

### Handsome Town

### John W. Regan

Copyright © 2016 John W. Regan

All rights reserved.

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### Table Of Contents

  1. Monday, 7 April 2008

  2. Richard

  3. Midwinter, 2008

  4. Butch

  5. Tuesday, 12 July, 2005; The Massacre In Memphis, Part One

  6. Jimmy's Trip

  7. Sunday, 30 December 2007

  8. Brooksy

  9. Regina, 18 December 2007

  10. Dr. Fox

  11. Sunday, 6 April 2008

  12. Bojangles

  13. Gail, November 2007

  14. Pirates, Tigers, Trask and Brooksy (Oh My)

  15. Tuesday Morning, 8 April 2008

  16. Laura

  17. Wednesday Morning, 9 April 2008

  18. Richard's Call

  19. Monday Morning, 7 April 2008

  20. Dr. Fox Again

  21. Thursday Morning, 10 April 2008

  22. Courtney

  23. Tuesday, 12 July, 2005; The Massacre In Memphis, Part Two

  24. Jim's Plan

  25. Wednesday Evening, 9 April 2008

  26. Calhoun's

  27. Monday Evening, 7 April 2008

Monday, 7 April 2008

...hammered the chosen spot...which should've tweaked a nerve because April _rain_ showers bring May flowers...but the chill ambiance looked delightful from the steamy interior of the Crown Victoria. Forehead all crumpled-like, our brooding hero (a fella what looked like Herbert Marshall circa _The Flame Within_ and went by the name Jim Reilly) rubbed a peepin' hole on a window pebbled with condensation. A drop of perspiration rolled down his right cheek.

Compelled by itchy fingers, Jimmy turned on the Interceptor's spotlight and directed the halogen cone in a zigzag...

The Poindexter (or Poindextrix or...maybe a clutch of smart folks be called Poindextra...whatever the case) at the NWS-Buffalo predicted _at least_ eight inches for Ontario and Seneca Counties. And when the blizzard got kicking (like it be now), the Poindextra at the NWS-Buffalo advised travel on secondary byways and whatnots should be avoided because...well, shit, do you need a flowchart, mama?

As the searchlight poked a diminutive hole in the storm, Jim pondered how he'd start the story of this fucked up evening.

But pondering be a timewaster: there were a million plus reasons why said story would naught be drafted, never ever, to infinity plus a googol and whatnot. Besides, even if our pal satisfied a suicidal desire to haul a pencil tip across paper, he knew it was a big _no-no_ to open with the weather...not like he cared.

Nope, he didn't give an F.

The bookish Poindextra snobs could kiss off.

Oh, you better believe he'd start with the weather macka-macka:

_Nil-ish_ visibility.

_Hazardous_ road conditions.

Sustained winds from the northwest pushing _intense_ bands of lake effect inland.

Not to mention the temperature plus windchill mathematicals...

A stroll in the elements would _incapacitate_ a blunderer blundering in the bluster without proper winter paraphernalia.

Nil-ish. Hazardous. Intense. Incapacitate.

Them weren't good odds for the wayward traveler, mama.

Jim grunted, killed the light, and then plucked the can of wintergreen long cut from the dash...

Or...hmm...he could start Chapter One with...eh...

_Brian Brooksy Brooks, my felonious chum from way back, rang me the other the day and presented a lucrative proposition. 'Trust me,' the moron said. 'Trust me and take Kansas.' I shoulda told Brooksy: 'T.S., my plate is full with a steaming pile of local tomfoolery.' Instead, I fell to my knees, squeezed Raul Boja's moneymaker and promised hisself we_ _would_ _Win Big._

Speaking of...

The game -from what he could determine- was midway through the second half, tho following the minutia proved maddening. AM radio reception -irregular on good days in the sticks after the sun went down- was damn near indecipherable in a blizzard. When The Fan got fuzzy, he toggled to WPTR; when WPTR fizzled, Jimmy be mashing the little button what returned him to The Fan. Back and forth button pressing...like a teetertotter 'cept fuzziness be the weighty end of the plank instead of a juvenile fatbody...but there were intervals when nothing but static blitzed from the speakers. The hiss of white noise, though a fitting soundtrack to supplement falling snow, also snarled in strange tongues. Ghosts of the pasts, communicating through amplitude modulation, aggravated Jim in a language he couldn't understand.

" _Jeeem...uga wuga buga,"_ the radio warbled.

"Ug wog bog," he replied in a lethargic voice.

" _Nooo, Jeeem. Uga. Wuga. Bugo."_

" _Uga. Wuga. Buga._ There. You happy?"

" _-uga...when Rush juked, he dragged the pivot foot and...uga wuga...the travelling call. Seventh turnover by the Jayhawks this half...uga wuga buga...Coach Self is livid...uga-"_

The ghosts and the game, one in the same, haunted this chosen spot. Jim reckoned there be an ironical...or a metaphorical...or something, mama...to take from the situation.

_Um-hmm_. And tho he couldn't see the sign, he knew the reminder of American history stood tall. Our hero spent countless days and nights parked within pissing distance of the warbling piece of sheet metal. Sedentary, waiting for leadfoots and drunks, he memorized the historical mumbo-jumbo out of boredom. Once upon a time, he could recite the 11 General Orders of Sentries. Today it be the bullshit of yesteryear:

Here once sat the Indian Village of the Tuscarora, members of the Six Nations of the Iroquois, destroyed by Major General John Sullivan on September 15th, 1779, during the American Revolution.

As he popped the lid off the tin, the P.B. reported a single vehicle accident near Glen Cumberland's expensive "work in progress" on Shoreview. Jim checked his watch and then dialed down the volume until the dispatcher's voice faded to a whisper. For the record, he was halfway through a 10-63, which meant he be OOS for another twenty-two point five minutes. Unless al-Qaeda strolled Main Street and murdered puppies and whatnot, our pal would remain nice and toasty in the cruiser because, you know, _10-63_. Besides, he was supposed to be sitting the 10-63 in the parking lot of the Tim Horton's on North Road. Deviating from the contrived narrative made zero sense.

He raked a wad of moist snuff and stuffed it between his cheek and teeth until the right side of his face felt bloated and tingly. The car filled with the aroma of wintergreen. Months ago, Laura pestered him to quit the _dipody-do-dah_ 'cause Jim had been shoveling _dipody-do-dah_ into his piehole for _far too long, mister_.

_Sure, no problem,_ he boasted. But stopping cold turkey proved impossible. How long had he lasted? Four, five...maybe six days? In other words, he made a pathetic effort. At first, he hid his lack of self-control by dipping only at work...

...and after a jog (nothing better than a _teeny_ pinch when the runner's high be rocking)...

...and after Laura fell into the sack.

He be sneaky, mama.

Out and about, a spit cup or Mother Nature's domain be the dippers tipper. At home, he resorted to spitting in the sink or toilet...or not spitting at all. Whatcha call _gutting_ , in case you're not hip to the chewer's jargon. Indeed, he swallowed tobacco to keep his dumb _dipody-do-dah_ addiction on the DL.

But she knew. Dirty fingernails, tobacco shavings on the coffee table...snuff left evidence. Laura didn't seem surprised his promise melted quick-like. No, instead of anger, she trumpeted hypotheticals in a singsong voice: _You're gonna rot your mouth with the dipody-do-dah, Jimmy. Your mouth, or your tongue, or your throat or all of 'em. Maybe all of 'em at once."_

"Fat chance," he mumbled.

Hadn't he read cancer was a crapshoot and whatnot? Besides, he was a cop and sometimes cops got capped. Mouth rot, tongue rot...whatever rot...Jimmy wasn't worried about no stinkin' rot. And he told her as much:

I ain't worried about no stinkin' rot.

Laura rolled her eyes, rubbed her baby baking tummy and responded: _Oh, Jim, let me kiss your dipody-do-dah mouth and suck on your rotting tongue. Give me your thug magic, stud._

O'course, the old lady didn't say anything of the sort. And she wouldn't have thought them words, mama. Perhaps Laura wanted the _dipody-do-dah_ to rot his mouth and sundry body parts. Why not? He hadn't been the best husband. Nope, not by a long shot.

_Ah, at last, something_ _truthful from your dipody-do-dah piehole,_ Dad's twangy voice declared.

(Over the years, John Reilly's incorporeal gruff tenor had taken on a congenial Vinton Harper-esque tone. Why, Dear Diary? Perchance because the old man kicked off while watching a rerun of _Mama's Family_ on the boob tube. The bastard was a big Ken Berry fan; his infatuation ran the gamut from _F Troop_ to _Herbie Rides Again_. But Berry's portrayal of the moronic Vinton tickled the stuffing out of Dad before the sour mash tickled the ghost -and a couple quarts of blood- out of Johnny Reilly's pickled body.)

Jim glared at himself in the rearview mirror and said, "After this is over, she'll get with the program, Pops." Yep, he'd sit Laura down and have one of them pleasant Dr. Phil heart to hearts. Or maybe he'd skip the bullshit and give her a fresh one. Either way, one demon was getting exorcised tonight and -fingers crossed- another motherfucker later in the week.

Then everything be hunky-dory.

Right, neat and tidy, Mama. But what if...you know...it ain't?

"Welp, old man, at some point you gotta hope the bounces go your way...not like you'd know."

Okay, smart guy, try this on for size: What if someone notices you ain't at the Tim Horton's like you're gonna claim in the morrow?

"Goddamnit," Jim hissed. "Butch and I worked it out."

Butchy, the same guy what plowed your old lady once upon? You trust Butchy, Mama?

"I'll guess we'll see, won't we?"

We'll see, all right. I'll see you up shit creek, he-he.

Jimmy closed his peepers, squeezed 'em tight, and banished the old man's voice to a spiritual Siberia. Then he opened eyes and stared into the white maelstrom. Dad was doing his best to be a killjoy, but nobody would or would not notice a black and white parked at Tim Horton's. On a night like this? _Pfft._ Besides, there wasn't any bone pickin' to be done on Main Street. Nope, he had a specific bone to pick. _The_ bone. Assblaster and his cargo were coming Jim's way...and didn't it seem appropriate the bloodletting occur here?

***

Two and a half years prior, when he was _persuaded_ to move the Reilly fam to Canesoanke, Jim didn't know the town's history nor did he give a big whoop-de-doo. He knew the basics of history and the basics got him through thirty-two years of life all peachy-like, thank you very much.

History...history was his brother's arena. _Professor_ Reilly loved them hoary stories, but the Professor didn't have much of a relationship with _real_ people...which wasn't an accusation but fact. Jim also gathered, from their infrequent conversations over the years, Rich smoked _a lot_ of Golden Goat. Gettin' pie-eyed wasn't good or bad, and it didn't make Richard a menace to society. It just meant Richard was...quirky.

So be it. To each their own. Whatevs. The _Professor_ could ponder the petty dramas of extinct civilizations while Jim dealt with the real world. But then our hero arrived in Canesoanke and sat sentinel next to the historical marker. A perusal of the words blossomed into inquisitive musing; curiosity sired a mosquito bite he decided to scratch. One evening, he planted his butt in front of the computer with a twelver of Genny Light. The mission? Self-education about the former tenants. The first and last stop? Wikipedia.

Stupid inquisitive musing led him down a vortex of American History. Everything started dandy and the information proved interesting...sorta. But Jim got buzzed and bored...and one thing led to another led to the Salem Witch Trials what led to Giles Corey who led to a Wikipedia page on "methods of execution". Death by pressing sucked a big ole donkey D, and Jimmy developed a grudging respect for the accused warlock. The bastard endured the continual addition of stones upon his body without so much as a whimper. Fact, he asked for more weight. It must have driven his Puritanical tormentors crazy.

More insane were them other ways people devised to effect total ruinment on body and soul. The Brazen Bull? Mama, it be no barrel of laughs. And whoever came up with _scaphism_ be a smidge deranged...and a regular Alberto Einstein, at least in Jimbo's estimation. Dig: he knew a fella what could use a dose of the scaphism.

But the fantasy of allowing vermin to feast on Isaac Brown's honied body was a futile exercise; dreams of murdering the mofo had gone to pasture years prior. Funny how an innocent foray guided Jim's mind to homicidal inclinations. Or maybe it wasn't so funny. Or maybe nothing. And tho Jim accepted reality, he didn't embrace reality...which meant he shouldn't have been thinking how he had to accept reality and why he didn't want to embrace reality...

Or something.

When past and present collided in this roundabout manner, Jim glowered at the computer and muttered: "What the hell am I doing?"

The beer led him astray, no doubt about it. His drunken fingers didn't want to follow direction and when it came to brushing up on Susan B. Anthony or people crushed to death by elephants, the choice was easy. Yet, despite the blue detour, he learned something valuable about Canesoanke once he closed the browser: the locals had been fucking each other over in this place for centuries...

***

He spat into a Styrofoam cup and recalled the nitty-gritty: In the mid-17th Century, the Tuscarora Indians migrated from the Carolinas and settled in upstate New York. In these here parts, the brown skins carved a large settlement out of dense forest and named their village " _Kwah-Nee'st Oo-dah-Neh-Keh_ ". Translated, the word meant _"Handsome Town"._

According to Wikipedia, the inhabitants of Handsome Town lived in relative peace for almost a century. Then things went into the crapper, and how. Go figure, the white man and the Indians had a stormy relationship before the Revolutionary War. Seems the colonists favored westward expansion but their British overlords were against said expansion. There was more -boring shit about Navigation and Molasses Acts, the American Board of Customs Commissioners and a sprinkling of the French and Indian War nonsense- but, at last, Jim got to the meat of his rummaging. The British recruited the Indians of Western New York as allies after war broke out in the colonies. Today, the latest and not-so-greatest chief in the White House would call 'em "Terr-ists", but in them olden days the Indians were branded a "hostile internal nuisance". Hence, George Washington didn't mince words when he issued orders to General Sullivan: _'You will not by any means listen to any overture of peace before the total ruinment of their settlements is effected. Our future security will be in their inability to injure us and in the terror with which the severity of the chastisement they receive will inspire them'._

After the Sullivan Expedition dun effected total ruinment, white settlers established a hamlet near the remnants of the Tuscarora village. Driven by a lack of imagination, the stodgy town fathers stuck with the Native American moniker _Kwah-Nee'st Oo-dah-Neh-Keh_ but stitched the jumble of Indian grunts into something a little more palatable: _Canesoanke; Cane-sown-key_ in the phonetic vernacular _._ Perhaps because of the name, the tract where some two hundred indigenous died was viewed by the residents with either pride or guilt depending on the mood and disposition of the era. In the early 20th Century, 'round when Woman's Suffrage became a reality, guilt won the battle. Thus, the historical marker was erected by the New York Rotary Club and placed next to another sign bearing the town insignia and the robust declaration: " _Welcome to Canesoanke, THE Handsome Town In The Finger Lakes Region_ ". The marker and hospitable welcome were anchored at the base of Pumpkin Drop, the local nickname of CR21's half-mile descent into the town's sparse western boundary. Not by coincidence, a third sign (this one slanted and somewhat difficult to see behind the first two) warned the _30 MPH_ speed limit was _STRICTLY ENFORCED_.

Other than contrived speed traps, Handsome Town lived up to its name. Good schools, picturesque, a charming Bedford Falls-like Main Street, bunches of other quaint shit...the whole nine. Excluding the occasional, _unsanctioned_ dope mule, crime was always the result of booze: drunk driving; domestic violence; bar fights; generational grudges. The last bullet point on the short list contained the potential for something worse than suspended licenses or busted noses. Some people believe blood feuds are puerile; Jim wasn't one such naysayer. He wouldn't have used the word _puerile_ -something less refined like _stupid_ fit the bill- but when enmity boiled like a teakettle...well, _stupid_ or _sane_ didn't register into the conversation. When the hackles be a hackling, shit happened. There hadn't been a homicide in Canesoanke in twenty years but, as Chief Weinager presaged, it didn't mean people weren't trying. Bad planning or bad luck (or a combination of the two) thwarted homicidal intentions...

...at least until tonight, mama.

Jimmy dug a hand into the left breast pocket where the newspaper clipping sat safe and sound. Careful to avoid smudging toner, he removed and then unfolded the small rectangle until...ta- _fucking_ -da.

Taken by a Johnny-on-the-spot photographer, the immaculate color snapshot always warmed Jim's cold heart. Poor ole Bean, the piece of shit, prone on the ground, bleeding from...how much lead had Jim put into the kid? Four...maybe five, .40 caliber bullets...enough to paralyze Bean right before hellfire consumed his soul...if you believe that crap, which Jim did naught. Bean's father -unseen in the frame- slumped behind the wheel of a wrecked Seville. Ten guesses as to who (or whom...whatever the case) put the cracker out of commission.

Captured for the world to see, our hero shared a seminal moment with the fading delinquent: a mussed Jim, bent at the waist, left hand on the boy's neck; Bean, looking every bit the recalcitrant he _was_ , firing a baleful glare at the peacekeeper. Underneath the lurid image, _The Commercial Appeal's_ succinct description (in five-point Times New Roman font): _A suspect wanted in the deaths of two Shelby County Deputies lies wounded on a Southaven parking lot._

"Hiya, Bean," Jim said to the picture.

" _Fu-uk...u-wa,"_ the radio replied.

"No, pal, fuck you."

" _I...can't...feel...my...legs...uga...wuga...buga..."_

"Yeah, I remember what you said. And how did I answer, asshole?"

" _Fu-uk...u-wa."_

Jimmy chuckled, shook his head...and then pressed lips together as his white whale manifested out of the swirling pallor. Be a symbolic term, by the by: Assblaster and his comrade rambled in a green Ford F-250. As the truck passed right to left, he refolded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. A couple Mississippi's later, Jim flipped on the headlights, put the cruiser into gear, and then gave the Vic gas. The chained tires spun and then gained traction; the car lunged onto the slushy road. Light touch on the steering wheel, he slid into a wide left turn and felt the ass end of the vehicle swing right. Snow, shed from the hood, blew like confetti; wipers spanked the glass. Muttering oaths, he corralled the oscillation and focused on the smudgy red taillights of the pickup.

Assblaster's carriage continued its protracted ascent up Pumpkin Drop. Once crested, CR21 shot east, straight to Geneva. The twenty-ish miles of two-lane rolled through landscape sparse in peeping eyes...not like said peepers be peeking anything in the weather.

But one can never be sure.

The radio signal mated with the antenna and Kevin Kugler announced, "... _and Dontrelle_ _Trask hits the baseline jumper giving Memphis a nine point lead over Kansas with..."_ before fading out.

Officer James Lawrence Reilly gutted snuff, felt his tummy twinge and then...
Richard

...told him the bad news like he was announcing the weather forecast:

" _Partly cloudy this morning, skies clearing in the afternoon, one hundred percent chance of pseudomyxoma peritonei tonight."_

To be fair, there isn't a pleasant way to tell a tumor laden soul they're hauling ass to Tangy Town. And because there isn't a pleasant way to tell a tumor laden soul they're hauling ass to Tangy Town, the stoic sawbones elevated eyebrows and braced for a reaction: crying; pleading; indignation...

Anything?

_Pfft._ Fuck and no. Richard Reilly be cool as a cucumber. Not even a facial tick, yo. He be like: _peace out, mofo's._ Um-hmm. Why sweat it, mama? The charts and paperwork made it clear: it naught be back to the old drawing board...

There be no old drawing board.

Fun fact: not even two weeks prior, he'd been as healthy as any pot-smoking, Lucky Charms gobbling, Fanta drinking, occasional shroom eating, chronic masturbating, George Noory listening, white-skinned, middle-aged man living in a trailer with a dog.

He be right as rain...for the most part.

Then one morning he awoke and...let's just say, Richard Norman Reilly found the motivation to hit the road...

Somewhere between Indio and Desert Center, glittering like a blue pebble under a waxing gibbous moon, Richard's 1991 Audi 100 S4 sped east. Hunched behind the steering wheel, eyes bloodshot and droopy, Rich took a big ass drag from a huge ass blunt and swallowed a massive, elephant ass sized cough.

George Noory's _Coast to Coast AM_ shot out of the speakers with conspiratorial talk of stuff his father would've denounced as "stupid shit". The "stupid shit" ran the gamut of Bigfoots, UFO's, Loch Ness Monsters and a million other things normal people with jobs and mortgages wouldn't give a good goddamn about. Richard didn't believe any of it, either. He loafed just a hair north of the line separating "non-stupid shit" from "stupid shit". But _Coast to Coast_ be primo smoky-smoky entertainment. And he was gonna smoky-smoky and be entertained, by gummite.

Tonight, George be rapping about a humdrum subject: _Astral Projection_. Fuck it, Richard didn't care. He blew a cloud of zesty smoke at the radio and thought, _Astral Project that, Georgie!_ After Noory said goodnight, Richard would tolerate the rantings of Michael Savage (hey, beggars can't be choosers, mama) until KNYE's signal faded; then he'd find KOOL FM outside Centennial and get down with some cloying oldies.

Serenaded by _stupid shit_ and _conservative shit_ and _good ole 50s and 60s bubblegum "rock and roll"_ , Richard would recall his last two-hundred-forty odd hours and then think about his first thirty-four years. Later, he'd be joined by _Him_ , a pedophilic Cassidy to Richard's incurable Kerouac. After rambling across this great nation of ours, the periplectic duo would arrive in bumfuck New York and pay Brother Jimmy a visit.

"And won't he be tickled pink to see you?" Richard said to the vacant passenger seat.

First, though, our amigo Rich had to cross the Colorado Desert without hitting a coyote or blowing a tire. After Desert City came Blythe, then the border and a stop in Ehrenberg for gas. He'd cruise past the trailer park community of Quartzsite and roll into Tonopah with the rising sun. And there, in Tonopah, he'd stop for a bite to eat at the Waffle House and fortify himself for the next portion of the trip.

Stoked and high as a giraffe's cunny, Richard rapped the steering wheel with his hands as a woman recounted her woe of astral projected extraterrestrial abduction:

" _Zeta Reticulans probed me with a long, metal thingy,"_ she recounted, all matter-of-fact-like. _"George, they steal you in your sleep and there's not a thing to be done."_

"Tough shit, mama," Richard giggled. "I got the rockin' malignance and the boogie woogie tumor."

Balanced across the ashtray, the blunt burned like a torch, filling the car with thick, ropy tendrils. Subconscious lit, the Nas classic "N.Y. State of Mind" flexed Richard's intellect.

He yawned...

(inhale deep, like the words of my breath)

...shook his head...

(I never sleep, 'cause sleep is the cousin of death)

...as an out of focus film...

(I lay puzzle as I backtrack to earlier times...)

...flickered through his noodle.

Nasty Nas faded to a murmur...

...and Ralph Edwards voice filled the smoky void:

" _Richard Reilly, this is your life..."_

***

Once upon a time twelve days prior, a bellyache erupted after a dinner of Lucky Charms and Orange Fanta. It didn't seem like a big deal, mama. Richard had been dealing with varying intensities of indigestion for twelve months. Acid reflux? No problemo!

_La mayor parte del tiempo, comer Tums y aplastar a la ganja hizo el truco, amigo._ (And if you don't know Spanish -unlike our pal Richard, who be fluent in _four_ goddamn languages- you can look it up, motherfuckers.)

The confounding part? It wasn't like he ate a lot. Matter of fact, Señor Ricardo might've been the _one_ pothead in the known universe what didn't get the munchies. The tummy aches came and went _como las mareas_...but the latest, greatest swell be a teensy bit crabbier: intense cramping, the runs, nausea and a profound feeling of fullness, like he consumed an entire Thanksgiving meal including the pumpkin pie, good china, tablecloth and the cat's litterbox. In other words: _No es bueno._

The next morning, he had zero appetite but gulped a cup of coffee and shoved a powdered donut into his hole. He managed to make it through the morning session before the cramping turned to Jack-the-Ripper slashes. The pain radiated from his abdomen and attacked north to south, east to west. Fingertips, toes, the tippy-top of his bald head...everything ached, mama. _Everything._

Battling the gag reflex with titanic resolve, he drove home like a man dosed on Owsley Stanley's Special Reserve Lightning Bolt Skull. To wit: Richard saw the world as a blurry, rippling mirage. Where be the lane dividers? Who knew? How fast was he traveling? The speedometer's small ass numbers couldn't be discerned. Nothing made sense to Richard, nothing except _pain._

_Hell's bells, I'm gonna kill somebody,_ he thought with consternation. By some miracle (or curse...whatever), he managed to circumnavigate the busy Long Beach streets without denting a fender; once home, he curled into bed and whimpered while the television ran the breadth of daytime shows: Springer, Wilkos, Maury, Judge Judy, the whole shebang of shit, including the lawyer commercials asking if he'd been convicted of a DUI or exposed to asbestos or taken some unpronounceable drug what turned assorted organs into goo. If Richard Reilly's pathetic ass represented the afternoon demographic, he felt sorry for any lawyer pandering to him.

He attempted to crush a joint around suppertime but only killed a third of it before puking. The vomitus -viscous and yellow and flaked with the powder from his breakfast snack- looked like chicken broth and smelled of rancid cheese.

_Food poisoning,_ his brain trumpeted. _No doubt about it. The goddamn milk you bought at Von's had a hint of the salmonella._

His foolproof plan? _Weather the storm._ So, he phoned the assistant professor at the community college and claimed he was out of commission for a few days.

"No biggie," he croaked. "I just caught a bit of the salmonella bug. Everyone's gettin' it, even us squares."

Cammie (bless her sweet heart) brought Richard soup the next afternoon. Against his better judgment (which, let's face it, had gone up in smoke about fifteen years prior), Richard tried said soup; hours later, he experienced something akin to what happened at Chernobyl: his quaking, one hundred-fifty-pound body melted down, and not slow-like.

At first, it sounded like the ole body cavity had liquefied. Monstrous slurping sounds fizzed below the skin; with each demonic gurgle, his stomach rolled like a disturbed waterbed.

_This ain't good,_ he thought.

_Yeppers,_ Body mocked. _Now, see how you like this, Professor._ And with those foreboding words, a lightning bolt of discomfort shot into his sphincter. Richard jumped (although _jump_ wasn't the correct verb...it be more like he sucked in his ass cheeks and slid to a standing position) and made a beeline to the shitter.

Just like those helicopter pilots dumping sand and boron on Chernobyl's smoldering radioactive core knew they were gonna have one bitchin' headache, Richard knew whatever came out of his arse was gonna be bad. But there's bad and then there's _Holy Fucking Shit_ _Bad_. It ain't in Webster's but trust Richard Reilly: there's a _Big_ difference.

It wouldn't be a stretch to say it bordered on the most violent bowel movement of all time, in the history of mankind, in the entire fucking epoch of all things ever known or ever will exist including all alternate dimensions and whatnot...but even this description be tame. Shoot, mama, the fucking chestburster from _Alien_ woulda been less distressing.

What he expelled was nothing short of blasphemous; Jerry Falwell would have damned him to hell on the spot. For at least a minute, a waterfall of shit cascaded into the pot. Halfway through the purging, he copped a furtive peek between pasty thighs and grimaced. The poopie be the color of night with no stars.

He didn't bother moving from the potty as a new swell rumbled. Somehow, Round Two was worse. _How in tarnation do I have this much crap in me,_ he wondered. Head cocked, Richard's dog (be the old Boss Hogg, a Golden Lab just a smidge smarter than a sponge) stared at him with something akin to pity. Rich glanced at the half roll of White Cloud Ultra Soft and decided it'd be wiser to use a beach towel to clean himself.

When he stood, at last, the toilet bowl looked like Carra's _Funeral of the Anarchist Galli_. Rosy islands of blood and yellow globules floated atop a surface of diarrhea so dense, Moses couldn't have parted it.

Richard wasn't thrilled by his anus's artistic output, but he refused to revise his unlettered analysis:

_No big deal_. _Just caught me a bad case of the salmonella, is all. What I need do is batten the hatches...or THE HATCH, he-he...and weather the storm._

End of discussion.

Therefore, he crawled into the rack determined to _batten and weather_. And wouldn't you know? Steeled by self-diagnosis and four Benadryl, Rich glided into nibbana; he dreamt of waterfalls and chocolate bars...

On the bright morning of Day Three, he awoke swathed between sheets soaked in watery excrement. Quick-like, the food poisoning narrative went the way of the Dodo.

_Fuck me, I got dysentery from one of my foreign students,_ Rich concluded. _The diss or...or maybe Ebola or...or a parasite...or...something from the Third World...something unpronounceable and very Bad._

The pain in his gut was so enervating, he lolled and festered and shat some more until he felt sturdy enough to ramble into the bathroom. He took a shower in his boxers, and then pitched 'em -and the filthy sheets- into the trash before flopping onto the couch.

_Let us never speak of this moment again,_ he told hisself. _Never, ever, ever, ever, ever..._

_Brugaah,_ his swollen stomach replied.

He considered calling _911_ , but what would he say? _Can Cerritos's finest collect me?_ _I've pooped my bed because I have dysentery._

_No._ _No, eso es una locura,_ admonished his brain _. Las visitas de EMS no son baratas._

"But I might be dying," argued Richard.

Podría estar muriendo y estoy muriendo...son verbos diferentes, Rico. Espera otros veinticuatro. Si aún eres The Mad Pooper mañana, puedes rogar por ayuda.

As a timewaster, he watched one of them pointless March Madness basketball games. It seemed like eons had passed since he filled out the bracket and thrown fifty dollars into the facility pool. And for what? Richard loathed betting and complained to Doyle Mora, _'Innocuous forms of gambling are symptomatic of cultural degradation.'_ Doyle told him to shut his trap. _Yeah, Richard,_ his mind seconded. _Shut up and go back to smoking dope, you stupid pothead._

Now here he was, bent out of shape because Memphis bounced one of his Final Four teams. Dontrelle Trask, whoever the fuck he be, made a three-pointer at the buzzer and Mississippi State went down like the _Hindenburg._

"Fuck you, Dontrelle," Richard moaned. He got high, felt not a smidge better, and passed out on the floor with the ole Boss nestled beside him.

The beforementioned Cammie Bailey -his colleague and ex-lover- whisked him to the emergency room on the fifth day. She showed up at his place (because it wasn't like Richard to go days without communicating) and found a shivering, pale, clammy, slathered in human waste, Richard; a whining, face-furrowed Boss Hogg sat sentry next to his owner. Tapping every ounce of strength from her one hundred twenty-pound body, Cammie dragged her filthy ex to the car while the Boss watched from a window of the ramshackle doublewide.

The NP took a look-see at Rich's inflamed rectum and gave him marching orders to the ultrasound tech; the UT fast-tracked the results to the GI guy. Some other shit happened, literally and figuratively, and Richard came-to in a hospital bed having no idea how he got there. Next to him, Cammie sat in a plastic chair reading a paperback. Like she'd come from a lecture at the college, Miss Bailey looked rigid and professional in her suit and wire rim glasses. What did the kids call the haircut she sported? The Courtney or something? Richard didn't know, he wasn't hip to the jargon; he wasn't even hip to be square. What he did know: a tube ran out of his nose, some others twisted out of both arms and he be hooked to machines what went _beep-beep-beep_. He also felt pretty damn good for a change. No doubt one of those tubes pumped a narcotic into his bloodstream, not like Richard was gonna complain. In fact, his euphoric state reignited the notion Mister or Missus Salmonella was responsible for the preceding misery.

Cammie smiled at him and fractured her stern portico. She was the best thing to happen to Richard before she was the worst. Now they were acquittances instead of friends. He was still confused about their breakup; she knew his deportment when they started dating and yet Cammie developed a _serious_ case of the haughties and broke it off because _you aren't serious, you'll never would be serious, and I'm a serious woman_. Richard told her: _'Chill out, mama. Why ruin a good thang with the serious talk?'_ Then cancer came along and decided to make a home in his abdomen. Richard was serious now, mama. Serious as all get out. But he didn't want her at his side. No way...

"Welcome back," she greeted through a tight smile.

"Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital."

He held up his arm and said, "Well, kiss my grits. No shit, Cammie. Where?"

"Los Al Medical."

" _Key-rice_. What a kick ass case of food poisoning, huh?"

She sighed and looked at him with the same expression she used when breaking the news they were through: tender with a dash of pity. Richard didn't deserve anger; Richard wasn't _serious_ enough to scold.

"It's...it's not food poisoning," she said.

"I beg to differ. Holy moly, I must've have shit a lung."

"Richard, it's not...hold on, I'll call the nurse," she said, dropping her book on the floor.

He was no psychic, but her dour countenance suggested something worse than salmonella. "Come on, mama," he whispered. "You're starting to scare me. What's going on?"

Cammie braced herself with a deep breath and then said, "They...they found something during the laparoscopy. You have a metastasized layer over your intestine and...and the doctor had to operate..." She trailed off, shook her head, and balled both hands into fists.

And tho he knew the answer, Richard couldn't help but ask: "But it ain't serious, right?"

"Oh, Richard, I'm sorry," Cammie blubbered, as the first of many tears fell from her eyes. "I'm so sorry but..."

***

"...eres un hombre muerto caminando," Richard finished.

' _You should call someone,' the doctor said. 'Mother, father, sisters, brothers, cousins...somebody.'_

Richard fashioned a short list of people...well, one person...to contact.

"Oh, Jimmy," he murmured. For years, Richard feared his little bro would do something rash and ruin his life. But Jim caught a serious case of common sense: he enlisted; became a cop; married a stunning redhead; had a couple rug rats. Richard sent savings bonds every Christmas to his nephews but he'd never seen them _in situ._ Shit, he didn't have but a handful of pictures of the boys.

And wouldn't you know? It made him pretty damn blue he never took the time to visit them until death kicked him in the-

Like magic, the radar detector on the dash started beeping.

"Ahhh, got ya, mama," he said, slowing the Audi to a prudent seventy miles-per-hour. CHP liked to camp at rest stops and gas stations but he wasn't near one of those pitstops. As he cruised by Desert Center get off - Population 200- he searched for the source of the radar detectors anxiety. And there it be, snug behind a peeling billboard: _Bastardo astuto._

Getting pulled over would ruin his trip in more ways than one. There was the pot, of course. And the Smith & Wesson. And the handcuffs and rope. None of it would look good to Mista Smoky.

"No, mama," Richard whispered. "I'm a naughty little boy."

***

Besides the toking and shrooms, Richard hadn't been naughty in a long, long time. But he'd been naughty when Dad died.

It wasn't like the old man didn't have it coming; he knew the score. A man doesn't drink a fifth everyday expecting to live to a ripe old age. Aye, Dad gave up the ghost long before his body blew it out of him. And, boy, did he blow! The old man looked like he chowed down on a hand grenade and asked for seconds.

The sight and sounds mesmerized: blood flowed, Dad moaned, Mom cried, Katherine screamed, and the canned laugh track of _Mama's Family_ accompanied the episode.

Like Richard, sixteen-year-old Jimmy reveled in John Reilly's agony. He put his arm around Richard's shoulder and growled, "Let him bleed. Let him agonize."

"Let him suffer," echoed Richard.

Like lovers admiring a sunset, they watched their degenerate patriarch squirm for a long time. Dad knew what was happening and didn't bother to protest...too much. Richard doubted it mattered anyway. Or he convinced himself it didn't. The old man would bleed out long before an ambulance arrived. What of it? John Reilly deserved every bit of what death doled and then some.

For whatever reason, though, Katherine begged her brothers to do something:

"Help Dad!" she wailed. "Help him! He's dying!"

If it hadn't been to shut Katherine up, Richard would've let Dad die on the shag carpet. At last, he shrugged off his brother's arm, dragged the bastard downstairs, and folded him into the Datsun. For his efforts, he and the car got painted in blood. Even in death, John Reilly made a mess of everything.

Two days later, Richard hit the road with a vague plan: he'd haul ass to L.A. and see which way the wind blow. Hell, he should've left long before Dad met his end, but Rich brainwashed himself into believing his presence provided security...stability... _something_. Who was he kidding? While nineteen-year-old Richard Reilly did a better job of standing up to his father than his adolescent self, the damage had already been done. Instead of taking leave, Rich allowed guilt to snap a weight around his legs.

_Ta-da:_ the manacle severed once John Reilly no longer resided amongst the living.

But Rich made a promise to Jim before departing:

"I'm not leaving you in the dust, bro. I'll call."

