonderful if the door was not locked; Doreen prepared a backup statement about the foolishness of people in general and Yanks in particular just in case. She didn't need it. The door was locked. “See? Stop asking ridiculous questions.” “I’m sorry. Ooh! Doreen, dear!” “Shut up!” “Yes, but…“ ”Amelia, will you please shut your gab!” Doreen took a credit card out of her pocket and inserted it between the door and frame. She had seen that work on many television shows. A whimpering noise came from behind her, then a sort of wet, flapping sound, and then silence. Fine. At least she could concentrate for a moment. “If this doesn’t work,” she said when it became apparent it wasn’t going to work, there was more to this credit card thing than was generally revealed on the television, “we’ll just break the window. Just stand back a bit and be quiet.” She turned to shoo her sister back, and found she wasn’t there at all. Where Amelia had been standing was a rapidly evaporating puddle and a frayed, irregular bit of soggy fabric. A couple feet away from that was another bit of fabric. There was a trail of disintegrating fabric pieces and fading wet footprints leading from the front door, across the driveway, and around the side of the house. It was much darker there than in front, but Doreen could see that there was a block fence with a gate leading to the back yard. The gate was open. A cloud to cloud bolt of lightning shot across the sky above her, briefly revealing more bits of fabric on the ground in a trail leading through the gate. As she followed the trail she cupped her hands in front of her mouth and attempted a sotto-voce call into the night. “Ameeeeelia!” It was drowned by the rumble of thunder. A hand came out of the darkness and pulled her against the side of the house. 174

“Bloody hell!” “There’s somebody back here, Doreen, dear.” Amelia’s voice whispered hoarsely in Doreen’s ear. “An enormous man! And I think he’s killed somebody!”

41 The Traceys’ backyard A flash of lightning, just a little closer than the last one, was followed just a little more quickly by its accompanying thunder. Ted looked up at the sky. “I don’t care what you say,” he said. “That storm is moving in fast. I hope you know how you're going to get us in.” There was no reply. Ted turned around. “Oh, for the love of…Now what are you doing?” Jerry was sprawled on the grass, looking much as he had on the lawn across the lake, except this time he wasn’t doing snow angel movements. He wasn’t moving at all. “You know Jerry, this is getting old fast.” He gave Jerry a toe in the ribs. Nothing rough, but he didn’t feel like bending over. The breeze was making a reappearance, blowing steadily now and picking up speed. Three flashes streaked across the sky, one right after the other, then combined their sound waves into a rolling rumble that lasted several seconds. Ted hustled back to water’s edge, scooped up about a quart-and-a-half of water in his cupped hands, and dropped it on Jerry’s face, like a tanker plane trying to douse a forest fire. It had no effect. As if the heavens had decided to lend a reluctant assist, a plopping sort of rain began. Big drops of water landing here and there. “Jerry!” Ted knelt awkwardly, his knee and hip still feeling the effect of the fence boost. He gave Jerry a relatively gentle slap on the cheek. “Wake up you little idiot.” “Mr. Hogwood?” 175

The voice came from above him. It was a voice Ted had heard before. He looked up and a big raindrop went splat in his left eye. He blinked it partly away and, through a watery wash, saw the head and shoulders of the boy from the church. The one with the decorated Gretsch. As Ted tried to recollect the boy’s name, another drop hit him on the bridge of his nose and split to spray both eyes. “Wow, I didn't think I was going to see you again.” The boy put his hands on top of the fence and vaulted himself over, landing next to one of the pots. “There it is!” he said. He bent down and plucked something from the ground behind the pot as Ted blinked and poked at his eyes. It took him a moment to focus properly on what Paul was holding. It was a boomerang. “What’s up with Kwiatkowski?” said Paul, indicating his prostrate choir director. “Where did you get that?” said Ted. “This?” Paul held up the boomerang “Davis gave it to me. He got it in Australia. I’ve been practicing with it. I was going to go back inside on account of the storm, but my last throw went around the fence.” He leaned over Jerry. “Wow, looks like something whacked him pretty good, right there.” He pointed to Jerry’s forehead. “The boomerang,” said Ted. “May I see it?” “Yeah, sure.” Paul handed it to Ted. “You mean I did that? Gee, I’m sorry.” “It's not a big deal,” said Ted. ”Mr. Kwiatkowski falls down a lot anyway.” He held the boomerang up to catch as much light as possible. There was some sort of animal represented on each end of the boomerang. Something with a sort of pig-rodent look going for it. The rain was coming down in smaller, but much more numerous, drops. Paul leaned knelt down next to Jerry. “Can you hear me? It’s me, Paul.” There it was, thought Ted, the boy’s name was Paul. “Paul, do you mind if I borrow this?” Ted held up the boomerang and promptly had it snatched out of his hand. “Hey!” Standing over him, holding the boomerang close to her face and giving it a good look, was Doreen. Ted did not know it was Doreen, of course, as this was his introduction to this other principal of our tale. He began to stand but was slowed, first by his rebellious joints and then by a sharp blow on his head. Doreen had whacked him with the boomerang. “Ow!” 176

“There’s more where that came from,” snarled Doreen. “So don’t you bloody well even think about it.” Ted rubbed his head. The rain was coming down harder now. The wind had picked up, angling the rain into his face. “Give me that.” He made a grab for the boomerang and got another whack on the head for his effort. “Ow! Shit!” “How’s your friend?” said Paul to Doreen. “Feeling better?” “You know this harpy?” said Ted. He made to stand again, flinched as Doreen made to hit him again, and stayed where he was. The rain was coming down harder now. “Goodbye,” Doreen said. She pounded through the rain toward the side of the yard. From the black shadow of the side yard, coming towards them, came Phillips Steve and Mrs. Kinsbury. Steve said something to Doreen, but whatever it was Ted couldn’t hear over a fresh barrage of thunder. Doreen gave Steve a look. Then she told him to get the hell out of her way, which everyone heard. Steve pointed at the boomerang. “Ma’am,” he said. “I, that is, we…” he said, indicating Mrs. Kinsbury, who, in all fairness, had played a significant role in getting the two of them to the Traceys’ backyard. She had even produced a hand-held Global Positioning and Metropolitan Mapping System from her purse to assist them in finding the place. Pain in the ass, but a surprise a minute. “We must insist that you turn the boomerang over to us at once.” “And who in the bloody hell are you?” The answer to that, of course, was that they were Phillips Steve and Mrs. Kinsbury of the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative. But somehow Steve felt that at this moment accuracy was not going to carry all that much weight. He was temporarily stumped and looked it. He also was beginning to look wet, but then so was everyone else. “We are with the United States Government,” snapped Mrs. Kinsbury, stretching the truth ever so slightly in the cause of brevity. “Hand it over.” She made a grab for the boomerang, but it was wet and she didn’t get a good grip. Doreen yanked it back. Mrs. Kinsbury lowered her head and drove a shoulder into Doreen’s gut. Doreen said “Oof” and staggered backward, but, being made of tough stuff, and perhaps more importantly possessing a low center of gravity, did not fall. Mrs. Kinsbury, while undeniably possessing an abundance of the tough 177

stuff herself, lost her footing on the rain slick grass and landed on her face with a sploosh. Steve leaped over the prostrate Mrs. Kinsbury and made his own grab for the boomerang. Doreen neatly sidestepped him and he missed by millimeters. His momentum carried him past Doreen and he smacked a shin on one of the terra cotta pots. Ted managed to rise from where he had been kneeling next to the still laidout Jerry and he made his own lunge for the boomerang. Again Doreen executed a slick evasive move. If she had been auditioning for the incoming class at the Seville School for Matadors, she would have made a pretty good showing. But Doreen had no time to revel in her show of agility. Phillips turned, got his feet well under him again, and began chasing her around the yard. Soon he was joined by a soggy, stained and pissed off Mrs. Kinsbury. And lumbering after, acutely aware of what could happen to his knee in such treacherous conditions and mostly getting in the way, was Ted. Paul watched the choreography and tried to make sure nobody trampled the still apparently insensible Jerry. Eventually the three pursuers had Doreen surrounded. Steve, Mrs. Kinsbury, and Ted converged on the amateur criminal mastermind from Brisbane. “AMELIA!!” Doreen bellowed, challenging the thunder for sonic supremacy, as her pursuers closed in. She flipped the boomerang toward the side of the house. It spun through the rain and disappeared into the deep shadows. At the boomerang disappeared into the side yard, the rain stopped. “At least the storm is over,” grumbled Ted. Not quite. Somewhere, not too far away, another bolt of lightning seared the night sky. There was a sizzle-fizz sound and all the street lamps and all the lights in and attached to all the surrounding houses went out. All of a sudden it was really, really dark. It was at that moment that Leslie arrived. He stepped through the patio door, holding a kerosene lantern he had taken from a closet in the manager’s quarters at the El Chiquito Motor Lodge.