And he did, at first. He tickled the ringer a few times a month and sent a few hundred bucks -earned from a crummy job bussing tables- every two weeks. Then the calls lessened to a trickle as other priorities took centerstage: he found a place in Long Beach with a couple of guys from work and enrolled at LBCC; he surfed, dated, smoked a mountain of pot; he got in on life by banishing the past and forging a future.

But when Jimmy graduated high school, Richard was the first one to shake his hand. Confident and cocky, he decided to impart a ray of sunshine on his brother's cloudy future. Hours after the ceremony, they sat on the back porch of the tiny three-bedroom apartment, split a case and discussed how Jim could get in on life.

"You should go to college, bro," Richard lectured.

Jim snorted and then said, "College isn't for me...bro."

"You don't know until you give it a try. I just finished my Associates. This fall, I'll be attending Long Beach State. I'm gonna major in history, minor in foreign languages."

"Whatcha do with a history degree? Wipe tables with it?"

"Teaching, numbnuts."

"Gee, good for you, but I don't have money for college."

"I had zilch when I moved to California. If I can make it work, you can too."

"Man, I almost didn't graduate high school. Go figure, working almost forty hours a week to pay for this dump...and food, clothes, utilities. _Ahem_... _somebody_ had to make sure Katherine was taken care of since Ma can't hold a job for more than a hot second."

"Jimmy, I know things have been difficult and I'm sorry-"

"Don't apologize. I'm not blaming you, Rich. But college...get real. I'd be flushing cash down the crapper."

"What're your options? Flipping burgers for the rest of your life?"

"Do you think a degree in history is worth jack shit?"

"It's worth what I make it."

"Yeah, well, I have plans," Jim said, as he crushed a can beneath his foot and then added it to the pile of compressed aluminum next to the lawn chair. "I have _Big_ plans, Rich. You'll see."

Richard also had plans: He wanted to wrap his arms around his brother and drag him across the desert to the ocean. They'd sit on the beach at sunset, stick their toes in the water and listen to the surf; they'd watch the sun as it painted orange smears across the water in broad strokes; they'd have a milkshake on the Cabrillo Beach Pier and inhale the brine; they'd smoke a big fatty, laugh and watch old, stupid movies on TMC like _Johnny Eager_ and _The Kissing Bandit_. In the morning, they'd rise when it was dark, shimmy into wetsuits and paddle into water so cold, it woke the body with the promise of adventure. Afterward, they'd walk barefoot to the apartment and dry off in the afternoon heat. On the way, they'd stop at The Slug, listen to blues and get shitfaced...

"I want you to come with me to Long Beach," Richard said.

"The fuck?"

"I'm serious. Throw a bag in my car and say adios to this dump. It's the best thing I ever did."

Jim _appeared_ to weigh the request with thoughtful analysis; waiting for his response was like watching the sun descend below the horizon. Richard never measured time with anything other than the hands of a clock until he got to Southern California. Sitting Indian-style on the beach, gazing across the ocean, it was possible to watch day slide into a gray netherworld. Light to night in a matter of seconds...and it be a beautiful sight.

"What do you say?" Richard pestered. "We'll hit the road tomorrow and we won't stop until the Pacific stares us in the face."

"You make it sound poetic but, um...I'm gonna pass."

"Come on, man. You can stay with me and sleep on the couch. My roomies won't mind."

"I told you: I have plans."

"All right, I'll bite."

"I'm gettin' _Him_ ," Jim said with zero inflection.

"Who?"

" _Him_. I have a name: Isaac Brown. I have an address. I have a plan."

"No...no, Jimmy," Richard said, shaking his head.

"Why not?"

"What're you gonna do? Kill _Him_?"

"Ohhh...not at first. Not second or third, either. Killing _Him_ is waaayyy down on the long list of shit I have planned for Isaac Brown."

"And then what happens?"

"Then I feel better."

"No, _then_ you go to prison. And _then_ you go to the gas chamber. Arizona doesn't fuck around with murderers."

" _Pfft!_ Do you think I give a fuck?"

"You're eighteen, bro. You have a life to live."

"Easy for you to say."

"You don't think it haunts me? I wish I would've done something, anything to stop-"

"Like what? We were kids. Now Dad...Dad could've done something. Or Mom, the cunt. Fuck 'em both."

"Right, fuck 'em both. But you don't have to screw yourself. Come with me. You'll love California. And we can take Katherine, too. I know she's a minor but there are-"

"Ah, the happy family horseshit."

"We can make-"

" _Horse. Shit._ "

"Would you stop interrupting me?"

"I would if you stopped talking out your ass."

"Okay, I'm not saying it's possible to let the past go, but you can move on and make something of yourself."

"Fuck your psycho-babble bullshit," Jim snarled. "What, you take a couple of hippy-dippy touchy-feely courses at a community college and all a sudden you're like... _oh_ , _there's harmony in the world_? Fuck you, bro. I didn't have the chance to run away and I'm not fine with the past. I'm far from fine."

"I get the anger. I do. But channel it into something constructive instead of destroying your future."

"Ehhhh," Jim droned, as he reached into the cooler for another cold one. "Mmmm," he hummed, popping the top. He emptied the beer in a long pull, tossed the can aside and then drawled, "You were sayin'?"

"I'm trying to help," Richard whispered.

"Yeah, I know what you're _trying_ to do."

"Jim-"

"But, despite your bullshit, you make a point."

Richard exhaled and then ran a hand through his thinning hair.

"Mm-hmm," Jimmy hummed.

"Good. Can we drop the subject?"

Jim tilted his head, stared into the night sky and slurred, "I needa think on my plan."

"Huh? No, I didn't mean-"

"Shaddup, Rich."

"Jim-"

"I said shaddup. I don't needa lecture, or advice, or college or whatever you think is important. I have one goal in life. Everything else is a waste of time. Mark my words: I will end..."

***

"...Isaac Brown," Richard whispered. "It may not be tomorrow, or the next day or the next year, but it will happen. When the time is right, it _will_ happen."

Yet, it didn't happen...

But it would.

And Rich didn't care how much his brother protested...if he did protest...which he wouldn't, because...

Because...

He took a monster rip, held the smoke in his lungs...

(When the time is right...)

...and then coughed out the Sour Diesel in a giant cloud.

(...it will happen.)

George Noory said, _"West of the Rockies, you're on the wild card line."_

"Hiya, Georgie," Richard wheezed. "I'm baked as a brownie, heading to New York, and I be pondering fate. What's your take on destiny?"

The signal turned choppy and then twisted into a tangle of static.

"Yeppers," Richard chuckled. "I hear you loud and clear, mama."

There be a ditty the late, great Mista Mojo Risin used to sing, and the melancholic verse popped into Richard's noodle while the radio blasted electrons: _I hate to remind you but you're going to die..._

"... _however, there are treatments capable of extending your life," the doctor informed as he flipped through the chart._

" _How long do I have?" Richard asked._

" _I can't hazard a definitive answer."_

" _Let's pretend you can."_

" _Mmm...six months...perhaps a year."_

" _Perhaps less?"_

" _Perhaps," the doctor said with a sedate nod._

_Richard's groin turned to ice. Perhaps six months? Perhaps less? And what kinda answer was_ _perhaps_ _? Perhaps wasn't an answer!_

The doc continued: "I wish I could tell you something better. The tumors are extensive and the cancer will spread to the liver, pan-"

" _You can stop with the blow by blow. I get the idea. When can I leave this place?"_

The doctor shrugged and said, "In a couple of days, but I recommend you begin-"

Richard interrupted with a lax rebuke: "I know it's your job, but I don't want to spend whatever time I have left in a hospital. I have things to do before I, um...before I die."

" _Won't you entertain the thought?" Cammie asked. "You might beat this thing."_

" _Naw, mama, you heard the man. Tumores extensos y la propagación del cáncer no es bueno."_

" _Richard, be serious! For once, be-"_

" _Serious?"_

" _Yes!"_

" _This is as serious as I can get, Cammie: can you take care of Boss Hogg? The Boss is a whole lotta stupid like me, but he's a good dog."_

Cammie squeezed Richard's hand as tears rolled down her freckled cheeks. "Of-of course," she sobbed. "But...but Richard, please consider-"

" _Shh, Cammie. It's fine. I've been meaning to cross a few things off my bucket list. So, before it's too late, I'm gonna hit the road for my farewell tour."_

" _Where're you going?"_

"Upstate New York, mama," he said to the empty interstate. "I'm..."
Midwinter, 2008

"...pregnant, Jim!"

" _Ahem_...I'm pregnant, Jim."

"Jim! I'm pregnant!"

"I'm...uh...I'm pregnant, Jim."

"Good news, Jim! I'm pregnant."

"Guess what? I'm pregnant, Jim. Surprise!"

"So, Jim, check it out..."

She sighed, studied her tummy in the mirror, and then shook her head. "I'm fucking pregnant," she whined.

The gut didn't look plump, but she knew. She knew because it wasn't her first time meeting Mister Stork...

***

After the reunion, after Saratoga, after a weekend in Atlantic City in early August and another in Richmond at the end of August; after fucking him in every conceivable position (and a few they devised...which would send them both to hell in a handbasket if the Almighty got wise) for the better part of aught oh's hot as fuck summer, Laura Pine decided it was time to put the Jim Reilly Experiment to pasture. And the key be to put the Experiment to pasture before it got _too late_.

You see, the thought crossed her mind -more than a few times, Dear Diary- she was developing _feelings_ for him. Not the mushy, _I miss you so much I can't think straight,_ feelings. No, not quite...but _maybe_...yes...but no, no way... _but_ maybe...

She flipped and flopped and they fucked and fucked until, at last, Laura decided -after much soul searching- fantastic fucking wasn't reason enough to keep things rolling. With school starting, she needed to focus on studies and not Jim Reilly. Anyway, she figured the Navy would ship him somewhere to fight whomever and she'd go to Italy the following summer and they'd never see each other again because that's the way things worked and that's the way things always worked and life would go on.

Yep.

Towards the end of September, Laura started feeling crummy; everything she ate, drank and snorted made her sick. Even though Missy insisted she showed telltale signs, Laura blew her off. Denial, stupidity, pick the noun...getting knocked up wasn't supposed to happen; she and Jim weren't serious...

What would Father say?

What would Mother say?

What the hell am I going to do?

At last -a Sunday morning heralding the second week of October- Missy sat Laura down and lectured, "You can't eat, you're sick all the time and your color is awful. You either have a tumor or you're-"

"I'm not pregnant," Laura argued. "I'm not. Uh-uh."

"Denial isn't going to change the situation."

"I can't be pregnant! I'm on the pill!"

"Girl, let's do some math. You were with him in July. And August. It's October and you haven't felt well in weeks. Have you had a period? No. Morning sickness? Yes. Did he wear a rubber?"

"No," Laura sighed. And they raw-dogged more than once. Damn near every fucking time, in fact. _Damn. Near._ _Every. Fucking. Time._

What the hell was I thinking?

Missy said: "I'm buying an EPT so we can answer one question. If you're not pregnant, there's a more pressing issue. But I think-"

"Get the damn test," Laura snarled.

As if the fetus reached a hand out of her kootchar and drew the blasphemous mark, the little pink line showed on the stick seconds after Laura tinkled on it. Slack-jawed, she shook the immunoassay strip like an Etch-A-Sketch and decided to wait a few minutes...you know, just in case...

"What's the verdict?" Missy nagged from the other side of the bathroom door. Laura picked up the stick and looked at it with the right eye closed. Then she alternated right to left. Then she shut both eyes for five Mississippi, opened 'em both...and then threw the EPT (box and all) in the trash and opened the door.

"My life is over," she announced. Missy hugged her and they had a good cry; an hour later, Laura phoned her fuck buddy and announced:

"You better sit down. I have, um...it's big news."

She heard a rattling inhale, then the slamming of a door. "I think I have an idea," he mumbled. "Starts with a B, ends in a Y. Am I in the ballpark?"

"So much for the pill, huh?" she asked in a clumsy attempt at humor.

"Uh...right...so...like...don't take this the wrong way, but you're certain the...you know...it's...like...eh...you know what I'm saying?"

"Jim, I'm not in the habit of jerking men around. I'm pregnant; you're the father."

"Then...then what's the plan?"

"For starters, I'd like to eat something without yakking ten minutes later."

"I mean-"

"I know what you mean and I...I..."

_Ugh_ , the _Big A_ bummed her out, Dear Diary. She wasn't opposed to the _Big A_ , and Laura felt women deserved the right to choose, but her inclination leaned away from the _Big A_. Despite the inconvenience of a child, the notion of rooting a living thing out of her...well, it her made her sick. Thus:

"...I'm going to keep it...the baby. I don't know what you want to hear, but the alternative is something I won't consider."

"I understand," he replied in a gentle voice. "And, um, even if you don't want anything to do with me, I'll be there. But I'd rather have a presence than be a shadow who sends a check every month. A kid needs both parents in their life, doncha think?"

"I think...yes, you're right...it's just...can we talk about this later? My head is swimming."

"Mine, too, but I want you to know something: I didn't have much when I was growing up. My father...he couldn't keep a job; he wasted money; he owed money; he ran with a rough crowd. We hopscotched from a small, shitty house to small, shitty apartments to smaller, shittier apartments. My brother and I had to work throughout high school to keep things from falling apart. After my old man shit the bed and left nothing but a legacy of bills, I vowed I'd never let my kids experience the kind of bullshit I dealt with. And trust me, I dealt with plenty of bullshit."

The candid admission (Jim only talked of his upbringing once, and the topic covered the gory details of his old man "shitting the bed") prickled her curiosity.

But he shifted gears and continued: "I'm not presuming you don't know what comes next, but I have a job waiting for me in Memphis after I get out of the service. Along with a couple properties Brooksy and I are subletting, I'll be pulling more than your average patrolman. After a couple years, I expect to have enough cash put aside to start a business of my own. Now, I'm telling you this because I want you to consider coming South with me. We can skip the long-distance crap and raise our kid together."

"Uhm...gosh," she hawed, untangling her tongue. "Jim, my family is here."

"Memphis isn't on the moon. Besides, I'm not going to make it a permanent home. Two and a half, three years, tops. Then I'm gonna head to the coast...doesn't matter which one...or...you know, when the time comes, I...er... _we_...we'll figure it out."

"The only way my mother would approve is if I got married before the baby arrives," she half-joked.

His blunt response: "Okay, let's get married."

"Huh?" she squeaked. "Married?"

"I'm not talking about tomorrow or next week or next month. Maybe...maybe March, around the time I get discharged. I can take terminal leave and...hmm...yeah, I'd have almost the whole of March free and clear."

Laura worked the math in her head and then said, "March is five months away."

"Five months will give us enough time to get square. I'll find a place in Memphis...an apartment, to start, but I swear-"

While he unfurled the blueprint of their future, she stared at her feet and wiggled toes. The _Big M_ because of the _Big P_...

"-a house on Mud Island. Brooksy told me-"

The _Big M_ in _Memphis_...

"-the LEO's and-"

The Big M...

"-families-"

The Big P...

"-there-"

Memphis...

"-and-"

"Stop," she rasped. "Please. No more tonight. I-I appreciate what you're saying, but I need to mull over the _Big M_."

So she did; boy, howdy, did Laura mull. Hours of mulling. Mulling while throwing up; mulling when she ate Cap'n Crunch; mulling on the subway; mulling in bed.

Missy shared her lousy two-cents, which amounted to Laura and the little one staying in the City; the idea was preposterous, and Laura dismissed it quick-like.

Laura's parents (Mother more than Father) implored her to do the "right thing" after doing the "wrong one". Mother's stuffy attitude irritated more than Dad's side-eye, but Laura acknowledged there'd be a Hester Prynne-like stigma affixed to her should she slink to Canesoanke with a baby bump and no baby daddy. Though Laura would've told the collective architype to sit on a tack should said architype cast aspirations, a profound realization permeated her bones:

I don't want to handle this alone...

***

"Christ, I'm pregnant," Laura said to her haggard reflection.

Johnny hadn't been a shocker. She took the pill on occasion and they fucked a lot. Voilà: Irish twins.

This one...

Number Three.

Yeesh.

Could she deal with another one? _Yes._

Did she want another one? Er...um...

Until a few weeks prior, the answer would've been _sure_. And not a lackluster _sure_. She'd have yelped _sure_ in a perky voice.

But she got the first letter on Valentine's Day: stuffed in the mailbox amongst bills and an L.L.Bean catalogue, a small, pink envelope addressed to Laura. For a moment, she thought Jim had left a card.

_Oh,_ her mind cooed. _How sweet._

The typed message inside wasn't so sweet:

Laura Reilly,

Your husband is fucking Gail Carter.

A friend.

She read it once, looked around the kitchen to see if there was a camera somewhere, and then crushed the paper into a ball.

A sick note, she reasoned. A sick note from a sick person... _the_ sick person.

Laura wasn't a hundred percent certain, but the signs pointed at the beast known as Regina Cumberland...or Regina Grittio, as the fat bitch be known in the day. Who else sent vindictive missives? Nobody. Nobody but her.

There needn't be a why for the behavior. Laura wasn't the first target of Regina Cumberland's petty games and she wouldn't be the last. Her friends giggled over the letters they had received over the years. Yes, she needed to laugh, show Terry, Jessica and Jody the stupid thing and squawk, 'Can you believe what the bitch sent me?'

For a minute, though, she forgot Regina's deportment; she unfolded the note, smoothed it on the counter and stared at the words:

Your husband is fucking Gail Carter.

Wetzel the Pretzel.

Jimmy Jr.'s teacher.

"No," she said, sweeping the paper into the trash bin. "Uh-uh."

She had half a mind to call Regina and scream obscenities. Instead, she ground her rage into a powder and swept it under a mental rug.

A second letter arrived two weeks later:

Laura,

Your husband and Gail Carter are screwing.

A friend.

This time, she kept the note. But she didn't ask Jim. Nope. Why bother him with the nonsense? He didn't appear skeevy...of course, she didn't realize he fucked around the first time until _Her_ appeared on their front lawn.

No matter how much she convinced herself Regina Cumberland be a kook, or Jim smelled normal, or he wasn't hiding his phone (she checked his cell history and researched every number...before remembering he also carried a personal data assistant she'd never get her paws on), or staying out late (except for the overnight shifts...which, come to think, he'd been doing more of), or acting content, or boning Laura with a passion she found both exhaustive and exhilarating...no matter all of it, the notes kept coming.

By the end of February, she had six buried beneath her socks in the top dresser drawer.

Her stomach turned sour around then; at first, she ascribed the sickness to stress. Three days into March, reality bit her in the ass.

The pill had taken another dump.

She was pregnant.

Again.

***

No strings.

They fucked six times in January.

No strings.

They fucked six times in February.

No strings.

They always fucked at her house.

No strings.

Tom was a power line field engineer (Gail didn't go into elaborate detail) for Ontario, Monroe and Wayne Counties; his duties often required overnights. Jim pulled graveyard twice a week...

_No strings_...well, expect for Aiden. The five-year-old...he be a string.

But they tiptoed around him.

Kinda sorta.

Our hero would break for his 10-34 around two bells, park the cruiser down the street, enter through the Carter's unlocked backdoor, and pad into the basement. And there she'd be, reclined on a stained sofa leaking stuffing, dressed in lace, a big _fuck me_ smile plastered across her face.

No strings.

At the end of February, Wetzel the Pretzel had him pressed between her legs, wide eyes locked on his...

"C'mon, Jim!" she implored.

And he be coming. Coming with a big ole load for the Pretzel factory.

"C'mon! C'mon! C-"

Slow-like, the basement door opened.

Then Aiden's tiny voice: "Momma?"

Jimmy slowed his roll and moaned, "Fuck."

Gail put her right hand over his mouth and whispered, "C'mon, Jim. C'mon."

"Momma?"

Her other hand grasped the back of his neck.

Scuffling at the top of the stairs turned into the slow progress of little footsteps as they trod each warped plank. Drywall hid the intruder, but Jim could hear him advancing like the Waffen SS soldier in _Saving Private Ryan_ , the one what stabbed Mellish in the heart...

_Footstep._ Pause. _Footstep._ Pause. _Footstep._

" _C'mon,_ Jim," Wetzel the Pretzel implored, all-crazy eyed and grinding teeth. " _C'mon, c'mon,_ _c'mon_."

_Footstep._ Pause. A cough. _Footstep..._

"Momma? I'm thirfty."

_Holy fuck_ , Jim thought. _I'm up shit creek._

About the moment Aiden reached the last creaky step, Jim let it sail. He let it sail and bit her hand; he bit it _hard_. His left calf seized; the confection of pain and pleasure elicited incomprehensible, but stifled, blubbering.

She scratched his back and then slapped his face. "Momma's...coming...oh, I'm coming...oh...oh, I'm...one sec...oh," she whimpered while he lashed her insides, gnashed her fingers, tasted blood and tried not to shout as the charley horse migrated up his leg and settled in the small of his back.

Only one, dim lightbulb illuminated the unfinished basement, and it hung from a socket ten feet behind the two adulterers. He was still pumping when the towhead peeked around the corner. What a sight it must've been...if the boy could discern anything in the gloom. But Jim knew the boy saw enough: Aiden's eyes widened (Jim noted they were greenish-brown, by the be) and the kid's mouth dropped.

"Momma's...coming," Gail panted, as she released Jim and freed her hand from his mouth. "Just...a...sex...a...sec..."

The boy nodded, backed up the stairs...

"He saw us," Jim groaned.

"You bit my hand," she hissed. "My _good_ hand."

"Fuck your hand. Your kid saw us."

"He's half-asleep. He doesn't know what he saw."

"I don't think-"

She slapped him again and said, "My _good_ hand."

He shoved her aside, fell onto the couch and inhaled cotton balls.

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

This is the end, Brooksy. No more.

He was serious, too; he crept out of the house and vowed _'No more'_ in his head a bajillion times.

***

"I'm pregnant, Jim."

"Um...what?"

"I'm pregnant."

He gave her the once over, rubbed his chin and then stammered, "Are...you're...um...you're sure?"

"I'm sure," Laura said, crossing arms. "I'm going to the obstetrician in the morning."

"Oh, wow," he said in a monotone voice, before dropping onto the sofa. His utility belt rode up his tummy; fumbling fingers undid the clasp while his yapper opened and closed like Mister Mouth. At last, he snagged his tongue from the cat and asked, "You're taking the pill, aren't you?"

"We both know how well it's worked in the past. You have super sperm or something. I asked you to get a vasectomy but you refused. Here we are."

"Don't get angry with me. It's not _all_ my fault."

"I don't want to argue, Jim," she said, flopping next to him on the couch. "Everything will be fine, but the thought of... _ugh_...and wait 'til I tell my mother. She'll give me the business and..."

While Laura babbled about her bitch of a mother, he leaned forward and stared at his stompers. Baby Three.

Baby _fucking_ Three.

But what of it? He'd sell some stock, get the empty room upstairs prepped for Three, blast into the next fussy, poopie, sleep deprived chapter of his life.

In Canesoanke.

Without Wetzel the Pretzel, brah...

***

Needless to say, they banged a final time:

Two days after Laura broke the "good" news, Gail summoned...and Jim came like the dog he be.

Afterwards, they relaxed on the couch; her sweaty head rested on his chest while he studied the splintery crossbeams. Laura's pronouncement, _'You have super sperm_ , _'_ bounced inside his noggin; Gail's snatch, filled with said super sperm, rubbed against his groin; Aiden's face...

"We gotta stop," he announced.

She wrinkled her nose, blinked peepers and then asked, "What's wrong?"

"For starters, the thing with your kid...I can't get it out of my head. Second, Laura's pregnant and, uh...I think it's time to, you know...we're on a tightrope ride, is all. Like, what happens if I knock you up?"

" _Pfft._ It's not happening, Jim. I told you I have the implant."

" _Argh_...I just mean...birth control can sometimes shit the bed."

"Oh, relax," she laughed while stroking his D. "I wouldn't let you blastoff into me if I thought there's a chance in hell I could get knocked up."

"Uh-huh, wonderful, but like I said, it's time to tap out."

"Mmm...tell me you don't enjoy our time together."

"I do but-"

Her hand squeezed his D and she taunted, "You're getting hard, Jimmy."

"Stop it. I'm serious."

She frowned, gave the bouncy D a vicious tug and then said, "Well...we're done, huh?"

He patted her back and said, "It's for the best."

" _It's for the best_...your usual kick in the ass?"

_Here we go,_ Jim thought. _Here's where I find out what no strings mean._

"All right," she said, dislodging from his arms. " _Ahem_...my usual kick in the ass is _get out_. So...you know the way, Jim Reilly."

"Your usual?" he scoffed.

"My usual."

"You're not mad?"

"Mad? Are you kidding? Like...no offense, but I'm not interested in a guy like you beyond the big thingy between your legs. I told you what this is. If you want to tap out, then there's nothing else to say but _get out_ , right?"

He sat up, pulled the blanket over his lap, and grunted. _Get out._ The situation couldn't be peachier. Yet, he couldn't help but chuckle as lucidity bonked him on the head.

"What's funny?" she asked.

"The shit with your husband and Regina Cumberland, the note, the waterworks, his drinking...you don't care, do you?"

"Oh...kinda. He pisses me off, but Tom is Tom. I still love him, but it's nothing I can explain without sounding...senseless, I guess. He's a so-so husband, but he's also a good father, handsome, smart, makes great money. You know, he went to RIT and has a Bachelors in-"

"Trade school?"

She looked at him like he was a simpleton and said, "No, RIT is not a trade school. Look, it doesn't matter. His roving dick doesn't bother me anymore, but of all the women he decided to hump, I can't for the life of me understand why it has to be _her_. So be it. If he can have his fun, I can have mine. When Aiden's older, maybe in high school, we'll part ways. Until then..." Gail shrugged, glanced at bulging outline of Jim's draped D and then said, "...I make do with what fits."

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah. Wetzel the motherfucking Pretzel. What a babe.

So, Jimmy thought he strolled into the sunset with the tawdry monkey business behind him. Or maybe Gail Carter left him in the dust.

Tomayto, tomahto.

But the chickens always come home to roost...
Butch

...because law enforcement had been in the Weinager blood for centuries. As far back as the family tree spread ( _'To the Sixteenth Century Westphalia region of Germany,'_ according to Great-grandmother Gertrude Weinager), there be a Weinager tasked with keeping the peace. Bradley Weinager was another budding limb growing from the gnarled bark, but his branch happened to grow a mite crooked.

In December 1945, Buster "Butch" Weinager became a sheriff's deputy in Ontario County after he returned from overseas. See, Buster fought in the Second World War - _dab-yaw dab-yaw deuce_ , he called it- from Normandy to Berlin. Bookended by D-Day and the Occupation, Buster helped liberate Paris, fought in the Battle of the Bulge and had himself a look-see at Buchenwald. He also torched thousands of Lucky Strike's on his trek across Western Europe because heaters were passed out like candy by the commissary and candy stripers. If Buster had a hunch the smokes were poisoning his body, he wouldn't have cared. After seeing what them Nazis did to Jews, Communists and miscellany, the future health concerns of a twenty-five old PFC from bumfuck New York took a seat in the rear.

Buster didn't talk about the war (not a peep because he dreamed about it almost every goddamn night, thank you very much) but he smoked a hell of a lot of cigarettes. He married in '52, raised a couple kids, and drank at the VFW in Canesoanke with Howard Phillips, Gary Baxter and Henry Boja. In '69, Buster left the OC Sheriff's Department to become Canesoanke C-oh-P; he served in this capacity until the small-cell carcinoma forced him into retirement in '89.

Chief Weinager died eight months after leaving the job, and he left a respectable legacy...with one minor blemish. Though it wasn't his fault per se, he helmed the ship when Canesoanke suffered its first recorded homicide since the 1938 strangling of local busybody Fern Bedford. 'Twas the year of our Lord 1988, and Howard Phillips upped and killed his whore of a wife and then himself in their ramshackle single-story on Petunia Road. First to arrive on scene, Buster stormed the dump like it was a Kraut pillbox. Inside was the not so happy couple, both with shotgun blasts to the head. Gloria had been in bed, perhaps sleeping, when she met her maker; Butch found Howard on the shitter and a Remington Model 870 next to his bare right foot.

Buster blamed himself for the bloodletting because Howard was a buddy and he'd threatened to kill _the cunt_ and _myself_ for some time. Of course, Buster didn't believe Howard would turn the fool. Liquor talk, you dig? Plus, Howard had a god-awful big mouth.

But Buster be wrong.

However, the felonious stain didn't tarnish the Weinager name. After Buster hung up the badge, Benjamin took his place as top dog of the police force. And the beat went on. When Ben retired in 2006, Bradley filled his shoes.

Bradley was also known as Butch, a nickname bequeathed because of his uncanny resemblance to his grandfather. Rangy, muscular, and sportin' a sharp Roger Maris-esque buzz cut, Bradley was a three-year letterman and football captain on the Canesoanke football squads what captured the 1995 and '96, New York State Section V Class A Championships. A center and defensive end, Brad earned all-state honors and is interned on the Canesoanke Wall of Honor (complete with an engraved bust and short description of his gridiron heroics) until the sun decides to supernova. Though wooed by a few local colleges -Division 3 schools with mediocre football programs like Brockport and the U of R- he decided to step into law enforcement. If Syracuse had come a-callin', Bradley might've snapped the chinstrap for Coach Pasqualoni. But the Orangemen weren't interested and he stayed in Canesoanke. Bradley wasn't one to agonize over lost opportunities. Moreover, his scope of the world stopped at the town line and not a whisker over. Like a good Weinager, he knew where his bread be buttered.

The town was proud of its football team (rather, the town is still proud of its team as of this writing), but in the Big Picture, high school championships don't mean diddly-poop. Bradley understood this in an abstract way, yet he didn't care his life had peaked at the ripe old age of 18. Instead, he enjoyed his celebrity status.

Being a celebrity in Cansoanke meant people gave Bradley things _on the house_ : free meals, free alcohol, even free tire rotations and oil changes at Baxter's Garage. Sons of Liberty Gun's gave him free ammunition. Bradley liked getting shit _on the house_ because it made him feel like a _Big Shot_. The thought these gifts had anything to do with his family name never entered his mind. And even if he connected these dots, Bradley would've been as apathetic as his grandfather was to the cigarettes what did him in.

Bradley also got a shit ton of something else: _Pussy_. Loads of pussy. Loads of pussy _on the house_. He kept a steady girl through high school -Laura Pine- but once she strutted to Marist it be game on. With loads of local pussy staring him in the face, Bradley had no use for a vagina three hundred miles away.

Bradley loved pussy. He didn't care what was attached to said pussy as long as it was human, female and had a pulse. Brad ran through a fair share of woman and put together an impressive streak from June 1999 to July 2001. By his estimation, he rumpy-dumpied with close to 600 skinny, fat and morbidly obese women in twenty New York counties, including the parking lot of Rich Stadium where he acquired a case of the clap from a drunk skank who lived in Wyoming County. You see, Bradley and his buddy Tom Carter had a competition of sorts -a pussy-off- which ended when Tom became partners for life with Gail Wetzel. Despite the marriage, Tom remained an unrepentant womanizer; at present, he took to bangin' the bejesus out of the rotund Regina Cumberland for some reason only Tom Carter could explain. But more about this later.

At last, Bradley settled down with Shelly Baxter...but this didn't stop his roving ways. The pussy loving personality trait of Bradley "Butch" Weinager wasn't a well-kept secret and rumors of his infidelity were persistent and ostentatious. Did Butch care? Hell no. Like everything else on the house, it made him feel like a _Big Shot_.

There was a third facet to the on the house philosophy; it too wasn't a well-kept secret. A little demon called addiction reared its ugly head and took control of Bradley from his late teens until his mid-twenties. His preferred spirit be Bojangles, and Frankie Boja shoveled a ton of blow in Bradley's face on the house...sorta. There were a few strings, but nothing Deputy Chief Bradley Weinager couldn't handle: Frankie and his father wanted impunity to run their racket; Brad connived a way to make it so (without Daddy gettin' wise, of course). Needless to say, both parties were pleased by the arrangement.

Ben Weinager -Bradley's grumpy father- didn't catch wind of the illicit trade taking place under his nose, but he tired of hearing about Bradley doin' lines in the bathroom of Calhoun's and coming into work high as a kite. Thus, on a dreary spring afternoon in 2005, he took his only son aside and engaged him in a pat, one-sided chat.

"Listen to me, you stupid son-of-a-bitch, and listen good," Ben woofed. "I can handle the talk of your drinking, even though I think you push it too far. And even though you outta be embarrassed by how you treat Shelly, I can handle talk of the women. But the drugs have to stop, shithead. I've done my best to keep the seat warm for you, but if you don't get a handle on your problem, I'll make sure you won't see another day in my police department. You hear me?"

Bradley heard Pa loud-and-clear; secret-like, he went to rehab in Knoxville and came out clean as a whistle. But tho he weaned himself off the Bojangles, Brad convinced the purveyor of this fine product the operation would continue to function without a hitch. The _wink-wink_ didn't come on the house, but the Bojas were happy to pass their friend in law enforcement a thick envelope every month. The Bojas also made generous, tax-refundable donations to the police department. For their benevolence, the Bojas received some kinda secret squirrel card. The wallet size laminate ensured no Boja would ever receive a moving violation in any hamlet, village, town and city in Western New York.

***

At age thirty, Bradley bypassed more qualified guys and gals for the position of Canesoanke Police Chief, but nepotism and his status as a football god earned him brownie points. His nomination was approved by the Canesoanke City Council on 12 December 2006, by a vote of 5-0; one of the Council members casting a ballot was none other than Raul Boja.

Boja's legitimate commercial enterprises made him a millionaire by age forty; his illegal activity made him a multimillionaire by forty-five. He didn't do all the work -his father Henry planted the seeds way back when- but Raul watered, pruned, and made the money tree grow. Speculation Boja was involved in illicit business -drugs- made the rounds, but townie rumors weren't fact. Though there were exceptions, those who knew the nitty-gritty also knew enough to keep their mouths closed.

Owner of Canesoanke's largest house -a twelve-thousand-foot mansion atop Sullivan's Knoll- Raul Boja lorded over a diminutive kingdom. From this perch, studying the gorgeous panoramic view of the town and lake, he plotted and pondered. With the police in his back pocket, Boja had few _problems_ in Canesoanke. When complications arose, local law enforcement handled those _problems_ quick-like. And when those guys and gals failed to talk sense, Boja's army of "garbageman" and "vintners" managed to change minds or, on rare occasions, alter the state of existence.

Raul Boja didn't enjoy meting punishment, but it wasn't because he had a conscious. Canesoanke didn't need blood in the streets and dropping bodies within the city limits would bring detectives -real detectives- from the Ontario County Law Enforcement Bureau. Hence, _problems_ were handled with care. The Boja landfill proved an apt corpse depository, but sometimes kin kicked dirt; too much dirt kicking attracted nosy LEB do-gooders. Mister Boja didn't want the LEB doing nosy do-gooder crap and Butch claimed his power only went so far. As a result, few _problems_ warranted Code Red status and those what did deserved a hasty burial under tons of garbage.

Besides waste management, vineyards and sundry small business, Raul Boja fashioned a keen interest in real estate. In 1986, he purchased ten acres abutting Canesoanke Lake for damn near nothing. His goal? To develop the derelict property (swaths of weedy blacktop crowned by abandoned buildings left bankrupt by the recession of the late '70s) into something both majestic and lucrative. Alas, there was one tiny problem: the town refused to grant Mister Boja permission to construct his multimillion-dollar _Shoreview Resort_. In the late '80s, the Mayor argued the project compromised the town's meager infrastructure; in the '90s, the three separate Mayor's claimed development would cause environmental damage to wetlands and sundry inlets.

Frustrated, Raul Boja ran for a seat on the city council and was elected in 2004. He then sold the undeveloped property to a man named Glen Cumberland and went to work strong-arming the town to playball with the new owner. Those in the know saw through Boja's tactics, but the limited naysayers were ignored because the recession of the aughts hobbled the local economy. It was argued a new complex would attract tourists eager to part with their money. Of course, jobs need be created to handle the influx of visitors. This addition equaled: the myth of trickle-down economics. But, like any myth, the uneducated rube had to accept the story. The local newspaper -in a puff piece written by Vern Fridley- published an article full of inflated estimates detailing the flood of revenue the proposed development _would_ fetch. Satiated by data, the citizens demanded the Shoreview Resort. Democracy had spoken and its strident voice sounded fine and dandy to Raul Boja.