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42 Back at the El Chiquito Motor Lodge How in the hell had the spooky bastard gotten himself untied? The thought was tormenting Sarge as he stood in front of the counter in the office at the El Chiquito Motor Lodge. Of course, that was when his mind was not occupied with trying to figure out how to make his arms a fraction of an inch longer or how he could possibly reach his crotch with his teeth. But really, how in the goddam hell had that son-of-a-bitch gotten himself loose? Because if he hadn't gotten loose, he wouldn't have been able to sneak up on Sarge, knock him silly, and put him in this very awkward position. Sarge reviewed what had happened. After knocking the spooky bastard cold with his powerful uppercut, he had dragged him by the feet—head and shoulders scraping against the pavement—across the parking lot to the office. The guy had started to mutter a little, showing some signs of coming to, so Sarge had propped him up in the lone chair in the customer side of the office and trussed him up with some line he kept strung across his apartment to dry his shorts on. Sarge’s intention was to wait for the guy to come to, give him the third degree using some interrogation techniques he had read about in “Soldier For Hire” magazine and, eventually, call the cops. Maybe. Maybe he would just put the fear of God into the jerk and turn him loose the worse for wear. He was thinking about what to do next while he sat on the john, thumbing through some back issues from the magazine rack hanging on the side of the tank, looking for more helpful tips he could apply to his situation, when the spooky bastard appeared like some freaking zombie from hell. If Sarge hadn’t already emptied himself that would have done it for him right there. Next thing he knew he was strapped in front of the counter, unable to move. His wrists were bound together behind his back with a short section of the cord and hooked over one of the half-driven screws on the back of the counter that held room keys. One end of a longer section of cord was tied to the knob of the door to the outside. It ran along the wall to the piece-of-crap air-conditioner, where it looped through the grill and made an approximate right angle to head toward the counter before it disappeared up the left leg of Sarge’s Confederate 179

flag boxers. Now he was afraid that nobody would come through the door to rescue him and much more afraid that somebody would. Sarge could just barely see the clock-thermometer if he swivelled his head to the right. 10:43 and ninety-three degrees. Should’ve stayed in Alaska.

43 Fuud: The Restaurant Davis Tracey felt embarrassed and not a little put out. Actually, he had been put out, quite literally, and from his own restaurant at that. And the person who had done the putting out was his own wife. L.C. had caught him asleep on his feet in front of the stove, smoke rising from a pan of scallops that were rapidly turning into little charcoal briquettes. It was the third time that evening he had been caught asleep on his feet. He was suffering, quite understandably, from jet lag. But why he was doing the asleep on his feet number, while L.C. was bright and chipper as a robin on a spring morning, seemed unfair in the extreme. She shooed him out of the kitchen with absolutely no regard for maintaining any sort of dignified front for the benefit of the dozen or so employees who had gathered at the news that their boss had been caught snoozing over the saut・pan. “Get out of here before you burn the place down,” L.C. said. Then she took away his keys, summoned Neal, the seventeen year old busboy, and practically shoved the two of them out the door. “Make sure he heads straight to bed,” was L.C.'s parting command to Neal after he hip-slammed the passenger door shut on his thirty year old Volare after Davis was seated. The Volare’s throaty exhaust and the squeak-slap of its windshield wipers mixing in with the rumblings from the sky and the pounding of the rain against 180

the car’s roof only made Davis sleepier. The world was all runny colors and rhythmic sound. Neal had to shake him awake twice to get directions. “Check it out,” said Neal when they turned on to Sea Spray. He pointed at a convertible parked on the street across and down from the Traceys’ house. The top was part way up, forming a sort of pair of parentheses with the windshield around the passenger compartment. “Gonna be a swimming pool on wheels before the night’s out.” Davis glanced disinterestedly at the convertible. “Uh-huh,” he said. He didn’t even notice the battered pickup parked in front of the Kirkenboons’ house or the black Corvette behind the pickup. He had to push-pull the passenger door open after Neal stopped the Volare on the driveway. The busboy killed the engine and started to get out. “What're you doing?” said Davis. “L.C. said I had to-” Davis, waved the boy back into the car. “Get back to work.” “But L.C. said-” “Now I'm telling you to shove off. There are tables to clear. Tabasco bottles to replace. Go!” Davis plodded through the rain up to the front entry. He turned and made another shooing motion at Neal, then he watched as the teenager reluctantly got back into the Volare and backed it into the street. He turned back to the door, reached into his pocket and realized he did not have his house key with him. It was on the same ring with the car keys L.C. had taken. Wasn't that great. Davis ran out to the street to try to flag down Neal, but the Volare was already turning the corner and Neal did not see him. The lights went out. The streetlights, the lights inside and outside his neighbors’ homes, the six bulb fixture hanging above the entrance to his own front door. They all went dark. All except the lights of a red Camaro that was just turning the corner and heading his way.

44 181

The Traceys’ backyard As you may recall, Leslie made his appearance on the patio just after the lights blinked out. When he made his entrance all attention was turned to him. This was no wonder. Besides being the only person with a light, Leslie looked like hell. It might be more accurate to say that Leslie looked like an individual recently escaped from Hell and had had a rough time of it either while there or on his way out or both. Even cold-blooded, steely-eyed assassins must have their limit, and it looked like Leslie had passed his several miles back. The cuts and scrapes around his face were oozing; his nose bandage was stained and frayed. His clothing, especially about the shoulders and upper back, looked like it had been attacked by a paper shredder. And to any clear-headed, keen-eyed observer, it would have been obvious that Leslie’s whole demeanor had become that of a person who simply wanted to get the damned thing over with. At that particular moment, however, the Traceys’ backyard contained no such clear-headed individuals. The persons present were all to one degree or another mentally and physically frazzled. What they saw was a character from a slasher movie. The one who performs the slashing. A raggedy, hunched over, angular albino with a face like a gruesome Halloween mask. “Good,” Leslie said, in a nasal, bubbly kind of voice. “Everybody’s here.” With his free hand he took out from under his jacket a compact, graphite composite crossbow, already fitted with a bolt. Leslie waggled his crossbow at Jerry, still out cold on the ground. “What’s with him?” Nobody said anything. Leslie hobbled closer to the laid out choirmaster and the boy kneeling next to him. Paul’s eyes were wide on the ghoul and his weapon. Ted moved to cut him off. “Stay where you are!” hissed Leslie. “What is he doing?” “He fainted,” said Ted, not feeling the need to be too specific. He edged a fraction closer. “It’s okay, Paul,” he whispered to the boy. Back to Leslie, “What do you want?” Leslie sneered, or maybe it wasn’t a sneer, maybe it was a grin, but with his face the way it was, who could really tell. “Who the hell are you?” Mrs. Kinsbury demanded. Her evening had started with the inconvenience of retrieving chapter twenty-four of The Flaming 182

Flower of Inisheer, working title, from the hard drive at the Associated Advisory Board Cooperative and had gone downhill from there. And now this person, if that’s what you could call him, was standing there, looking like Lucifer just out of a blender, pointing some sort of sideways bow and arrow at her. She swatted a clump of wet hair from her eyes and glared at Leslie. “And what the hell is that?” “Shut up,” bubbled Leslie. “Is that a crossbow?” Mrs. Kinsbury continued. “How stupid can you get? Hey!” The feathers at the end of the bolt tickled her left knee before it buried itself in the wet grass. She shut up. “Next time won’t be a warning,” said Leslie. The fact was that time wasn’t supposed to have been a warning; his shot had gone a bit wide due to blurred vision and a fatigued hand. He put his lantern down, pulled another bolt from under his shirt and fit it on the crossbow. “But first I need to take care of some unfinished business.” He turned to face Ted. “You spoiled my fun last time we met, big man.” “I don’t know what you are talking about.” Leslie hobbled another step closer to Paul and Jerry. “Stay away from them! ” said Ted. “I’ve never seen you before.” “We met, briefly,” said Leslie. “In Chicago. Three years ago. I’ll be finishing the job tonight.” Chicago. For Ted it had been a low point in a life possessing few peaks. For one thing it was where he had met Jerry. Along with drummer Dale Crane, they had each been blackmailed into spying on a Mr. DiMaritano, the owner of a jazz club called The Diminished Seventh. The person or persons who wanted the spying done had known about Ted’s short, and unproductive, stint as an enforcer for a loan shark in Kansas City. Jerry had, of course, his car borrowing episodes, and Dale had at one time made ends meet as a participant in a pyramid scheme. In return for silence concerning these infractions, someone identifying himself only as a representative of something called AABC had enlisted them to ferret out details of some sort of political contributions scam that DiMaritano was running. Since none of them had known a damn thing about that type of work outside of Jerry’s talent with locks, they had accomplished very little in the way of effective spying. But the music gig had paid well and DiMaritano wasn’t a bad boss as club owners went and after a few weeks the three of them had for the most part forgotten what had brought them to the Diminished Seventh in the first place. 183