An interesting tidbit: for the cost of the Shoreview Resort, the town could've built a domed stadium for a professional football team. Yes, Canesoanke could've made a bid to move the fucking San Diego Chargers next to Canesoanke Lake. But cost didn't matter. Cost was _No Big Deal_. This phrase got tossed around like salt water taffy at a retirement home; the calming and dismissive _No Big Deal_ enjoined the scheme. What about the wildlife? _No Big Deal_. What about the roads? Could the town handle the projected increase in traffic? _No Big Deal._ What if al-Qaeda detonated a suitcase nuke in downtown Canesoanke? _No Big Deal._ Aye, this buzzword can explain away any inconvenience great and small. America might run better fueled by the _NDB_ high-test, or maybe it wouldn't, but either way it'd be _No Big Deal_.

In early 2005, the project went to committee and was ratified by the city council 3-2; ground was broken in the spring of 2006. A shit ton of caveats were lumped into the development's contract -too many to detail here- but two points are worth mentioning. One: a two-acre park and beach would be named after Raul's father, Howard Boja. Two: the builder wasn't required to pay state or federal taxes on recompence...which meant the people of Canesoanke be footing a healthy portion the check.

But, you know, _No Big Deal._

And what a tally it turned out to be. The builder (a friend of Raul Boja, go figure) padded the bill and used material earmarked for Shoreview on other jobs. _No Big Deal._ Ghosted workers ghosted work but the non-ghosted employment checks found their way into real, non-calloused hands. Thus, construction took longer than expected: slated to be finished by the spring of 2008, the resort was only a third of the way complete when the calendar flipped from 2007.

No Big Deal.

What was _A Big Deal_? Glen Cumberland's reluctance to adhere to the "gentlemens' agreement" he made with Raul Boja.

It seemed Cumberland was the perfect flunky. Glen was a friend of Bradley Weinager's, though it's apt to say they were casual acquaintances more than friends. However, Glen had been a wet noodle since kindergarten and when Boja needed a man to unload his property, Bradley recommended ole Glen Cumberland because Glen would bend to the will of Raul Boja when the time came.

On 2 January 2004, Cumberland LLC purchased the lakefront property for the tidy sum of ten U.S. dollars; though legal, the selling price was hidden beneath a mountain of paperwork. Most in Canesoanke assumed the land value exceeded a couple hundred thousand, and some wondered how a twenty-three-year-old fatbody had a couple hundred thousand to spend. Herebe the answer: The Cumberlands (Glen and his mother, Adeline) received three quarters of a million dollars (be all hush hush-like because the Hamburg Petrol Transport Corporation wanted to keep the wrongful death suit hush-hush) after the Cumberland patriarch got blown to Kingdom Come in 1999. A joint NY DOT and State Police investigation found faulty pneumatic control and corroded ventilation reducing joints on the tank truck, which kinda sorta explained why the tanker went nuclear on a dark, stormy night near Herkimer...but it kinda didn't (at least, if you believe the HPTC attorneys)...

...which means one could kinda sorta ascribe the freak accident to serendipity or whatnot.

Regardless, in 2002, Glen received a healthy chunk of the guilt money after his mother died of diabetes. Quick-like, he quit his shitty job making glue gun molds at Pactiv and went about wasting the inheritance on a house, new car and Lotto tickets. But he didn't have to work for the foreseeable future, and this suited Glen just fine. When Butch came knocking with Raul Boja's offer, our pal Glen shrugged shoulders and said, _'Sure, I'll play ball'._

Part of playing ball meant Glen _promised_ to sell the property back to Raul Boja (for the same price as purchased) at a yet to be determined time in the future. In return, Cumberland Vending and Distribution would serve as "chateau wholesalers" and Glen Cumberland could expect to receive several thou a month for doing nothing but sitting on his fat ass.

But then something happened: Glen Cumberland had a change of heart. Yes, he rubbed palms together and realized he stood to make more than a couple thou every month. He watched the resort go up on _his_ property and had a revelation: Glen Cumberland _would_ (not _could_ ) become a real estate tycoon like Donald Trump, and Donald Trump was worth _billions_. Now, these grandiose ideas didn't materialize out of thin air. Glen wasn't, and would never be mistaken for, a man of business acumen. His wife, Regina, egged him into this mindset but her intentions were less than noble...

***

In many ways, Regina and Glen were a perfect match: she didn't like to work either. In fact, she _never_ wanted to work for anyone because working be _for the birds_. Not long after Adeline Cumberland shit the bed, Regina learned Glen sat on a modest honeypot. Plan in hand, she climbed atop a bar stool next to him at a drinking establishment called Calhoun's; within hours, Glen's twenty-two-year-old pecker experienced vaginal sex for the first time and boy, did it feel good...at least to him. Five seconds after penetration (and believe you me, Regina counted every Mississippi), Glen Cumberland shot his load into a condom what be four sizes too big for his teeny wiener.

To Regina, unsatisfying, rudimentary intercourse was _No Big Deal_. After all, reward didn't come without sacrifice.

The point of this story? Glen became smitten for all the wrong reasons and Regina married him for thousands of right ones. But don't feel bad for Glen; he should've known better...

From the moment she emerged from her mother's V, Regina Cumberland (née Grittio), had always been an unrepentant bitch and tattletale. In grade school, she was the prototypical Judy Hensler; after high school, Regina took to sending anonymous missives to members of the community who, she felt, needed a dose of morality and/or humility. It didn't take long for the targeted to discern the source of said nasty letters. But if anybody gave her sass, Regina Cumberland's oldest brother, Sal, was the Ontario County District Attorney. Having Sal as a brother meant most people ignored her offensive letters. Those who pressed Regina...welp, woe to them. Sal didn't enjoy being his sister's go-to; yet, on rare occasions, he flexed a little muscle and righted the ship before Regina found herself on the bad end of an asswhuppin.

Like every ethical fusspot, Regina modeled herself a pillar of the community.

And, like every ethical fusspot, Regina be a giant hypocrite. A convenient Catholic, she believed in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ with the same passion she believed her husband sat on a shitload of gold.

And, because Regina was a giant hypocrite, she cheated on her spouse because Glen couldn't get the job done in the sack.

Fact: his D _repulsed_ her.

Fact: everything about him _repulsed_ her.

How many men humped Regina Cumberland? She lost count after a baker's dozen. Each adulterous liason satiated her carnal desires, but the aftermath caused something akin to shame. Never fear, though: prayer helped mitigate dishonor...

Prayer and lots of letter writing to those who tattled about her indiscretions.

Anyway, so long as it wasn't the _Big S_ , Jesus told her it didn't matter what she did to satisfy appetites.

And when Glen came into possession of Raul Boja's land, she decided her appetites were close to being satisfied.

All her husband needed was encouragement...a kick in the ass...and the acumen to retain invoices, pay stubs and sundry correspondence what detailed (in a convoluted manner) the conversion of funds from the town kitty, through construction entities and CVD, and into a number of banking institutions in Canada and Cyprus. A good egg with financial smarts need only connect the dots, and the dots illustrated money laundering, larceny and tax evasion.

_Proof,_ in other words.

As Shoreview's "owner", Glen signed off on hundreds of sham work orders and statements. However, before the _G.C._ initials or neat _Glen Cumberland_ signature could be affixed on a blank line, the paperwork passed through Raul Boja's hands for approval. On frequent occasions, the old man added revisions what required a legible John Hancock.

Other than hubris, there wasn't a good reason why old man Boja took the pen in his claw and signed _anything_. As an "impartial" member of the city council, Raul Boja's _direct_ supervision of the project would've raised eyebrows...never mind the wanton fleecing. Regina saw the implications long before her husband, and Glen needed her scheme damn near handwritten before the bulb clicked on:

"We're blackmailing him," Regina explained. "After the resort is built and Raul demands you return Shoreview, you tell him, _too bad, I have evidence you're a felonious poopie head._ "

"Jebus Crackers, I've signed a few of those papers," Glen argued. "I'm as guilty as him."

"First of all, you weren't sitting on the city council. Second, how would you know the contractors are padding the books? You're not a construction expert. Third, do you think Raul Boja will push the issue? We're talking _major_ fraud."

"If-"

" _If_ he pushes, we push back. Television, newspapers, my brother-"

"I'm not going to your brother. Sal will throw me under the bus with Raul."

"Glen, sweetie, we're sitting on millions. You'd be an idiot to walk away from Shoreview, and Raul Boja believes you're an idiot. Are you an idiot?"

He puffed his chest and said, "I'm not an idiot, Gina."

"Then show the poopie head as much when the time comes."

Not long after this appointed time, Regina planned on dumping Glen's pimpled butt and taking him to the cleaners. She had vivid dreams of the day, so vivid she even let him stick his little thingy in her poop chute, for crying out loud. This be _A Big Deal_! Oh Lord, perhaps _The Biggest Deal_! This be sodomy, Dear Diary. This be the _Big S_. She stifled cries as Jesus stared at her from the crucifix mounted above the bed. His outstretched and bleeding palms invoked the same kind of suffering she endured from the pee-pee of her persecutor. And oh Lord, she kinda liked it, bless her heart. But not too much...just a little.

Lord Jesus understood. Even Jesus fornicated. He fornicated with a prostitute. Regina knew prostitutes also did the sodomy, so she concluded Jesus wouldn't mind if Regina engaged in the act a few hundred times.

By the spring of 2008, however, she tired of the _Big S_ , winter, mosquitos, wood ticks and a million other lousy things found in upstate New York. Regina decided it be time to get in on life because Regina wanted to move to California, live on the beach and tan _all_ her pasty folds. After the run-in with one of Butch's thugs, she put her hefty foot on the pedal and nagged the bejesus out of her idiotic husband to _show the poopie head you're not an idiot_ _!_

***

In the end, Glen Cumberland would have to wrestle bigger problems than his nutty wife. If hisself wouldn't adhere to the gentlemens' agreement, he'd have to deal with Raul Boja and that...that was a rage far greater than the, _bent out of shape about the Big S,_ Son of God. Spurred by Regina, Glen phoned Raul on 5 April 2008 and told the man to scram. If Boja didn't like it, well, tough titties. They had a legal agreement bound under the jurisdiction of the United States of America or sumptin'.

Glen's temerity pissed off Raul Boja; it pissed off Francis Boja; it pissed of Bradley Weinager because the Bojas got pissed at him for propping the tub of lard in their faces. Everyone be pissed! Glen needed to see reason but Glen saw dollar signs; he pictured wheelbarrows of money and a Learjet. What kind of schlub tossed a winning lottery ticket into the garbage? Not Glen Cumberland, mama.

Bradley tried reasoning with him, but Glen -for the _one_ time in his life- drew a line in the sand. If the Bojas thought about touching him, he'd go to the press (and, maybe, the Edgar Hoover-esque police) and vomit what he knew about Bojas operation. Chief Weinager told him, _'Calm down, nothing's gonna happen, but you're not being smart, pal.'_

' _You better hope nothing happens,'_ Cumberland crowed. Boy oh boy, he felt like his finger hung above THE button, the red button capable of blowing the world to K.C. If _anybody_ tried strong-arming him, his little finger would do some button mashing.

Raul Boja simmered for a spell and contemplated how satisfying it feel to murder someone nice and slow-like. Jimmy could have directed the old man to a Wikipedia page of deprivations, but Raul had developed his own methods to deal with _problems_. But Raul also needed to finagle his property and believe you me, the scheme required ingenious deception.

As luck would have it, our pal arrived in Canesoanke thirty months prior. And Jimmy Reilly -through wit and providence (and not in that order)- fashioned a plan what satisfied a sliver of Raul Boja's rage.

Alas, Raul Boja didn't get his property but he got Glen; he got Glen and made him a gelding before sending the fat bastard to the great beyond, which made the enterprise worth the effort.

So, in a roundabout way, this explains why our hero sat next to CR21 -during western New York's historic snowstorm of 7 April 2008- waiting for Assblaster.

Of course, there's more to the story about...

### Tuesday, 12 July 2005; The Massacre In Memphis, Part One

...the afternoon Officer Jim Reilly almost met his theoretical maker:

Our pal's morning began like any other: waking with the kids while Laura slept one off; scrambling eggs for breakfast; downing a half-dozen cups of high-test joe; watching the stupid sponge cartoon and then the stupid dragon cartoon and then the show with them stupid talking trains. When it be time to bid adieu, Laura meandered from the bedroom looking like The Wreck of the Hesperus.

Before he could split, Laura said something stupid and Jim responded with something stupid and lickity-split, the stupid somethings were mixed with stupid curses. Jim left the house with a bone rattling door slam and dragged his salty attitude to work. Two hours later, as he waited for word on the reup, Jim sat in the stupid cruiser and replayed the stupid festivities in his head...

Sigh.

The previous evening had been the catalyst for the morning fireworks:

Jim had been a tad late for dinner because he stopped at the Saucer to top off the engine and talk shop with Brooksy. The old lady be three sheets, too; an empty wine bottle testified on her behalf. Aware of what her smoldering countenance portended, he attempted to piss out the fire with a peck to her cheek...

But Laura turned her head away and fanned the air. "Yew reeeeek of beeeeer," she slurred. "Beeeeer and...and somfing elf..."

"You don't smell like a rose, your highness," he responded with a sniff. "Hmm...I detect the aroma of sour grapes." (Which wasn't the smartest thing to say but whatevs.)

"Eee-yep! I'm da sour girl! And yer da bastard who mashes da...da sour!" (Which sounded stupid as fuck but whatevs, he got the gist.)

Quick-like, their "conversation" devolved into the _usual_ harangue...

The _typical_ back-and-forth...

The _customary_ earful...

The _normal bullshit_.

Humph.

While our lovebirds quarreled, the kids sat hostage at the kitchen table: Little Jimmy stared at his plate and pushed crusty chicken nuggets around with a plastic fork; Johnny, trussed in the highchair, fussed and twisted his chubby body in a vain attempt to escape. Exasperated, the little guy resorted to throwing his finger food on the floor. _Fuck the both of you,_ his pouty face declared.

The _normal bullshit_...

Bah.

She acted like he chained her in a dungeon...

Pfft.

A dungeon with air conditioning, cable t.v., running water, a stationary bike and lots of other shit...like two little ones...

So, it wasn't a perfect situation.

Too bad.

She'd have to suck it up until Jim finished working the method behind the madness mathematicals.

She'd have to suck it up in their nice, upper middleclass home on Mud Island.

She'd have to suck it up amongst a bastion of WASPs, in a gated community, surrounded by parks, boutiques and massage parlors.

"But whatcha got stop suckin' up is the wine," he told her the previous evening. "Mingle, go to Applebee's, take the kids to the park. Get fat, get skinnier, but do something."

" _Somfing_?" Laura snorted. "Like have an affair _somfing_?"

"Fuck you," he whispered, both to her in the moment and now in the present.

Many were the moments he longed for a magic wand. He'd wave the motherfucker about a jillion times to undo the past. Seconds later, he'd feel awful for thinking as much.

_But still_ , _brah,_ the little devil on our hero's shoulder named Brooksy whispered. _Like, just imagine_...

No wife, no kids, no Raul Boja, no Bojangles...

A bachelor's life.

A breezy future making _a little_ on the side.

None of this mess...

None of this... _locked in a prison of his own devise_...

***

Yes, Mama, he knew better than to rumpy dumpy without a prophylactic safety net.

He knew better but...sometimes the ole rumpy dumpy without a prophylactic safety net is an obligatory evil.

Anyway, she claimed allegiance to the pill which meant _it_ wasn't all his fault.

But Jimmy didn't point fingers. No sir.

When Laura dropped the _B Bomb_ , he felt an intrinsic urge to man up. Guilt instigated some of the kneejerk, yet he wouldn't have asked for her hand if zero rapport existed.

There was also a third reason, which trumped the other two by leaps and whatnot: Jim didn't want his kid raised by a single mother and her parents.

Perhaps it be a presumptuous conclusion, but he saw the future unfold the instant Laura said she was going to keep the baby. She couldn't raise a kid, alone, in the Big Apple. Not with what she made at _two_ jobs. His checks might help, but in short order she'd be forced to return to her beloved hometown. Once there, her folks would take over.

Jim didn't have anything against Don and Bonnie Pine; they had something against him, however. Both of 'em were high school teachers...erudite, in other words...wine sippers what watched William F. Buckley reruns on PBS...you get the picture. Since Day One, Second One, they cast the hirsute eyeball Jim's way. He could only imagine the nonsense _his_ kid faced if her parents sunk their talons.

The assured outcome? Jim would have zero influence in _his_ child's life.

Worse, he'd be labelled a _deadbeat_.

A _deadbeat_ , like his father.

Aye, he could hear Old Lady Pine nattering: _I told you, Laura. I told you he's a_ _deadbeat_ _._

_And_ he pictured Old Man Pine stroking his salt and pepper beard and nodding in time to his shrewish Old Lady's strident voice.

_And then_ he pictured Old Man Reilly, slumped in the recliner with a bottle of Covington; _I knew yer a reg'lar chip off, faggot,_ Dad garbled.

_To hell with 'em_ , Jim had thought. _I ain't a reg'lar chip off. I'll show 'em where they can shove their..._

***

... _bullshit._

Grinding teeth, he steered the Vic into a weedy parking lot on Democrat, put the cruiser into park, and then leaned his head against the driver side window.

What did he get for his trouble, huh?

Grrr...

Many were the moments he longed for a magic wand. He'd wave the motherfucker about a jillion times to undo the past.

No wife, no kids, no Raul Boja, no Bojangles...

A bachelor's life.

A breezy future making _a little_ on the side.

None of this mess...

None of this... _locked in_...

***

On 14 March 2001 -two weeks before our pal received his separation from the service- they did the _Big M_ two-step in the Big Apple. Crammed into a stuffy office on Worth Street, a bookish justice of the peace pronounced the verdict to a sparse audience: her dour parents and a couple siblings; Best Man Brian Brooksy Brooks; Maid Of Honor -and Laura's bumptious roommate- Missy White.

Hours after the ceremony, Jim and his oafish Best Man (and a third fella named Tubby Wick -but Tubby is what's known as a "silent partner", and said silent partner be kicking it in Norfolk with a forty of King Cobra) made seventy-five thousand dollars (fifty of which went to Brooksy) when the Hampton Pirates upset the Iowa State Cyclones in the First Round of the NCAA basketball tournament.

The gambling windfall appeared -at least to Jim- a fortuitous portent and whatnot. Laura, however, needed some persuasion: marooned on a tatty loveseat in Room 909 of the Manhattan Royale Hotel (said hotel neither located in Manhattan or _Royale_ -like, by the way), the new ball and chain rubbed her distended gut and shot daggers at the two fools as they screeched, slapped palms and danced around the television. Jimmy gleaned she wasn't thrilled, but so what? He was securing _their_ future, mama.

"Jim," she hissed, "this is _our_ wedding night. Why the hell are we spending it with... _him_...watching a basketball game?"

"Brooksy and I are in the business of making money, honey," he soothed. "Don't worry about the mathematicals behind the madness."

So, it came to pass: Life was...eh... _good_...when she didn't fret about the _mathematicals behind the madness_.

Uh-huh. Life was _good_.

Not splendid.

Not yet.

But not terrible.

And not, by any stretch...

***

... _a prison of his own devise_.

Heat radiated through the cruiser's windows.

He fiddled with the air conditioning -twisting the knob from MIN to MAX several times- and felt not a smidgeon of relief. The AC in the Crown Victoria only worked on the lowest setting and the lowest setting sucked elephant ass which meant the Crown Vic _basically_ had no air conditioning.

"Piece ah crap," he snarled.

Ninety degrees for an Arizona boy was nothing, but the mugginess proved a problematic antagonist. Add the burden of a Kevlar vest, Sam Browne and polyester costume...he'd drop three stones over the summer without spending a second in the gym. But would Officer Reilly trade the body armor and Glock for a smidgeon of comfort? Hell and no.

According to the FBI's Uniform Crime Reporting Program, violent crime is defined as: murder and nonnegligent manslaughter; forcible rape; robbery; aggravated assault. _Statistically speaking_ , Jim trolled the second worst violent crime division among the nine MPD precincts.

Composed of six wards (721 through 726) abutting the International Airport, Airways Station encompassed nineteen square miles of the MPD's three hundred fifteen square mile jurisdiction; minus Graceland's pristine fourteen acres, those nineteen square miles were plagued by blight: _cinderblock motels (pit stops for truckers looking to get laid or score smack); liquor stores, pawn shops and check cashing establishments snug with bars over their windows; strip clubs; junkyards; pimps; pushers; prostitutes; the addled; stray dogs, garbage..._

He shifted the cruiser into drive-

... _bums pissing into piles of rebar..._

-tapped the go pedal-

... _the downers..._

-turned north on Nonconnah.

... _crooked cops._

The whole, shitty enchilada.

Ugh...

Many were the moments he longed for a magic wand. He'd wave the motherfucker about a jillion times to undo the past.

No wife, no kids, no Raul Boja, no Bojangles...

A bachelor's life.

A breezy future making _a little_ on the side.

None of this mess...

None of this... _locked_...

***

Baby Two be the axiomatic tipping point.

Depending on the day and/or disposition of either parent, the sequel was or was not planned...but at least they were bumpin' uglies way back when. Not long after the ten-pound boy shot from her kootchar, Laura had a come to Jesus meeting with her sacred uterus. Aside from rare moments of wine infused passion, she embraced frigidity like a champ.

Worse, the missus became a primo nag.

In her opinion, the _mathematicals_ _behind the madness_ needed reworking. If Jim wouldn't work the mathematicals, she would, and she did...

The missus reworked the mathematicals every motherfucking day.

What could he say? Though he assumed she harbored a notion, the ball and chain needn't know the convoluted reason why he held his family _hostage in western Tennessee._

So, he told her: _You handle the homestead and I'll crunch the mathematicals. Cool beans, mama?_

But she kept swinging the switch what lashed the horse's eyes:

She hated Memphis;

She couldn't stand Brooksy;

She didn't like spending time with the wives of other LEO's;

She wanted her children closer to their grandparents;

She...

She felt _locked in a prison_...

***

... _of his own devise_.

Or something.

" _Somfing?"_ Laura's slurry voice rebounded inside Jim's head. _"Like have an affair somfing?"_

Hmph.

The _somfing_ had been just the one woman. And he _sorta_ went off the rails with the Bojangles.

The stress and whatnot...

Taking care of business...

Crunching them mathematicals, see?

"I worked them mathematicals," Jim said to hisself, as he hooked a left onto Millbranch. "But I worked 'em wrong..."

***

New Orleans Courtney wasn't from New Orleans; she was a finance major in her junior year at Ole Miss, and Oxford ain't but a stone's throw from Memphis...which made what shoulda been a one-night mistake blossom into a stupid six-month mistake.

New Orleans Courtney loved Jim's D; in turn, he adored her V, M...and sometimes her A...but we'll leave the scandalous details to the imagination.

New Orleans Courtney smoked grass and snorted blow. But the weak ass coke in Oxford didn't hold a candle to the Bojangles. Boy howdy, did New Orleans Courtney turn into a firecracker on the Jangles.

New Orleans Courtney dug Jimmy's endless stock of the good stuff, and he passed her candy on the house. He started hittin' the Jangles, too. Hittin' it harder than ever. Common sense took a hike; Jim acted the fool...

It took Brooksy (of all people) to lay the smackdown on Jim: _'I get the whole escaping from the old lady schtick, but yer outta control with the product. One of these days, yer gonna get popped and guess what? The old man doesn't like problems, brah. End this shit before it becomes a problem.'_

Jimmy did as the doctor ordered: our pal dumped the blow down the proverbial shitter. Gave it up without hesitation, matter o'. And when his mind got clear, he decided to flush Courtney, too. Without the Bojangles buzz, she was just...meh. The thrill be gone and all the rest...which sorta made Jimmy blue but...whatevs, mama.

Now, because he worked them mathematicals wrong, Jim reckoned New Orleans Courtney be a haram-scarum type: they'd part ways and she'd find another swinging D lickety-split.

However, New Orleans Courtney didn't take the news of their breakup with aplomb. She decided to pay Laura a visit and trash the flowerbeds and whatnot. When Jim called her later, New Orleans Courtney threatened to tattle about Jim's endless supply of Bojangles.

In the end, Brooksy cleaned up the mess. He stuck a gun in her face and told her to scram...or maybe he gave her a couple fresh ones. Whatever the case, New Orleans Courtney didn't show her pretty face...or her nice ass...or any part of her perfect body... _no-moe_.

Though the fallout was contained to the land of marital discord, it could've been worse, and Jim knew it, and he knew it during the _somfing_ and yet-

***

Jim's left breast pocket vibrated.

He had three cellular devices: a silver Motorola Razr V3 for the old lady and miscellany; the S.I. piece o' crap department PDA; and a RIM BlackBerry 7100T "Charm".

It was the Charm what beckoned from its cozy place in the polyester monkey suit. Only five people knew his BlackBerry number, and only one of those five contacted Jim at or around noon, Central Standard or Daylight Time, on the second Tuesday of every month.

Be Kojak pingin' for a ride.

Constructing an assumption on name alone, the first time Jim met Kojak, he expected to lock eyes on an Archer Maggott-esque badass. Yes, Kojak was bald, and if one squinted real tight...well, the fella sorta looked like Telly Savalas. However, the similarities ended there.

A First Officer ( _SIC_ , or _Second In Command,_ in aviator speak) for Northwest on the DC-9, Kojak was an A-1 drip armed with a monotonous motormouth. His chattering ran the gamut from VOR's to something called Bernoulli's Principal and everything aviation-related in-between. When it came to his chariot, Kojak referred to the DC-9 as the "Diesel 9" because its two rear-mounted engines spewed long, black smears across the sky. _'Think of the exhaust as tire tracks,'_ Kojak boasted with poetic flair. _'My girl inks the firmament with fuel.'_

Jimmy opined _skid marks of the sky_ labeled Red Tail's tin cans better than Kojak's wistful description, but he bit his tongue when discussion veered in said direction. He'd been held hostage in the back of the Diesel 9 on several occasions and our pal had naught been impressed by the machinery. The airplane was loud as hell, old as Methuselah and shook like the Rapture when it powered back from the gate with the engines in reverse. If that wasn't bad enough, Kojak once confessed: _Believe it or not,_ _duct tape is a suitable remedy for most cosmetic mechanical discrepancies._

While the aviation b and s bored Jim to tears, Kojak's personality made him the perfect mule. Once a month, the nerdish pilot packed forty pounds of Bojangles in his bags when he commuted to Memphis from upstate New York. The forty pounds translated to eighteen kilos with a street value of four hundred fifty thousand dollars. Less expenses, and provided Brooksy hooked up with his distributers, Jim netted a take home of twenty grand. After the stack had been divided, Kojak toted the remaining cash (on the high side of three hundred thou) to the Bojas in his roller bags.

Kojak's movin' and shakin' skills fashioned the crux of the operation: utilizing FedEx as an offline jumpseater, his luggage wasn't scrutinized to the _nth_ degree by whatever security measures the cargo carrier employed. Reups weren't always heavy, but whatever flowed south found its way onto the street. Four years running and the machine functioned with nary a hitch. All involved - Jimmy, Kojak, Brooksy, the Bojas and an army of unknowns- reaped a ripe honeypot.

_And yet_...

After New Orleans Courtney, Jim worked new mathematicals. Quick like, the _nary a hitch_ mantra evolved into _nary a hitch...until_...

At one time, Jim Reilly believed the malfeasance would expire on Jim Reilly's terms. Those days were a rumor now. A messy death seemed -at least to Jim- a logical conclusion to the Bojangles business. How many criminal enterprises collapsed with a whimper? And when the Feds displayed their trophies to the media, whose scalps were paraded around for the world to see?

The scalps of crooked cops.

He attempted to discuss the subject with Brooksy, but _Brian Brooks_ and _risk_ weren't on speaking terms. Like a hackneyed football coach, Brooksy told Jim to _trust the process..._

The BlackBerry buzzed a second time.

_Trust the process_...

Trust Brooksy's distributors be adept and not hamboned bangers.

Trust Kojak wouldn't get nabbed with blow.

Trust the mechanics wrapping duct tape around the leading edge of a Diesel 9's wing knew what the hell they were doing.

Gawd.

_Trust the process_ didn't make Jim feel better.

The process wasn't supposed to be elaborate _or_ protracted; the process was supposed to garner a little honeypot what then got ladled into investments. Jim fashioned a dream long ago with a fairy tale-esque ending: retire at a ripe young age and spend days sunning man boobs on a tropical island whilst guzzling Bacardi and Coke.

How long until dream became reality? Jim's idea of Easy Street differed from Brooksy's and the Bojas, which meant _undefined_ answered the question to the mathematicals equation. Jim should've known as much; men like Raul Boja didn't walk from cash. And telling Raul Boja to P.S. ( _pound sand_...not like Jim would use those words but it didn't matter because Raul Boja would hear those words and so it might as well be those words) wasn't a wise decision.

The net net? It was -and would be- business as usual.

Therefore, as usual, Jim _would_ collect Kojak at the FedEx AOC and drop him in the airport employee parking lot bordering Democrat; Kojak _would_ leave his bags in the cruiser and mosey to his crash pad car; Jim _would_ stop at the Catfish Cabin for lunch; he _would_ meet Brooksy and pass the bags; and goddamnit, he _would_ enjoy the rest of the day. Sandwiched between the running around, he _would_ call Laura and extend an olive branch. Later, he _would_ pester the scum loitering on Brooks. After his shift ended, Jimmy _would_ knock back a few at the Saucer and then return home to an unhappy wife who _would_ be three sheets...

The kids _would_ be watching the stupid sponge cartoon...

The _somfing would_ come up...

And if it didn't, _somfing_ else _would_.

Laura had plenty of ammunition in her armory.

_Guh_...

Many were the moments he longed for a magic wand. He'd wave the motherfucker about a jillion times to undo the past.

No wife, no kids, no Raul Boja, no Bojangles...

A bachelor's life.

A breezy future making a little on the side.

None of this mess...

None of this...
Jimmy's Trip

...sweaty, slinking into a _prison of his own devise_ bullshit, bullshit.

Sixty minutes with Dr. Fox was bad enough; the fifteen minutes Jim spent listening to Frankie Boja yammer through the cell be the screwdriver into the earhole.

Laura rose from the couch, teetered a hair, and then crossed her arms. He gave the half empty bottle of wine on the coffee table the hairy eyeball and then raised eyebrows at her.

"I'm not drunk," she protested.

He hip checked the front door shut, tossed the car keys aside and then said, "I could care less. Matter of fact, I'm gonna partake."

"Rough day at the psychiatrist?"

"He's not a psychiatrist," Jim bristled.

"Well, whatever you call it, I-"

"It's called _departmental bullshit_. _D.B._ , for short."

She shrugged, grabbed the bottle and then said, "I know what helps when your _D.B._ gets to me. I'll pour you a glass."

"Listen..." he began, before halting and rubbing the bridge of his nose. After Frankie said his piece -and made it clear Jim had no choice but to head north and discuss the "situation" in Memphis- he fashioned a lame, nondescript explanation he hoped satisfied whatever questions she might...er... _would_...lob. But when the time came for lights, camera and action, he realized dancing around the subject would take more than a succinct, _I'm leaving tomorrow. Deal with it._ He knew-

"What is it, Jim?"

-what sordid boulevards her mind would wander.

_How 'bout being truthful,_ the little angel on his shoulder said.

Devil Brooksy begged to differ: _Fuck the truth, brah. The ball and chain need not_ _and_ _should not know the Bojas want to chat you up. Nor does she need know Frankie wants you to speak with the Canesoanke D.C., and Laura's old flame, Bradley Weinager._

He agreed with Brooksy, especially since Frankie related the aforementioned D.C., _has_ _an opening in the department, if you're so inclined._ Jim didn't wanna to talk to the Bojas, didn't wanna work with Bradley Weinager and (most of all) he didn't wanna relocate to Canesoanke. And he'd tell them all as much, but he wouldn't tell Laura jack and squat.

Thus:

"I have a work conference I need to attend, but I'll only be gone a couple days," he said, like it be no big deal.

"Aren't you on administrative leave?"

"Uh...yes, but...you know, I still have duties."

"Like what?"

"It's a...eh...a stupid recurrent thingamajig. More _D.B_. I'll explain later, but I gotta scrounge a flight ASAP."

"Later translates to never."

He thought _: Here it comes..._

"Jim, you can skip the bullshit-"

... _the third degree..._

"-cuz I already know."

"Yeah?" he snorted. "What do you know?"

"You're going to Canesoanke."

His jaw dropped but he mustered a hoarse, "Did somebody contact you?"

"Like who?"

"You know who."

"But whatever do you mean, officer?" she asked, all demure like while batting eyelashes.

He wanted to put his hands on her shoulders, give them a firm squeeze, and tell her to _shut the fuck up_. But he saw Johnny sitting on the living room floor playing with blocks and remembered how his father handled aggravation. Instead, Jim plopped his ass on the sofa and asked, "How do you know I'm going there?"

"I may have heard the local police department has a job opening, officer."

"Oh," he grunted, as the lightbulb flickered to life. "Oh, I get it. You called Weinager."

She abandoned contrived innocence and yapped, "Yep, and you don't know how much pride I swallowed in the process."

"Too bad. I am _not_ working with your ex-boyfriend."

"Then don't. But I'm telling you one thing: I'm done with Memphis. _Done._ I'm done with your dangerous job, with Brooksy, with...with thinking about _Her._ I'm done with _everything._ "

"Jesus...Lar, we're not staying here forever. I've put money aside. I just need time to get our ducks in a row."

"You've said the same thing for four years. Granted, I cut you slack. Two years, then three, but here we are, 2005, and nothing's changed except your affair and a brush with death."

"I'm not moving to New York. No way."

"Jim, I'm not asking," she said, setting the bottle down. "You know those _commitments_ -"

The thump of glass on solid wood, smug intonation, something in the air...whatever the reason, his noodle fired voices as herself continued to jaw.

(Frankie said: _My father wants to discuss the situation in Memphis._ )

"-time for you to make a commitment to me and the boys. So, before you give me a million reasons why you don't-"

(Frankie again: _And if the situation in Memphis has gone to shit and you're worried about the heat, I've heard Deputy Chief Weinager is looking to fill a vacancy in the department, if you're so inclined._ )

"-schools and our safety. Cops aren't shot in Canesoanke. Nobody is-"

(When Jim protested, _I'm not worried about anything_...which be a teeny fib, but Jim didn't want to talk shop over the phone...how did Frankie respond? _Why don't you speak to Bradley and hear what he has to offer?_ )

"-in Canesoanke. Wouldn't you rather feel-"

(Laura: _I may have heard the local police department has a job opening, officer._ )

"-instead of working here in-"

(Frankie: _I've heard Deputy Chief Weinager has a vacancy in the department_...)

"-not singing the _pretty please_ song for the millionth-"

"Fuck me," he interrupted. "Weinager's dirty, right? Dirty as all get out."

She blinked her long lashes and answered, "I recall hearing Butch and Frank graduated together, but I have no idea of their relationship, officer. I just made a phone call to my ex-boyfriend."

"The fuck is wrong with you? I don't want you mixed up in my nonsense. If something were to happen, you'd be complicit. Do you understand what _complicit_ means?"

"How stupid do you think I am?"

"I'm beginning to wonder."

"Fuck you. I know the situation. And since I introduced you to Frankie Boja, I'm already...what is it, officer?"

"You don't know everything!" he barked.

"Maybe I should, officer."

He thought: _Yeah? Okay, try this on for size: those two shitheads I iced? They were employees, so to speak._

Instead, Jim said: "I'm not taking a law enforcement job in Canesoanke, Laura."

"Then sit on your ass or work at Home Depot. I don't care what you do, but I'm leaving with the kids, Jim. You can come with me or you can stay here and work your bullshit plan. The choice is yours, but remember one thing: _you owe me_."

"You can't-"

"I can't what? Put my foot down?"

"You can't stick your nose into my business!"

"Whoopsie. I guess I already have...officer."

They could've bickered until the rooster crowed, but Jimmy realized quarrelling amounted to an exercise in futility. Disregarding Laura's bullshit, Raul Boja summoned him north because the old man -no doubt- wanted answers about the _Massacre In Memphis_.

Jim sighed, stood from the sofa and then said, "I better call Brooksy..."

***

An hour later, he met the fool at BarTop's:

"Why didn't Frank contact me?" Brooksy gnashed through a smushed piehole.

"Hell if I know," Jim fibbed.

"But I'm the one with situational awareness!"

"Eh...maybe the old man wants an explanation from the horse's mouth."

"He can get a second opinion over the phone!"

"I wish he would. Do you think I want to jaw with Raul Boja?"

" _Ugh_...shit, this ain't good, brah. The old man's pulling the plug, ain't he? Those two morons rattled him."

"Them and who knows what Kojak said? The fool got stranded at the AOC with a crap ton of Bojangles in his bags."

"What of it? So he had to wait a bit until I could collect his fat ass."

" _What of it?_ Do I have to draw you a picture?"

"Fuck, man, Kojak's a Nervous Nelly. Always whining, the baby. You gotta tell Raul we have things squared away."

"Do we?"

Brooksy did the ole comedic double take and then cried, "The fuck we don't!"

"Brian, I'm not lying to Raul Boja."

"I ain't tellin' you to lie!"

"Oh? How _squared away_ are things?"

"Uh-huh. I get it. I'm fucking surrounded by Nervous Nelly's."

"One of us took fire, and it wasn't you. One of us also handled our problem, and it wasn't you."

" _Pfft._ You ain't Ray Eubanks, brah. I shoulder more risk rubbing elbows with them bangers."

"We can argue about risk until we're blue in the face, but it's not gonna change the situation. Besides, this nonsense wasn't meant to be long-term. We made coin and managed to avoid the big bad wolf. If Raul wants to close the door, so be it. Why push our luck?"

"Because there's always more coin to be made."

"Well...yeah...I agree in principal; however, I'm of the opinion Orestes knows his stuff. In a few years, those investments will pay off and we'll be sitting on a little fortune."

" _You're of the opinion,"_ Brooksy said under his breath. "Sounds to me like you've made up your mind."

"My mind's not the one you need to worry about."

Running a hand down his mustache and beard, Brooksy exhaled and shook his head. In hindsight, Jim should've recognized the mannerisms of someone in a hole. After all, John Reilly acted the same when the chips were down.

But our hero had other things on his brain. Jim misread Brooksy's consternation and attempted -in a genial tone (which, given the circumstance, took an awful lot of chi)- to guide his partner's horse to water:

"Brian, can you be rational for a change?"

"Just...just save your wife, kids and finite luck speech. I don't believe it, and I don't wanna hear it."

"We, you and I, didn't make a lifelong pledge. You get yours; I get mine. Besides, we have the properties in-"

"I ain't making twenty-five grand a month with rental property!"

"All right, I'm done _trying_ to talk sense," Jim said, realizing he sounded a lot like his jaded wife. "In any case, the decision isn't ours. I'll go to Canesoanke, listen to Raul, nod my head, and see what's-what."

"Hold on," Brooksy said, fixing Jim with a stony glare. "Did you contact the old man?"

"Why the fuck would I call him?"

"Or Frankie?"

"No way."

"You sure?"

"I didn't call anybody."

Brian Brooks may have been a degenerate, but he was also a detective (and a good one, believe it or not). "How 'bout your old lady?" he asked all snarky-like. "She's from that pissant town."

"Laura has no say in my business," Jim said, raising his hands and maintaining solid eye contact.

"Mmm...I seem to recall a similar conversation from...when was it? Three or four days ago? Matter of fact, it happened here. Something about you hitting the road, boy. I chalked it up to shock but...your mind _is_ made up, ain't it?"

Our pal swirled his beer and offered what amounted to an honest statement: "It's not my call."

Brooksy exhaled and then said, "If you want out, you want out. Like I've told you, we could own this town someday but, hey, your loss. Just, um, can you tell the old man I have the ole Memphis situation under control. Had me a little hiccup, but I got the ship righted. Fact, I know a couple of fools at Poplar who could use spending cash and...yeah...yeah, it's good, brah. Tell the old man it's, you know, good."

Though Jim knew Brooksy's plea would amount to a hill of beans, he promised to pass the message along...

***

Four hours between flights meant Jimmy piddled the afternoon in the Detroit's McNamara Terminal drinking eight-dollar pints of Bud Lite at TGIF. There weren't nonstop flights to Rochester from Memphis, and our pal...let's just say, our pal did naught like this _one bit_. Matter of fact, the people at Northwest could suck his D for the inconvenience. Around beer three, he mused there prolly wasn't a large demand for a Memphis-to-Rochester direct.

But nobody asked Jim Reilly's opinion on the matter.

He loathed flying, but his dislike of the magnificence of air travel wasn't a phobia; he hated the hassle and unpredictability. One time in the Navy, he hopped on a "free-to-service members" Air Force charter from Norfolk to Andrews. In theory, free air travel sounded good, and winging to D.C. wasn't a problem. Up and down, less than an hour. Easy peasy.

But getting back to Norfolk turned into a protracted endeavor. The return flight didn't go direct -a minor inconvenience nobody explained when he boarded the plane- and touched down at damn every Air Force and Naval base East of the Mississippi. Passengers came and went while Jim stared out the window and wondered when the 727 would arrive in Virginia. After ten takeoffs, he accepted he was a captive on the plane as it crisscrossed the Eastern seaboard. Wouldn't you know? After the tenth landing, a blizzard grounded them in Tullahoma, Tennessee. He spent the night in what passed as a terminal sleeping on the grungy floor with fifty other stranded passengers.

Compared to Arnold Air Force Base, McNamara Terminal was the Taj Mahal. A huge fountain in the "A" concourse spit out synchronized streams of water; a large color cave spanned the chasm between the A and B & C concourses; restaurants, shops, even a place to get a neck or foot massage. He spent a few minutes gawking...and then found the TGIF.

Getting tight was supposed to help put his thoughts in order. Steve, Laura's oldest brother, offered a bed at his place in Bristol. Good enough. Jim could whittle a night with Steve and his wife. But the other shit: Meeting Bradley Weinager? Talking to Raul Boja?

"Fuck me," he said to stein. Thus ended the "putting his thoughts in order" portion of the day which left...

Sixty-four dollars lighter (not including the tip), a tipsy Jim boarded the DC-9 to Rochester.

***

"Let's get to it," Bradley Weinager said, leaning back in his chair and lacing hands behind his blockhead. Said blockhead was bracketed by a prominent brow (made larger by the SI military haircut) and square chin. His peepers, snug in crow's feet, gaged Jim without blinking. A big fella in every aspect, Weinager about broke Jim's hand during the palm slapping. " _Ahem_...so, I had to kiss some posterior to get you in that seat. Nine out of ten patrol officer positions are filled with local candidates, and my daddy is the one with the final say but, um...seeing as we have a mutual friend...comprende?"

"The Bojas," Jim said through a tight smile.

"I'm not talking about them. My daddy has no connection to the Bojas and he won't _ever_ have a connection to them. Matter o', he's retiring next year. I think he favors Florida or Arizona, but it doesn't matter. Our mutual's your wife, and my daddy has always liked Laura. Not in a skeezy way, mind ya...look, I'm gettin' off track. My point is, seein' as you're her signif other, and daddy's sailin' into the sun, I argued I should have the honor of vetting a candidate who'll be working under me come next spring."

The Deputy Chief spun his wedding band and stared at Jim; Jim twiddled thumbs and stared at the Deputy Chief. A wall clock ticked. In fact, something around a bajillion ticks ticked before Bradley cleared his throat and said, "First, call me Butch. Second, Laura and I? Ancient history. I don't have designs on her."

"Whatever relationship you had isn't an issue with me," answered Jim in a wooden voice.

"Good, because it'd make our relationship a problem if you do."

"I'm not certain I want a relationship."

Butch cocked his head and said, "Raul Boja wants _you_ , pal. Whether you like it or not, we're gonna have a relationship."

"I meant, or mean, I'm thinking of leaving law enforcement."

"And move here to do what? Stare at the television?"

"I haven't thought about it."

"I take it you don't share the same enthusiasm in coming north."

"My idea of the future doesn't include Canesoanke."

"Her way or the highway?"

"Along those lines."

"Pardon me for being the bearer of bad news, but I'd say it's _in_ those lines, not along. See, when she called me, Laura sounded...eh, I guess _disgruntled_ is the correct word. Herself making an effort to contact me speaks volumes. Anyway, I _had_ no clue the Bojangles makes its way to Memphis, which is how it should be. You know, secrecy among thieves and all the rest. But Laura called me and then I knew the streets of Memphis have the Bojangles. Comprende?"

Jimmy _comprended_ loud and clear: "I never shared anything with her. She's perceptive-"

"Laura ran her mouth is what she did. Talking to a cop isn't smart, and I told her as much. Lucky for her, I'm the right guy in the department to whisper the wrong sweet nothings. Had it been Daddy...jeez, there'd have been problems. Not big problems, but problems, and in case you don't know, the old man doesn't like problems. So, in a manner of speaking, I think she oughta get out of Memphis sooner than later. Mister Boja agrees."

_Jesus,_ Jim thought. _Why the fuck did she open her mouth?_

Butch continued, "Here's the scoop, man: Canesoanke isn't Memphis. Shit never goes bananas here. We have drunks, domestics and druggies doing dumb things, but we keep the Boja noise on the DL. Those in the know have certain expectations. The first comes from Raul Boja: don't mess with the business. The second comes from me: don't mess with the product. No exceptions. Three, the Bojangles isn't pushed in town, which brings me to point number four. My...excuse me, _the department_ is in the process of knocking the turds off the asscrack of Canesoanke. There's a heroin problem in these parts and it's bad. It's bad for the wellbeing of the community and it's bad for the Bojas. Those two in tandem mean The Horsey is bad for business. We catch anyone bringing or banging H, they get run hard. For the sake of clarity, I'm not talking about putting bodies in holes although...Laura mentioned you had an issue in Memphis-"

"I-"

"-and when I spoke to Mister Boja, he said Jim Reilly roped a couple of rogue salesmen. Mister Boja thinks you'd make a good addition to the department because you _take care of business_ , his words. I frown upon murder. Murder stirs shit. Murder draws the LEB. Oh, and murder draws the press. Can't forget about those parasites. There hasn't been a homicide in Canesoanke for...shoot...since 1988. Ain't to say people aren't trying. The department stays abreast of the latest beef, or beefs, and we don't have a gang problem...unless you count the Bojas, and I don't, but...eh...damn it, I lost my train of thought."

Annoyed by the sermon, Jim snapped, "Murder isn't SOP for me."

"Good. I don't want Rambo."

"I'm not Rambo. I got caught in a situation where...let's just say, it worked out for the best."

"Your badge safe?"

"I have a chat with the suits next week, then a review board, and I'm on leave until I finish counseling."

"Counseling?"

"Standard for any traumatic incident."

"There's zero chance you're facing discipline?"

"Those guys popped a couple LEO's."

"Open and shut?"

"Aye."

"Because everything's gotta be on the up and upper," Butch said, leaning forward in his chair. "Background check, New York Civil Service Test, eight weeks in Albany at the-"

"Assuming I want the job."

The Deputy Chief jerked his head at the window to his left and asked, "How many times have you visited Canesoanke?"

"Once."

"Once?"

"Laura hauls the kids here in the summer for a few weeks, but I stay in Memphis. Her parents and I don't get along."

"Don and Bonnie," Butch chuckled. "They didn't... _ahem,_ they don't like me, either."

"Right, so I'm not-"

"I hear ya, but working here is easy money. You don't have to worry about getting your hands dirty again. Mister Boja has...well, for lack of a better word, _thugs_...and, um, they mete punishment when the situation demands. My department protects and sometimes distributes the product to localities, but most of the time we write tickets and arrest drunks. Easy work, sometimes busy work, but ninety nine percent of the time you won't break a sweat."

"Sounds peachy, but I'm not hurting for money."

"How 'bout you discuss the pros and cons with Mister Boja? What we're doing here? Job jawing. Paperwork shit. Anyway..." Butch checked his watch and then concluded, "Mister Boja's waiting."

***

Raul Boja.

There were many negative things about Memphis but one of the few positives, perhaps the only positive: miles of country separating Jim and his family from Raul Boja.

Raul's only son, Francis (or Frankie or sometimes Frank, as Jim knew him), was an affable sort; one could have a beer with Frank and talk sports. Boja senior, though...if the rumors were true (and since the rumors came outta Frankie's mouth, Jim had no reason to assume they weren't), old man Boja didn't shoot the shit, he shot people (or ordered people shot, but we're splittin' hairs again). Jim didn't care what Butch Weinager said: murders might not happen _in_ Canesoanke, but bodies fell (and then got planted or burned or dissolved or whatever) in the vicinity of Canesoanke.

Not long after the operation became a reality, Frank confided: _"My father has a short temper when it comes to problems, Jimmy. If a problem appears? Poof. A problem disappears. You have a problem? Poof. The problem disappears."_

It was either a threat or a statement of reassure (Jim leaned towards the former), but becoming _a problem_ wasn't our pal's intention. And any _problems_ in Memphis (rare tho they were, according to Brooksy) never blossomed into _Big_ _Problems_ because the _problems_ disappeared...until the two morons in the Seville decided to play Phillips and Matasareanu. Sure, those two _problems_ disappeared, but not quiet-like and not quiet-like meant...

Problems.

And those two _problems_ created a third _problem:_

' _Laura ran her mouth is what she did,'_ Butch's voice echoed. _'Talking to a cop isn't smart, and I told her as much. Lucky for her, I'm the right guy in the department to whisper the wrong sweet nothings. Had it been Daddy...jeez, there'd have been problems, problems you can't sweep under the rug. So, in a manner of speaking, I think she oughta get out of Memphis sooner than later. Mister Boja agrees.'_

Overlaid upon hisself's wraithlike tone, Butch's gruff voice narrated the trek into unpopulated country ('Raul lives closer to Naples than Canesoanke,' informed Butch)-

Problems.

-then up a steep hill ('Sullivan's Knoll,' Butch said)-

Problems.

-until reaching a mansion lit like a cruise ship ('Something like ten thousand square feet,' reported Butch).

Problems.

Raul greeted his guests on the front stoop.

The Bojas were of Mediterranean pedigree with olive colored skin and ruddy, pockmarked faces. Raul was a thin, short man -a half foot smaller than six-three Jimmy- and bald except for a combover of dark, oily hair on the crown of his scalp; he wore creased khakis and a blue polo decorated with one of them alligators stitched to the left breast; a bouquet of dark chest hair protruded from the unbuttoned V-neck.

The old man shook Jim's hand with a wet noodle arm and then steered them into a den at the rear of the house; with the exception of a small bar, the room reminded Jim of Dr. Fox's office: an easy chair, coffee table, and a sofa for two. A picture window opened to a view of Canesoanke Lake, which presented as a dark, murky splotch at dusk.

Planted in the comfy chair, fingers drumming both armrests, Francis Boja (or Frankie, as Jim knew him) hailed, "Ah, Jimmy, my friend! Good to see you again!"

A spitting image of his father (less thirty years), Frankie hadn't always been cordial. The Reilly-Boja relationship began at Laura's Five-Year Reunion mixer, but it'd been an affiliation Jim worked hard to pursue. Laura pointed Frankie out as he schmoozed with the throng: like a used car salesman, he slapped backs and laughed at every joke. After a few libations, Jim approached and mentioned -all casual-like- he'd like to do _a little_ business...

A Little.

At once, Frankie's pleasant demeanor turned serious: he resorted to the ole brushoff with a, _I don't know what you're talking about,_ spiel _._ The cold shoulder wasn't surprising given the subject. But later, inquisitiveness got the better of a tipsy Frankie: he pulled Jim aside and asked a few probing questions incorporating the _Five W's_.

Jim assumed the Bojangles enterprise be a semi-local setup extending to the Big Apple; as such, he presented a pedestrian proposition: once a month, our hero would step for a bundle and then blanket the blow. Though Frankie didn't press for intricate details (these specifics were addressed later), Jim intended to third the package with Tubby Wick and Brooksy, and the trio would reap _a little_ honeypot.

A Little.

The price for slinging Bojangles? Frankie mandated a yield double what the bundle be worth. If not...

' _We'd be wasting time,'_ he said, patting Jim on the shoulder.

' _I'll make the nut and then some,'_ Jim promised. _'Considering the junk floating around Norfolk, Bojangles will soar, even with a markup.'_

' _You're from Virginia?'_ Frankie asked.

When Jim explained he was an SP in the Navy, Frankie perked up; when Jim mentioned he was leaving the service the following year, Frankie perked down. But when Jim mentioned he had a class date at the Memphis Police Academy, Frankie perked up again.

Frankie perked way up.

Hisself passed Jim a business card ( _Francis X. Boja, Owner, Jimmy The Greek's Mediterranean Bistro_ ), told him to phone in a few days and then added: _'I must discuss with Father, but perhaps we can arrange_ a little _partnership.'_

A Little.

The little partnership didn't take flight post hasty; months passed and a handful of phone calls were exchanged. At last, Frankie said: _'Father is interested, but he requires we do things his way. He's, eh,_ a little _particular about doing business with new blood.'_

A Little.

Doing things Father's way meant Jim rubbed elbows with fellas what made it clear the Bojangles racket wasn't _a little_ Pa and Son operation. Four ugly, dark-skinned mugs paid Jim and Brooksy a visit in Norfolk; in thick accents, they demanded: names and locations of relatives; cash upfront; bank account information. A month later, Raul Boja made a trip to Virginia Beach; he outlined his plan for Memphis and stressed there wasn't room for negotiation. The _little_ business Jim envisioned blossomed into a large operation, a large operation with untold suppliers and pilots (and not just the weekend warriors, but a real pilot what flew real airplanes and bid for Northwest's Memphis domicile to satisfy Raul Boja's mandate).

So, fine, _little_ swelled to _large_...but what of it? Old man Boja's path was paved in gold. More than _a little_ money waterfalled and money -as John Reilly used to say- _beat soul._ Jim realized Dad's words shoulda served as a warning, but the cash changed his mind. Thereafter, our hero walked a fine line for a long time, far longer than wise, until the line stretched far and wide.

And here's where the line led: _A little_ summit to discuss _problems_.

The stress must've showed on his face because Raul slapped Jim's back and said, "Something to drink? Wine, perhaps? The Finger Lakes region is known for its grapes. I own a vineyard not far from here. A shameless plug, I know, but you should try my cabernet."

Jim leaned an elbow on the bar and said, "I'm not a wine _kind-of-sewer_ , Mister Boja. Tenders choice."

The old man pondered the rack behind the bar and selected a florid bottle. Two large stemmed glasses were filled, and then Raul slid the brimming vessel to the guest as if it contained nitroglycerine. Jim raised it in a half-assed toast and brought the gilded rim to his lips.

"No, no, no," Raul admonished with a clucking tongue. "You have to smell it, Jim Reilly. Sniff the wine. Pull the fragrance of the grape into your nostrils."

"Yes, inhale," Frankie cheeped.

Jim complied; he couldn't smell anything extraordinary but nodded with a wide, shit eating grin.

"Yeeessss," Raul hissed. "Yes, Jim Reilly, you smell the attar?"

Though he didn't know what _attar_ be, Jim answered, "Um, sure. Lots of attar."

"Now you drink."

After a glance at Butch (rooted in front of the window with arms crossed), Jim took a small sip.

"Good, yes?" Raul asked, as if on pins-and-needles awaiting Jim's review.

The wine tasted okay, perhaps good, but Jim would've given two thumbs up even if it tasted like Hitler's poo-poo. So, he bobbed his head and took another swig-

"No," Raul fussed with more tongue clucking. "No, Jim Reilly, sip the wine. Savor the flavor. Let the taste linger in your mouth."

Frankie added, "Savor and taste, my friend."

_The fuck_ , Jim thought while savoring. He savored far longer than a normal savor until, at last, he could savor no more. The wine spilled down his throat...

"You like?" Raul asked.

"Like a flower," Jim rasped.

Raul leaned across the bar top, placed his right hand on Jim left paw, and whispered, "I am glad you came." Then he swung his head at Butch and said, "This man makes me money in Memphis. He makes money and fixes problems."

Problems.

Butch appeared unimpressed and answered, "You don't say?"

"Alas, there are problems-"

Problems.

"-with the business in the south. Your incident, and other matters, has made me reconsider viability. I have interests elsewhere with less problems-"

Problems.

"-and less problems-"

Problems.

"-make me happy. Now, your wife is-"

"She's not a problem," Jim interrupted.

"I didn't say she is. But she can't be talking, Jim Reilly."

"Laura is, um...she's frustrated. When she's frustrated, she doesn't think before...er...I mean, she _sometimes_ doesn't think before acting. I almost got killed, Mister Boja. You can understand her uneasiness."

"Of course, which is why she'd be safer here, don't you think? Safe from the problems-"

Problems.

"-in Memphis, and safe from making problems-"

Problems.

"-for you."

Dry mouthed, Jim asked, "Can I take another sip?"

Raul laughed and said, "Yes, my friend, sip." Then he returned attention to Butch and asked, "When will Jim Reilly start with your department?"

"Well..." Butch hawed, "as long as his background is clean-"

"I say it's clean," Raul snapped.

"Raul...er...Mister Boja, I have to do things by the book. Certification-"

"Fuck your book. We do things by my book!"

Butch scratched his neck and said, "Okay, but Reilly is...what'd ya say, pal? You're contemplating leaving law enforcement?"

"What?" Raul asked, squeezing Jim's hand.

Jim stomached the remainder of the cabernet and then explained, "I've been thinking of finding other employment or...you see, the truth is, I'd like to walk from the illicit stuff. I've made money-"

"Money I pay you, Jim Reilly."

"I appreciate your generosity, but what happened in Memphis has-"

"It makes you nervous. Why not? But there's nothing unnerving about Canesoanke, is there, Weinager?"

"Nope," Butch answered with a head shake.

"I don't mean to sound demanding, but you belong here," Raul said as he released Jim's hand. "After all, your wife will be here. You have children, yes? You don't want your family to go without their provider."

_You're pigeonholed, you dumb fuck!_ Jim's mind screamed.

"Family is important," Raul lectured. "Francis is what remains of mine. I had another son named Hector. He died at nineteen in an automobile accident. Very sad. My wife, she passed several years ago. Cervical cancer. Very sad. I miss them, and your children would miss you. Who knows what problems-"

Problems.

"-they would face in the future without a father."

_You're pigeonholed, you dumb fuck!_ Jim's mind repeated.

"So," Raul said, snapping finger, "let's have no more talk of leaving law enforcement, Jim Reilly. Are we clear?"

Jim stared into Raul Boja green eyes and then, because Jim Reilly didn't want any _problems_ , nodded.

"I will take care of moving expenses," Raul said. "I think...when does school begin, Weinager?"

"After Labor Day," the Chief answered.

"You should be settled before then," Raul said, as he poured another round. "Your oldest, he's entering the third grade?"

"Second," Jim said in an even voice.

"I've heard it's advantageous for transferees to begin school on the first day of the session, not in the middle of the year. Some children have problems-"

Problems.

"-acclimating to a new environment. Better to start on the right foot."

"I appreciate your concern," Jim mumbled.

Raul pushed the glass across the counter and said, "There is one last topic, Jim Reilly. When you return to Memphis, I suggest you talk with your partner about my decision to shutter the operation there. I'd do it myself, but I feel personal conversations are better suited than breaking bad news over the telephone. You can relate I appreciate his service and so forth. He was an apt resource at one time but now..." Raul looked at his son and raised eyebrows.

Frankie stood, brushed his hands, and then reported, "Brian Brooks is foolish and undisciplined."

"Yes, he's become sloppy," Raul said. "Sloppiness is bad for business. My accountant reports he draws against his books in excess of thirty thousand, per month, since the beginning of the year. It is July. Do the math. He has also moved money into a Cayman Island account. Such careless behavior...he leaves a paper trail, Jim Reilly. Orestes plays games to keep the activity lawful, but games are tiresome. I think your friend has problems-"

Problems.

"-he needs to remedy. Gambling, women, the product...it doesn't matter what has him warped. Warped associates make poor decisions and I have no choice but to wash my hands of him. Perhaps it'd be better if you tell him to keep his problems-"

Problems.

"-whatever they are, from becoming worse. I'm told my temper sometimes gets the best of me. When I start yelling I...bah, it's bad for my heart. Yes, it'd be better if you talk to your friend, Jim Reilly."

"I had no idea," Jim whispered.

"Now you do," Raul said through a smile. "Now, no more talk of business, Jim Reilly. Sip your wine, enjoy the view, and..."
Sunday, 30 December 2007

...scrunching brow, our friend Jimmy stood in the kitchen and stared out the large, fingerprint speckled morning room window.

Winter sucked ass.

Fall...he didn't mind fall. He didn't mind fall except fall gave way to winter, which meant fall kinda sucked too.

In any case -and for the next three months, give or take- winter presented outside the window as a depressing, ashen realm: low, gray clouds shrouded the sun; snow into perpetuity; barren trees with claw-like limbs swayed in the wind. But there be some life amongst the dying or dead foliage: squirrels hopped and bopped from branch to branch, a couple blackbirds raided the misshapen birdhouse Jim built from a kit, and...and he spotted a lone buck, a four-pointer, as it wriggled through snarled bush.

Last spring, the two apple trees nearest the house exploded in bright pink flowers; fall brought bushels of plump, red apples. Weighted by fruit, the boughs damn near touched the ground. Using a dull, rusty saw, Jim spent a Saturday afternoon in October hacking down the stressed branches. When he was through performing surgery, hundreds of apples littered the ground. He couldn't take a step without sinking into 'em, and the scent clung to his clothes and boots like skunk spray. Now the same fragrance lured deer into the yard. They came within pissing distance of the deck, feasted until their bellies were full, and then scattered.

He observed the buck dig its nose into the snow...watched it munch and freeze...munch and freeze...over and over, like a metronome, munch and freeze. Hypnotized, Jim supped and scratched at what remained of his dream.

There wasn't much to distill but Gail made an appearance. Maybe Brooksy. But Gail for sure. What were they doing? Hand in hand, walking across white sand...bright sun overhead...Jim guiding her towards...what? Nothing but desert stretched around them.

When he awoke a few minutes before five in a pool of sweat, he touched the face of the woman in bed next to him, traced her jawline with a finger, and heard a sleepy mumble.

_Laura,_ he thought.

Laura, not Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

But it could've been Gail Carter...

"Fuck me," he said.

The four-pointer lifted his head as if Jim had spoken to it; the bucks breath hung in the still air like muslin Their eyes met. He brought the mug to his lips. Ears twitching, the deer shat a mound of steaming pellets and then bolted.

"Fuck me," he repeated.

He fucked her.

He fucked Wetzel the Pretzel.

You fucked Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

Wetzel the Pretzel pretzeled Jim's D.

Pretzeled it good, brah.

Pretzeled it nice and snug in her warm, moist, pretzely bush...

***

Less than twelve hours prior, Jim found himself inside Wetzel the Pretzel. Deep inside.

Gail called him on his work phone while he lazed on CR21 with a mouthful of wintergreen long cut.

She said: "Tom's drunk and he...he's gone now, gone for the night, but I need someone, Jim. I'm a mess."

And Jim said, "Hang tight. I'll be over in a few."

Because, you know, he didn't want Tom beating Wetzel the Pretzel.

Their first sit down at Beanies turned into a second, then a third. The second time could've been dismissed as a follow-up to his light spanking of Regina Cumberland.

'Has she sent you any more letters?' Jim asked.

'No more,' Gail answered.

Bingo. He'd done his good deed for the year.

But there'd been a third meeting two days after Christmas. Tom did something stupid and a teary Gail described whatever the something stupid be. Jim nodded his head, but he wasn't listening. He didn't hear a word. _Not. A. Word._ Instead, he focused on her eyes and wondered how'd they look in the midst of a randy pretzling. Wide? Half-open? Closed?

His mind chastised the pornographic fantasies: _You're a naughty boy thinking naughty thoughts._

Um-hmm. Naughty thoughts. _Very_ naughty thoughts.

Then again...is it wrong to have _very_ naughty thoughts involving a very beautiful woman? Is it wrong to desire new hands, new skin, new affection? How else could he whittle the boring days at the stupid speed trap? Listening to the stupid Sabres or stupid Syracuse basketball on the radio? Reading the stupid historical sign for the millionth time?

Brooksy's stupid malevolent spirit piped, _'Nobody's gonna know, brah.'_

A _very_ naughty liaison would be furtive, skin-prickling and exciting.

_Very_ naughty banging trumped stupid maintenance sex.

He and Laura did the bare minimum: rudimentary rutting in the missionary position, the occasional hummer after Laura drank too much, civil intercourse without thrill or emotion. In short, an unsatisfying duty for what should be a tawdry compulsion.

Yes, Jimmy knew he walked on thin ice. When she phoned and claimed Tom made a mess of the living room, and he drove like a bat out of hell to be the someone she needed, he fucking knew very naughty things be on the horizon.

But he kept rolling.

And he was spot on.

Jim bounded up porch steps, lifted a fist...but the front door swung open before he could splinter the varnished oak. Gail, illuminated in the sallow glow of the porchlight, not a hair out of place...

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Did he hit you or-"

"You need to come in," she ordered.

Two steps across the threshold, the slam of the front door...

Then it happened...as he knew it would.

She started the foolishness; she planted her lips on his neck. But he didn't push Gail aside and scold her for the very naughty behavior. Once it begins, very naughty behavior is difficult to corral.

His hands fumbled under her blouse; she wrapped both arms around his neck.

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

_Brooksy, it's happening,_ he thought. _Oh yes, the ice has cracked, here we go, time to get wet_. His craving would be turned into magnificent carnal energy. He'd fuck her in the kitchen, bend Wetzel the Pretzel over the table where Tom ate his breakfast, and cram his D into her, over and over, until he blasted goo into her uterus.

They didn't make it to the kitchen. She led him to the sofa, tugged at his utility belt until it dropped to the floor with a thud. Next to go were his pants...then his skivvies...and Gale appraised his manhood with Cheshire Cat eyes.

He hiked up her skirt, found nothing beneath but a glistening beaver, and slithered into her with a satisfied groan. Gail drew her legs around him, kept her arms around his neck, studied his face with wide _fuck me_ eyes...

_I shouldn't be doing this,_ he thought, after the first thrust.

_I shouldn't be fucking Jimmy's teacher,_ he thought, after the second thrust.

_I shouldn't be_...but he did. Three, four, five, six, seven...eight...nine...infinity...

"C'mon!" Gail begged. "C'mon! C'mon! C'mon!"

_It_ needed no solicitation. _It_ was coming. Coming with a fervor.

I shouldn't be...I shouldn't be...I shouldn't...

But Jim had never been the engine what couldn't. _Never._ Even when Isaac Brown asked _it_ to _c'mon_ , Jim came on.

And _it_ felt wonderful.

"C'mon, Jim! C'mon! C'mon!"

He wanted _it_ ; she wanted _it_.

"Go," she panted. "I...have...the...implant. Go...c'mon...c'mon..."

Seconds before oiling her innards -as she held him tight _(Wetzel the Pretzel, brah)_ and whispered, "C'mon, Jim. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," into his left ear- Jimmy had the moment of clarity he should've appreciated before sinking into her:

The hanky-panky with Gail wouldn't be a one-time thing. It would go on and on until one of them broke it off (him) and the other got wrathful (not him). Hadn't he learned anything after Courtney? An affair would end as affairs always do.

It would end poorly.

By then, though, _it_ came on...

What's a guy to do?

Nothing, brah. Nothin' but do the dew.

_Fuck it,_ he concluded.

So, he buried his D deep and let it flow.

"Yeeessss," she purred. "Oh, God, there _it_ is, Jim. There _it_ is..."

***

Attaboy, Jimmy. You fucked Wetzel the Pretzel.

"I fucked her," he mumbled.

You fucked Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

"No strings, Brooksy. She said-"

The creak of floorboards forced his mouth shut.

Laura, wrapped in a robe, padded next to him and yawned. Hair askew and half-asleep, she wove her arms around his waist, kissed him on his cheek and then buried her head into his side.

"Thanks for letting me sleep," she murmured.

He weaseled out of her grip and said, "I'm going for a run."

"Are you running outside? It has to be freezing."

"I'm tired of the treadmill. I need to breathe fresh air, not the rat shit in the basement."

"Hey," she said, nudging him with an elbow. "Hey, are you okay?"

His stomach dropped a thousand floors but he managed to spit, "Me? I'm peachy. Why?"

"You didn't sleep well last night. Lots of tossing and turning."

"I had a weird dream...something, you know, nonlinear. But, um, I should hit the road. I'll see you in an hour."

***

A run would help.

After the first few steps, the slow increase in speed, by a couple hundred feet, Jim's head should clear.

Who'd have thought he'd stick with running? His first attempt was a torturous jaunt into the summer twilight of Memphis and its humid mantle. Not five minutes in and sweat streamed down his face; he lumbered like his legs were stuck in wet concrete and stopped to walk not even a mile from his house. But he laced 'em up the next day, pushed himself another couple of minutes longer. Soon, he hit double digit numbers on the watch. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty minutes, each a new, satisfying milestone.

But Jim relished more than personal milestones: the runner's high mirrored a Bojangles blast. It -the high- didn't happen every time, but when it did...lordy, lordy the rush. He felt invincible, refined...a conquer of worlds.

He chased the high on every goddamn run. Catching it, Jim found, demanded a balls to the wall approach. If the high couldn't be attained, it meant he hadn't run hard enough, fast enough, gave 110%...whatever the coachy colloquialism, he employed them all as both castigation and motivation.

There was a fine line between elation and antipathy in Jim Reilly's mind. He didn't base self-worth on others. Nope, he was a product of his own warped perception. Like many, he sought to quiet the voices (most of the time it be Dad but, on occasion, others entered the fray) in his head. The way to silence nattering? Stand in the glow of ecstasy. It didn't matter how he got there: booze, sex, drugs, running, religion, name the vice...they were expedients to unlock the soul from the prison in which it rotted.

Thus, he lived for the moment when everything clicked, when each step energized and his wind seemed beyond depletion. Head clear, world a blur, reality be whittled to Jim and his breathing. Once (and only once), he attempted to explain the feeling to Laura, but his words failed to impart sensation; it was like making sense of the meaning of life. No matter, she didn't have to understand. Jimmy got it.

He joined County Road 8, checked his watch and ground teeth.

Dad said: _Ifin you wanna forget about ballin' Wetzel the Pretzel, you better go balls to the wall, faggot._

"Right," Jim wheezed, "I'm...goin'...hard..."

From way back when, Dr. Fox lectured: _There are reasons men and women have affairs. An addiction to sex; lack of attention, unhappy home life; the thrill..._

_C'mon, Jim,_ Wetzel the Pretzel begged.

He huffed, puffed, felt his ballsack slap inner thighs...

_How is she to assume another affair won't occur in the future?_ Dr. Fox asked.

_I don't plan on having a second,_ Jim had said with conviction.

The stupid declaration felt like a weight on his back. He struggled to find a rhythm, struggled to evict the voices of Dad, Dr. Fox and Wetzel the Pretzel out of his noodle...

***

Splayed on the sofa, smoothing her skirt, she watched as he dressed and nibbled on her bottom lip.

After adjusting the rig around his waist, Jim exhaled and then said, "So...uh...I should go."

"Jim, I don't-"

A wee sneeze from somewhere upstairs interrupted her.

"Who the hell-"

"Aiden," she said.

"Who?"

"My boy."

"Your son is _here_?"

"He's in bed."

"Jesus," he groaned.

"Calm down-"

"I didn't know-"

"Calm down, Jim. It's fine."

He didn't think it was fine. Not by a long shot.

"Look, I know your situation," she said, all matter of fact-like. "You have a life, a wife and children. I'm not going to be a thorn or a woman scorned. I can be your distraction and you can be mine. Or it can end tonight. Either way, no strings."