Until one night when something terrible had happened. “The Diminished Seventh?” Ted said. Leslie tilted his crossbow down at Jerry. Then he turned to look at Ted. A misshapen smile cracked his battered face as he saw Ted’s sudden look of recognition. “Bingo, fat boy.” It all came flooding back in Ted’s mind. Leslie hadn’t had that stupid, raggedy bandage on his nose then and his clothes and face hadn’t been torn to shreds, in fact, he had looked pretty well put together, if a human stiletto with an expensive winter ensemble can be said to be well put together. But it was him all right. The pasty skin, the inhuman eyes and especially the crossbow. This was the man who had killed Dale. *** It had been a Friday night in January, about a quarter to midnight. The jazz trio billed simply as JD and T, was between sets. Everyone in The Diminished Seventh was drinking and talking and trying to make connections. Everyone, that is, except Ted and Jerry. Jerry was performing his thrice-nightly evasion of the no alcohol for the talent policy enforced by the owner’s wife. Frannie DiMaritano was also the resident chanteuse, and possibly Chicago’s only believer in strict performance sobriety. Alcohol was off limits to all on the bandstand. She fortified herself before a set with a shot of liquified wheatgrass. So during the breaks Jerry would duck next door to the Headless Frog and quaff a couple of cold ones. He was encouraged in this practice by his bandmates, who were familiar with the consequences when he didn’t quaff. Ted would normally have been sitting at the end of the bar with Dale, Ted with a quart of bottled water and Dale with his orange soda. But this evening Dale was chatting with a pretty young woman who had been sitting close to the bandstand. She had asked Dale if he would like to join her for a drink. No, she didn’t mind if he drank orange soda, she had said with a laugh. Ted got his water from the bartender and went back to the bandstand. He was sitting on the drummer’s throne, back to the crowd, running some unplugged scales, when he felt a sudden chill invade room. Not the chill of the blustery Chicago winter night outside, but a palpable sense of impending danger that made him stop what he was doing and turn around. There was a man moving through the room, cutting his way between the closely spaced tables, leaving an almost visible frost in his wake that killed conversation at every table he passed. He headed straight to where Dale and the young lady were sitting. 184

In a voice as thin and cold and lifeless as the air on Everest’s peak, the man asked if he was speaking to Dale Crane. Dale had said yes, and he was sorry, but had they met before? The man looked around the room, his eyes lighting ever so briefly on Ted. He asked Dale where Jerry Kwiatkowski was. Dale had said, with an obvious grin in his voice, that Jerry was off doing the rest of them a favor. Then the guy had taken this little bow and arrow thing out from under his knee-length coat and shot Dale straight through the heart. The girl screamed and the whole place went berserk. Ted grabbed the snaredrum from Dale’s set and—with all the power and accuracy he used to give to his release passes to streaking point guards after a rebound—he hurled it at the man, knocking the crossbow out of his hand. Then Ted had charged off the bandstand, but too late. Dale was dead; the man with the crossbow had disappeared; DiMaritano’s men were clearing the place. The next thing Ted knew he and Sarah were on a train, heading for Maine. *** “You remember,” said Leslie. “I remember.” “That’s all I wanted to hear,” said Leslie. He swung the crossbow over to point it at Ted. “You first.” As Leslie’s finger tightened around the trigger, Jerry, still on the ground, kicked hard at the back of the assassin's knees, making them buckle. The bolt shot up and over the group, into the inky darkness over the lake. Ted sprang at Leslie and slammed him to the ground. “Got him!” Jerry whooped with glee from next to them on the ground. “I thought you were out!” yelled Ted. “What are you doing, lying there while some lunatic almost kills me!” He adjusted himself to sit on Leslie’s lower rib cage and thumped the assassin several times on the side of the head. “Element of surprise, man! Just waiting for my chance, that’s all!” Jerry sat up and turned to Paul, who looked like he hadn’t taken a breath in the last two minutes. “You okay buddy? Close your eyes for a minute and take a couple deep ones.” Paul tried to take the deep ones but he couldn’t close his eyes to save his life. Jerry turned back to Ted: “Who is this guy, anyway?” “Who is it?” said Ted. “Who is it?” He gave Leslie a good thump with each “who is it?”. “This is the bastard who killed Dale, you moron. But he was looking for you.” “What?” “I told you not to fool around with DiMaritano’s wife, didn’t I? Things like 185

this follow you the rest of your life.” “Frannie? We weren’t fooling around. I showed her a blues scale and how to work some stops, that’s all. Besides, Dale was the one who got killed, not me.” “He came in and asked where you were. When Dale said you were outside having gas, the bastard shot him. He was looking for you because you were messing around with Mrs. DiMaritano.” Ted grabbed Leslie by the hair and pushed his head into the damp ground. “Tell him who DiMaritano sent you to kill! Tell him!”

5 Still the Traceys’ backyard “Actually, Mr. Hogwood,” said a new voice. “I’m pretty sure he was supposed to kill all three of you.” Once again all attention turned to the patio. Davis Tracey was standing there, looking very uneasy. The reason for his unease was that Bethie, looking very summery and girlish in a low cut, spaghetti strap sundress, was holding a gun to his back. It was she who had been in the red Camaro and it was she who had just spoken. “And he was working for Quinny, not that Scratcher man.” She looked down at what little could be seen of the assassin under Ted and gave him a bewildered frown. “For all the money Quinny was paying, you’d think he’d have got a better killer person.” Leslie’s expression temporarily shifted from pained to puzzled. As a matter of fact, everyone else looked a bit perplexed too. “And just who the hell is Quinny?” said Mrs. Kinsbury. “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Bethie. She waved an apologetic hand—which was holding a gun—before putting it once again against Davis’s back. “You people probably know my Quinny by his other name. Ampersand maybe?” For a moment Leslie looked chastened but hopeful. Ampersand was his employer. That meant this new arrival was an ally. He felt like a bully boy whose mother has arrived on the scene as he is being subdued by 186

overwhelming numbers. Sorry to be caught, but confident of escape from the mob. “It took you three years to kill that Gatting person,” said Bethie reprovingly. “And everyone else you were supposed to kill,” she indicated the assembled, “isn’t even close to dead, now are they?” Hope faded from the assassin’s cut and pummeled kisser. “What do you want?” said Ted. Bethie drew herself up and assumed an air of dignity and place. “Only what belongs to me. I am the rightful heir to the Department of G; as if that would mean anything to you people or anything.” It didn’t and their expressions said as much. “Paul?” Davis spotted his young neighbor. “What are you doing here?” “I don’t know, Davis. The boomerang came over the fence, or around it, I guess, and then all these people started showing up. It’s been pretty weird.” “The boomerang?” Bethie turned her attention to Paul. He thought Bethie kind of looked like Miss Campanella, his seventh grade English teacher; all the guys thought Miss Campanella was hot. “That’s just exactly what I want,” she said. “Little boy, you just bring it to me and maybe, just maybe I won’t have to shoot everybody.” Miss Campanella would have never said anything like that. “I don’t have it,” Paul said, more than a little irritated at being called little boy. “Everybody’s been tossing it around and stuff.” “But it’s here, isn’t it?” “I don’t know.” Paul shrugged. “Oh, come on!” Bethie stamped her foot and once again brandished her gun. “I know it’s here. Who had it last?” Paul didn’t say anything. He was seriously considering a bald-faced lie, but the look everyone else was directing at Doreen told Bethie all she needed to know. Doreen glared defiantly at the lot of them. “I bet you’re Mrs. Lush, aren’t you?” said Bethie. “I read all about you.” The wind was reclaiming some of its strength. A set of windchimes somewhere in the neighborhood sounded a cheerful tinkle. There was a faint rumble in the distance. The raindrops started their plop-plopping again. “Your son was working for my husband, ex-husband maybe by now.” Bethie giggled. “He had a real simple job. Just take the boomerang from Gatting and bring to Quinny. And then to me of course. Instead he tried to trick us.” The rumbling got a bit louder, a bit closer. The rain plop-plopped faster and 187

harder, like it was taking aim at them. “Do you know who has the boomerang, Mrs. Lush?” “How much?” said Doreen. “How much what?” “Kenny said he was getting fifty thousand United States dollars for it. So he must have been promised at least twice that. Let’s have a look at the money.” “You do have it! I knew it! Give it here.” “One hundred thousand dollars,” said Doreen. “United States dollars.” “I’m afraid I haven’t brought any money with me.” Bethie pouted “But I did bring this,” she waved the gun once again, “and I bet it’s all I really need.” “One hundred thousand dollars or you can bloody well jump in the lake for all I care.” “Oh, gravy!” Bethie stamped her foot again. She gave Davis another push with the gun. “You go stand over there with those people, okay?” “Ah, okay.” “I guess I have to convince mean old Mrs. Lush.” Bethie squished over to Doreen. She raised the gun, pointing at Doreen’s head. Davis pulled Paul to him and hid the boy’s face in his chest. Mrs. Kinsbury was trying to inconspicuously reach into her purse. Phillips was thinking back to all his training and all the precarious situations he had found himself during his previous life as a bona-fide intelligence agent and was coming up with nothing that could be of any possible assistance. Jerry was trying to get Ted’s attention with extremely subtle head movements and failing altogether. “I’ll give you like maybe five seconds to tell me where that boomerang is Mrs. Lush. Five…four…” The rain started running down the back of Bethie’s sundress. She cast an unappreciative eye to the heavens. “I thought Arizona was supposed to be sunny and dry,” she said. “Whatever. Three...two-” As Bethie was counting, over her head flew the boomerang. It spun over the yard, took a wide turn over the water, and started coming back. They all stared at it. Bethie was the only one with the presence of mind to do something, although what she did was really rather silly. As the boomerang passed back over their heads, she raised her gun and pulled the trigger. The gun made a lot of noise, but for all her supposed prowess at knocking off bunnies, Bethie missed. The boomerang disappeared into the deep shadows of the side yard. As if signaled by the gunshot to pick up the pace, the rain started coming down heavier. Bethie waved the gun at the startled group. She nodded, as if to say that, yes, you betcha it worked, and there was more where that came from if they 188