_No strings, brah. Sounds like a sweet deal to Brooksy Brooks. I'd take them odds_.

Aiden sneezed again.

Gail reclined on the sofa, closed her eyes and whispered, "I know what I want. If you want the same, you know how to reach me."

***

The run didn't clear his head.

Exhausted and annoyed, he walked into the house and found Laura in the living room watching a rerun of Dr. Phil.

" _Past indicators of behavior are predicators of the future,"_ Phil declared in his folksy Texas twang. The seals in the audience applauded and hooted.

"How's your run?" Laura asked.

Phil looked into the camera like he be addressing Jim and said, _"An intelligent person makes a hundred bad decisions one time. A fool makes a hundred bad decisions a hundred times."_

"How's your run?" Laura repeated.

"What the fuck does _that_ mean?" Jim cried, pointing at the television.

"He...it doesn't matter. How'd your run go?"

"Lousy," he griped. "I couldn't get into a rhythm...or something."

"Lousy or not, at least you got out and did it."

"Uh-huh, well, I've had better days."

"Oh, while you were gone, Butch called. I told him-"

_Butch found out about me and Gail,_ his mind concluded.

"-out for a run but-"

Or Tom found out because Gail told him.

"-said it wasn't important so-"

What about the no strings, bullshit? Fuck me.

"-call later."

"Wonderful," Jim said, as he tossed his shoes into the mud room. "I'm taking a shower."

***

While waiting for the water to warm, he checked his cell and discovered a voicemail.

_Gail or Butch or Tom,_ his mind ticked.

But it be Brooksy. He hadn't spoken to the knucklehead in months; the last time had been an unpleasant, one-sided, half-hour conversation with Brooksy doing all the talking -and occasional crying- about a dearth of good luck. Jim expected more of the same as he put the phone to his ear.

" _Brah,"_ Brooksy slurred, _"Brooksy knows ya ain't interested in throwin' Ben Franklin's 'round, but I jus wanna tell ya Greg French busted his femur yesterday and Dontrelle's nex oft ta bench. I'm gittin outta my rut, Jimmy. I think Gawd be comin' thru for Brooksy Brooks. Smart money on Memphis. You outta call me, brah."_

Gittin' out of his rut...well, ain't it sweet?

Jim be climbin' into one.

Minutes later, as he lathered soap on his hands, Laura gave him another rut to slide into.

She pulled the shower curtain back, stepped into the tub, and took the Old Spice from his hands. "The kids are still asleep," she said. "I figured we could make use of the quiet time."

Though he feared the pecker wouldn't peck after doing some pecking the night prior, Laura and the slippery Old Spice got the humper humming.

Anyway, he didn't think of Gail as he tacked Laura. And he tacked Laura good.

In fact, he started tacking Laura with a frequency and intensity best described as "mind-blowing".

It was like he rediscovered his libido. Go figure.

***

Butch's phone call came halfway through the latest, greatest Buffalo Bills abortion of professional football. Booze made the comedy of errors unfolding on the television palatable, and Jimmy be nine deep into a twelver of Genesee. He wasn't a Bills fan, but they were the local team in the region which meant he watched a fair amount of their shitty brand of football.

Laura had hauled the kids to Wegmans and he decided to revel in the tranquility by tying one on. Feet up, fireplace a-firing, alcohol a-alcoholin', bad football a-bad fooballin'...the trio of _a-lin's_ lowered a curtain on his thoughts...sorta.

Gail Carter? It would be a _one-time_ thing. _No strings,_ she said. Jim repeated a simple mantra in his head _(no strings, no strings, no strings)_ as he chugged the first four beers and found no strings mitigated guilt. He'd weather the tempest of infidelity and sail out the other side without Laura being none the wiser. After beer number five drenched his brain, the _no strings_ chant faded to a distant whisper.

Then the cordless rang; Butch's number popped on the caller ID and Jim considered letting it go to voicemail. But Butch wouldn't stop pestering and... _perhaps_ it'd be nothing. Maybe Butch wanted to shoot the shit; maybe he needed Jim to work the overnight for the New Year's Eve; maybe he wanted to do some ice fishing.

Jim muted the television and answered, "Butch."

"We got a problem, dumdum," Butch snapped. "You wanna guess what it is?"

_I didn't fuck Wetzel the Pretzel_ , he almost blurted.

"Regina Cumberland," Butch announced. "Well, her and Glen. The two of them-"

"Hah?" Jim cawed. "Regina Cumberland?"

"Don't play dumdum, dumdum. Her husband wants to file a harassment report against you. His wife claims you threatened to kill her."

"The fuck she did," Jim chuckled. Meantime, his mind hissed, _Motherfucker._

"The fuck she didn't, and it ain't funny. In fact, Regina says she's been so frightened, she didn't even want to file a report. Glen dragged her down to my office after...let's see...almost two weeks after the alleged incident occurred. Care to explain?"

"I pulled her over is what happened. She copped an attitude. You know what? I didn't even write her ticket, man. I gave her a warning."

"So, your story is the inconvenience of a traffic stop prompted her to file a false report?"

"Couldn't have said it better myself."

"Mm...you know her brother is Sal Grittio?"

"I've heard."

"I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume he'll pay me a visit, too."

"Then you can tell him the same thing you told me I told you."

"Eh...what now?"

"The taking exception to the inconvenience and all the rest."

"Look, I don't need this shit. I don't need Glen raising a ruckus and I don't need Sal pounding on my door. Why are you bothering her?"

"You're making a lot of assumptions, Butch."

"Like you're bothering her?"

"I didn't know who she is when I pulled her over."

"Mm..."

"Scouts honor."

"Mm...just so we're on the same page, Glen is one of the old man's Shoreview associates. I can't have him getting skeevy."

"Because I pulled his wife over? What is she, immune to the same laws as normal motorists?"

"Mm...well, at this point, it's her word against yours. You should be thankful we can't afford mics and dash cams or I'd hazard I wouldn't be taking Regina Cumberland's report and throwing it in the trash."

"Great, because it's a bunch of-"

The phone went dead.

"Goddamn cunt," he said, picturing Regina's fat fucking face in his head.

Which reminded him...

***

"Greg French busted his femur yesterday," Brooksy informed. "I hate to take pleasure in another man's injury but...it's a sign, man."

"Who the fuck is Greg French?"

"Wha? The French Lick? You ain't heard of him?"

"The French Lick?"

"Shooting forward on the Tigers? Second team All-American last year? Hello? Ring a bell?"

"I don't follow college hoops anymore."

"You should, brah. Listen, Dontrelle is next man up. He's gonna be starting unless he plays his way out of the lineup, which he won't because the kid is good. In my opinion, he's better than Timmy. Tubby and I got our-"

"You got your hooks in him."

"Fuckin' A!"

Brooksy may've been convinced he could create lighting-in-a-bottle again with another Trask, but the fool be pushing the envelope. At Hampton, a small school with little exposure, they'd manage to affect the gamblers dream. Jim knew things wouldn't be the same at Memphis. And it would take a lot of convincing to make him believe otherwise.

"I'm gonna play it cool for the time being," Brooksy continued. "Memphis is a juggernaut this year. Final Four for shizzel. Remember what we did with Hampton in the tourney?"

"I remember, and I also remember we got good odds because Hampton wasn't supposed to win."

"Mm-hmm, so, if the opportunity presents itself...say, not the first or second round but maybe the Elite Eight. If the Tigers are big favorites against some mid-Major...you catch my drift?"

"And Dontrelle is going to bone a game when Memphis is stacked? Final Four, you said? He's not the only brother playing ball."

"It only takes one, brah. Plus... _ahem_...the Tigers have an Achilles heel. They're terrible at free throws to the tune of sixty percent and change. A couple of misses here or there, maybe if the game is on the line...eh?"

"Jeez, Brian, Memphis isn't Hampton. Nobody gives a fuck about Hampton. The risk is-"

"Risk? Naw, man, there's no risk." Then Brooksy uttered the two words Jim had learned to instantly dislike: _"Trust me."_

Despite Butchy's moniker, Jim wasn't a dumdum: Brooksy be in the hole again. Prolly a _Big_ hole. One plus one equals: "Am I to infer you need capital?"

"Shoot, it's nothing but a pinch."

"How much?"

"Couple grand."

"Define a couple."

"A brick."

"A hundred!"

"No more than a hundred, man."

" _Ugh_...dude, I feel like I'm experiencing deja vu. Care to guess why?"

"It ain't the same. I'm up, not down, and we got a chance to make _serious_ coin."

"Maybe, but how am I supposed to get you a brick without raising eyebrows?"

"Easy. I'm buying a place in Cordova, a four-room crasher for Mesaba pilots. Twin beds, big flat screen, DVD player, Super Nintendo, stone patio with a grill. Oh, yeah, and a beater to boot. I already have eight dudes lined up 'cause ole Hammerbacher...hey, you remember Howie, doncha? He wallpapered their crew room with fliers. Now, I'm thinking two-fiddy a month, times at least eight...you can do the math. The gaff's appraised at one forty-five. We go halvsies."

"What's the actual worth?"

"Eh...ninety-five, maybe a hundred."

"Your math is fucked up. This ain't no halvsies."

"Brah, Brooksy's good for fiddy, you're good for a hundred. One fiddy. Boo-yah. As far as anyone knows-"

"My other fiddy goes to Tubby," Jim declared. "I get it. What's he putting into the pan?"

"At first, a psychic investment. Tubby's throwing the Trask brood a big ole party. New car, television...some other shit. There's somethin' like eight Trask half-brothers and sisters and cousins and whatever in Norfolk and...look, it's nothin' you need to worry about other than we're greasing the skids. You know, somethin' along the lines of showin' Dontrelle we're really serious, dig? The spendin' money is...it's been chintzy 'cause he's been riding the bench. Your share is-"

"Enough. I get the picture."

"Whatcha say, Jimmy? It's a win-win."

"I want my name on the deed."

"Huh?"

"The place in Cordova? My name has to appear on the papers. If I'm calling Orestes to settle stock, he's gonna insist it goes legit."

"Sure, straight into the LLC."

Jim stared into the fire. He didn't need money and he didn't like throwing money down the shitter. But his judgment hadn't been sound of late...and he was a smidge south of three sheets...and some action might be fun...

"We'll build a nice, _legit_ honeypot and go from there," Brooksy added. "Worst case, you break even."

"When do you need the money?"

"I wanna close on this place before the middle of January."

"I'm going to say yes but only if-"

"How damn! You're makin'-"

"Shut up, fool. You have to swear you aren't blowing my cash on NASCAR or something. I don't wanna be your bank because you're in another crater."

"I'm bein' straight, brah. B-ball. Nothing else."

Funny, Jim pressing Brooksy for promises. There be an ironical for ya.

Twenty minutes later, Jimmy rang Orestes Oswald and reported:

"I'm going in on property in Memphis and need to clear one hundred thousand."

"When?"

"Mid-January."

"Hmmm..." Orestes droned.

"It's a legitimate transaction."

"I have no doubt."

"Good. Then we're set?"

"Well...not quite. I had planned on phoning you tomorrow but since I have you now...I'd like to make changes in a few of your investments. The Cypriot holdings are no longer a viable reservoir."

"The fuck you say?"

"Cypress is transitioning to the Euro in the New Year. Thus, in accordance with European finance laws, Cypriot banks will be forced to abide by full disclosure mandates. Now, I'm not worried about disclosure because your deposits come from PLC, Noble Gas and real estate. In other words, legitimate springs. However, many foreigners are pulling their money and heading to more accommodating locales. The run is creating a ripple effect and...look, I'll take the bullet, Jim. I hesitated to make a call until late, but I see the writing on the wall: all signs point to a major economic slowdown in Cypress."

"Why?"

"It's...complicated. The surfeit of foreign deposits has overinflated the Laika and the Bank of Cyprus. In addition, the Greeks are executing what's called a bond haircut due to a widening economic crisis in their country. Greece is all but insolvent thanks to the inability of its government to restructure their financial sector. It doesn't require much imagination to divine the same fate for Cyprus. In time, perhaps a year, I believe the rest of Europe will experience a massive recession."

"Wow," Jim chuckled. "I have no idea what you're saying but it sounds bad."

"The situation hasn't become dire, but I foresee what's called a negative feedback loop. As a result, and with your permission, I intend to reinvest your assets in domestic stock."

"Sure, you have my permission."

"For the sake of clarity, you stand to lose a healthy percentage of your Cypriot investment."

"How much?"

"I can't fix an exact number. Best estimate? The high side of three hundred thousand."

Jimmy pushed his beer aside and asked, "Which leaves me with _what_?"

"Before you get angry, it's better to take the loss now instead of waiting."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Three and a half."

"No way, man. I'm not eating three hundred thousand."

"Then let it ride. But don't complain when PLC is purchased by a Russian oligarch for pennies. Don't complain when the value in your property drops to nothing. Don't complain when the Laiki imposes a thirty percent levy tax on you deposits. Don't complain when you lose everything in Cypress."

"Fuck me, Orestes. What kinda bullshit is this?"

"It's called investing. Sometimes you make money, sometimes you lose. For a time, you made money. Now, you lose."

Orestes apparent indifference sorta rubbed Jim the wrong way. Or, once again, maybe being a smidge south of three sheets stirred his ire: "I can handle a loss here and there, but almost half my money in Cypress is gonna be pissed away!"

"You started with a hundred thousand and tripled it in four years. Your domestic investments are sound, you still have the Subway in Dublin and-"

"I don't care about a Subway in Ireland!"

" _And_ you have a healthy portfolio. Trust me, it's more robust than most men your age."

"All right, stop sugarcoating. Can you at least drum the funds for the house I want to purchase?"

"Yes, no problem. And we'll talk after the first about your future portfolio. Have a good New Years, Jim."

He considered telling Orestes to fuck himself; instead, he tossed the phone aside and watched the Bills shit the bed on Lincoln Financial Field. Them bums, perpetual losers, comic-like in execution, the definition of ineptitude...

...which reminded of Brooksy's half-witted proposition.

Brooksy couldn't help but throw money at sports, but this wasn't an earthshattering revelation. When they were roomies in the service, the fool kept his shit together. Later, said fool got stuck in the gambling suck. In fact, the reason said fool found himself out of the Bojangles business be the same reason Jim's father damaged the Reilly family beyond repair.

As a teenager, Jim promised hisself he'd never get stuck in the gambling suck; his kids wouldn't go without because Daddy flushed his soul down the shitter.

Yet, in another example of irony, the path he chose led to _this_ spot, the spot of unintended consequences...

...meaning the future be ordained or Jim be a fool like Brooksy.

But what choice did our pal have?

Back to the wall after high school, Jim decided...
Brooksy

...enlistment be a necessary lifeboat: nineteen, no money for college, old man dead, old lady a worthless shrew, smoking the pot, drinking the booze, banging an assortment of trashy single-mothers, working the grill at Fuddruckers, living in a one-bedroom apartment...he didn't even own a car and rode a POS Huffy Strider to the salt mine. Jim saw the writing on the wall and the writing drove him to the military recruiter.

The squinty Marine NCO barked nonsense about how "sissified" the Army, Navy and Air Force were and would always be (he didn't mention the Coast Guard, but Jim had a pretty good idea where the Jarhead stood on the topic).

"Whadda want to be?" the grunt concluded after the long harangue. "A pussy or a man?"

Unimpressed, Jim sauntered to the desk of a laidback Navy Petty Officer reading _Rolling Stone_...and signed the papers an hour later after Uncle Sam paid for lunch at McDonald's. The Petty Officer promised exotic ports of call and loose women in said ports, and Jim rated pussy a smidge higher than flipping hamburgers for the rest of his life.

After boot camp, he breezed through cryptology "A" school and received orders to the Pentagon...which sounded more exciting than it turned out to be. Wedged in a cube cataloguing intelligence reports demanded nothing but finger dexterity and the ability to stay awake. The peak of his day? Walking documents to the incinerator room. As a consequence, Jim struggled with boredom...and when he got bored, trouble came a-callin'.

He drank too much with his roommate -a submarine weapons specialist on medical leave- and got hauled in front of The Man twice. The first dressing down was for insubordination (a minor dustup with a public relations petty officer at a bar in Georgetown blown way out of proportion), and the second was for stockpiling booze in his barracks closet at Ft. Myer. Number two wouldn't have been a big deal...except when the closet was searched during a surprise inspection (something the submariner assured never happened), an untapped half-gallon of Covington made a dash for freedom. All slow-motion like, the whiskey bounced twice on the gray ceramic tile (the barracks at Ft. Myer had zero carpet, go figure) before shattering into a jillion pieces and adorning its essence on two pencil pushing O-3's and a crusty Master Chief.

At the second captain's mast, the old man advised Seaman Apprentice Reilly to get his shit together:

"If I see you again, I'm busting you to E-1 and sending you to the fleet _undesignated_. Do you know what _undesignated_ seaman recruits do in the fleet?" Before Jim could respond, the Commander barked, "It means you'll be scrubbing the head in this man's navy until your enlistment terminates!"

After the butt chewing, a grizzled Senior Chief named Richardson took Jim aside afterwards and said, "Consider this a wake-up call and get your ass squared-away, Reilly. If you're bored with cryptology, I'll see about getting you into something a little more exciting."

Suspicious of good intentions and the strings attached to said intentions, our pal asked, "Like what?"

"Shore patrol."

"Get the fuck outta here," Jim scoffed. "The military police?"

"My two cents. I began my Navy career in the SP, so I speak from personal experience. You might or you might not like it, but I'll tell you one thing I know: If you keep it up, you'll be right where Smallwood promised. Think you're unhappy now, brother? Ha! Just wait."

Jimmy scratched the back of his neck and said, "Senior, like...I'm not cut out for police work. Look at me. I ain't the model of law and order."

"Well, one, it ain't real policing. And two, you don't wanna play cryptologist anymore, right?"

"I mean...yeah, it's pretty boring."

"Shoot, boring is the tip of the iceberg. You get on with shore patrol and it's a different ballgame. It's a real job with none of this buttoned-up Beltway bullshit. And if you're lucky, you might get to crack a few heads under the guise of keeping the peace."

Aside from the cracking skulls part, Jim was intrigued. He piddled away a year, somehow kept his nose clean, and evolved into the Navy's theoretical model of perfection. As pledged, the Senior pulled strings. Of course, there be a teensy caveat: our hero had to reenlist and give the Navy another forty-eight months. _Whatever_ , Jim thought, as he swore another four. It wasn't like he had Big Plans.

After acquiring his Master-At-Arms rating, SP Jim Reilly was billeted to the Navy's premier hellhole: Norfolk. Fortified with a baton and armband, he kept peace with an even-temper and a liberal interpretation of the UCMJ. Most of the sailors and grunts on liberty were looking to blow steam; some got carried away. Jim did his best to prevent those knuckleheads from getting their keysters hauled in front of The Man. Nine out of ten listened; the ten percent what got run had it coming.

Only once did he get caught with his guard down: a churlish Marine delivered a chickenshit sucker punch and dislocated Jimmy's jaw. The Marine found his way to the infirmary after Brooksy and the boys give him the business, but Jim's bedrest delivered more than the gift of afternoon television enhanced by painkillers and Southern Comfort...

***

Brian Brooks was lackadaisical in a disarming way and his dumbshit mannerisms were meant to deceive: goofy, lopsided smile; slow, loping walk; lax vocabulary delivered in a meandering twang like plucked banjo strings. In short, his deportment screamed _Stupid Hick._

But Brooksy was both clever and contrived. Jim had been fooled by the dawdling, but he soon realized his roommate housed a quasi-brilliant mind. It wasn't MIT worthy; Brooksy wasn't plucking calculations out of the ether and solving differential equations. No, Brooksy had criminal smarts. Jim had 'em too, the smarts, and the two roommates got along like pancakes and syrup. And back in the days of yore, their malfeasance was sweet like said combination.

Brooksy ran a diminutive gambling operation from their barracks room; he also played the role of loan shark, with a portion of the bankroll provided by a used car dealer named Tubby Wick. More about their agreement later, but Tubby wasn't just part investor, he provided muscle...which made Tubby Wick a perfect business acquaintance. Wick was also squeaky clean, philanthropic, a Norfolk basketball legend and a _Big_ booster of Hampton University. His relationship to the university would play a lucrative role in the near and distant future...

A role capable of reaping _Big Bucks._

Gambling is an innocuous waste of time for most and money can't be made from the Sunday driver. They win some, lose some, break even for the most part; responsible men and women settle up or collect, no fuss, no muss. Brooksy's meat and potatoes were the undisciplined, and he strived to corner the market on the degenerates of Naval Station Norfolk. Could a sad sack take their business elsewhere? Sure, but elsewhere didn't offer the kinda cash Brian Brooks slapped on the desk.

You see, lends were the meat of the operation, and the habitually unlucky took mucho points for moola. When they didn't win _Big_ , the degenerate took more money with hopes of winning Bigger. Like a cat chasing its tail, the gambler chases the _Big Win_. On rare occasions, the _Big Win_ Fairy grants a desperate wish. Most of the time, however, the _Big Win_ Fairy gives zero fucks. And when the Fairy gives zero fucks, the gambler be bending over to get fucked.

Sailors owning Big Bucks to Brooksy always paid. Sometimes they relinquished vehicles or jewelry; sometimes flummoxed parents settled the tab; sometimes they scored smack. Despite what Uncle Sammy claimed, more than a few swabbies rode the horse. Both Brooksy and Tubby Wick preferred recompense in local H because smack always turned a profit on the rebound. And once a sailor got tapped, they were obligated to keep dancing. If the ole feet turned into two lefties, Brooksy would dangle the brig in front of their slack-jaws. Most debtors got with the program but a few couldn't be made to see reason. Be the old horse to water analogy, and it be out of Brooksy's hands -and into Tubby Wick's dusky paws- if the horse didn't want to drink.

When Jimmy arrived in Norfolk in the spring of '98, Brooksy expected his new roommate to be a clone of the previous Audie Murphy emulation. Though shore patrol drew squares like flies to shit, Jim presented as a chill brah: he recognized boundaries, remained unobtrusive, didn't raise a fuss when their room filled with strangers at odd hours, didn't ask questions about why cash exchanged hands, and didn't ask what Brooksy wrote in all those notebooks. Jim minded his own, tucked himself into his bunk with a bottle of booze or disappeared on the weekends. Shit, it was like Brian Brooks lived alone.

In time, they did more than co-exist in the same space. Conversation began, jokes were exchanged, and minutiae disseminated. Getting dressed one morning, Brooksy addressed a nagging curiosity:

"Brah, I gotta ask. What's the deal with yer stripes? You got yer time in, doncha?"

Jim rubbed the three chevrons on his summer blue uniform and then said, "Ahhh...it's, you know, a dumb story."

"Shoot, I'm all for dumb stories."

"The long and short: I got busted two years ago."

"No shit?"

"No shit," Jim echoed as he returned to polishing the boondockers.

Brooksy waited for an explanation, but when one didn't come, he tapped his foot and said, "Dude, spill the beans. Brooksy likey a good story."

Setting down the can of polish, Jim said, " _Ahem_...well, you know how the chain of command works."

"You tell the brass to kiss your ass?"

"Something along those lines. If you ever see a Master Chief named Pat Corona, please let me know. I got a hash to settle with him. Or you can bring me some of his teeth. Your choice."

"Oh? This oughta be a doozy."

"We got into it at a bar in Georgetown. I mighta spilled a drink on him...it doesn't matter other than he swung first and I swung last. So, Corona pulled weight like the bitch he is and voilà: I'm standing in front of the old man. Busted, loss of pay...some other bullshit. The second time I got hauled in front of Commander-"

"Whoa, whoa, wait, slow down, brah. Two masts?"

Jim appeared nonplussed and asked, "What of it?"

"What'd you do to get the second mast?"

Shrugging shoulders, Jim related the offense complete with the sound effect of shattering glass. Then he concluded, "Good timing, huh? After all the trouble I got in...let's just say I was encouraged to keep my nose clean. Don't hold it against me if I'm, you know, reserved.

"Brah, I don't care, it's just...I'd think shore patrol is the last place you'd want to go. Or could go. Who'd you blow to get this rate?"

"They let you wear the badge, right?"

"Shoot, you're lookin' at a born lawman," Brooksy boasted through a smile. "My grandpappy and my pappy were both detectives in the Memphis P.D., and ole Brooksy Brooks is a chip off the Brooks block. I'm made for this life. But I also got me a twist of the mischievous gene. My last roomie? The nimrod spent his nights staring at the UCMJ and whistling 'Anchors Aweigh'. Least I know we're on the level."

Friendships were fashioned from humbler beginnings. Some take shape during childhood, emboldened through the ennui of adolescence, sharpened on the angst of teenage misery. Others happen in the same way a cancer mutates. Think Leopold and Loeb; Bonnie and Clyde; James and Younger. Reilly and Brooks were another in a long line of these synergetic relationships. Once meshed, they bonded in the extravagance of ideas, each feeding off the other. It only took a little impetus, a snowball rolling down hill, to create the avalanche...

***

Six months after he arrived in Norfolk, Jim had his jaw dislocated by a nasty Marine Lance Corporal named Javier Fuentes. Brooksy got a call from the base C.O. what informed his roomie was in the infirmary, loopy on pain killers, and in need of transportation to housing. Brooks collected him and learned Jim was going to be out of commission for the next eight weeks while his jaw healed, and perhaps longer if surgery was required.

"I'm supposed to be on a liquid diet," Jim gnashed as he crawled into his rack.

"Chillax, brah. Let ole Brooksy do the shopping. Whatcha need?"

"SoCo, applesauce and straws. The thick ones."

"I hear ya. The bare essentials."

As he stared at the ceiling, Jim moaned, "What the fuck am I gonna do for eight weeks? Lie here and count water stains?"

Brooksy picked up a bottle of painkillers and said, "Man, yer set. You got the happy pills, the booby tube, and I'll rustle some silly juice."

Somehow this didn't mollify Jim Reilly, but Brooksy would've given his right nut for such a sweet arrangement.

Struggling to a sitting position, Jim pointed to the stack of notebooks on the desk in corner of the room and said, "Tell you what, Brian. You want some help with your books?"

"Eh...what you talkin' 'bout Willis?" drawled Brooksy.

"You ain't keepin' it a secret."

"Keepin' what a secret?"

Jim plied him a baleful look and said, "My old man was a degenerate gambler. I know how this shit works. What's the game...or games...whatever the case."

Brooksy scratched his chin, glanced at the books, and then said, "Tell you what, ole boy. I'll think about it while I'm getting yer provisions."

When Brooksy returned a half-hour later, he grabbed a notebook and tossed it on Jimmy's stomach. "All right, brah. I've contemplated the pros and cons. Couple o' things we need to get straight before we bop."

"Baby steps," Jimmy said with a nod.

" _Teeny-weeny_ steps. First of all, I'm low key," Brooksy said, before dropping the meandering inflection and rattling, "Everything's based on the spread or the over/under. No side, special or custom bets. Top 25 for college games. I can't keep up with the unranked teams. Baseball is straight up, but we'll talk about it come spring. I use Sheridan's Line from the _USA Today_ , no exceptions. Some of these twats come in with their own shit. I swear they custom make 'em. No way. Homie don't play dat. Make sure you bond the line on the page with the wagers. It leaves no room for argument."

Paging thorough the notebook, Jim stared at the compressed, neat handwriting and grunted.

"Nothing greater than a couple hundred unless I okay it," continued Brooksy. "I can float loans for a percentage but I have to okay them too. And I don't deal with nothing but cash."

Jim added a couple columns, rubbed his aching jaw, and then said, "Damn, fella, you're doing pretty good for a one man show."

Brooksy poured the Comfort into a Dixie cup and floated a straw into it. "Yeh, I make out okaaaay," he drawled. "In fact, I'll throw you a commission for yer trouble. Say...I dunno...ten percent?"

Jim slipped the straw between his teeth and muttered, "10-4. Whatever you think is fair. Now, if you don't mind, I'm gonna slurp this down and float away."

The next afternoon, Brooksy charged into the room, tossed a Ziploc baggy on Jim's rack and crossed arms. Hisself, reclining with a notebook resting on his belly, picked up the bag between his thumb and forefinger and furrowed his brow.

"Whadda ya think?" Brooksy asked.

"Do I want to know?"

"Courtesy of the shore patrol. A donation for the tooth fairy from yer friend, Lance Corporal Javier Fuentes."

"You look like a bird dog bringing me a treat," Jim said, as he tossed the teeth into the trash.

"Brah, I thought you'd appreciate the effort. Maybe cheer you up. I know it ain't yer Master Chief's chompers, but it's the next best thing."

"The thought, right?"

"Damn straight. We would've got 'em all but the Senior made us stop after six."

"I guess six will have to suffice."

Brooksy lifted the bottle of SoCo and asked, "Do you mind? I'd like to wet my whistle."

"Help yourself. So...I've been lookin' through the books and I gotta ask: what are you trying to accomplish here?"

"I do this as a hobby," Brooksy answered, pouring a man-sized drink. "Ya know, break up the boredom and whatnot."

"But you're making a healthy nugget. Or it appears you are."

"There'd be no point doing the dew if I wasn't."

"Fair enough, but what's the end game?"

"End game? Shit, it's the same as everybody else. Money, brah."

"How much you pullin' in a week?"

Brooksy stomached a sip and then said, "Well, I don't make jack shit straight-up. Most of the time I break even. The profit comes from knuckleheads who can't help themselves. They scurry to me, low on cash, want to lay down something on a sure thing...who am I to argue?"

"I know _how_ it works but...there's more than a hundred dollars laid down on a quarter of these games. The bushwhacked...who are they?"

"Sailors. Grunts. Contractors. There ain't a shortage of people lookin' to throw money around."

"Officers?"

"Fuck and no. I ain't messing with brass."

"All right, Seaman Jones lays five grand and loses, okay? Then, say, five the next night. Same result. Now you're into him for ten. Few days later, he's slapping another seven. I know sailors don't carry this kind of cash."

"Like I said, I float 'em a little something-something."

"Where are you getting seventeen thou to front a loser?"

"I got me a sponsor."

"Who?"

"Some blackie, but it don't matter, brah. You ain't gonna deal with him."

"How'd you convince him to throw in?"

"You know the Substance Abuse Rehab Center on Farragut? SARP's a gold mine. Most of those ding-dongs come in scorching hot, and I'm not talking smashed to the gills. Like...they're still holding when they walk through the door, hot. Pills, grass, coke, hash, acid...you name it, I've seen it. When them knuckleheads get popped, the Center calls shore patrol and we confiscate the contraband. The junk goes straight into a box and gets handed to N.P.D...except sometimes doesn't. You catch my drift?"

"You're lifting drugs?"

"On occasion."

"Nobody notices anything missing?"

" _Pfft._ Fuck and no. Them SARP clerks ain't above the board, if you know what I mean. Sometimes paperwork gets lost and so forth. You know how bureaucracies works."

" _Whoo_ ," Jim whistled.

"Yeah, it's a good thing. I'm pullin' around three bills a month but..." trailing off, Brooksy scratched his head and then confided (because he couldn't help himself), "Look, man, we got something working."

"You ain't kidding!"

"No, I'm sayin' me and my friend have a bigger fish in the pot."

Jim tossed the notebook aside and said, "I want a stake."

"Ifin there's a stake, you mean."

"Don't tell me there isn't, Brian."

Faint laughter from next door seeped through the concrete wall. Brooksy walked to within whispering distance of Jim and said, "Brah, I'm not sure you-"

"Try me."

"Thing is, chief...it ain't gonna be cheap and I won't be yer bank. I don't make loans to pals."

"How much we talking?"

Brooksy glanced at the wall and then said, "I'm puttin' some big eggs in a basket. Tubby...er...my pal...see, brah, like...no offense, but you ain't got the kind of coin to claim a stake."

"Try me."

"Mmm...let's say...ten grand."

Jim whistled.

"Yup, see what I mean?" Brooksy asked. "Not cheap."

"I might have ten sitting in the NFCU."

"Uh-huh."

"I've lived in base housing for years, so let's pretend I do. How much risk we talkin'?"

"It's a sure thing," Brooksy prattled in a confident tone. "Sure as the sunrise. And the payout will be huge. I'm expecting to ten times my investment."

"The fuck?"

"Yup, you heard me."

"What the hell are you buying? A racehorse?"

"Better. I'm buying a pirate."

"A pirate?"

"A Hampton Pirate."

"I don't understand."

Brooksy drained the remainder of his booze and then said, "Kay, here's the sich: none of this can leave our room. I ain't joking when I say my man with the plan doesn't fool around."

"Mum's the word."

"A'ight... _ahem_...the way it started is whatcha call serendipity. Thirteen months ago, I got handed orders to this dump. Brah, Brooksy not likey. My last billet? Sumay. Guam. Had me a kosher situation there...ran the racket with a couple others in the SP...eh...you know, lots of betweeners on Guam. Inbound to Japan or the Phillipeans, outbound to Hawaii or Australia, waitin' on a ship or plane...gulls lookin' for action. We'd set up a card game at a joint in Piti owned by a retired Senior and kill it. Yup, shit was tight...and then the fuckin' BUPERS gods had to play wet blanket. Or maybe I pissed somebody off or something but fine, whatever...I mean, I did thirty-two weeks on Wake fucking Island babysitting Chinamen gettin' kicked back to the Motherland and there ain't _nothin'_ on Wake, brah. I thought: They wanna ship _moi_ to Norfolk? _Pfft._ My time remaining was a hair under thirty months. Brooksy may not likey, but Brooksy can grin and bear it.

"A couple weeks after I get here -and I'm bored as _shiiit_ , dude- I bump into my bunkmate from Great Mistakes at the PX. We shoot the breeze...he's a machinist mate...blah blah blah...oh, I forgot one thing: my ex-bunky enjoys throwing cards. Roderick and I used to clean the barracks at spades. I figured Rod had to know a thing or two about a game or two somewhere on base, and he did, so I told him: _Nothing steep, but worth the while, see_? He said: _Yeah, but the fellas I know make it worth your while and then some_. Well, I decided I'm not gonna be picky but, at the time, my wallet resembled Missus King Kong's kootchar."

"The fuck you say?" Jim snorted.

"Floppy, brah. I blew a big wad before leaving Sumay...bad luck, man...a different story for a different time. Now... _ahem_...fast forward a few days and I'm sittin' in some hotel room with a bunch of the biggest, blackest motherfuckers I've ever seen. And these brothers are serious card sharks. They wanna play with a striped deck...kill games...shit was, like my man Rod said, _worth your while and then some._ I walked in with five grand, bought in with two, and held my own. At the end of the night, I found myself up nine bills."

"Not bad."

"Fuckin' A right not bad. Now, the dude running the game...um...I might as well tell you his name: Tubby Wick. He owns a couple used car dealerships around the area, but his forte is the numbers racket. So, Tubby corners me afterwards, we get to talkin' and he says something about setting a book on base. Am I interested? I tell him, yeah, brah, why not? We hash the particulars and a couple weeks later, the shebang is shebanging. Yours truly runs the racket, Tubby provides capital and, if it should come to the nitty gritty, muscle. Boo-yah."

"Just like that?"

"Affirm.

"Hmm..." Jim mused, rapping fingers on the notebook cover. "You still haven't explained the Hampton Pirate. Or the ten grand."

"I'm gettin' to it. First off, it's Tubby's bright idea. He has ties to the local basketball scene and he's a big-time donor of Hampton University. Hampton's a blackie U, which means they're good at basketball, kay? Last year, they landed a local high school phenom, a five-star recruit named Timmy Trask. Duke, North Carolina, Kansas...they all wanted a piece of the kid. Tubby managed to sway Trask, but it cost money. Ten grand out of my wallet, and if you want a piece...ten grand for you, I imagine. I gotta speak to Tubby, though. The door might be closed."

"Ten grand for _what_?"

Brooksy leaned forward, jabbed Jimmy in the chest and said, "To own a piece of Timmy, Einstein."

"Get the fuck outta here," Jim laughed.