didn’t do what she said. “You all just stay right there, okay?” It appeared to be okay with everybody except Doreen and Jerry. Then Bethie turned to peer into the wet darkness from which the boomerang had come and into which it had returned. “Who’s there?” As if in answer, once again the boomerang came whirling through the circle of lantern light and into the darkness over the water, cutting a path through the downpour. On its return flight it passed just out of reach and disappeared into the darkness at the side of the house. Bethie whirled back on the group and screamed, “Who’s throwing that boomerang!?” Mrs. Kinsbury shrugged. Phillips was thinking. Doreen glared. Jerry was still trying to get Ted’s attention and still failing. Leslie was thinking he should have kept working the African civil wars instead of taking this job. A better fun to danger ratio. The rain and wind shifted into higher gear. “OK, I guess, everybody, over there.” Bethie herded them into a tight group around Ted and Leslie. “Nobody moves. Really.” Things were not going very super good. She picked up the lantern, gave them one more warning to stay put, and turned once again to the side yard. Another bolt of lightning darted out of the clouds, closer now but throwing its light on the wrong side of the house to be any real help to Bethie. A tremendous boom quickly followed. The rain was thick, great drops tumbling out of the sky at a furious rate. “You!” She called into the shadow. “That’s my boomerang!” No reply. She stretched out both arms, holding gun and lantern as far forward as possible, to illuminate the unknown and blast it if it was real scary. As Bethie stepped around the corner, lightning exploded across the sky directly over their heads, a giant rip shredding the darkness. If it had not been drowned out by the immediate cannonade of thunder, which for those on the ground very nicely simulated the experience one would enjoy if one happened to be seated inside a Koto drum being played by a person of great strength and enthusiasm, the rest of our cast would have heard a gasp of disbelief and disgust come from Bethie. Eeeeeoooooohhh! The lantern fell from her hand, rolled under a miniature Niagara cascading from the patio roof, and went out. From out of the pitch dark of the side yard came a shriek, a cry, a horrific 189

banshee wail. “AMELIA!” called Doreen. She began groping her way toward the side yard. The air was now nearly solid with rain, a physical obstacle that had to be shoved aside. Jerry pulled Paul up to the shelter of the patio. “Go through the house!” he yelled above the storm’s clamor. “Go home and lock the doors and call the police!” Paul felt his way along the wall to the door. He disappeared inside. Jerry turned and yelled back to Ted. “Over there!” he called, his voice barely carrying over the roar of the wind and rain. “Come on!” Ted heaved himself off Leslie. He followed Jerry’s voice to the corner of the house, where all was as dark as, well, as dark as the soul of a rabid dingo. “There’s somebody over here!” Jerry yelled, waving an arm into the pitch black. “Naked lady! Got the boomerang!” “Right.” “I am not kidding!” A figure, unidentifiable in the dark, pushed past them, emitting a tremulous little shriek on contact. Something fell on Jerry’s foot. He bent to pick up whatever it was. From nearby came the sounds of a struggle. Colorful expletives, mixed with smacks of wet skin against wet skin, and an “oof” or two. A door slammed. The lights came back on. Throughout the neighborhood, all the inside and outside lights that had been extinguished those few minutes earlier came back to life. The rain and wind, as if responding to this cue, reduced in an instant to a mere dribble and a gentle zephyr. The sky had calmed itself for a second time. Jerry found he was holding a boomerang. A wet, dirty boomerang with an inlaid design at each end of some sort of tubby, low slung creature. “Check it out!” he said, holding it up for Ted’s inspection. “Give that here!” Doreen appeared and grabbed it from him. “Thank you!” said Bethie, whose face was all over red and whose right eye exhibited the beginnings of a glorious shiner. One of the spaghetti straps on her sundress was broken and that side of the garment, heavy with rainwater, was providing less than its usually marginal coverage, which appeared to bother Bethie not one little bit. She snatched her prize and made a mad dash for the patio. She no longer held the gun, having dropped it during her struggle with 190

Doreen. Ted cut her off, but a misplaced gentlemanly indecision as to exactly where he could properly tackle the disheveled young woman gave her time to reverse course. She tried to make it out through the side gate, but Jerry was there to meet her, exhibiting no such scruples concerning the proprieties. Doreen lunged in from the side, interfering with Jerry, but one of her eyes had mud in it and her depth perception was not what it should have been. She missed,and Bethie dodged around her. Mrs. Kinsbury and Phillips were waiting for her in the yard. Mrs. Kinsbury had some sort of largish cellular-phone looking device in her hand. She pointed it at Bethie as the young woman streaked past and a couple of very thin wires shot out the end, but they dropped just short of making contact and fell to the ground, where they made light sparking noises in the wet grass. Phillips Steve tripped against a terra cotta planter and fell. Bethie sprinted past them toward the back border of the yard. Ted, Jerry, Doreen, Steve and Mrs. Kinsbury gave chase, but their efforts were not coordinated . There were collisions and wet, sliding plunges and they did not make good time. Bethie, however, was temporarily blessed with footwork that would have been the envy of a Pro-Bowl halfback. She shoved the concrete pot aside that was holding the mooring line to the ground, and jumped on to the paddleboat and was several feet out before anyone else reached the edge of the water. There was nothing to do but watch as she paddled desperately and gleefully away. “Bloody hell!” said Doreen. That seemed to pretty well sum it up so nobody else said anything. But then Bethie, not content with simply making her escape, stood up from her seat on the paddleboat and, while any really impressive jumps or splits were not practical, the cheerleader that was such an integral part of her once again came to the fore. “Thunder-thunder-thunderation We’re the best team in the nation When we fight with determination Thunder-thunder-thunderation!” Bethie’s footwork may have been by necessity restrained, but she made up for it with vigorous, sharply executed upper body movements that peaked with an skyward thrust of the hand holding the boomerang. She would have done better to keep this most basic part of her character in 191

check. There are three sound reasons for this assessment. First: It was poor cheerleading etiquette. A cheerleader’s function is to lead a sympathetic gathering in urging their team to victory, not to taunt an apparently defeated and demoralized foe. Second: It was an ill-chosen transference of resources which retarded her progress; one cannot effectively paddle and taunt at the same time. Third: Bethie’s cheer selection may have sounded like an invitation to Mother Nature—who may very well fancy herself a likely candidate for the varsity cheer squad—to lend her peculiar talents to the festivities. When one invites Mother Nature to ones party it becomes by default Mother Nature’s party. And so, with the invocation that was the final “thunderation!” it came. Straight down it came. A scimitar flashing down from the heavens. It smote and sizzled. It set the paddleboat’s canopy aflame, splintered its wooden seat, and flung its occupant in a smoking arc across the night sky and into the water. It was quite a sight. “Lord!” said Ted. He was not a religious man, but that is what he said. “Geez!” said Davis, and meant it. “Fried,” muttered Mrs. Kinsbury with an unseemly tone of satisfaction. “Who cut the dog in half?” said Doreen. The others turned, questioningly, to her. Then, Davis and Mrs. Kinsbury on one side and Ted and Doreen on the other, moved away from Jerry. He looked at one pair and then the other and assumed an attitude of persecution. “Hey, all I need is a beer. D’ya mind?”

46 Here come the Feds James Fatherday had briefly considered taking care of this Alphabet business solo, having a little fun like the old days. But common sense, as well as the timely recollection that his old days had been spent in places no more perilous than the Foreign Studies Faculty lounge at Harvard, prevailed. So it 192

was in the company of twelve of the FBI’s finest D.C. based agents that he had flown to at Mesa Arizona’s Falcon Field. There he acquired another five, locally-based, agents, each waiting with a dark blue Crown Victoria. The storm had subsided but the water was still curb high in many of the streets so it was slow going. The agents divided up once they arrived at the Traceys’ house. Some took positions along the street, some outside the house; two were sent on a patrol of the neighborhood. Two accompanied Fatherday to the front door. There was no answer when he rang the bell, so Fatherday tried the door. It was not locked. Officially, it would not have been a sterling idea for him to enter a private residence without the proper authorization from a judge. He was temporarily stumped. Acutely aware of the expectant looks he was getting from his support team, but stumped nevertheless. And then he was rescued by a boy. A boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen years of age. The boy came out of the house next door and was noticed immediately by the highly trained agents on that side of the property. Fatherday, in turn alerted to the boy’s presence by Agent Hawkins, approached the conference. He heard the boy speaking to Agent Adams. “Wow, I just called like a minute ago. Sure sent a lot of you. You guys plainclothes detectives?” “Good evening young man,” said Fatherday as he approached. “Did you call the police, young man?” “That was me. I didn’t ask for unmarked cars and no uniforms though. You guys are cops, aren’t you?” “In a way,” said Fatherday. “We are with Central Intelligence.” Paul’s eyes lit up. “No way!” “Yes way.” Fatherday had always wanted to say that and just hadn’t had any good opportunities either at work or home. “Yes, indeed, way.” “You got any ID?” Fatherday showed him his identification. “Cool,” said Paul. “Maybe you can help until the cops get here. It sounded like they had their hands full with accidents and power lines and street floods and stuff.” “We will do our best,” said Fatherday. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a boomerang, would it?” “My boomerang,” clarified Paul. “How’d you know? Sorry, dumb question. You guys know everything, don’t you?” 193

“Not quite, but we’re working on it. Perhaps you could fill me in.” “Everybody’s around back. C’mon.” Paul led them through the gate and into the backyard. There was a cluster of people gathered at the edge of the yard by the water. They were quarreling loudly and took no notice of Fatherday or Paul or the dozen or so agents that preceded and followed those two through the gate. There was also a man apart from the group who looked like he had been partially sucked into the ground. Two of the agents split off to check out the partially buried specimen the others fanned out across the yard, squishing noisily across the wet grass. Fatherday approached the bickering assembly at the water’s edge. There was a very large man with a shaven head, a small man with an uncanny resemblance to a cartoon weasel, a stumpy woman with bristly, hennaed hair, a thin woman with a sharp face, a fellow who, for some reason, looked vaguely familiar to Fatherday, and a bewildered looking thirty-something man wearing the loose pants and smock of a restaurant kitchen worker. They were all wet and some of them were remarkably dirty. “Well, maybe if you had actually said something,” the very large man was saying to the weaselly one, “instead of just making spastic motions with that pinhead of yours, I might have noticed.” “Where did she go?” the stumpy woman demanded. “Where the bloody hell is she?” “Can you see her?” the sharp-faced woman said. She was covered with grass stains and her hair was every which way. She held a flopping wet clump of it away from her eyes as she peered intently out over the water. “I can’t see her. Can you see her?” “Who are all you people?” said the man in the restaurant garb. Fatherday clapped his hands, trying to get their attention. They just kept on bickering. He gave them a few more moments. “Mr. Kwiatkowski,” Fatherday said, loudly. Jerry turned to him, and gave him grudging attention. “Mr. Hogwood.” Ted followed Jerry’s example. Fatherday repeated this roll call for Doreen, Amelia, Phillips Steve, Mrs. Kinsbury, and Davis Tracey. He knew the names from the report he had read on the plane. There had been photos in the reports too, but unposed and lifelike as the pictures may have been, Fatherday would have been excused if he had not immediately identified the drenched, scratched, mud-caked persons in front 194

of him as the same individuals. “Amelia’s not here,” said Doreen, thrusting herself forward. “But she’s got to be around here someplace and these mugs know where. “Lady, I have no idea where your friend got to,” said Jerry. “She is not my friend,” snorted Doreen, as if she would sooner admit to having a bad case of shingles than a friend. “She is my sister.” A relationship for which she had to take no blame. “Whatever,” shrugged Jerry. “If she was the naked broad by the side of the house, she’s gone now.” “She’s the one who dropped the boomerang and let it get blown to kingdom come out there,” groused Ted. “She must be around here somewhere,” Doreen insisted. “She booked it,” said Jerry. “Probably halfway back to Ireland by now.” “Ireland?” said Fatherday. “Do you think she’s dead?” asked Mrs. Kinsbury, still staring out over the water. “Who do you think you’re calling Irish?” demanded Doreen, who prided herself on her Welsh patriot ancestry. “Well she didn’t look like an Arab,” said Jerry. “Probably with the IRS.” “Shut up,” said Ted. Fatherday had lost them again. He clapped his hands and did another roll call. “Mr. Kwiatkowski, Mr. Hogwood, Mrs. Lush, please. I think we can get this mess all cleared up, but I need your attention. I am sorry I missed the excitement, but this young man here…” “Paul,” said Paul. “Good to know you, Paul. Paul here tells me you all have been involved in something to do with a boomerang. Is that correct?” He was answered with a chorus of raised voices accompanied by many excited gestures and little in the way of coherency. “Folks, please.” Fatherday gestured for silence. It came, eventually. “Let’s do this one at a time, shall we? Perhaps I can help us tie this all up.” “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Davis, stepping forward and waving his hands. “This is my back yard and that is my house and that,” he pointed at the smoldering wreck on the water, “was my neighbor’s paddleboat. Not to mention the fact that my wife is going to be home pretty soon. Nobody ties up anything until I get some answers. Starting with you.” This addressed to Fatherday. “Who the hell are you?” 195

The others echoed his curiosity, each of them frankly disappointed for not having put forward this obvious question themselves. Who was this new guy? “My apologies, Mr. Tracey. My name is James Fatherday.” “Impossible,” snorted Mrs. Kinsbury. “James Fatherday is Director of Central Intelligence.” “Paul?” Davis had little time or inclination to read newspapers or watch any television beyond “Iron Chef”, which he Tivoed religiously; it was Paul who kept him up to date on the world and its affairs. “I saw his ID and he looks like the man I saw on “Hardball”,” said Paul, the voice of authority. “Good enough for me,” said Davis. “Thank you,” said Fatherday. “Hey, if you’re who Paul says you are,” piped in Jerry, “then you oughta know about the twenty grand I was promised.” “We,” corrected Ted, giving Jerry a sharp dope slap on the back of the head. “Ow! That’s what I meant. We.” “First of all,” said Fatherday, “I would like to thank each of you for your role, intended or otherwise,” this to Davis, “in this matter.” “I don’t want your bloody thanks,” said Doreen. “One hundred thousand dollars. American dollars. That’s what my Kenny was promised and that’s what I mean to have.” “A hundred grand?” said Jerry. “We did it for twenty. Who the hell is Kenny anyway? Sorry, Paul,” he added, remembering he was, after all, a choir director. “It’s cool, Mr. Kwiatkowski.” “What about my job?’ said Mrs. Kinsbury. The past three years had been custom made for an author of marginal earning power. Now she saw looming the very real prospect of having to work for a living. “I will be more than happy to discuss compensation for your efforts after we have determined the value of the recovered property,” said Fatherday. “If I may ask to see the boomerang?” There was an awkward silence, during which they all tried very hard not to direct their gazes out to the wreck on the water. Ted said, “We don’t exactly have the boomerang on us.” “But you know where it is?” said Fatherday. “More or less,” said Mrs. Kinsbury. “Which is it?” Mrs. Kinsbury shrugged. 196

“Is it near?” “Could be,” said Jerry. “I’m not going to play twenty questions with you folks. If you want to discuss compensation I need that boomerang.” Another awkward silence. “Anyone?” Davis, who had no financial stake in the affair, and since of the others was speaking up, pointed to the lake. “It’s somewhere out there,” he said. Fatherday looked. He whistled softly. “What happened to that?” he said, pointing to the still smoking paddleboat. “Lightning,” said Davis. “No.” “Yes,” said Ted. “And the boomerang was on that?” “Sure was,” said Phillips Steve. “How did it get out there?” “She took it,” said Mrs. Kinsbury. “Who?” “Hot young babe with a gun,” said Jerry. Davis shrugged. “Somebody who knew Ampersand,” said Phillips Steve. “Ampersand?” Fatherday raised an eyebrow. The catalyst of the whole mess. The mystery person or organization mentioned in Hank’s report. “He or they have been here?” “Wasn’t a he or a they,” said Jerry. “She was a she. She snagged the boomerang, took off across the water and then flash, bang, zapperoonie she went.” “Zapperoonie?” said Fatherday. “Big time,” said Jerry. “Boom, sizzle, splat.” Fatherday nodded. “And she had the boomerang at the time?” “Taunting us with it, the little tart,” said Doreen. “She got what she deserved.” Fatherday digested this scenario for a moment. “I see.” “But we tracked it down,” said Ted desperately. “At great expense and with no small degree of personal hardship and physical peril. That ought to be worth at least half the agreed upon sum.” His half of ten thousand would still redeem 197

Sarah from Topp Dollar Pawn. “And were you all told why such generous sums were being offered for the delivery of this stick of wood?” asked Fatherday. There was a general muttering. “I was just following orders, sir,” Phillips Steve said. None of the others had anything to contribute. They just stood there, looking generally sullen. “Well,” said Fatherday. “Since the boomerang has been destroyed I think we can consider the matter closed.” He signaled to one of the agents, who passed on the direction to the others still squishing about the soggy yard. They began to head toward the gate. “Well folks,” said Fatherday, “it has been an interesting evening. I wish you all the best.” He turned and began to squish his own way back to the gate. He was stopped dead in his tracks by a great cry. A breath of misery that seemed to rise from deep in the rain soaked earth and given voice through the person of Ted Hogwood. The agents who had already made it through the gate came rushing back. “What is the matter with him?” asked Fatherday. Ted had collapsed on the grass, his big frame vibrating with heaving sobs. “Sarah,” said Jerry. He patted Ted on the head consolingly and neatly sidestepped a roundhouse right. “Sarah?” Fatherday did not recall any Sarah being mentioned in the twohundred-forty page report. “It’s really a sad story,” said Jerry. He danced out of the way of another potentially crippling blow from Ted and squished over to Fatherday. “Listen, Ted didn’t want to say anything,” he said, nodding at the still semi– recumbent Ted. “You know, kind of a personal situation.” He motioned Fatherday to step away from the gathering for a private word. Fatherday obliged. Jerry whispered in his ear for a long moment. “I understand,” Fatherday nodded. “Well, Mr. Hogwood, my heart certainly goes out to you and I can sympathize with your desire to buy your niece back from the white slave trade in San Diego. Agent Westphal here will be happy to refer you to our people there.” “Five grand,” said Jerry. “He can talk them down to five grand, I know he can.” “Valiant effort, Mr. Kwiatkowski,” said Fatherday. “But the fact is that without the boomerang or its contents none of you has anything to bargain with. I’m afraid our business is concluded.” Ted gave Jerry a vicious glare and mouthed “white slaves?” 198

Jerry shrugged apologetically, not because he thought it had been a bad idea, but because, for some reason, it hadn’t worked. “Mr. Fatherday?” said Paul. “Yes, Paul?” You did say the boomerang or it’s contents, didn’t you?” “I don’t think it’s telling too much to say that the contents were what we were interested in, yes. The boomerang was just a container. Why do you ask?” “So, if Mr. Hogwood could get you what was inside the boomerang, you’d help him out?” “You mean with his niece and the white slavers?” “I bet that’s not what he needs help with.” Paul looked at Ted, then back to Fatherday. “If we’ve got what you want, will you help Mr. Hogwood?” “Paul, I’m not at all sure what we’re talking about here, but if Mr. Hogwood had the boomerang.” “You mean its contents.” “That’s correct, its contents. If he did have the contents, which he obviously doesn’t, then, yes, we would have something to talk about.” “I’ll be right back!” Paul took off at a sprint, across the yard and through the gate. “Don’t go anywhere!” he yelled.