"Man, it's perfect. They don't call it gamblin' cuz the outcome is assured. Don't get me wrong, I dig the excitement, but Brooksy likey to make money, too. What's a guaranteed way to catch the riven? Control a teeny portion of what's assumed to be an unpredictable activity...like...for instance...a starting point guard who may not make a shot at an opportune time."

Jim shook his head and squawked, "Are you pulling my leg?"

"Shhh, keep yer voice down. I ain't pullin' nothin'. This is the real deal."

"You're playing with fire, man," whispered Jim.

"And ain't it fun?" Brooksy gushed.

"It won't be fun if you're caught."

"Brah, we ain't gettin' caught."

"Said all the others rotting in prison."

"Them others are retards. Brooksy's done his homework. Lookit: BC, Tulane, ASU...they had too many chiefs _trying_ to run the show. And, at the risk of sounding like a hypocrite, them kids were too corruptible. The blackie at ASU? Stevin Smith? He was into bookies for six figures. If you're gonna fix games, why would you put your claws in a boy with bad judgement? It's a given he'll flip ifin the heat starts pressin', and it will when you post huge amounts on a shit ass ASU basketball team week-after-week. Over the spread, under the spread, over/under points...ASU _always_ covered. It didn't take much detective work to dissect those gambling patterns."

"You've mastered the art?"

"Tubby and I ain't a couple of retards. Timmy Trask has zero debt and no skeletons. Besides, we're not flooding Vegas. Odd games here and there, most of it under the table or offshore, and we'll parlay with dogs. Nobody will be none the wiser. Trask's made it clear he won't throw a game - which I respect, by the way- but he'll work around the spread for a taste."

"You're talking some crazy shit," Jim mumbled, but the little devil on his shoulder begged to differ.

"If by crazy you mean making a mint then...yeh, I'm crazy. And chew on this: if Trask goes pro...eh? See what I'm gettin' at? O'course, the odds are against it, but there's a little brother comin' up the pipe. According to Tubby, Dontrelle Trask is a legit baller. Shit, the Trasks are gonna be an oil well shittin' sacks of gold for years to come."

Jim thought of his father: John Reilly -a perpetual loser always searching for the Golden Goose- wouldn't have wasted a second before emptying his wallet. Emulating Dad wasn't a keen idea for a number of reasons, but Jim subscribed to one notion the old man trumpeted on many a drunken evening: _'Money beats soul, kid. Money always beats soul.'_ Moreover, Brooksy's confidence gave Jimmy the little nudge what spurred him into action:

"Ten grand, you said?"

Brooksy plastered a smile on his mug and nodded.

"Fuck it," Jim said. "I want in."

"Whoa, hold on, chief. As I stated, I need to speak to Tubby."

"Then get him on the phone post hasty..."

***

The Hampton scheme paid off in spades; years later it would be child's play.

Meantime, Jimmy followed his pal to Memphis. Brooksy grew up in the Bluff City and sold Jim on the idea of joining the police department after their enlistments were complete. With both Brooksy's ties -and assurances the corruptible elements were still and always would be status quo- it made sense to run the Bojangles racket there. The Bojas needed more than pledges, but they came around. Money always sways minds, and money soon piled damn near as high as the Tower of Babylon...which became a problem of its own.

Not long after making their first collective forty thousand, Jim and Brooksy concluded they needed someone to handle the bread because they sure as shit lacked fiduciary acumen (at least not without raising the eyebrows of a nosy government bean counter). They weren't playing with _a little_ gambling money anymore. _A little_ gambling money filled a couple shoeboxes in the closet; _a little_ gambling money provided a buffer from drawing against the bank account; _a little_ gambling money purchased property in Horn Lake, Southaven and Cordova because those selling property in Horn Lake, Southaven and Cordova didn't ask questions if someone paid cash. The actual factual? _A little_ gambling money was easy to conceal and spend.

_A lot_ of drug money, on the other hand, wasn't easy to conceal. _A lot_ of drug money filled _a lot_ of shoeboxes. Brooksy and Jimmy discussed buying more property, or investing in a couple restaurants, or a million other things, but to what end? Legitimate income garnered from subletting to commuting pilots only went so far. At some point, somebody would take a deep look-see at tax returns and whatnot. The government loved nitpicking finances...and if the Feds be nitpicking, it meant the Feds _would_ discover _something-something_. The Uncle doesn't toss a rack for s's and g's, dig? Point being, this nitpicked _something-something_ -whatever it be- always sunk "responsible" men with moderate paying jobs.

So, Jim contacted Frank Boja; Frankie introduced Jim to a savvy investment banker from the Big Apple named Oswald Orestes. Over the telephone, Orestes laid the groundwork of a devious but legal scheme to keep extracurricular activity safe from the prying eyes of Uncle Sammy.

The illegal dosh was smurfed, piecemeal, with legitimate tributary income Brooksy masterminded -duplexes and houses in Southaven, Cordova and Horn Lake rented to commuting pilots from FedEx, Pinnacle, Mesaba and Northwest- and then integrated into a portfolio rich in foreign stocks with an overall level of equity denoting high risk. By 2005, Jim and Brooksy's investments included: two Canadian pharmaceutical companies; the Cypriot broadcasting firm PrimeTel PLC; a Subway franchise on Grafton Street in Dublin, Ireland; U.S. energy corporation Noble Energy; an autonegotiation giant -holding a patent on IEEE 802.3 clause 28- named National Semiconductor; long and immediate duration bonds; municipal sector bonds...and some other shit Jim didn't bother to understand.

The TSX and New York Stock Exchange weren't the only play in the laundering racket. Orestes tried to walk Jim through the complexities of the scheme, but the swarthy banker might as well have been speaking Greek...or, in this case, the Attic-Ionic version of said lexicon.

The complicated version: Northern Cyprus and the Republic of Cyprus, divided between Turkish and Greek nationalities, settled a long-standing border disagreement and was accepted in the European Union (after much wrangling by then Secretary General Kofi Annan) on 1 May 2004. In an attempt to stimulate growth, the government of the unified nation allowed foreign investors unfettered access to Cyprus' second largest financial institution known as the Laiki Bank. This agreement extended investor insurance to any deposit over 100,000 Euros and also proved a tax haven for speculators...and multinational criminal organizations.

Furthermore, exploratory drilling in the Aphrodite block of Cyprus' economic zone revealed natural gas and oil resources. Noble Energy secured a lucrative profit-sharing contract to collect and refine hydrocarbons, which meant Noble Gas stock shot through the roof.

The dumbed down version: Jim Reilly and Brian Brooks lorded over a shaving of emergent property in the Nicosia District, a two percent stake in Cypriot natural resource production and mucho cash in the Laiki Bank.

After Orestes spun Jim's noodle a thousand ways to Sunday, the banker concluded: "You'll have access to your money through the Laiki, but you can only draw a maximum of 9,999 US dollars per month without having to divulge your Social Security number and completing paperwork through the IRS."

Jim found the agreement pat and touched little of his riven (in large part out of an abundance of caution), however Brooksy drew against his assets on a monthly basis. By mid-2004, the fool had started down a road Jim avoided like it had potholes: _Big Time_ gambling. The extent of Brooksy's spiral wouldn't be known to Jim until later, but he recognized his partner enjoyed spending money. Worse, Brooksy didn't conceal the proclivity. Detective pay -mid six figures- wouldn't explain flashy cars, courtside season tickets to the Grizzlies and Tigers, and sundry trinkets if a bookish ahole from the Internal Revenue Service knocked at his door.

Thus, the ever-present, unsettling feeling crept into his bones the day after the _Massacre In Memphis._ After Laura delivered her sermon and stormed out of the bathroom, Jim sat in the living room and killed a twelver of Coors. At first, the beer soothed; both the insanity of the shootout and the satisfaction of wiping a couple scumbags off the Earth reminded him of blasting lines up the nose and banging Courtney in the back of his cruiser. However, as the dead soldier lined up on the coffee table, Jim considered the _actual factuals._ The _balancing a board on a pin_ analogy resonated, as did the realization he rubbed elbows with cop killing trash like Bean and his old man. Indirect association was still association, and something akin to guilt stuck a knife in his heart.

Plus, there'd been an unforeseen consequence: Jim Reilly became, much to his embarrassment, a famous man. The press started pestering around seven in the morning; first a couple calls (he declined any interviews and referred the media to the Memphis P.D. PR department) and then a shitload, so many Jim took the phone off the hook. He laid the handset aside at nine fifteen; by ten fifteen, he be belly up at the bar.

As it should've been before noon on a Tuesday morning, BarTop's was deserted. Outside, a half-empty trolley clanged past. The Lorraine Motel -Mulberry Street's famous attraction- was a morbid curiosity, but few lingered in the neighborhood, now dubbed the grandiose "South End Art District". At least the stupid name explained the buildings covered in graffiti. But of the rest of it...the downtown revitalization plan proposed by the crook Mayor Herenton amounted to a cash grab. Nothing had been accomplished except the exchange of tax dollars from one greedy bureaucrat to another. The C.R.U.S.H. bullshit? A big show displaying primed cops pretending to care about making the city safer. All John and Jane Law cared about were buckets of overtime pay. Thanks to the "hard working members of law enforcement", the big brains touted statistical data and gestured at the trend of decreasing crime.

_What a crock,_ Jim thought. He wasn't Einstein, but he knew the statisticians manipulated the numbers as the definition of "violent crime" was redefined by the mayor's office. Jim didn't used to feel remorseful about his side business. Everybody stuffed their wallets and nobody did it on the up and up. Not the politicians, not the police, and not the public.

A big money grab.

But still...

Three gin martinis had already found the bottom of his stomach and he tossed a hundred on the bar as the bartender supplied the fourth.

Toby eyed the bill and then said, "I can't make change right now, Jimmy."

"Don't worry about it," Jim replied with indifference.

"So, like, you want something to eat? Get some food into the stomach?"

Before Jim could respond with another apathetic comment, the front door opened and in strolled Brooksy with a newspaper tucked under his right arm. Brooksy's gut had increased three-fold in two years. Compensation for the spare tire came in the form of untucked shirts and baggy slacks; concealing the plumb melon necessitated the services of a bushy mustache and beard.

"Heya, Detective," Toby greeted.

Brooksy lumbered onto a stool, slapped the paper down and asked, "Whatcha drinking, Dirty Harry?"

"Martini in a tumbler," Jim mumbled.

"Ah, the ole reliable. Guess I'll wet my whistle, Toby."

"You got some work to do," Jim said. "I'm halfway to number five."

"Jesus...better slow the roll. It ain't even eleven."

"I've nothing better to do."

"Brah, I'm on the clock today," Brooksy said, as he glanced at the menu. "I don't know why I look at this ole thing when I come here. They only grub worth a damn is the pork sandwich, but it gives me wicked gas."

Jim gave Brooksy the side eye and asked, "What do you weigh, man?"

Brooksy rubbed his gut and reported, "Two fiddy. Two siddy. Twenty stones. Who cares? You'll be joining me soon on the fat farm, Jimmy. Detective pay is Porterhouse steak territory."

"I'm well past Porterhouse steak territory."

"You know what I mean."

Toby returned with the drink and asked, "You want something to eat?"

"The Porker," Brooksy said. "Make it spicy. And extra slaw."

When the bartender ambled out of earshot, Brooksy unfolded the paper and pointed at the front page. "You're a regular Clint Eastwood," he chuckled. "You tell the punk to make your day?"

The image -Jimmy and Bean sharing their private moment- greeted Jim as he retrieved _The Commercial Appeal_ from his stoop. He took scissors to paper, cut the picture out, and folded it in half. Now it had a comfortable home in a box of cigars hidden in his sock drawer.

"Helluva sight," Brooksy mused. "Bean say anything before he kicked off?"

" _Fuck you_."

"A fitting epitaph. Hmm...what were those two numbnuts thinking?"

"They're shitheads. They don't think. We, on the other hand, should be thinking. Those two had warrants and weapons. If you had passed them the Jangles and they got nipped...you get my drift?"

"I hear ya, I hear ya, but this be a whatchacallit...a one in a million, unfortunate incident."

"They killed two deputies, man. If Bean had been taken alive, who knows what he would've said."

"Yeh...yeh, brah, it's a cluster f. I talked to Frankie this morning. You gotta dump yer phone."

"Gee, you think?"

" _Ahem._ Second, the packages are on hold for the time being."

"What else did he say?"

"Use your imagination."

"Why were you dealing with those fuckheads? Your job is to keep things under the radar."

"Lookit, shit happens. It ain't like we haven't had problems before."

"Previous problems never turned into a media spectacle."

"Brah, you can blame me if it makes you feel better, but this is the first time we've had a hitch in the giddy up."

"A _big_ hitch. Those bangers in Frayser and Berclair lay off the heat."

"Those bangers don't move product in bumfuck Arkansas."

Jim grunted, mashed the olive in the bottom of the cup with the tiny plastic sword and then said, "I'm gonna be out of commission for a bit."

"I know how it works."

"Mmm...maybe it's the martinis, but I'm thinking it'd be a good time to step back."

"Jimmy...c'mon, brah, let's not get hasty."

"Between this," Jim said, motioning at the paper, "and...other things...you know what I mean?"

"Your old lady?" Brooksy teased.

"And my kids."

"Aw, don't be a wet noodle."

"Bro, I killed two people yesterday. I'm gonna have to lie my ass off when I talk to The Man."

"So? You ain't the first."

"Aren't you phased in the least?"

"By what?"

"By the notion we can only get lucky so many times."

"Ain't luck."

"Fuck it ain't! If I'm not rolling down Millbranch yesterday, guess who isn't popping a cap in Bean?"

"Then...what are you sayin'? You wanna retire?"

"I'm saying, luck is finite. Even Raul Boja knows nothing lasts forever."

"You gonna call him and tell him that?"

"Maybe I will."

"Maaaaannnn, yer talkin' a whole lotta stupid and yer givin' me a migrane. Shut up and drink yer martini."

"We gotta figure out what we're doing here," Jim griped to his empty glass.

" _Argh_...lookit, how but you forget Boja and think on this: Dontrelle Trask is a Tiger come September. Don't tell me yer walkin' from the action."

"The fuck do I want with D.T.? I have a nice pot sitting in a foreign bank. It ain't goin' anywhere."

"You can always make more."

"I don't need more."

"Whatcha like...turn into Karl Marx overnight?"

"Listen to me, numbnuts: if something else comes along, something stupid we, _or I_ , can't nip-"

"Like the thing with your whore...that kinda stupid? The kinda stupid _I_ had to..." Brooksy trailed off in mid-sentence as Toby shoved the basket of grub in front of him.

"You want another, Jimmy?" the bartender asked.

Our hero waved a hand in a gesture which meant "yes" or "no"; Toby took it as an affirmative and left to freshen the cocktail.

Brooksy shoved a forkful of slaw down his hole and then continued, "The kinda stupid _I_ had to handle?"

"Can you shaddup?" Jim snapped. "I don't wanna talk 'bout her _or_ Dontrelle."

Exasperated, Brooksy dropped his fork and said, "Yer makin' no sense to Brooksy. We're gonna clean house with Dontrelle and win _Big_."

"The fuck...what did I _just_ say?"

"Brah, doncha wanna win _Big_?"

"You can't expect lightening to strike twice, shithead."

"I can and it will. _Trust me_. D.T.'s gonna be a four-year starter. Pure shooter, great ball skills, unselfish and humble...what more do you want in a baller? Calipari loves the young brothers with the kind of..."

While Brooksy sang the praises of Dontrelle Trask, Jimmy stared at his reflection in the glass behind the bar.

_Problem solved?_ No way, Jose. Now there were bodies plastered on the front page of _The Commercial Appeal_ and reporters clamoring for an interview...

Toby slid the latest, greatest martini across the bar.

...and, to top it off, he was hunkered down in BarTop's getting hammered before noon.

In short, a heap of _S_ _tupid_...
Regina, 18 December 2007

...holiday bullshit congested Main Street:

Traffic meandered and bunched at stoplights and crosswalks; pedestrians sauntered the sidewalk, window shopped, sat in gazebos or on benches; green and red bunting hung from light posts; wreaths decorated the doors of every store; outside the VFW, a handful of haggard men in wrinkled coats puffed on cigarettes and shot the shit; leaves, remnants from falls culling, blew across the street or drifted in the air.

A hot dog vendor pushed his corroded cart north, up Main Street's moderate incline, and waved at vehicles. Jim knew the fool as Crazy Ed, the Hotdog Guy. A couple times a week -rain, snow or shine- Jim grabbed a Zweigel's and soda from Crazy Ed. Crazy Ed's hot dogs weren't good and the soda be warm, but Jim didn't stop for the grub. Dig: Crazy Ed spun crazy stories, and he delivered said stories in a spittle induced fervor. Some were absurd reflections: contrails poisoning the air; 9/11 theories (depending on Ed's mood, either the Jews or the CIA committed the terrible act); the 2000 election ('The first election stolen from The people!' -which it wasn't, but Jim didn't know enough about history to argue); the Titanic ('Sunk by a Kraut U-boat!')...all these subjects and more. You get the picture. The boy be nuts!

With clinical indifference, Jim diagnosed (correctly) Crazy Ed dun destroyed more than a few braincells over the years. And Jim was certain Crazy Ed realized his brain had turned out the light, thus rendering Crazy Ed's existence all but pointless. Ed, however, continued to fight the battle to reclaim his humanity by peddling shitty hot dogs around town. One day, Crazy Ed would wise up and realize life was a lost cause. Then Ed would do what so many have done (and will do) when bestowed with this moment of clarity: he'd eat a lead lunch or turn up the gas or throw a noose around a beam...and then Eddie would cease being crazy and become plain ole Dead Ed.

Jim was also convinced money could be wagered Crazy Ed would take a few people with him when the time came to cash in the chips. Them crazy cats often desired to make their life worth something in death...and Ed be one crazy cat.

Minuscule shops lined Main Street, homegrown businesses selling everything from art to alcohol. Buy local, be the rallying cry. Support small business in your town! People helped each: when someone got zapped with cancer or dementia, the community held potluck dinners and raffles. Jim acknowledged the flavor of Canesoanke tasted authentic...

Straight ahead, the lake -serene under a cloudless sky- appeared as an azure mirage.

"Window dressing," Jim whispered, as he spun the Vic left onto Trench Street.

He knew the folksy atmosphere was a façade and, like all farces, it required a degree of deception to shroud the ugliness. Some of these ambiguities, like scars etched on skin, were concealed beneath illusory raiment. Other wounds were worn like a badge by the proud holder. Either way, no transgression -big or small- remained hidden forever.

Not long after arriving ( _For good,_ Jim's brain reminded), Laura took him on a tour of her old stomping grounds:

"This is Betty Dunn's old house. We had a party there my senior year and Jeremy Rourke blew up a microwave. Last I heard, Jeremy's on his second marriage. His first wife, Rhonda Schmidt...Jim, she's a hot mess..."

Yes friends, everyone in Canesoanke had (has) secrets. The men were (are) morons what got drunk and fucked around; got drunk and totaled cars; got drunk and then got maimed by the biweekly CSX; got drunk and shot a friend hunting. Every male in Canesoanke starred in one (or sometimes more) of these four hilarious episodes. The females, on the other hand, were (are) either whores or Born-Again whores. There wasn't (isn't) much of a middle ground when it came to women. He knew where Laura fell into this rudimentary classification and it wasn't with the BA crowd...which was fine and dandy with Jim.

He cruised Trench and passed the Cumberlands roomy, peeling two-story: a beat to shit blue Impala slept in the driveway; the yard, a mess of brown leaves and branches; a gray, marble seraph- chipped and spotted with moss- sat in the midst of an untidy mound and stared down the street; on the concrete stoop, speckled in leaden bird poop, a white statue of the Virgin Mary prayed for the sinners of Canesoanke.

After passing two houses, Jim parked the cruiser against the curb and then adjusted his rearview. He'd been stalking the Cumberland manor for five days, and for five days he hadn't seen hide nor hair of her. At some point, the twat would show herself. Until then, he'd keep a patient watch.

Jim patted his left breast pocket and inhaled. Though the thought entered his head, he wouldn't do anything rash and fill her with lead. No, he'd scare the bejesus out of Regina Cumberland, make her wet her panties a little, show her humility...

***

The other night during dinner, he asked Laura about Regina and received an earful. The long and short? Laura wasn't a big fan:

"Do you know she sends letters to people?"

Jim fabricated a look of surprise and gasped, "Huh? What kind of letters?"

"Hate mail and other crap. My friend Tammy got one a few years ago after she badmouthed the fat turd. Tammy isn't the only one, either."

"What makes you think she's sending them?"

"If you grew up with her, you'd know. I'm telling you, Regina is a bitch."

"Sounds like it."

"Yeah, and she's also a hypocrite. Uh-huh, she acts like a pillar of the community. PTA, booster club, Rotary Club, Reading Club, good Catholic. Meanwhile, this harbinger of morality is fucking around on her husband."

"No way!"

"If the rumors are true, she and Tom Carter are more than friends."

"Tom Carter," mused Jim. "I remember hearing his name..."

"He's married to Jimmy's teacher."

"Oh, yeah," he said, snapping fingers. "Tom Carter. Tom the pig."

"Why are you asking about Regina? Did she do something?"

"Naw, I heard chatter at the station."

Fishing for a rumor, Laura leaned across the table and asked, "What'd she do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," he said, sliding his chair backwards.

"Jim, I won't say a word. Promise."

"Riiiggght."

"Come on."

"Like I said, it's nothing. Couple of guys were yakking around the coffee pot about her. Stirred my curiosity. Nothing more."

***

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

Gail contacted him several times since their first interaction at school: she phoned and left a short message thanking him; he returned the call and explained it was the least he could do.

They met at Beanies one evening during his 10-63, which be police jargon for meal break or casual flirting over coffee break. And damned if Gail didn't look like a doll: creamy skin dotted with freckles; perky blue eyes; cherry red lipstick, blond hair curled at the ends; green turtleneck and mid-thigh skirt.

She talked about Tom, how he drank too much and sometimes became violent; she said Regina kept sending them nasty notes; she fretted and twisted hands and wrinkled her nose. _Whatever am I to do, Officer Reilly?_

It occurred to him Gail might be using him as a tool of vengeance. So be it, he concluded. Besides, Regina deserved a spanking. Tom Carter deserved one too, but seeing as Butchy and Tom were best buds or something, Jim wasn't pushing his luck.

He filled his mouth with chew and hung his left arm out the window. A whistling mail carrier, a jogger, a woman in stretch pants walking a yappy dog...they passed the Crown Vic as Jim stared into the rearview.

At last, he was rewarded for due diligence. Regina Cumberland hobbled out of her house, moving like a maggot, a hefty woman toting a giant purse. Why in the everloving hell Tom Carter stuck his pecker in her...well, it boggled Jim's simple mind.

Regina squeezed her ass into the Impala, cranked the car to life, and then backed out of the driveway. Jim spat, swung a U-turn, and watched Regina hang a right onto Main without using her turn signal.

"Whoopsie," he whispered.

A half-minute later, he slid the Vic behind the Impala. Inches from a bumper decorated with three peeling stickers _(If You Can Read This, Back Off!; I'm Not Herb; Jesus Saves!)_ , Jim flipped on the works and radioed: _"Dispatch, Unit 3, I'll be 10-8 on Main, a half block south of Reed Road."_

" _Roger, Unit 3."_

Regina frowned in the rearview, shook her head, but pulled to the right and stopped in the bike lane.

He took his time gathering the citation book; he took longer filling in the blank lines with chicken scratch. Meanwhile, Regina squirmed; she checked her watch, peeked in the sidemirror, drummed fingers on the steering wheel.

Five minutes passed before he flung open the Vic's door and strolled to the Impala's driver's side window. Before he could say boo, Regina barged, "What did I do?"

Jim presented the hairy eyeball and said, "Ma'am, you failed to signal a right turn onto Main Street."

"I what?"

"You failed to use your turn signal. And you also didn't come to a complete stop on Trench, but I won't be nitpickish. Those fines are pricy and I'm willing to cut you a break."

"How 'bout a warning for the turn signal? I won't do it again."

"Um..." Jim droned, "...gee...well...I don't think so. I need to see you license and registration."

She glared daggers at him and muttered, "Are you serious?"

"Ma'am-"

Fat arms jiggling, Regina plowed through her purse and said, "I'm in a hurry."

"Being in a hurry is no excuse for driving like a lunatic."

"A lunatic?"

"Yep, a lunatic. Fact, you're a well-rounded lunatic, ain't ya, Regina?"

Her hands stopped digging and she twisted her head until their eyes met.

"Bad driver, adulterer, bully," Jim ticked with his fingers. "See? Well-rounded."

"What-"

"You can stop digging, Dumbo. I've changed my mind. I'll let you off with a warning."

"Excuseeee meeeee?" she snapped with sass.

"I called you Dumbo, Dumbo."

"How dare you speak to me-"

"Shh..."

"I will not shush!" Regina snarled. "Do you know who my husband is?"

"Nope."

"He's the-"

"I don't care if he walked on the moon, Dumbo."

"I want your name! Your name and badge number!"

"Jim Reilly, badge number 14405," he said, removing the newspaper clipping from his pocket. "Now, before you get all worked up, you should have a look-see at this picture."

Dumbo's squinty eyes drifted to the photo, got squintier...

Jim cleared his throat and then explained, "Taken a few years ago when I worked the mean streets of Memphis. Good timing for all involved except for the kid on the ground...but he was a piece of shit. The guy who took this picture won an award and I received a decoration from the Mayor of Memphis, the not-so-honorable Willie Wilbert Herenton. They call it the Medal of Merit in Memphis. I was also named the Airways Station Officer of the Year.

"I'm gonna tell you a story, Dumbo. You're gonna want to listen. This kid here? His name was Bobby Charles, but I knew him as Bean. Bean killed two sheriff deputies during a traffic stop. This makes Bean a bad guy. His daddy, Billy, was also a bad guy. These two bad guys decided to do bad things, which meant I had to do bad things to them. You follow?"

Dumbo gasped, or maybe she wheezed. Maybe both. Who knew?

"You can't see Billy in this picture," Jim continued, "but trust me, Billy is tits up. Anyway...there's Bean after I dumped a couple in him. He might've been trying to surrender but...I couldn't ascertain if he had a weapon or not. Out of an abundance of caution, I administered lethal force. The best thing about this picture? Dig it: there I am standing over Bean and...you see Bean's eyes? They're open, right?"

"They're open," she mumbled.

"Uh-huh. The actual factual? Bean just got done telling me he'd been paralyzed. Since he died a few seconds later, the inability to use his extremities became a minor inconvenience. All right, enough history. Here's the question of the hour: why do you think I'm showing you my glamour shot?"

Dumbo stammered nonsense from her piehole before Jim waved her quiet and said, "I'm being a straight shooter, mm-kay? You better stop sending nastygrams to Gail Carter or you and I will have a problem in the future. Comprende?"

She nodded her head.

"Peachy. There's your warning. Can we consider this matter handled?"

"Yes," she croaked.

"Good," Jim said, rapping the top of her car with his knuckles. "Drive safe, and don't forget to use your turn signals, okay?"

"Yes," Dumbo repeated without inflection.

Whistling "Daisy", he strutted to the...
Dr. Fox

...shrink's office, which presented as an ode to minimalism: two wooden chairs without cushions, a couch and an end table topped with a potted fern, its fronds blackening at the edges. Jim had never been to a psychiatrist, but he imagined watercolors hanging from the wall, dainty classical music wafting from speakers, a video of Bob Ross painting landscapes on the television...anything but what there be...which be nothing.

Not even a window, man.

Thumbs twiddling, he slumped on the couch as the black man what introduced hisself as _Doctor Thaddeus Cecil Fox_ (head to toe: bald melon; horn-rimmed glasses; thin, goateed face; yellow sweater vest; khaki slacks; shiny dress shoes. Though _refined_ be the apt describer, Jim's brain fashioned a second opinion: _Doctor Thaddeus Cecil Fox_ dangled a couple toes in the _prissy_ side of the pool) took a seat and laid a steno notebook on his knee.

To break the ice, Jim considered spilling the beans about a classmate from the fifth grade named Benny Mitchell. Benny's mother was a land whale; she never ventured beyond the threshold of the living room. Dressed in a dirty nightgown, surround by candy wrappers and potato chips, she lounged, smoked and watched t.v. And this crazy woman, the nameless slug known to juvenile Jim as "Benny's Mom" yelled demands from the couch while _Press Your Luck_ and _Sale Of The Century_ blasted from the television.

One day at recess, Jim coined Benny's mom "Crazy Nightgown Lady". The moniker wasn't witty, but it was an apt description even Benny couldn't deny. But pride compelled a rejoinder and Benny stole Jim's favorite baseball bat (engraved with Johnny Bench's signature on the barrel) from his locker. The next day, the remains of the poor bat (sawed into six pieces) sat in a Basha's paper bag on the stoop of the Reilly homestead. John Reilly went apoplectic and, for once, it wasn't because of the booze. Jimmy couldn't prove Benny perpetrated the crime, but he knew. He knew because Benny leered at him in the hallways and pantomimed swinging motions with his arms.

For a solid month, Jim prayed Benny Mitchell would meet a horrific fate, and not something like a broken leg or separated shoulder. He wanted Benny to die _in the worst way._ The actual factual? Little Jimmy asked God (even tho he did naught believe in Our Lord And Savior, Jesus Christ) to make Benny a victim of manslaughter or homicide. Over time, Jim stopped praying and the Benny Mitchell nonsense got left behind as life went on. Two years later, Benny got smushed by a school bus while riding his bike to Taylor Junior High. The principal made a solemn announcement, some kids and teachers cried, school counselors were made available...the usual bullshit when a kid goes tits up. But Jim hadn't been upset in the least.

_Good riddance,_ our young pal thought.

Lo and behold, guess what? Fifteen odd years later and Jim's opinion hadn't changed.

Maybe Doc Fox would be interested in this tidbit.

And maybe Doc Fox would also like to discuss another chum from Jimmy's childhood what didn't get smushed by a school bus.

Maybe Dr. Fox and Jim could theorize why God smoked Benny Mitchell (murderer of baseball bats and insects) over Isaac Brown. No doubt it'd be a riveting discussion...

Or maybe Jim should do as Brooksy suggested and _clam the fuck up, brah_.

The doctor coughed, adjusted his specs, smoothed the paper and then said, "We have an hour today, Officer Reilly."

"Jim, please."

"Jim it is. Before we begin...have you spoken to a counselor before, Jim?"

"Do you mean a shrink?"

"Sure," Fox chuckled.

"Can't say I've had the pleasure," Jim said through a smile.

"My job is to help you work through any, um, lingering emotions after the traumatic event you experienced. The information you share is confidential; nobody will have access to my notes. Now, I recognize you aren't here on your own free will, but if you keep an open mind, I believe you'll find counseling useful. Regardless, the department requires ten hours and ten hours it shall be."

Jim regarded the withering plant and said, "All right, so what're we supposed to talk about? My brush with death?"

"You steer the conversation. We can delve into the innocuous: sports, weather...my sorry plant. Whatever's on your mind."

_The traumatic event,_ as Fox put it, wasn't something Jim felt a need to discuss at the moment...or ever. And he didn't want to broach the subject with someone he'd just met. After racking his brain for a handful of seconds, Jimmy zeroed on a (presumably) _innocuous_ target what had irritated since his sabbatical began: "Have you ever seen the stupid sponge cartoon?"

"Sponge cartoon?"

"SpongeBob SquarePants. Let me tell you, it's on all the time in our house. Drives me bonkers, man. I've been on A.L. three days and I'm ready to toss the t.v. out the window. Don't get me wrong: I love my time at home. But the cartoons...I could do without."

"Your children...what ages?"

"Two and four. Both boys."

"A handful, I presume?"

"The younger one is a terror. His older brother is quiet...laid back. He likes to read and play with toys. Johnny, the two-year-old...he's like my wife."

"A terror?"

"I...uh...she's not a terror. I mean...see, they butt heads all the time. I tell Laura it's because she and Johnny are wired the same. They're both persistent."

"Strong-willed people -including toddlers- are known to be stubborn."

"Stubborn...yeah, stubborn nails them both to a 'T'."

"How is you wife...um..."

"Laura."

"How is Laura handling your incident?"

"Oh...you know how women are," Jim said, dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. "She freaked out, but she doesn't like Memphis anyway."

"Why?"

"Where do I start? Let's see...she's not a fan of the crime. And the weather. And the South." _And a few other things_ , Jim thought. But he shoved the incriminating statement aside and said, "In other words, _everything_. And after last week...shit, if I told her we're moving to Siberia, she couldn't pack fast enough."

"I take it she wasn't raised here."

"We're both transplants. She's from upstate New York, the Finger Lakes region, and went to Marist. I grew up in Phoenix and enlisted in the Navy a year out of high school. This woulda been '93, Doc. Did a lousy four year turn in cryptology, then reupped for another four and switched rates to shore patrol, which is the Navy's version of the military police. Anyway, in May, 2000, a buddy and I drove to the City for Fleet Week. Laura lived in the West Village with a friend from college. She had graduated the year prior, worked a couple jobs, hand to mouth, etcetera, etcetera. We met at a restaurant, exchanged numbers, spent the summer together and...well...we married the following March, moved here at the beginning of April, and Laura had the baby two weeks later."

"What brought you to the Bluff City?"

"I committed to the academy before we were married."

"Hmm..." Fox droned, drumming fingers on the notebook.

"Look, I didn't drag here kicking and screaming."

"I'm not-"

" _We_ talked about it," our hero interrupted, tugging at a shriveled leaf. " _We_ talked about it and _she_ decided. I know it isn't the perfect situation; I know Laura doesn't dig Memphis. But I'm thinking of the big picture, okay? I'm thinking of _our_ future. And before you tell me she's also thinking of the future, Laura didn't have two lousy, dumbshit parents who cared not _one_ iota for their children."

The good doctor cocked his head and frowned.

_Ahem, clam the fuck up, brah,_ whispered the devil on Jim's left shoulder named Brooksy.

Jim coughed, rubbed his hands and then said, "Sorry for gettin'...the subject is...you know......and...and anyway, I told her Memphis isn't a permanent stop, okay? We're going on four years, not four centuries. Give me a couple years, I said. _A couple_. A couple is what? Four? Five?"

Fox arched his eyebrows and said, "It's what I'd call a vague number with a value determined by circumstance."

"Mm-hmm, right, circumstances and whatnot. And our circumstance is, up and leaving isn't possible right now. I have business obligations-"

_Clam the fuck up, brah,_ Brooksy hissed, raising his spectral voice a notch.

After another raspy cough, Jim mustered a beguiling smile and then continued: "Years ago, a friend and I bought a few houses in Southaven, Horn Lake and Cordova. Property in rough shape. Foreclosures and abandoned dumps. My partner and I emptied our wallets and spent countless hours getting those shitholes squared away. Now we rent rooms to commuting pilots. Four houses...eight to ten a pop...multiply by two fifty...split in half."

"Not bad."

"Damn straight it's not bad. The extra cash comes in handy, you know. Or, at least, _I_ think it does. Laura could care less. In her mind, money grows on trees."

"Money isn't the be all for everyone, Jim."

"Welp, you'd change your mind if you grew up without money."

"Believe it or not, some people don't put a price on contentment."

Jim studied the doctor with squinty eyes and then said, "Yeah, maybe, but I'm not talking about other people; I'm talking about my wife. When she nags, wanna know what I hear? How much she doesn't appreciate what I'm doing for _our_ family. So what if we have to spend another year or two...or even ten...in Memphis?"

"Collecting rent?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Couldn't you collect rent in... _ahem_...never mind. You have reasons...your wife might call them excuses...but it doesn't matter. Based on the picture you've painted, I assume conversations between the two of you are both unpleasant and futile."

"They're not pretty," Jim said as he plucked lint from his left sleeve.

"Where are your boys during the confrontations."

"During the _arguments_ , you mean," Jim said, tossing fuzz on the floor. "Laura and I _argue_. We don't get physical. And I know what you're gonna say, but it isn't the same. Besides, _I'm_ trying to keep things civil. Laura has turned into an afternoon wino, Doc. By the time I get home, she's primed. Once my buttons get pushed, I respond in kind. What am I supposed to do? Sit there like a chump?" He paused to wipe his brow and then mumbled: "I catch enough shit on the streets."

Working the pencil in his notepad, Fox said, "Stress at home...stress at work...mmm...how do you deal with stress?"

Jim shrugged and said, "The usual steam blowing."

"What constitutes steam blowing these days?"

"Sometimes I shoot pool; sometimes I tip a few; sometimes I drive to Tunica and blow a couple hundred."

"Are there evenings you don't return home?"

Brooksy piped: _Eh, clam up, brah._

"Ah...er..." garbled our hero. "Like-"

Clam up.

"-on occasion but-"

Clam up, brah!

"-the last thing I want to deal with-"

Brah!

"-after a twelve-hour shift is her...her moaning and groaning."

Doc Fox scratched his chin with the good end of his pen and then said, "I'm sorry for being intrusive, but I have to ask: have you been unfaithful?"

Instant-like, Jim felt heat in his face.

_I told ya to clam the fuck up, brah!_ Brooksy screeched.

"I can't say I'd be surprised," Fox said, crossing arms.

While his fingers sought more fuzzies, Jim said, "What does _any_ of this have to do with why I'm here?"

"We'll have plenty of time to discuss why you're here. For the moment, let's concentrate on what's happening in your marriage."

"It's just...you're gettin' personal with the questions, doncha think?"

"Jim, I'm positive the tension between you and Laura isn't all about the locale and your job. I'm also positive you know as much."

Yet again, _The Courtney Situation_ reared her pretty blond head, shook her enormous ta-ta's, and pursed plump, D-lovin' lips. The familiar duo of guilt and exhilaration kicked our grumpy chum in the keyster; he stiffened in the chair, studied Fox stooped over the stupid notebook and considered telling the headshrinker to fly a kite.

But those words didn't tumble from Jim's piehole. Maybe he wanted to brag, or confess, or snivel; maybe Doctor Fox hypnotized our hero with some kinda mind trick. Whatever the reason, Jim swallowed a boulder and mumbled, "Yeah, I screwed up. I screwed up, Laura found out and, um, you can imagine the fallout."

_Aww, brah,_ whined Brooksy. _I told you to clam up._

"How long has this been hanging over your heads?" Fox asked.

"A few months."

"And, um, how often does your wife broach the subject?"

"I don't keep a running count."

"Every day?"

"Let's just say it's a thread she pulls when the mood strikes."

"Culminating in?"

"I already told you."

"Arguments?"

Jim touched his beak and grunted.

"I suggest you consider marriage counseling," the doc announced as he closed the notebook. "If you'd like, I can refer you to a colleague."

"I don't think counselling will help."

" _You_ don't think counselling will help, but you're not the only individual with a say in the matter. A high percentage of marriages -I can't tell you the exact number but it's well over half- don't survive infidelity. If you want yours to endure, you and your wife must confront the issues in a constructive manner. Goodness, it's no surprise Laura is unhappy. Given the circumstances of your marriage, the age of your children, her aversion to Memphis, your job _and_ the affair, can you appreciate the number of issues she's trying to put in order? Why did you stray? Will it happen again? How can-"

"I don't plan on a second."

"Oh? Did you plan on straying the first time?"

"Of course not. It just, like...it just happened, man. It happened but it's over...it's been over."

"It may be over, but you can't expect your wife to wipe her hands and move on. She's allowed to feel angry. Outraged. Insecure. And she's trying to communicate, but what do you give in return? You deflect and find-"

"I don't-"

"Jim," Fox sighed, "how do you expect to maintain a relationship if you cannot, or will not, have a rational discussion with your spouse?"

"Doc, _you're_ not listening to _me_ ," Jim snapped. "Words won't change jack squat. _Period._ Laura wants to move. _Period._ I'm working on it. _Period_."

Fox glanced at his wristwatch and said, "You cannot oil the joints of time by running from the past. If you want to rectify your relationship, indiscretion...and everything else...has to be addressed by _both_ of you. Now, I don't mean to be brusque, but the hour is upon us. We'll see each other next week and venture further down the road. Sound good?"

***

On the drive home, Jim chewed over the session in the both the literal and figurative sense. Snuff in his mouth, contemplating Fox's questions and observations ( _You have reasons...your wife might call them excuses;_ _I suggest you consider marriage counseling; How do you expect to maintain a relationship if you can't, or won't, have a rational discussion;_ _You cannot oil the joints of time by running from the past_ ), our hero concluded he should've clammed up.

Clammed way the fuck up.

Moreover, he didn't want to _venture further down the road_ because venturing further down the road didn't _Sound Good_.

He didn't want to discuss _Her_.

He didn't want to discuss how Bojangles took two handfuls of his brain and guided him in senseless directions.

He didn't want to discuss moving.

He didn't want to discuss _anything_...

...least of all to a shrink attempting to determine our hero's _fitness for duty_.

Indeed, as our ole pal endured Fox's sermon, the FFD brick bonked his noddle: _fitness for duty._

Even though Fox didn't say it, Jim knew he was under a microscope. Yet, there he went, running his mouth. By Jim's count, the doc frowned, grimaced and sighed two dozen times. _Two dozen!_

What if the doc found him unfit?

' _You won't be allowed to ride anything faster than a desk,'_ Mike Keenan had said.

Worse, what if the doc thought Jim was a sociopath or whatnot?

Maybe he'd get bounced from the force.

Maybe the TIB would demand his badge.

If this happened, what would Raul Boja say?

Jim's brain answered: _Without the badge, he might drop you like a stone. But is this such a bad thing?_

"Maybe not," he answered to the rearview mirror.

_Maybe_ Jim could walk with his semi-plump wallet and take Laura and the kids somewhere else. He'd get a job to keep up illusions...something rudimentary...which would kinda suck but whatevs.

The one detail up for debate was location. He knew what she wanted, but Canesoanke wasn't the right fit for him. Canesoanke had the Bojas...and Laura's parents. One was a tad worse than the other but combined...

If it were up to him...well, Puerto Rico sounded pat. Or the Virgin Islands. Hell, why be picky? Any island in the Caribbean would suffice.

But all the ideas were a pipe dream if he didn't take action. Whether or not Doc Fox found Jim fit or unfit, our pal needed to have a conversation with Raul Boja. First, though, Jim had to grow a bigger pair of balls. A huge-

His Razr rattled on the passenger seat. Purging thoughts, he scooped the phone into his hand and puzzled over the string of unrecognizable digits from a 716 area code.

Figuring a reporter had acquired his number -and feeling a mite aggravated by _everything_ \- he grabbed the phone and snarled, "Who is it?"

"Jimmy," Frankie Boja hailed. "We need to touch base. Do you have a moment to shoot the shit?"

Jim stifled a groan and answered, "Yeah, Frankie, I'm..."
Sunday, 6 April 2008

...rising before the asscrack of dawn, downing two cups of joe, stuffing snuff in the piehole, and giving the _Canesoanke Courier_ the once over...

The frontpage headline screamed: **Is It Spring!?** Beneath the rhetorical, a pithy six sentence article began: _You say April, but Mother Nature says don't put away those shovels! The National Weather Service in Buffalo has issued a winter storm warning from Monday afternoon to Tuesday morning for..._

Jim gutted the dip, poured the remaining dribble of coffee into the sink and then hit the road as the sun spread over the sleepy land. AM jaunts were seldom fun, but silence helped...rather, _most of the time_ silence helped...put thoughts in order.

But on this Sunday morning, our hero embraced mediation like a champ: he ignored the first trickle of sweat; the blister on his left big toe; the ascent up CR8. Aye, Jimmy cruised on automatic pilot while his mind scaled a mountain of reflections. At the summit: SUCCESS.

Before he could taste SUCCESS, though, Jim had to navigate the problems crowding the trail. Like runners in a race, he had to pass 'em all...leave the bastards in his dust...pull the ole Billy Mills...

(Head down, he turned left at the intersection of CR8 and New York Road, merged onto the gravel shoulder...)

Somewhere to the east, Richard approached with _Him_. _Problem One_ would be at Jim's doorstep -or close enough- by nightfall.

_Problem One:_ Keeping _Him_ occupied until the pieces were set.

_Problem One_ wasn't difficult to crack; Richard could stall the horny pedophile with an excuse about logistics.

(... _increased speed_...)

As _Problem One_ fell behind, Jim approached _Problem Two:_ Getting the reporter to playball.

( _...and wiped his forehead of sweat._ )

Frankie claimed Vern Fridley would be persuadable, but the _Vern Variable_ was unknown until Jim spoke to the Chief.

Until then, _Problem Two_ couldn't be tacked...

...which meant: _Problem Two_ fell into step alongside Jim.

Regardless, _Problem Two_ dovetailed into _Problem Three_ : Propping Vern Fridley in front of Glen Cumberland. Trust had to be earned...they needed to talk...they _must_ talk...they must talk and exchange information. But what be Cumberland's carrot? Why would...why would he...why would he talk unless...unless...

( _Dashing across the four lanes of New York Road, he entered a new subdivision and passed a listing road sign. Its red letters decreed: SENSIBLE SALTING MEANS SENSIBLE DRIVING.)_

...unless...Cumberland feared for his life...but not feared so much as...Cumberland had to be annoyed, _not_ scared...annoyed by...by...

( _He veered around a yellow excavator, caught his reflection in a door mirror...)_

...annoyed by _Big Brother._

_(...and darted between bulldozers speckled in mud; surrounded by stacked timber, the skeletons of half-completed houses ascended from the furrowed earth._ )

Jim elbowed past _Problem Three_ and entered the wake of _Problem Four_ : Eradicating _Him_. Eradication needed explanation and _He_ had to point in the direction of Glen Cumberland.

( _Like he owned the lot, Jim ran down the middle of the street. Bug-eyed, mouth agape, both hands clenched_...)

_Problem Four_ necessitated Isaac Brown contact Cumberland or vice versa. Cell phone records and personal property would bind the men together. Yet...how to put _Him_ in Cumberland's vehicle. Perhaps...

(...stressed breath flogged the air. Shoes whipping asphalt...)

...perhaps a meeting between the two men using Vern as a pretext. A meeting at Calhoun's...

( _...he circled the two-and-change mile development in fifteen minutes, rejoined New York Road and began the homestretch._ )

...a meeting in which...

( _Dead sprint across the four lanes, right onto CR8, catching the downslope like a wave, checking watch, huffing, puffing..._ )

... _He_ takes Cumberland's truck for a spin...on Monday evening...during the bad weather.

_(_ _...spinning, aching legs, feeling sweat on the back of his shirt...)_

But why would Cumberland hand _Him_ car keys?

_(...under armpits, in nether regions..._ )

Cumberland's not scared...no, he's _cautious_. He leaves his truck to...to throw off _Big Brother_...and _He_ jumps into said vehicle because...because Richard tells _Him_ it's their chariot to good times...

( _...quarter mile to go, homestead looming..._ )

...and good times couldn't be found until they journeyed somewhere clandestine...out of town...towards Honeoye or...or Geneva...

_I'm working Monday evening,_ Jim thought. _Monday evening overnight. Richard need only come my way on CR21. I can do the rest. I can pull 'em over, drag Him out of the truck...but I can't leave a mark so...so bad weather...He's forced to march...unfamiliar with the locality, he gets lost..._

How many variables had to be manipulated? Countless. And what about those intangibles he couldn't touch?

And way off in the distance was _Problem Five_ : How to deal with Cumberland's disappearance...and _Her_ , the nosy bitch...

Jim slowed as his right sole made contact with the driveway's gravel ingress. Like the devolution of man, sprint turned into canter; canter turned into walk; walked turned into a stop. Legs quaking, he bent at the waist, sucked air into lungs, and felt the pack of Problems breathing around him.

***

At eight, Butch dinged with a textual: _Beanies 830._

Careful not to wake the miserable ball and chain (for a change, she hadn't stirred when he rolled out of bed), he tiptoed into the shower and emerged minutes later to find Laura squeezing toothpaste onto her brush.

Pulling a towel from the rack, he said, "Sorry, I tried being quiet."

Her squinty eyes meet his in the mirror.

"Why don't you lie down for an hour and close your-"

"You're the early bird," she interrupted.

"Oh, yeah, I wanted to get a run in."

"You're late tonight?"

"Next three days."

"Three?"

"Sam Neely is sick. The flu. Butch asked me to cover Tuesday."

She returned attention to the toothpaste.

"I'm heading out to get donuts," he said.

Her head shot up and she appraised him with another shrewd dose of squinty eyes.

"What's with the death stare, Laura?"

"I can't remember the last time you bought donuts. What's the special occasion?"

The snappish tone surprised; he retreated a step and said, "Jeez, seven miles oughta be worth a crueler. Plus, the kids wouldn't mind one or two. They like those frosted ones with the sprinkles, right?"

"They'll eat anything with sugar."

"What about you?"

"I don't want one."

"No?"

"Jim, I shouldn't be eating donuts."

"Then I'll grab you an apple juice."

"Uh-huh," she said, before closing eyes and stuffing the brush in her mouth.

***

Butch leaned against the front of his SUV, tapped his right foot and pointed at the invisible watch wrapped around his left wrist. "You're late," he said. "In case you forgot, we're on a tight schedule."

Jimmy peered into the Chief's vehicle and then asked, "Where's Fridley?"

"I'm gathering him and we're going to my place. Shelly and the kids are gettin' saved at Saint Mary's. We have about two hours of quiet time, hence the need to hustle our bustle."

"Okay, I'll meet you there. I need to grab a dozen."

"Jesus H," Butch griped. "Are you not listening?"

"Relax. I promised the kids I'd get donuts."

"Look...whatever, man, this is your deal. Speaking of, have you worked anything out, or are we flying by our asses?"

"What's the story with Fridley?"

"I called him this morning, asked if he'd do me a solid, said it'd be worth his while and made the _cha-ching_ sound. I didn't have the heart to tell him he doesn't have a choice. In any case, we'll sit him down, give him the bad cop, bad cop routine...add Raul Boja's name as an incentive...get the picture?"

"How much does he want?"

"We didn't get to negotiating. Now, how 'bout answering my question."

"Well, I stayed up late, woke early and have something resembling...something."

"Ah, I see. You have nothing."

"I know one thing: we can't do it tonight. It'd be sloppy and...you know, we're gonna have to use all resources, even the natural ones."

"Like?"

"The weather."

"Huh?"

"Snow."

"What snow?"

"The incoming whatchacallit...Alberta Clipper, I guess. The paper says it'll be a doozy."

"The storm _forecasted_ for tomorrow?"

"Yep."

"You wanna blastoff _tomorrow_?" Butch cackled.

"I think we can make it work."

"How?"

"It's a...a convoluted plan, which is why Fridley is important. You'll see where I'm headed. Follow my lead and look menacing."

"Hold on, pal. I wanna hear your _convoluted_ plan."

"Okay...let's say Brown takes Cumberland's truck and gets stuck somewhere remote, like a section of 21 one of your officers patrols."

"Why would Glen loan Isaac Brown his vehicle?"

"Like I said: it's _convoluted_."

"Hell...can you at least tell me what's _supposed_ to happen on 21?"

"Brown plants Cumberland's truck in a snowbank," Jim answered, like it be ordained. "Then, I'll motivate _Him_ to hoof it, and I'll hang around to make sure _He_ doesn't get far."

"By putting a bullet in his head?"

"Motherfucker, what do you think? I'm not leaving forensic evidence. Brown's gonna become disorientated and wander until he can wander no more, which shouldn't be long given the weather."

" _Ugg_..." Butch gargled. "This...plan... _ahem_...no offense, but this is your best effort?"

"I'm all ears."

"For starters, you're banking on the weather. B, we're not gonna be ready to press the go-button tomorrow."

"You're forgetting _Him_...Isaac Brown...is under the assumption _He's_ hooking up with kiddies. I can't keep _Him_ holed with my brother for a week or two. Shit, the thought of _Him_ in my proximity boils my blood."

Butch exhaled, stared Jim in his eyes, and then said, "My gut tells me this is personal, pal."

"I'm doing the world a favor, Chief."

"Yeah, sure, but your brother wouldn't-"

"Don't worry your fathead about it," Jim said, patting Butch on the shoulder. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have donuts to procure. Collect Vern and we'll powwow at your place."

***

Vern Fridley -pale, slim and dressed like he'd done a thousand spins in an industrial dryer- slithered out of Butch's truck and smoothed the wild strands of piss-yellow hair on his head. To say the reporter appeared brittle...well, he did. Brittle with bloodshot eyes and a large welt on his forehead.

"We'll talk in the basement," Butch said.

" _Arguhh,"_ Vern responded in a croaky voice.

Butch had a nice little setup in the basement: pool table, dart board, stocked bar, stools, neon beer signs, a Buffalo Bills Flag on the opposite wall, and a giant flat screen in the corner. Face glowering, he walked behind the bar and asked, "Who wants a drink?"

Sounding half-dead, Vern wheezed, "Whiskey."

Butch dispensed a triple shot and then said, "Shake the dust, Reilly."

"I'm working later."

"It isn't a question. What's your poison?"

"Greyhound," Jim relented. "But only one."

"Now you're buying."

"Gin and tonic."

Butch mixed a tumbler -heavy on the gin- and slid it across the bar. "Vern, this is Jim, and likewise," he said, pouring a whiskey for hisself.

Massaging a forehead pebbled in sweat, Vern grunted: "I don't mean to be curt, but Butch rolled me outta bed and said I had an opportunity to make moola. What's the poop?"

"We need your expertise," Jim said.

Vern lifted the glass to his mouth with a shaky right hand and downed half the drink. Then he wiped his lips with the back of his left hand and said, "Lookie, you don't have to butter me up. Let's talk turkey."

"Within reason, what's a couple hours of your time gonna cost?" Jim asked.

"Five hundred thousand," Vern snapped without hesitation. "Five hundred thousand and I'm blowin' this shithole."

"Five hundred!" Butch cried. "You gotta be joking!"

"Sold," Jim said. "But-"

"No, no, not _sold_ ," interrupted Butch. "We need to run this up the chain, Reilly."

Jimmy waved Butch quiet and steamrolled, "But you're not getting a cent upfront, Vern."

"I want half," Vern demanded through a compressed mouthline. "Half now, half when I'm done."

"You can chat with Mister Boja about the pay schedule," Jim said.

" _Mumph,"_ grunted Vern. "I see. Non-negotiable."

"You'll get what's owed."

Vern contemplated the offer with a protracted yawn and then asked, "What's the job?"

"Something easy peasy. All you need do is entice Glen Cumberland to hand you documents."

"What kind of documents?"

"Bank statements, contracts...we're not sure," Jim said. "Mister Boja desires to have a look-see at the theoretical papers, and he wants us to turn every stone. Now, if you're articles are to be trusted, you've always been a fan of the old man and his business endeavors. Dollars to donuts, Cumberland is gonna be hinkey. You tell him Boja fucked you and-"

"How'd he fuck me?"

"You were stiffed pay for services rendered. All your article writing he used to secure the Shoreview Project and you saw not even a quarter of the promised income. Because of the slight...let's say multiple slights...you're determined to a publish a big story. Call it a revenge piece or something. Since Glen is a business partner-"

"In what?"

"Vern, you're asking too many questions," Butch said.

"If you want me to play reporter, I gotta do research. I know Raul sold him the land before he ran for city council, and I know they still rub elbows, but what other business are you referring?"

"Let's, uh, _pretend_ they're partners in the Shoreview Project.," Jim explained. "One of 'em just happens to be a silent partner and therein lies the problem. Glen's been...um...well, see, he created an LLC-"

"Cumberland Vending and Distribution," said Butch. "It appears both Mister Boja and Glen have been using CVD to funnel public funds into their pockets and the pockets of the contractors doing work on the resort."

"I take we ain't pretending," Vern chuckled.

"Vern," Jim sighed. "All you gotta do is roll with the narrative. And the narrative is, you had a hankering to study expense reports from the city budget. Money in and out, the cost of construction...the usual whatnots. Lo and behold, you find some questionable disbursements. The paper trail leads you to concluded Glen Cumberland has knowledge regarding the irregularities, and you decide to contact him. Tell him you want his side of the story, but with or without Cumberland's help, you're gonna run what you've discovered in the near future."

"Jeez...how long have I been working on this article?"

"Months. You've had a bee since Mister Boja gave you the Italian digit."

"You expect Glen to hand me damning information because I ask?"

"No, but Glen _will_ hand you damning information because he and Raul had a falling out. They kinda sorta don't care for each other anymore."

"Why?"

"Raul would like to repurchase the entirety of Shoreview and Glen isn't interested in selling. Negotiations have become contentious and Glen...he's not thinking straight. He's threatening to go to the press with what he knows."

"It'd be stupid if he did," Vern said. "Considering Glen is a participant, he'd be facing trouble, too."

Butch crinkled his brow and mumbled, "Like Reilly said: Glen ain't thinking straight."

"Cumberland believes his life is in danger," Jim said.

Vern dry swallowed and then asked, "Is it?"

"Come on," Jim laughed. "It's a tactic, Vern."

"Yeah, a tactic," echoed Butch.

"But a stupid tactic," Jim said, shaking his head. "Raul shouldn't have run his mouth, but he sees the error in his ways. Now he's worried Cumberland is gonna talk and this can't happen. So, we gotta put the stupidity to pasture."

"By getting his documents?"

"By showing Glen he's being foolish. Once he realizes the old man has a handle on the situation, I'm certain they'll reach an equitable solution."

"You want to box Glen in," Vern pronounced. "Twist his arm."

"Yep, and this has to happen quick-like," Jim said, snapping fingers. "You want to meet Cumberland Monday night. Tell him you'll pick him up at Calhoun's because, um, Glen has to ditch his truck because it has a GPS tracking device on it."

"Does it?"

"No, man, it's another tactic."

"Guys, he isn't going to fall for a story about a GPS tracking device," Vern argued.

"Glen knows the demeanor of the cops in this town," Butch said, giving Jim the side-eye.

"Mm...if this is what you want...okay..." Vern said without enthusiasm. "Let's _pretend_ he's game. What's next?"

Jim instructed: "Cumberland has to leave the keys on the floorboard because you've arranged to have somebody drive his truck to Cairo or Luxor...it doesn't matter where, just give him a location off the beaten path. Meantime, you take him home, sweet talk the bastard and see what he's holding. Make him understand you have friends at the _D and C_ who enjoy publishing stories about local malfeasance, and make him understand he can't leave his house until the story gets published. The cops -us- will be looking for his truck; meanwhile, Cumberland's sitting under our noses."

Vern shrugged and said, "Seems...shit, it's your idea. I'm not looking for a protracted engagement, though."

"Shouldn't take more than a couple hours, tops," Jim said.

"Then I get paid?"

"You'll get paid and then you're a...what'd you say? You're blowin' this shithole?"

"And how," Vern said, as he removed a flip phone from a pocket. "Glen's number?"

Butch rattled the digits; Vern punched 'em in, steeled himself with the remainder of his drink and jammed the phone next to his right ear. Tapping fingers on the bar, the journalist stared at the ceiling and muttered, "No answer."

"Leave a message," Jim said.

"Um..." Vern cleared his throat, waited a few seconds, and then said: "I'm trying to reach Mister Glen Cumberland. This is Vern Fridley, reporter for the _Canesoanke Courier_. I'm working on an expose about your business associate, Raul Boja, and I have some, um, news you'll find interesting. Call me at your convenience. My number is..."

"Say, fellas," Vern remarked, after he hung up. "Say, um...nobody's going to get-"

The flip phone rattled on the bar and spun in a half circle; Butch's peepers pinballed as he squinted at the number on the greasy screen. "It's Glen," he pronounced. "Show time, pal."

"Here goes nothing," Vern mumbled. Once again, he jammed the phone to his right ear, cleared his throat and answered, "Vern Fridley," in an affable voice. His eyes danced along the ceiling while an indecipherable warble chewed his ear.

"He should've put him on speaker," Butch whispered.

Vern raised a finger, grunted a dozen times and then said, "Yes, we're...yes, we're off the record until you tell me otherwise. Correct. Um-hmm...um-hmm...yes. So...no...no...no, just listen to me: I'm working a piece about Raul Boja and since you're one of his business associates, I...well, sure, I know about Cumberland Vending, pal. But I'm curious what you and he...Raul...what his relationship is with the Shoreview Project. Uh-huh, I know he arranged...okay, I...Glen...Glen, I've looked at the, um, the...public funding records and...hm? Somethin' isn't adding up, is what. I don't mean to twist your arm but I'd like to get your...oh, I'll tell you why: Raul Boja owes me is _why_. I have bills and he's holding out. Man, I'd like to tar and feather the cheap...no, I'm not the...hold on...hold on. The story _is_ going to run and...Glen, I'm not pressing you... _ahem,_ Glen, I'm giving you the courtesy of a phone call. Help me understand what...uh...oh, I have a buddy from J school at the _Democrat And Chronicle_ who...yes, the Rochester paper. Uh-huh, he and I...what makes me think you're...okay, try this on for size: You're being tracked. Tracked. You know, _tracked_! Back in January, before Raul decided to screwed me over, I had dinner with Francis Boja. He had a few too many and he told me there's a GPS gizmat on your vehicle. Of course, it piqued my interest, but at the time I...who do you think? The Boja puppet, Chief Weinager-"

At once, Glen's voice rose above a warble. Vern held the phone from his ear, pushed his empty glass to Butch and mouthed, " _Refill_. _"_

When Glen paused to gather a lungful, Vern interjected: "Calm down, buddy. Calm down. I have an idea. Um, no, I don't think Sheriff Tidwell will be any help, either. If you ask me, they're all dirty. The press is your best friend. Being said, anything...statements, forms, revenue showing-" Vern arched his eyebrows and then said, "Good. Good, yes...by his banker? Wow, I can't...ehhhh...what? You bought the Shoreview land for _ten_ dollars? Well, yeah, I'd...not for a few weeks, at the earliest. Due diligence is a bitch and I want to have my ducks in a row. Plus, this kinda thing...you gotta keep the poop quiet until you're ready to drop the hammer. Because you wanna catch the bad guys by surprise, you dig? Who knows how they'll react? Um-hmm. Um-hmm. Oh, you betcha, front page, _no doubt_ , and...all right, I'd like to meet you...no, can't be today. I'm in Buffalo until...okay, how does tomorrow evening sound? Great. Listen, about this tracking device...no, I don't know how the son-of-a-bitch got it on. Uh-uh, you shouldn't try to find and remove it. Because they'll know _you know,_ right? And who do you think they'll blame? No, not you. Me! Huh? _Because_ I know about the tracking device. Makes sense, don't it? I have a better idea: you need to lose your vehicle. Ditch it. Yep. Then I'll have a friend take it to Luxor or Cairo...it doesn't matter where as long as it's far away. 'Cause it'll...yep, it'll throw 'em off your trail. What I figure is, you meet me at, oh, I don't know...how about outside Calhoun's? Yeah. Outside. Tomorrow night, say..." Vern looked wide-eyed at Jim; hisself flashed eight digits on his hands. "How 'bout eight? Er...I can't do earlier. Correct. Calhoun's at eight. Park your car in the backlot...truck, then. Sorry. Green Ford. Got it. Park it in back and I'll gather you in front. Leave your keys...your car keys...yes, leave your keys on floorboard. I'll take care of the rest. What? No, you don't want to report it stolen. Because the police will know you don't have it anymore. Um-hmm. Tomorrow at eight. Outside Calhoun's. I drive a gray, four door Lancer. Gray. Yep, and thanks for returning my call. I'll see you then." Vern exhaled, snapped the phone shut and snatched the refreshed whiskey in his paw.

"I take it we're playing with gas?" Butch asked.

"You're playing with fucking dynamite," Vern said. "It took a teeny push, but Glen Cumberland is ripe, gentlemen. He claims to have shit signed by both Raul Boja and some Greek accountant. Laundering and tax evasion stuff by the sound of it. Money moving this way and the other... _ahem,_ by the way, this ten dollar deal he made with Boja is also dynamite. No wonder-"

"Better you don't grind gears," Butch interrupted.

Vern emptied the whiskey down his throat and then said, "Shit, for a half mil, I'm Anna Nicole."

"Peachy," Butch said.

"Eh...Raul's not fixing to put a beatdown on Glen, is he?" Vern asked. "I don't want anyone getting hurt."

"We're trying to prevent people from getting hurt," Butch said. "Glen, the Bojas, the contractors, the-"

"The media," Jim added as he swirled his beverage.

"The _entire_ town would suffer," Butch said. "It's too bad we have to play stupid games but some people-"

"The horse to water," Vern said in a sedate tone. "Speaking of...another refill, Butch?"

The Chief glanced at his watch and said, "You can take the bottle, Vern, but we gotta pack it up. My wife will be home soon."

***

Butch deposited the reporter at his home on York Street and then Jimmy followed the Chief to a half century old abandoned warehouse located next to train tracks. At one time, the building housed a lumber manufacturer. Abandoned in the late '70s, the dump was now frequented by teenagers who smoked dope, drank booze and sowed wild oats. Jim stretched legs and pissed on a chunk of asphalt while Butch sat in his idling truck with the window rolled down.

"What do you think of Vern?" Butch asked.

"If nothing else, he's motivated."

"Uh-huh, well, you can tell the old man what it's gonna cost."

"I imagine it won't be a pleasant conversation, but you heard Vern. Cumberland's housing the shit. You can't smash a roach with a penny."

"Mm...how 'bout you explain what happens Monday night, or is this another work in progress?"

"You need to anchor both eyes on the lot behind Calhoun's. At nine, my brother and the perv will depart in Cumberland's truck and head east on 21. Once they're gone, hook up with Vern, collect the goods and babysit your phone. However, we can't contact each other unless something goes south. The next time we'll talk is Monday when-"

"When I have a body lying on the road."

Jim touched his nose.

"Provided nobody notices you do, um, what on 21? Are you gonna stop 'em, wave your weapon and tell Brown to take a hike?"

"No, it has to look like an accident. I'm gonna PIT 'em."

"PIT? What if your prowler gets stuck?"

"It won't."

" _It won't_ , you say," Butch chuckled.

"It won't, but if I do have an issue, you'll be JOS."

"And the next morning?"

"Somebody's bound to discover _Him_ sooner or later. Or, if you're anxious, have one of the A.M. guys or gals cruise 21. During the investigation, kiddie porn will be found in Cumberland's truck. You call the LEB, the suits get buzzing, mathematicals are crunched...clear as mud?"

Butch craned his neck, shielded his eyes from the sun and then said, "Severe clear, as Kojak would say. I never thought I'd be praying for a blizzard in April."

"Shiiiit," Jim drawled, snapping fingers. "Shiiiit, you're right."

"Praying?"

"No, numbnuts. Kojak."

"You want to drag Kojak into this mess?"

"Pilots have to know about weather, don't they? Let's pick his brain."

"Jim, the more you talk, the more I believe this doesn't have a chance in hell. You're scraping the bottom of the barrel."

Our hero put his hands on hips, studied the shot to shit barn and then snorted.

"Yeah, it's fucked up," Butch said.

"I...I just thought of something, Chief. Glen's supposed to beat feet. Wouldn't it be smart if we put him on a plane to Central or South America?"

"Uh...so we buy him a ticket? He still has to arrive...wherever...which means he has to walk off the airplane and clear customs."

"Not if he hires a pilot."

"I take it you're referring to Kojak."

"Why not? He has the two-engine jobber at the airport."

"You want Kojak to fly a prop plane to South America?"

"I'm sure he'd have to stop for fuel but...yeah."

"You're not talking about puttering to Buffalo. South America is a long fuckin' haul."

"Kojak's a boss, Butch. I listened to him yap about aviation for _years_. He'd figure a way to South America."

"Okay...okay, let's _pretend_ Glen arrives in...I don't know...Columbia. Unless you want to chance a bribe, he still has to clear customs."

Jim leaned against the driver's door and said, "Yeah...yeah, you're right, but it wouldn't be a bad idea if the Feds tracked him. Matter of fact..." He trailed off, checked his watch and then continued, "I'm going to ask my brother to travel as Cumberland. It shouldn't be difficult to scrounge a passport from Frankie. Then Rich does the switcheroo and returns to the States as hisself. Glen Cumberland disappears into thin air and will forever remain a man on the run."

"All right, I've heard enough," Butch said, shifting the SUV into drive. "Phone me after you talk to the old man."

Tires kicking pebbles, Butch hightailed from the lot as Jimmy returned to his car. His butt had just mated with the seat when _-surprise-_ the cell on the dash rattled.

He checked the ID and grumbled to hisself: "What now."

_What now_ be Brooksy.

Before he could bark _what now_ , Brooksy gushed, "Memphis is 3 to 1. 3 to 1! Tubby and I spoke to Trask last night. He's a go. It's all hands, man!"

"Not the fixing shit again, Brian," Jim bitched.

"Didn't you hear me? It's a go!"

"You can count me out. I have enough going on here."

"Doing what? Babysitting crosswalks?"

"I know you believe you can work magic-"

"Naw, I don't believe. I. Am. Certain. But...so, remember our conversation last night?"

"I remember you begging for money. And I remember saying I gave you a hundred thou of...what'd you call it? Seed money?"

"Brah, I'm not asking for much, and it's surefire. _Trust me_."

"How much is not much?"

"A couple bricks."

"Are you kidding?" Jim laughed. "A couple?"

"Yeah, a couple. Four...five...er...could you do six?"

"I don't have six bricks."

"Four?"

"Nor do I have four."

"Jimmy, I _have_ to roll, and I gotta make it worth the trouble."

"Worth the trouble, huh? Man, I know your M.O. What's the damage?"

"I won't deny I owe some people-"

"Didn't we discuss reining it-"

"- _but_ , before you sermonize, I'm getting it under control. I'm gonna start the Gamblers Anonymous shit and get my ass on track. I swear I've learned my lesson. All I need is one more Big Win to settle a figure and avoid..."

While Brooksy belched nonsense, Jimmy stared at the warehouse and did quick math: _if_ they won...at 3 to 1, three bricks would net almost a million...

A rock was nothing to sneeze at.

"Stop talking," Jim interrupted. "How much is Tubby laying down?"

"Six bricks."

"Why don't you ask him for a loan?"

"He's payin' me a commission."

"How much?"

"A third."

"I take it you want the same arrangement?"

"A third is fair, doncha think?"

"The fuck? I bet you can't tell me a third is fair with a straight face."

"Come on, Jimmy," Brooksy whined. "I got your first nugget. Shit, the way I see it, you owe me."

"Did you watch the game against UCLA, motherfucker? Trask isn't capable of playing like dogshit."

"Which is why nobody will be none the wiser."

"You're asking me to stake money on one player and hand you a third if it pays off because...why?"

"Because I...whatchacallit...I organized everything. I've been D.T.'s goddamn babysitter for the last three years. I've taken care of his needs. I've taken care of his family. I've done _all_ the work. Doin' all the work oughta count for something."

"I didn't ask you to do anything."

"But I have. And I did it because I knew our moment would come. It's fated, brah. Just like your thing with Bean. Right place, right time."

"What happened with Bean was _luck_."

"Fine, call it _luck_ if it makes you feel better. I'll tell you, though, there's no arguing the numbers. Trask has scored a quarter of the Tigers points in the tournament. _A quarter_. An off night for him...twelve points instead of twenty-five...you dig? A couple clunkers at the line, a turnover or two, an ill-advised foul...these mistakes accumulate. They accumulate and throw the rest of the team out of whack."

"What if it doesn't?"

"One way or another, my boy will make it happen. Dontrelle is motivated by money, brah. See, he knows the odds. Going pro isn't a guaranteed moneymaker. Look at his brother: Timmy's been playing ball in Turkey for the last six years. Even then, you break a leg or tear an ACL and your career is over. What's Dontrelle gonna do? Work the counter at a 7-11 for minimum wage?"

"How much is he gettin'?"

"Enough to motivate him to shit the bed Monday evening."

"Some of the motivation came from me, right?"

"Yea, you helped purchase the player. But everything we've spent doesn't mean shit if we can't turn a profit. I mean, if you need an analogy, think of D.T. as the hammer. We got the tool, now we need the nails to build our dream house. Convince me you don't have a few nails laying around."

"Brian, I'm sorry. My pockets aren't as deep as you think."

"Christ, Jimmy, I don't wanna beg," Brooksy said in a querulous voice suggesting otherwise. "I'm up against it, brah. Like...this is it. Time is running out for Brooksy Brooks."