47 The entrance to The Coves Roberto turned the pickup into the main entrance of a subdivision marked by a huge fountain flanked by waterfalls. “Let's take a quick look here.” “What, are you kidding?” said Cesar. “Nobody in this place would be seen dead in Ricky's car. White-bread guedos all the way. Minivans and SUVs.” Ricky said nothing. He was concentrating on trying not to miss anything, scared to blink in case he might miss his baby. “Anyway, they probably have a, whadda you call it, association rule against 199

them or something.” “You’re so dumb, Cesar,” said Roberto. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing here but Expeditions and Volvos.” “Just keep your eyes open, will you? said Roberto. “The first place we skip is the place it's bound to be.” They patrolled in silence. “I don't know,” said Ricky after they had gone up and down what seemed like most of the streets in the subdivision. “Maybe Cesar’s right.” “Hah!” from the back seat. “This does seem like the last place we should be looking,” said Ricky. “The Biltmore,” said Cesar. “What about the Biltmore?” said Roberto. “That would be the last place. The Biltmore. You remember when we went to Planet Hollywood in Ricky's car? Everybody looked at us like we were from another planet or something.” “Whatever,” said Ricky. “It's not even there anymore.” “What’s not there?” "Planet Hollywood. They tore it down or something. I read about it in the business section of the newspaper.” “No way. That place was like a monument or something, man. Movie stars showing up all the time and stuff; they wouldn’t tear it down.” “Well they did, so get over it,” said Ricky, a little tersely. “Gee, you don’t have to get grouchy. Heh!” Cesar pounded the back of Ricky's seat with one hand and pointed ahead with the other. “There! There!” They had just turned back onto Cove Drive East from Fathom Drive. There, ahead of them maybe a hundred yards, shimmering in a misty cone of yellowish street lamp light along the opposite sidewalk, was Ricky's car. A person was approaching it, staggering up to the sidewalk from the greenbelt. Whoever it was opened the door and got into the car. Roberto put the accelerator to the floor, spinning the back wheels on the slick pavement and making the pickup flip its tail around like a hooked trout. He got the thing steadied and they shot forward. “Be careful!” Ricky cried as they rocketed down the street. The way they were flying he was afraid they would ram into his baby. Roberto's hands tightened on the steering wheel. At what he hoped was just the right time, he pointed the nose of the pickup into the Monte Carlo, 200

slammed on the brakes, and made a tiny jerk of the steering wheel to the right. “NO!” yelled Ricky. He closed his eyes and waited for the crunch. They skidded sideways and came to a screeching halt inches from the Monte Carlo’s front bumper, blocking it in with the side of the pickup. The young men were out of the pickup and at the Monte Carlo’s door in a flash. “Get out of my car!” shouted Ricky. Bethie fumbled desperately around the underside of the dash, trying to find the wires she needed. Robbie Killian had showed her how to do a hot wire once, but that had been on a tractor and it just didn’t seem to be the same. She inadvertently flipped a switch. The car began a corner to corner dance that bounced her around the interior of the Monte Carlo like a rubber ball on a trampoline full of rambunctious ten-year olds. She tried to shut it off but instead hit another switch that started an air-horn arrangement of "Tequila" that cut through the hot night air. The Monte Carlo shimmied, shook and leapt in synchronization to the music. Ricky, Cesar and Roberto stepped back quickly. Not a smart thing, standing too close to a lowrider in full-hydraulic dance mode, even if there was a practically topless young woman bouncing around inside. Ricky wished the girl would stop the bouncing and get out of his car. It was obvious she was wet and it couldn’t be doing the upholstery any good. Besides, it kind of looked like she was going to throw up.

48 Back at the Traceys’ It was a group of puzzled adults Paul left standing in the Traceys’ backyard, not the least puzzled being Ted. He didn’t know whether to hope for a miracle or feel sorry for a boy driven nuts by a night of tension and violence. And then, cutting through the hot, damp night air, came the sound of screeching tires followed by a blaring rendition of “Tequila”. Fatherday gestured to Agents Heard and Van Arsdale. 201

“Maybe you’d better check that out.” The agents nodded and trot-squished out of the yard. It began to rain again. No wind, no thunder or lightning, just a steady, plopping rain. “Mr. Tracey,” said Fatherday, “With your permission, I think it would be a good idea if we retired to the shelter of your patio.” “Whatever.” Most of the group crowded onto the patio. Two of the agents maintained their positions in the yard, patrolling in the rain. “Any idea what the youngster’s talking about?” Fatherday asked Davis Tracey. “Got me,” said Davis. The sound of “Tequila” had died. Paul came racing back around the corner of the house, guitar case in his hands. He handed it to Ted. “Her name is Natalie,” he whispered to Ted. Ted nodded. “Good name,” he whispered back. Paul turned to Fatherday. “I need to talk to you.” Fatherday followed the boy away from the assembly on the patio back out in the yard. The rain had faded once again to the occasional plop mode. But before they could begin their conference, through the gate came Bethie, Ricky, Roberto, and Cesar, along with Agents Heard, who was shirtless, and Van Arsdale, who was fully clothed. Bethie was wearing a man’s shirt, which explained Agent Heard’s state of undress. Her eyes were wide, glazed over, and didn’t seem to be taking in a lot of reality at the moment. She looked like a fish on ice. There was a bare patch on one side of her head that appeared for all the world to have little wisps of smoke curling up off it. “That’s her!” shrieked Doreen. “You bloody well ask her where it is!” “We found her,” said Agent Heard, his arms folded self-consciously across his manly chest, “in a car that these young men say belongs to them.” “Me,” clarified Ricky. “It’s my car. She stole it.” An accusatory stab of the finger at Bethie. She blinked. Jerry or Ted could have corrected them on the true identity of the car thief but thought better of it. “Has she got it?” Fatherday asked the agents. “Nothing on her,” answered Agent Van Arsdale, barely containing a smile, “or in the car.” 202

“Give her the Miranda? “ “Yessir. But I’m not so sure she understood. Probably have to do it again once she comes around.” Fatherday looked at Bethie, who goggled back at him and then leaned over and was sick. “Okay. Tell you what. Let’s give Mr…” He looked at Ricky. “Montoya,” said Ricky. “Ricardo Montoya.” “Give Mr. Montoya a receipt for the impounding of his car so we can give it a thorough going-over.” “What! No! The Southwest Regionals are next week! I’m barely going to have time to clean it up if I start right now!” “You’ll be doing your country a great service, Mr. Montoya,” said Fatherday. Agent Heard will explain.” “Oh man!” “You don’t need to keep his car,” said Paul. “I’ve got what you want.” “Yeah, he’s got what you want,” agreed Ricky, nodding vigorously in agreement. “What do you want?” “And I think we should find a nice place for this young lady to spend the remainder of the night.” Fatherday gestured to Agent Johnson. “Looks like she could use a bit of recovery time before she can fully appreciate the consequences of her actions.” Agent Johnson nodded, waited until Bethie had unbent, and kindly offered her his handkerchief, presumably with which to wipe her face. Bethie accepted the handkerchief and draped it over her bald spot. Agent Johnson escorted her back through the gate. Fatherday turned to Ricky. “Now, Mr. Montoya, I must ask you to excuse us for a moment.” “But my car!” “If I am satisfied that we will not need to impound your automobile this evening you may be assured it will be returned to you. Agent Perry?” Agent Perry escorted the protesting Ricky, Roberto, and Cesar around the side yard and out front. “Now.” Fatherday returned his attention to Paul. “You say it won’t be necessary to search the car?” “I need to talk to you,” said Paul. “Privately.” “All right.” The two of them retreated to a corner of the patio. Fatherday crouched down a bit, hands on hips, to come face to face with Paul. He listened intently, nodded once, twice, shook his head once, then nodded again. He said: “If it’s okay with Mr. Hogwood, you’ve got yourself a deal. Otherwise, we need to 203

talk some more.” “If what’s okay with me?” said Ted. “Paul has a proposition for you, Mr. Hogwood. Go ahead Paul.” Paul looked at Ted, who was looking in a very puzzled manner right back at him. “Ah, well, I just figured maybe I could help Mr. Fatherday get what he wants and maybe help you get what you want.” “But what he wants is the boomerang,” said Ted. “And we all saw it get blown to bits out on the lake. What I want is money, lots of it, and I don’t think you can help me there, Paul.” “Actually, he said he wanted what was inside the boomerang,” said Paul. “Don’t you think that if the boomerang was vaporized whatever was in it was destroyed too?” “Not if it was somewhere else when the lightning hit.” “Somewhere else? Where?” “In my room.” “I don’t understand.” “The boomerang fell apart the first time I threw it. I hot-glued it back together so I could play with it. But when it came apart I found something inside. If that’s what Mr. Fatherday wants then he says he’ll help you get Sarah back.” “Sarah? How did you…? Never mind. What are you waiting for? Go! Fly! Bring it here!” “I don’t have to. I brought it here already.” Paul indicated the guitar case. “What? In the case?” “I’ll tell you where. But first…” Paul hesitated, unsure if he really dared pursue this course of action. He went ahead. “…I want to ask if you’ll do me a favor.” “If it means I get Sarah back, you’ve got it.” “You mean it?” “Paul, you get me my Sarah and I’m indebted to you for life. Name your price.” “I want to you play for Korie at church tomorrow.” Ted’s initial reaction was to object. Churches gave him the willies, and, while he had survived the rehearsal the previous evening, the last time he had been subjected to an actual service it had been one of the more excruciatingly tedious experiences of his life. But if he couldn’t stick out an hour among the pews in order to rescue Sarah, then he didn’t deserve her. Of course he would do it. For Sarah he would walk on broken glass, he would brave howling 204

wolves, he would read a romance novel. Yes, he would play for Korie, even if it meant sitting through an entire church service. They weren’t generally more than an hour or so, were they? Paul said that was about right. Very well then, it was a deal. “Not so fast, Mr. Hogwood,” said Fatherday. “That’s only part of the agreement. Tell him the rest, Paul.” “The rest?” said Ted, raising a suspicious eyebrow. “Paul? What rest?” “Ah, well, I was kind of hoping that, maybe you might…”, the youngster screwed up his courage and blurted it out. “I want you to give me lessons!” “Lessons?” said Ted. “But that would mean staying here,” “No problem man,” said Jerry. “You can bunk with me. Plenty of room.” “Shut up,” said Ted. Walking on broken glass and reading romance novels was one thing, making a home in the hottest city in creation was quite another, especially if it meant sharing quarters with Jerry. He would be living in constant fear of not only heat prostration but methane poisoning. Did his love for a guitar, an object that was, after all, no more than a few pieces of wood and some bits of metal stuck here and there, mean that much to him? It took a moment for him to consider this and, only a moment though it may have been, it was a difficult, difficult moment indeed. “Fine,” said Ted. “You mean it?” “I mean it.” Ted didn’t like it, but he meant it. “All right!” Paul pumped his fist in the air. “Now, Paul,” said Fatherday. “If we could please have a look at what you found, we can wrap this up.” Paul picked up the Gretsch from where it sat by Ted. He put his hand on one of the many stuck-on decorations that covered the instrument. He twisted and pulled it off bringing with it a rough circle of red finish. Ted winced. “I can cover that with a sticker,” Paul said, largely to himself. “There’s one of them,” he said to Fatherday, handing him the disk. Fatherday accepted it, but it was obvious that it was not what he had been expecting. He wasn’t quite sure what he had been expecting, but how could what appeared to be an opal, however lovely—and it was a breathtaking stone —have anything to do with J. Edgar Hoover and the 1952 Presidential election? “Allow me, sir,” said Agent Hawkins, stepping forward. Fatherday handed him the opal. Agent Hawkins held it up to the ceiling fan light, tilted it this way 205

and that, turned it over, then over again. He took out a small pocket knife, placed the point of the blade against the edge of the opal, and pushed in firmly. Then he pried up gently, separating the dull black backing of the opal from the iridescent top. A small, flat, black object, square save for a notch in one corner, fell into his hand. Paul had pulled the second opal from where he had glued it to the guitar and, having observed Agent Hawkins’s technique, was applying the same with his own pocket knife, an elegant little blade, screwdriver, scissors, toothpick, ball-point pen, tweezers, flashlight affair. It had been a surreptitious birthday present from his grandmother, who believed every boy should have at least one implement of destruction. He uncovered an identical corner cut square. “What is it?” said Paul. Davis held out his hand. “May I?” Paul gave him the small plastic square. He turned it over once and said, “Multi-media card.” “What’s that?” asked Fatherday. “Data storage medium,” answered Agent Marion from his post at the corner of the patio. “That’s right,” said Davis. If you’ve got a minute, I can grab one of my new digital cameras and we can have a look.” “That would be very helpful, Mr. Tracey,” said Fatherday. “If you don’t mind, Agent Majerle will accompany you.” “Fine with me.” “And I’ll just keep a hold of these…what did you call them?” “Multi-media cards,” offered both Davis and Agent Marion. “There you go.” Fatherday held out his hand and Davis tipped the tiny square from his hand into the Director’s and, followed by Agent Majerle, went into the house. The people left outside occupied themselves mostly with silent speculation, but the speculation did not have much time to ferment as Davis and Agent Majerle reappeared within a minute. Davis was holding a silvery, squashedlooking camera with a small screen on the back. He turned it over and pressed against a tiny, hinged panel on the bottom. It swung open. “There you go,” he said, “Should just slide in there. Notch end first, label side up.” Fatherday pushed one of the little plastic cards in as directed; it clicked into place. Davis closed the panel and slid a top-mounted switch to the side. “If it’s the right format,”Davis said, “you should be able to see the first frame.”. He handed the camera to Fatherday, screen side up. Sure enough, 206

within a few seconds, an image appeared. Not a colorful landscape or candid portrait, but a picture of text on a page. “Can I magnify this at all?” asked Fatherday. “Just press the plus.” Davis pointed to a circular button with “up”, “down”, “minus” and “plus” indicators at the compass points. Fatherday pressed the indicated point and studied the enlarged section of the original image. He guessed, correctly, that pressing the “up” button would take him to the next image and studied that one for a moment. The interested parties, that is, Paul, Jerry and Ted, looked on . Doreen continued to fume and Mrs. Kinsbury looked uncharacteristically at a loss. Fatherday pressed the button twice more and studied what he saw. Finally, he nodded slightly. “Paul,” he said, “you’ve got yourself a deal.” At that moment, the patio door once again opened and L.C. stepped out. Ignoring the collection of persons unknown gathered there, she addressed Davis as if he were alone and had something to account for. “Why is there a damp, naked woman asleep in our living room?” she said.

49 Inside the Traceys’ home A robe was found for Amelia and she was allowed to continue her slumbers. Whether she actually slept through her enrobing, or was simply too mortified by her situation to do anything other than play possum and wish it into a bad dream, cannot be said with any real confidence. Once she was covered she did wake sufficiently to allow herself to be led to one of the Crown Victorias along with her sister along with agents Perry and Westphal. The agents had instructions from Fatherday to retrieve the Australian women’s luggage from the El Chiquito and deposit it, along with Amelia and Doreen, on the first available flight back to Brisbane. The agents could flip a coin to see which of them would have the honor of accompanying the women back to Australia. Phillips Steve was instructed to make himself available for debriefing. Agent Heard entered into negotiations with Mrs. Kinsbury concerning the 207

possible co-authorship of a romantic spy novel he had been pondering for the past decade or so. She thought it could be just the thing to give her that elusive breakout book. Paul’s parents showed up just before midnight, having been at a company awards dinner at which Mrs. Kirkenboon had received the Sonora/Rockies Region Top Producer plaque. They had been clued to Paul’s location by a note he had thoughtfully taped to the outside of the door. After having the evening’s events related to them by their son, complete with suitable elaboration concerning the heroism of Ted and Jerry in securing his safety, the Kirkenboons invited those worthy gentlemen to spend what was left of the night under their roof. The offer included a promise of Mr. Kirkenboon’s famous Sunday morning Belgian waffles and full use of not only the guest bathroom shower, but the laundry facilities as well. It was an offer not to be refused. *** And for the benefit of any Kindhearted Readers sympathetic to the plight of Sarge Wacknov when last we were with him, the thread that is his part of the fabric of our tale will not be left, as it were, dangling. Overcome with exhaustion from his attempts to extract himself, Sarge had actually fallen asleep. It was, however, an understandably light and troubled sleep and the early morning light wakened him. He resumed his efforts of the night before with a renewed determination and managed to stretch himself backward enough to detach his wrists from the bent nail behind the counter. He slumped to the floor and began the laborious process of working his arms around front. It took a while, but he found that by falling over to one side, then sitting again, all of which took him much longer than it would have, say, a fifty-three pound, twelve year old gymnast, he was able to get his hands past his butt. Getting past the last hurdle of his feet was, unfortunately, another matter. He decided to give that goal a temporary pass. But since his hands were in the neighborhood anyway, Sarge figured he should apply himself to the critical task of freeing himself from his delicately placed umbilical. This required concentration and was best done in solitude, but it was not to be. Moments after Sarge exposed the knot and was applying himself earnestly to the task at hand, the door opened and in stepped his Aunt Doris and Uncle Eugene from Casa Grande. Eugene had found a bargain fare on the Internet for those able to depart on short notice, and so they were on their way to the Barry Goldwater Terminal at 208

Sky Harbor International Airport for an early morning flight to the city of slot machines and showgirls. As much lighter than expected traffic had left them with a few minutes to spare, Doris had decided it would be the family thing to stop by and say hello to the son of her dear departed brother. But there are times we desire privacy above all. This, as I am sure we can all understand, was one of those times for Sarge. Since there is nothing to be done about the untimely appearance of his relatives, we will not further distress him with an audience of strangers, understanding and sympathetic though they may be.

50 Morning Has Broken The next morning, or rather, later that same morning, the clouds had disappeared and the sun was back at full strength, making quick work of the standing water throughout the paved landscape that is the Phoenix metro area. The morning paper was forecasting a mere one hundred eight degrees. On the third page of Section B was a countdown of the aptly named mobile homes across the Valley that had been de-roofed, imploded or relocated during the storm. Ted and Jerry rose to the smell of bacon, freshly ground coffee and Mr. Kirkenboon’s justly fabled Belgian waffles. Jerry limited himself to three waffles and eight slices of bacon, secure in the knowledge that custard filled donuts were to be had in the choir room. Then they rode to church with Paul and his parents in an Excursion that made the Suburban they had “borrowed” the previous day seem a bit cramped in comparison. Mr. And Mrs. Kirkenboon headed to the Fellowship Hall to assist with preparations for the between-service coffee and donut festivities. Paul, Ted and Jerry headed for the door at the far west end of the sanctuary building that gave entrance to the Choir Robing Room. Most of the Youth Choir members, including Paul’s sister Korie, who had spent the night with her friend Amanda and had come with Amanda’s family, were already gathered, engaged in much 209

the same sort of joyous, fragmented chaos as the previous evening. The two girls who had been tormenting “Heart and Soul” the evening before were seated at a much-used and little-tuned upright, rendering a similar—if more well deserved—service to the omnipresent love theme from a popular movie of recent vintage. Jerry shooed the duo away from the piano and took control. They reviewed the music from the evening before, such a very short, eventful time ago. The Introit and Call to Prayer went without a hitch. It took a couple times to get their feet back under the Doxology in Swing, but they got it. Finally, a single run-through of a four bar Amen. “Sounds good,” said Jerry, rising from the piano bench. “Time for me to give the crowd a settle-into-the-pews tune. Korie, you and Ted have time for a quick run-through.” Korie nodded and beamed at Ted. She had no idea about the events of the previous night, but felt quite satisfied that her entreaties had, in the final analysis, prevailed. It was one of those illusory triumphs that leads to real confidence which in turn leads to genuine victories. But that is a whole other story for a whole other genre. “Ready?” said Ted. He strummed a chord and made a tuning adjustment to the fourth string, which broke. Twank. Korie stared in dismay. “Fix it!” she cried. Ted opened the guitar case and flipped up the accessory compartment cover. Empty, save for a couple of deeply scarred picks. “Where’s your spare strings, buddy?” asked Ted. A guitarist always had extra strings. Strings break. “I didn’t know I needed any,” said Paul. “Those are only a couple years old, I think.” “A couple of years?” said Ted, incredulously. “Paul!” Korie wailed. “I don’t know, maybe more. They’re the ones that were on it when I got it.” Another wail from Korie. Sympathetic noises came from the girls. “Never mind,” said Ted. “It’s broken!” Korie pointed out. “I’ll work around it,” said Ted as he removed the two string fragments. “We’ll be fine.” 210

“Really?” “Really.” Ted hoped he was right. Korie put on a brave face. “Ok, let’s try it, I suppose.” Carl, who had been standing with ear pressed to the door to the sanctuary, waved his arms and announced that it was time to make their entrance. “But we haven’tS” began Korie. Carl opened the door. “C’mon,” he whispered. They could hear Jerry playing the processional music. “Just relax, kid,” said Ted. He held the Gretsch up to his ear and gave the remaining five strings a listen. The A string was still just a tad flat, but he didn’t want to lose another one, so he let it be. The group filed through the door, Ted going last. A ripple went through the congregation as they became aware of the very large man with the fiercely sad expression carrying the scarred and bejeweled guitar. Some eagerly anticipated a shake-up in the normal routine of the predictable service. Some were puzzled and even concerned about the unidentified large presence and had doubts about the advisability of remaining, but, as they could not leave without unwelcome notice and subsequent explanation, remained. Others paid little attention to the man and focused on the instrument. What was a guitar doing in church? The Worship Committee was going to get an earful. Ted gave no notice to the notice being given him. He was too busy trying to figure out chord patterns that bypassed the D string. He plugged into the old Champ amp and sat and puzzled over the neck, oblivious to the stares and clucks. The service proceeded without any of it, outside of the music, making much of an impression on Ted. A musician, especially a jazzer, is naturally predisposed to listen, to analyze, to accept or reject all music. The choir sounded good. Jerry was more than passable on the three-register console organ. But the greeting, the announcements, the prayers of intercession and confession, the readings from Proverbs and the Gospel of Mark and, especially the sermon, which was titled “Faith–The Ultimate Designer Label”, all floated right on past Ted. He had his eyes and ears focused exclusively on the crippled Gretsch. He still was not happy with his Dm/F, or, for that matter his Em/G. And then, as Pastor Lloyd launched into what the congregation collectively trusted must be the final anecdote, a man in a dark suit and tweed driving cap entered the sanctuary. The congregation did not take notice—they had their 211

backs to the door—but Pastor Lloyd noticed, as did the choir. Ted, pondering the advisability and feasibility of executing a quick dropped D tuning, was lost in his own little world. Pastor Lloyd plunged on. “It had been a hard, a difficult year for Peter and Ginny. Married twentyfour years…” The man in the dark suit was greeted in a hushed manner by one of the ushers, who leaned close, nodded, and directed a gaze at the choir. He gave a look at the cap in a significant way which the newcomer comprehended and which resulted in the removal of the cap. The man then nodded his thanks and began to softly make his way around the edge of the pews. When he turned the corner around the back pew and headed up the side aisle, the choir and Jerry could see it was Director Fatherday. And he was carrying something. Besides the tweed cap. A guitar case. The choir began to buzz. Choirs will buzz and it was nothing new to Pastor Lloyd. But there was something about this buzz that set it apart from the usual “third row, left side, old man asleep with mouth wide open and drool beginning to puddle, pass it on” buzz that distracted him from the recitation of the tale of Peter and Ginny, married twenty-four years... Pastor Lloyd’s eyes followed Fatherday. The eyes of the entire congregation followed. Every orb in the building, with the exception of Ted’s, was eventually focused on the Director of Central Intelligence as he approached the choir. Ted’s eyes were closed and his head was bent over the Gretsch as he searched the fretboard for the sounds he wanted. Fatherday placed the guitar case on the floor to the side of Ted, acknowledged the choir, the congregation and Pastor Lloyd with an apologetic nod, and took a seat at the end of a convenient pew. You could hear in the farthest corners of the sanctuary the whispered three and four note chords Ted was listening to so intently as he lightly feathered his massive thumb across the remaining strings. Paul came down from the third row of the choir, placed a hand on Ted’s shoulder and spoke quietly in his ear. As everyone watched they knew, without knowing why, that they were witnessing a special moment, one that would be discussed for many weeks over coffee and donuts in Bible classes and United Methodist Women’s Circle meetings. Ted opened his eyes and saw the case at his side. He blinked, looked up and looked back down. He gently handed the injured Gretsch, Natalie, to Paul, who accepted her and unplugged her from the amplifier. Ted leaned down 212

and, one by one, softly undid the five clasps of Sarah’s case and lifted the lid. Like a gentle lover, he lifted Sarah from her case. He ran his hands over her every curve, checking for signs of abuse and finding none. He strummed her strings and they sang sweetly to him. Paul handed him the amplifier cord. “Good friends,” said Pastor Lloyd. “I believe it is now time for our featured music. We do have a correction to our bulletin this morning. Our organist and Youth Choir Director, Mr. Gerald Kwiatkowski, asked me just before the service to let you know that his good friend, Mr. Theodore Hogwood, has consented to accompany our own Korie Kirkenboon.” Korie came down and stood by Ted. “Last six measures for intro, ok?” said Ted. Korie nodded. Lifted by the voices of two lovely ladies, one just sixteen and barely discovering her own power and beauty, and one well into her maturity, possessing a rich, sweet complexity that made itself all the more evident while in the embrace of the right man, Ted played as he had never played before. Number 145 in The United Methodist Hymnal was given its due—and then some—that morning . By the middle of the second verse, half of the congregation had their eyes closed in order to more fully take in the sounds of voice and instrument raised in praise of God’s infinite grace. By the end of the third and final verse there was a palpable, glorious affirmation of the power of music that had touched each and every person assembled there that morning. As the last shimmering chord faded, Ted felt his own eyes beginning to fill. He looked up and, through the building veil of tears, saw Korie, her fingers pressed against her lips, tears welling in her eyes as well. The entire choir, indeed the congregation itself, seemed to have been similarly affected. There was hardly a dry eye in the entire sanctuary. Ted turned to where Jerry sat at the organ console. Jerry smiled and shrugged. Morning was not the only thing that had been broken. “Will somebody,” said Ted, “please get this man a beer?”

The End 213