"Jeez...c'mon, enough with the violin."

"I'm serious! Brooksy is down to fumes!"

"Look..." Jim sighed. "Lookit, man, even if I wanted to throw in, I don't have four hundred thousand in the Canesoanke National Bank. The bulk of my cash is tied up in the whatnots Orestes has arranged, and those whatnots are untouchable as of this moment."

"Can you make it touchable?"

"When do you need the money?"

"Tomorrow, before seventeen hundred."

"Impossible," Jim snorted.

"Not as impossible as you think," said Brooksy, all sneaky-like.

"You may have an inflated opinion of your powers, but you aren't capable of miraciling money into your hands."

"Miraciling? Heh, what the fuck kinda work is miraciling?"

"Miracle. Miracled. Miraciling."

"You're right. I don't have those powers."

"Then we agree on something."

"I don't have them, but you do."

"Wrong."

"Hear me out. You could go to your employer-"

"Get the fuck outta here!"

"Why not?"

"I'm handling something as we speak, and it isn't cheap. Raul will not crack the piggybank for a sports bet."

"Then ask him for a loan. Tell him it's...um...it's an investment. He can scrape together a bundle, have Kojak fly down tonight, and I'll put the money in play."

"Why don't you ask him?"

"Brah, I haven't spoken to him or Frankie since you left. Come to think of it, there's another reason you should do me a solid. Leaving me like you did, high and dry in Notown, sent me on a downward spiral."

"Stop. You aren't blaming me for your issues."

"Jimmy, no joke, I'm in a world of hurt if I don't come up with half a rock by Wednesday. You can't leave me hanging. We're brothers, aren't we? I help you, you help me. I'm asking for a final favor. No more."

It would've been easy to snap the phone shut and banish the fool's voice for time eternal. However, Brooksy's pathetic plea didn't fall on deaf ears. In fact, an idea formed in Jim's mind...

"All right, Brian, enough with the browbeating. I'll speak to Raul."

"Brah, thank you!"

"You know, if Raul plays and your scheme goes to shit, we're-"

"I know what's at stake."

Jim reckoned it was easy for Brooksy to dive headfirst into the shallow water, but it wasn't any harder for our pal to take the plunge.

Afterall, Jim had already dug his grave if the Cumberland scheme went to hell. Squandering the old man's bundle would be icing on the cake.

***

He arrived home at eleven thirty, waved at the wife and kids seated at the kitchen table, threw the box of donuts on the island, darted upstairs, into the bedroom, shut the door, sat on the bed and dialed the cell.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Jim said under his breath.

"Hello, Jimmy," Frankie greeted. "Good timing. Father is itching for an update. Hold on while I track him down."

***

"You promised the reporter five hundred thousand?" Raul screeched.

Jim shifted the cell from his left ear to the right and then said, "I assumed price wouldn't matter."

"The problem hasn't been solved, Jim Reilly. When Cumberland is sniveling at my feet, I will have a different opinion. But to promise the reporter...no, I don't like. What happens if the problem is not solved?"

"If the problem isn't solved then...well, money is the least of our problems."

After a lengthy silence, Raul said, "I'm not pleased by your summation. Besides, why pay the reporter anything? Perhaps...perhaps it is better if he disappears. The man will know too much."

Our hero expected the conversation would meander to this unpleasant topic sooner rather than later. Criminal organizations were notorious for chopping deadweight and Raul Boja's didn't deviate from SOP. Cutting deadweight, however, had the potential for taking on a life of its own.

"Vern won't be an issue," Jim said with exaggerated politesse.

"You claim."

"I _know_. He wants to split for someplace warm with a pocket full of money. We'll never hear of Vern again."

"But there is one way to make certain we _never_ hear of him."

"What about the rest of us?"

"I trust you, Jim Reilly."

"Good...good, because I have way to get your five hundred thousand back."

"Eh?"

"Your five hundred thousand...and then some."

"How much _some_?"

"It depends how much you're willing to invest."

"Invest in what?"

"The National Championship."

"What National Championship?"

"College basketball."

"Sports?"

"Correct."

"I don't gamble, Jim Reilly," the old man said in a frosty tone.

"It's not gambling if the outcome is fixed."

"Is what?"

"Edged...um...predetermined."

"You have done edging?"

"Not me. You remember Brooksy...eh, Brian Brooks...from Memphis."

"Ah... _hmm_...now, let me pose another question: why would I trust an undisciplined man to fix a sporting event?"

"Because he's done it before. He...we...and another man...we arranged something years ago with a player and...I'm saying it's possible, Mister Boja."

"You did this, Jim Reilly?"

"Yes."

"You trust your friend?"

Jim took a deep breath and then -in a firm voice- answered, "Of course."

"Can I make enough to offset what I'm losing from Shoreview?"

"Well...no...but...how does a half-million sound?"

"Bah. You're talking crazy."

"Raul, Mister Boja, I'm not blowing smoke. If you give me... _ahem_...invest...if you _invest_ , say, six hundred thousand dollars, I can turn it into one point eight million."

"It would take many million dollar bets to equal the worth of Shoreview."

"You can make a dent, Mister Boja."

"I make plenty of dents with other enterprises."

"I'm talking easy cash. Bing, bang, boom. One evening, one giant payout."

" _Humph,"_ Raul snorted. " _Humph_...you sound like a beggar."

"Only to reiterate you'd be leaving money on the table."

"Bah, I don't want to discuss leaving money on the table nonsense. I expected a concrete plan, Jim Reilly."

"I have a concrete plan. But if you want Cumberland trussed, money has to be spent. Vern, my brother, Butch, Kojak-"

"Kojak?"

"Kojak and his airplane."

"Ah..." Raul chuckled. "I understand. You dress your request as a payment for services. A robust advance, yes? However, I read between the lines. You want me to...what is it the name for someone who opens their coffer to a gambler?"

"He wants you to stake his game," Frankie yelled in the background.

"You desire a loan," Raul declared.

"A loan capable of earning _three times_ its value," Jim said.

Thereafter, Raul and Frankie engaged in a muffled conversation until, at last, Raul said: "Jim Reilly, my son believes this is a risk worth taking. But if I lose money-"

"Mister Boja, you won't lose a cent. _Trust me._ "

Jim heard a thud over the receiver and thought the old man had disconnected. But seconds later, Frankie's voice intoned:

"Father wants me to handle your business, Jim. Give me the details and..."

***

"Speak to me," hailed a jittery Brooksy.

"Kojak's flying to Memphis tonight," Jim said. "He'll call when he arrives, but expect to collect him at the AOC around midnight."

"He's carrying cash?"

"The old man's cash. Two roller bags and a flight kit full."

"How much?"

"Two rocks, which is the remainder of petty cash Raul Boja has at the moment."

"Wha?" Brooksy squealed. "Jesus...I don't know if I can handle two rocks."

"You better figure it out."

"Brah, there's no way Kojak's hauling a sixer north in three bags."

"Kojak will work in stages, meaning you have to babysit the money. I managed to finagle you seven, but the-"

"Seven? Seven out of...I mean...seven is fair. Like, I'd take more-"

"Shut the fuck up, moron," Jim interrupted. "You get what you get. Keep your hands off the rest. End of discussion."

"Hey, okay, I'm cool, I'm cool."

"You better be cool. And you better hope this shit doesn't go to pot. If it does-"

"Quit worrying, brah, and embrace the moment! Ain't this exciting? You're a party to one of the greatest jobs in sports history!"

"It hasn't happened yet."

"But it will, brah. _Trust me._ Now, I'd love to keep chatting, but I gotta get the get-go gettin'. I'll buzz when our friend arrives. Later, gator. And thanks again, Jimmy."

Click.

"Get the get-go, motherfucker," Jim said to nothingness.

Trust me.

Our pal had thrown in with the Cumberland bullshit because it served a means to end: he'd slay a monster from long ago and wouldn't it feel wonderful?

Powerful.

Freeing.

The money shenanigans...this be another story.

He felt no different than his father.

The revelation begat an urgent desire to stand under hot water.

***

He ambled downstairs in his uniform at a quarter past one and found Laura -in the study nestled into the Adirondack- reading a worn, dog-eared, _Spock on Parenting_. On the floor -next to her right foot- sat a Nike shoebox wearing a warped cardboard lid.

"Heh," he said. "I'm running a step behind. Is it okay if I take the leftovers from last night?"

She snapped the book shut, met his eyes, and then asked, "Jim, are you fucking around?"

His reaction -aided by an instant throbbing in his ears- be a gruff, "Huh?"

"Are. You. Fucking. Around?"

Heart still a-pounding, he twisted his face into sneer and rasped, "The fuck you talking about?"

"Where were you this morning when you were getting donuts?"

" _Getting donuts_. I brought 'em home. You saw 'em."

"Three hours later!"

"Laura-"

"I called your phone and it went straight to voicemail!"

"Butch and I had business so I turned-"

"What kind of business?"

"Work business."

"Meaning?"

"The _other_ work business," he whispered.

"Last night?"

"Work business."

"The secret phone calls? Yesterday on the porch? Today in our bedroom?"

"Christ, it's all work business."

" _Work business_ ," she jeered. " _Work business. Work business. Work business._ I bet if you say it a hundred times, you might believe it. Guess what? I won't."

"Call Butch. He'll tell you the same."

"Butch isn't a good character witness."

"Welp, it sounds as if you've made up your mind. When you want to have a rational discussion, let me know."

Laura nudged the shoebox with her foot and said, "I've received a dozen letters since February-"

_Motherfucker!_ Jim's brain roared.

"-you guess what they say?"

He shook his head and announced, "You know who sent them. Fuckin' Dumbo. The cunt...I pulled her over in December and she flipped out."

"They say," Laura continued in a sedate tone, "you've been screwing Gail Carter."

"Regina Cumberland's a nut. You said it yourself. Sending letters, messing with people, sticking her snout in everyone's business. Matter of fact..." He had a momentary urge to blab about Tom, Regina, the note sent to Gail, his involvement in the drama...and then decided his nosiness wouldn't appear endearing.

"Go on," she prodded.

"Matter of fact, I shouldn't have to defend myself against Dumbo's nonsense. Matter of fact, I'm pretty pissed you're using Dumbo's letters as proof of infidelity."

"Oh, I didn't believe it. But then we ran into her...Gail...yesterday at Wegmans, remember?"

"And?"

"Women's intuition kicked in."

"Get the fuck outta here. Letters and intuition are your proof?"

"How about the way you wouldn't look at her. The way she looked at you. The way her son blushed when he saw you. It's similar to how you're blushing now."

"The fuck? You're imagining things."

"The more I pick apart your behavior, the clearer things become."

"You wanna pick at something? Here's my phone. Have at it. I'm not hiding anything."

"What about your work phone?"

"My work phone is for work."

"Meaning you won't let me look at it."

"Meaning it's my _work_ phone."

"Hmm...how come you took two showers today?"

"The fuck," he scoffed. "Like, I'm done with this conversation."

"You didn't answer my question."

He took a step forward and stomped on the shoebox a dozen times until it looked like a two-dimensional, misshapen rectangle. "There's your fucking answer," he rumbled.

Laura jutted her chin and said, "I'm going to call her, Jim. I'm going to call Gail."

"Sure, show her how nutty you are."

"I don't care."

"You know, if you're not careful, you'll turn into Regina: fat and bitchy. Then maybe I will have a go with someone less crazy."

This got the blood rushing to her face.

Jim glared at her, gave the crushed box one last stomp for good measure and turned for the kitchen.

***

A "WINTER STORM WARNING" advisory flyer had been placed in his mailbox; he gave it a cursory glance and then pitched it in the trash. In fact, as he staggered from the mailbox to the break room, his mind roamed in another dimension.

He thought his responses to her accusation had been handled...good. Not great. Not excellent. Not bad.

_Good._ Muddled facial expressions, a hint of outrage, a few insults thrown in to express indignation.

And she did sound nutty. Even if Laura believed the notes and her gut feeling, what proof did she have?

I'm going to call her.

What if she did?

What would Gail say?

What if Laura phoned and Tom Carter picked up?

He couldn't deny all the running around and whatnot appeared hinkey.

And he did fuck Wetzel the Pretzel.

Fucked her multiple times.

But those days were over.

_It'll work itself out,_ his mind soothed. _Laura will realize she's a blathering idiot..._

Unless Wetzel the Pretzel or Mr. Pretzel spill the beans, brah. Then you're fucked, mama.

The real villain in the debacle was one Regina Cumberland. Jimmy had warned her, showed her _The Picture_ and yet the bitch thumbed her nose...

Regina Cumberland be a bad girl in need of a paddling. However, fixing a pat way to deal with Dumbo would have to wait.

Irritated and desiring zero small talk, he entered the breakroom and made a beeline for the coffee machine. Slouched in a plastic chair, Benny Wells feathered his mustache and gave a lackluster head nod. Despite B.W.'s sluggish demeanor, Jim knew small talk was an unavoidable fate; Officer Wells had (or has, at the time of this writing) what's known as the DOM: _Diarrhea Of (the) Mouth._

As our pal poured the tepid sludge into a dinky Styrofoam cup, B.W. cleared his throat and then said, "Hey, you watch sports, don't ya?"

Jim grabbed the coffee, made for the door and said over his shoulder: "I'm late, B.W."

"Who do you like in tomorrow's game? Memphis or Kansas?"

Halfway out the door, Jim barked, "Kansas!"

"I'm taking Memphis," B.W. informed Jim's wake. "They've only lost one game this season."

Bowling down the hall, he swung into Butch's office at the rear of the corridor. The Chief huddled over a cellphone and punched buttons; John Sterling's voice drifted from the silver, 80s-era boombox sitting atop a dented file cabinet.

Jim cleared his throat and knocked on the wall; Butch yelped, fumbled with the phone and then dropped it on the piss yellow, water stained carpet.

"Fuck, Reilly," Butch snapped. "You almost pushed breakfast and lunch outta my asshole."

"You speak to Kojak?"

"For a few minutes. He's flying to Memphis tonight."

"What did he say about the weather?"

"Mm...you know...he yakked circles..." Butch cleared his throat like an opera singer and then mimicked the pilot's nasally voice: _"High pressure over Ontario and a sub-tropical jet along with a deep trough will bring a strong chance for heavy snow Monday afternoon through Tuesday morning."_

"Good...good. There's one thing I can cross off the list."

"He said, _strong chance_."

"Better than no chance."

"Mm...so, uh, what's the plan if your brother doesn't show?"

Though the notion hadn't crossed Jim's mind, he maintained a poker face and said, "Richard will get here."

"Mm...if doesn't, we're screwed."

"Don't worry about Rich."

"Mm...I take it you don't have a Plan B."

"We don't need one."

"Mm..."

" _But_ we do need to discuss how we handle Dumbo."

"Mm...not now," Butch said, scooping his cell. "I got lady problems of my own. Give me thirty."

"Naw, I'm not spending the next half hour talking to B.W. Besides, I need to do a little scouting. I'll ring after I speak to Richard."

"Mm..." Butch droned through a smile turned all upside-down like.

***

An hour later, we find our old pal camped near the historical sign on CR21. Speed enforcement did not top a long list of growing concerns, and he slumped in the seat with the radar gun resting on his lap.

He resisted a desire to call Gail and warn her Laura was on the warpath. Talking to his concubine...it wouldn't have been a smooth move. The next thing he'd know, they'd be banging on the living room floor-

(Wetzel the Pretzel, brah)

-while Aiden watched from the second-floor landing.

_Let it roll, Mama,_ Dad chirped. _Laura's not calling Wetzel the Pretzel._

_I'd take them odds,_ Brooksy added.

The Pinstrippers were finishing up at home against the Devil Rays and Jim half-listened to John Sterling narrate the saga. Somebody named Chien-Ming Wang pitched six innings for the Yankees, two middle relievers laid a stone wall, and Mariano closed the book in the ninth. After Cliff Floyd struck out swinging to end the game -and while Sterling proclaimed in customary fashion, _"Da Yankeeeees win! Da Yankeeeees win!"-_ Jim put the cruiser into drive and joined CR21E.

Long shadows of dusk helped paint the kind of lunar landscape Jim expected to see the following evening...which be nothing. Nothing but the pinholes of light from the windows of a distant house punctured evening. He tried to calculate distance and concluded it sat miles south...although...maybe not miles. Maybe a half mile...or closer...but whatever. Jimmy couldn't make out anything concrete from his vantage point. And in reduced visibility, zilch would be discerned from the cheap seats.

The greatest threat came from rubberneckers. A motorist catching sight of a vehicle off the road and a local cruiser anchored near...bad news. Bad news turned to worse news if Isaac Brown was found wandering the road.

Short of closing 21, Jim concluded nothing could be done. He'd play the odds (like Brooksy urged) and -as Dad said- _let it roll, Mama_.

But there be a modicum of skill involved, too. Next to Mile Marker 3, the meager shoulder retreated at a sharp angle. Sixty, seventy degrees...almost straight into a muddy culvert. Snow would collect in the furrow, but not enough to stop Glen's vehicle from skidding into the rut. A wedged truck was good...but extracting his brother might prove difficult. And if Rich got cut by glass, left blood, lost a shoe...physical evidence of any sort...

Flipping a tight bitch and streaking west, he chewed on the problem and decided the only solution was to put the fear of a clinical, forensic John Law into Richard's brainpan.

What else could be done except cross fingers?

Passing the historical sign, Jim's phone sparked to life.

UNKNOWN, declared the caller ID.

He pulled over, turned on the rollers, and then answered, "What's the situation?"

"Hey...ah...Little Brother, it's me, Assblaster," said Richard in a hollow voice distorted by background noise.

Context and the certainty Richard had him on speaker invoked a curt: "Where are you, Assblaster?"

"Uh...we...we hit a snag, Little Brother. Snow around Cleveland...the freeway is a mess...we're still an hour east of Buffalo and moving slow. Doubt we'll make your neck of the woods until late. I think it'd be better to arrange the hoedown tomorrow. Papabear and I are exhausted."

"I'll let my people know. Call me in the morning."

"Will do. I...I hope this doesn't muck the works."

"I'm flexible, Assblaster. Just be careful on those slippery roads, you hear? I have big plans."

"I hear ya, mama. I can't...I mean _we_...we can't wait."

***

Richard thumbed the "speaker" button and then dropped the phone in his duffel.

"He sounded mad," Brown said.

"Little Brother? No, way, Papa. He's cool. Cool as a cucumber."

"I'd hate to come all this way and get screwed at the last moment. Or not screwed," Brown chuckled. "Not screwed would be bad."

Before they plunged into a wall of snow east of Cleveland, Brown's sexual energy reached peak perversion: he talked of making movies and giving the children his brand of affection. _'I can't wait to love them,'_ he gushed. _'I can't wait to see their faces glow.'_

Needless to say, Richard almost lost his shit.

But the randy talk dissipated when the snow started falling.

Lickety-split, the road turned to shit. Stranded cars littered the shoulder; a few vehicles snuggled with guardrails. The Audi slewed like an expensive sled but Brown didn't seem phased. "I've driven in snow before," the molester declared. "This isn't anything to worry about, pardner."

Richard begged to differ, but his experience with inclement weather began and ended with rain. Petrified, he cinched the safety belt tight against his chest and dug fingernails into the dash. At a pedestrian thirty miles per hour, they joined a convoy of sluggish traffic in the right lane. Meanwhile, tractor trailers passed on the left, hauling ass, spraying clumpy slush from every one of their eighteen wheels.

The snow thickened west of Erie until it looked like they were inside a snow globe. Brown, hunched over the steering wheel, stared through a windshield so caked in sludge, the hazard lights of the car in front of them disappeared with each downward slap of the wipers. When the wipers made their stressed climb up the glass, the blinking yellow lights reappeared. Relative distance couldn't be measured, but Richard was certain one of the upstrokes would reveal the full ass of the car in front of them. He pictured a collision a tad worse than a fender-bender and resigned himself to the inevitable.

Five hours later, they punctured the eastern boundary of the weather unscathed. Though the conditions improved, traffic moved slow; after doing math on his jittery fingers, Richard phoned Little Brother to deliver the bad news. Brown insisted on listening to the conversation but Jimmy had been perceptive. Exhausted in the aftermath of both the journey and phone call, Richard slumped in the bucket seat and closed eyes.

"Say, pardner," Brown said. "Are you heading somewhere after this?"

The question caught Richard by surprise. He hadn't considered what came _after this_ ; _after this_ didn't register in the ole cráneo. His plans ended when he arrived in Canesoanke. Maybe he'd get lucky and the Almighty would wave its magic wand. _Poof._ Richard Reilly...puffed out of existence...or turned into a mist...a mist with his face...and a mouth...a zesty vapor, mama. A roaming, zesty vapor composed of pot smoke and sworn to protect humanity. _Puff-Puff,_ the smoky warrior...

SuperSmoke! Friday's on ABC following Blue Thunder. Check your local listings, mama.

"Hey," Brown nagged, "you okay?"

Richard shook his head and said, "I'm...no, I'm not feeling well."

"I asked if you're heading somewhere after-"

"I don't know."

"If you are, I'd join you for a spell. I don't care where we go so long as it's not Arizona."

"How 'bout we...we discuss it later. I need to close my eyes."

"Yeah...yeah, smart. No sense rushing into the future, eh, pardner?"

Though it sounded like the SI ironic statement, Richard couldn't help hisself: "Good things come to those who wait, Papa."

***

Laura's car wasn't in the garage and this, Dear Diary, lit his short, frayed fuse.

"You bitch," he hissed, bounding up the stairs two-at-a-time.

He charged into Jimmy's room and found an empty bed.

"You bitch," he said.

It seemed pointless to check Johnny's room, but he did. And it seemed even more pointless to check the master bedroom.

But he did.

And he found nothing.

"You bitch," he said to the mussed comforter.

He knew where Laura sought sanctuary and went so far as to remove the cordless from its base. Yes, Jim would give his wife a hearty tongue lashing. Next, he'd spit fire at Mother Pine. Laura's frigid mother didn't bother to hide her dislike of our hero: shifty eyes and/or curled upper lip and/or crumpled brow projected a loathing reserved for Hitler-esque villains and lousy son-in-law's.

"You bitch," he said, stabbing nine.

"You bitch," he said, stabbing four.

"You...fuck me," he said under his breath.

The clock on Laura's nightstand kicked commonsense (or enough of it) into his groin: _03:12 AM._ Nothing good would come of a phone call at _03:12_. He'd get hotter, drive to the Pine's split-level in his prowler, scream, yell, make a scene...in front of his kids...in front of neighbors...

"You bitch," he said, tossing the phone onto the floor.

On top of everything...

"You bitch," he said, walking downstairs.

"You bitch," he said, opening the fridge.

"You bitch," he said, counting the cans of beer in his head. One, two, three...nine.

"You bitch," he said, gathering said cans.

"You bitch," he said, cuddling them against his chest.

"You bitch," he said, moseying to the sliding glass door.

"You bitch," he said, as three cans fell to the hardwood.

Though it took some finagling, he made it outside without losing another cold one. Dropping his ass on a splintery step, he assembled the cans in a line behind him (the three shaken not stirred positioned at the rear), and then twisted his head at the heavens.

The moon bled bright gray; tree limbs cast fuzzy shadows on the grass.

Jimmy cracked numero uno, raised the can into the air and toasted, "You bitch."

He drained the Genny in seconds...grabbed another...crack, toast, drain.

And another.

And another.

And another.

After five brewskis, verbal oaths became an internal dialogue:

You bitch, leaving with my kids.

You bitch, dragging me to this incestuous town.

You bitch, with your stupid BC pill what shits the bed.

You bitch, with your letters.

You bitch, with your Cypriot b and s.

You bitch, with your brahs, and trust me's, and gambling problem.

You bitch, travelling across the country.

You bitch, and your Hampton ties.

You bitch, for being Isaac Brown's bitch.

When the beer went dry, he found whiskey in the pantry -five fingers tall- and poured it all into a plastic, sixteen-ounce Yankees souvenir glass he bought for twelve dollars at the Cathedral of Baseball. They spent a weekend the previous August in the Big Apple, but Jim couldn't remember much of the trip because he be drunk for all of it. Hammered up, he _allegedly_ made an ass of himself at a fancypants restaurant in front of Fred and Missy White. Laura gave him shit for weeks afterwards...

"You bich," he said, after slamming three of the five fingers.

"You bich, haulin' me to dinna with Missy and...and waz his name," he slurred, stumbling outside to sit in the silver light.

"You bich, the cathedral of bass-ball and yer stoopid, overprizzzed drinks," he said.

"You bitch," the moon answered.

Jimmy pulled the comedic doubletake.

"Yeh, I'm talkin' to you, bitch," the moon said.

"Ex-ex...cuse me?" Jim asked with sass. "Who yew callin' a bich, bich?

"Duh! You, bitch!"

"Ho-kay, bich. I'll show yew...wat a bich be!" He threw the cup aside, stood...fumbled to unstrap his firearm...drew the Glock 17, aimed at the cratered face and thumbed the safety. "Yew wanna say sumptin else, bich?" he asked, squeezing his left eye shut.

Magic-like, Regina Cumberland's fat face materialized on the Sea of Tranquility. "You're my bitch," she sneered. "I made Glen my bitch, and Tom Carter my bitch, and now I've made you my bitch. Good luck with your life, bitch. Ha...ha...ha!"

His retort? Five bullets into her cranium.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

A five fucking tap.

Yet the moon hung in the sky. It shoulda shattered, fell in pieces...something.

"You bich," he said, squeezing the trigger...

Bang!

And another one...

Bang!

Distant coyotes howled.

The moon loomed.

Unharmed moon.

"Fuck it, and fuck yew, bich," he said, pitching the Glock into shrubbery.

Swaying, he spun and then zigzagged to...
Bojangles

...Poughkeepsie. To their left, bordered by the green, sloping hills of the Hudson Valley, the River -a flat calm- glittered in the July sunlight through air so clear, the stanchions of West Point were visible.

On _rare_ days, the drive took an hour and a half from the Big Apple.

On _typical_ days, one could expect two hours of parkway stop-n-go.

But when the traffic _sucked eggs_ , three hours _plus_ be the damage to body and soul.

They were enduring one of them suck egg commutes, but she expected as much. Summer multiplied by a mid-morning Thursday equaled a suck egg commute to the fourth power.

She yawned, stroked Jim's neck, felt him stiffen...

If nothing else, the go-slowing would allow her to ratchet tension.

_Foreplay before foreplay,_ her mind whispered.

After a stroll through Marist sandwiched by hours in the car, he'd be good and ready to call it a night in Albany.

And in Albany...

Welp, Dear Diary, she had kinky designs in mind. Nothing crazy, of course. No whips and whatnots. Just straight up banging with a little Bojangles to get the lead out. She wasn't sure Jim would partake, but he looked like a partier. And the cop portion of his background didn't mean bupkes because she knew _plenty_ of cops who had zero issues snorting the Bojangles.

Besides, he wasn't even a _real_ cop...not yet, anyway. He called himself a shore patrolman or something...

***

They exchanged numbers at Milo's, but he seemed less than interested. Brooks, Brooksy...whatever his name...had been aggressive, but he wasn't her type, not by a long shot, and she tried to pawn his advances on a reluctant Missy. As far as Jim went, she would've fucked the bejeezus out of him in the john of Milo's but...easy come, easy go.

Yet, to her surprise, he phoned a week later and left a short message. Laura decided to make him suffer a bit and waited days before returning his call. They made mundane chatter and she invited him to the Big Apple for the second weekend in June, but he declined... _something-something_ about guard duty or _something-something_. He visited at the end of the month and they had a pleasant, tame date. She dragged him around the City -Twin Towers, Times Square, Central Park- and then to dinner in the Village. Later at her apartment, she pushed chips all-in and made it crystal clear he could spend the evening, no strings. But Jim balked -she knew the type although they were rare- and the make out session didn't exceed slack groping. Missy, in the next room, made the atmosphere less than an intimate...but workable. To Jim's credit, he kissed like a champ, which added a tang of anticipation.

July arrived, and along with the steamy weather came her five-year high school reunion. Laura hadn't planned on attending because five years didn't seem like a big deal...but then she had a clever idea: What better way to make _Him_ jealous then by showing off her latest, greatest boy toy? Though it sounded petty...well, Dear Diary, she meant to be petty. Five years had passed and yet thinking of _Him_ drove nails into her skull. Now she'd drive a small nail into _His_ head with Jim's hammer.

Ugh, _Bradley._

Thanks to _Bradley_ , Laura adopted a jaded view of relationships. She reckoned love a mythological creature so rare, only luck be capable of capturing the beast. Bible thumpers and those longing for Mr. Right could wrestle with the romance baloney. She'd been there, done it, and didn't have _any_ interest in the Mr. Right fairytale.

Bradley.

_Bradley_ but call me _Butch_.

Butch...

She wished upon a star, wished hard, _Butch_ would catch the clap.

' _Please, Lord, bless Bradley Weinager with crotch rot,'_ she prayed, every night, before closing eyes.

To think she wasted her freshman year at Marist pining over _His_ photograph -framed and hung in her dorm room like the fucking Pope- while _He_ banged three quarters of the sluts in Canesoanke too stupid to get into college! Pardon Laura Pine if she wasn't searching for love. If anybody had a problem with her liberal sexuality, they could sit on a tack.

Jim Reilly might be a good lay; he might be lousy. He might not call her again after the long weekend; she might not call him. Either way, she wouldn't lose any sleep. Next summer she'd be in Italy, having fun, screwing Gabriel, sunning her tits on the Mediterranean, drinking Italian wine and inhaling primo Corsican blow. As for Jim...what did he say? She half-listened over dinner in the Village, nodding her head in time to his voice.

He talked about getting out of the Navy in March and moving to Memphis. _Why Memphis?_ she asked, to which Jim replied _something-something_ interviewed with the police department _something-something_ and received an academy class date the following April...it all amounted to a bunch of _something-somethings_ she didn't care about. Two things she knew: cops didn't make much money and they got shot. And Memphis? Laura pictured fat, sweaty Elvis stuffed into a white jumpsuit. Elvis died on the toilet in Memphis; MLK got assassinated in Memphis. What else happened in Memphis? Zippo. Or, at the least, nothing she-

***

"Hey," Jim said, breaking her train of thought. "On the way back, I'd like to stop in Saratoga. I've always wanted to see the racetrack."

"Racetrack?"

"Saratoga Springs."

"What's Saratoga Springs? NASCAR or...?"

"Horseracing. You ever heard of the Traver's Stakes?"

"Um..." she said, removing her hand from his neck. "Like...I'm not into horseracing. If you want to stay another day, we can find something to do in Manhattan. Anyway, I've heard Saratoga's expensive this time of year."

"No more expensive than an extra day in New York City. If you're worried, money isn't a problem."

She recalled he appeared to be doing fine in the cash department. He paid for everything -not unusual- but she caught sight of his roll when he squared the bill for dinner and marveled at its size. He didn't carry a wallet, and hundreds wrapped around each other in a tight bundle held in place by a frayed rubber band. It wasn't normal for people to walk around with this much bread in Laura's world. Her friends were starving artists or grad students struggling to cough up enough to pay rent.

Nevertheless, visiting a horse track in Saratoga sounded like an _enormous_ waste of time.

"I'll think about Saratoga," she said. "But, um...Canesoanke's four hours from Albany on a good day and the parkway doesn't look promising."

"And?

"I figure...after stopping for lunch and then dealing with the traffic...we won't arrive before eleven."

"No problem. I'll power through."

She rubbed his arm and said, "You're doing a good job, but I don't mind stopping. No need to push it."

"You don't want to get there tonight?"

She shrugged and smiled. His eyes returned to the road.

"Besides," she said, "I hate spending hours in the car."

He looked at her and said, "10-4. You're the boss, mama."

***

After grabbing provisions at Wegmans, they drove along Waterworks and lunched at Longview Park. Marist's handsome campus spread in both directions along the east side of the Hudson; Jim sat cross-legged with a sixer of Michelob while Laura made inane chatter about the school.

"Looks like an expensive place," he remarked, watching seagulls glide overhead.

"It's not cheap. I got some scholarship money, but my parents took the burden. Where'd you go to college?"

"Me?" he chuckled. "I haven't had the pleasure."

"I thought you got a degree in the Navy."

"There's a reason I'm an enlisted slug."

"What about the college bill...whatever it's called..."

"The G.I. Bill? Sure, I have it coming. Thing is, I hate school."

"Why?"

"High school bored the shit out of me, or I'm too stupid to understand geometry and history and all the rest. You're staring at a straight C-minus student from the ninth grade 'til I graduated. Matter of fact, I went to a grand total of a dozen classes my senior year. College? Forget it. Even if I cared, and I didn't, I had no money for community college, let alone a place like this. After a year of flipping burgers, I enlisted. 'Course, part of my paycheck goes to the G.I. Bill. If I don't use it, I'll be throwing money away. And if I want to a hold a gold shield, I'll need a degree. Seems stupid to me, you know? I mean, if Brooksy can get a college diploma, what good are they?"

"Gold shield?"

"Detective. Gotta have a four year for a gold shield."

"Is, like, being a cop a lifelong dream of yours?"

He emptied the beer down his throat, shook his head...and then belched.

"I'll take that as a _no_ ," she laughed.

"Good guess."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"I gotta earn a living."

"Seems like a dangerous way to earn a living, especially if it you don't like the job."

"I never said I didn't like the job. You asked if being a cop is my lifelong dream; I answered no. But since I'm doing it, I'm gonna make the best of the situation."

"You can't deny it's dangerous."

"No more dangerous than anything else."

"The chances are small I'll get shot giving tours in the Met."

"There's still a chance."

"A teeny one."

"Something's bound to kill ya, right? A bullet, Lou Gehrig's Disease, a stupid traffic accident...countless ends, some terrible and some worse than terrible."

"Okay, this isn't what I'd call picnic conversation, Jim."

"Sorry," he said with zero suggestion of remorse. "Sometimes I can't help myself. I've seen enough to know the world's a fucked-up place."

She frowned, picked a blade of grass, and then said, "My grandfather died of leukemia. It didn't take long, but I saw enough. My father told me to remember the good times, and I do, but I'll never forget the day Pops died. When we were driving home from the hospital, do you know what came on the radio? Huey Lewis. 'If This Is It'. Crazy, huh?"

"You want to talk about crazy? When my father shit the bed, he-"

"Shit the bed?"

Jim twisted open another beer, scratched the label with the bottle top and said: "His liver exploded. It's called hemorrhaging esophageal varices. Too much of this stuff," he said, raising the Michelob.

Laura grimaced and then said, "Sounds awful."

"Ain't no fuckin' picnic. He was watching television when it happened. One second he's in the easy chair, the next he's on the floor, holding his stomach, hurling like...gallons of blood. My brother drove him to the hospital and Dad painted the inside of Richard's Datsun. It was a pointless trip. The nurses and doctors...they couldn't do anything for him. His insides were toast. This one doc...he pulled me and my brother aside and said, 'It's like an atom bomb's exploding in your father's gut. On a pain scale, he's at a million and climbing.' So...yeah, good times."

"Jeez...how old were you?"

"Let's see...umm...sixteen, I guess. A sophomore in high school."

"What a terrible experience," she whispered.

"Mm...well, whadda gonna do? Dad drank like a fish. Years and years of fifths don't do pleasant things to the body."

"No, I meant it had to be a terrible experience for you."

"You get what you get," Jim said, brushing his hands. "Anyway...we should get going, don't you think?"

***

Thunderstorms rolled in during the late afternoon, and heavy rain fell after they crossed the Hudson on the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. Buckets of precip, road construction and numerous fender-benders turned 87 North into a tangle of slow-moving vehicles.

During a protracted sit, Jim rubbed his forehead and said, "I've had it with the traffic. I guess stopping for the evening isn't a bad idea."

Outside Albany, they found shelter at a Holiday Inn housing an indoor pool. He desired to cool off with a swim; Laura deferred and said she'd venture out and scrounge dinner.

When Jim returned to the room a half-hour later, he found a handwritten missive next to black lingerie.

_Use ur imagination,_ the note taunted.

He picked up the underwear and grinned. Shit, she'd been beggin' for his D from the get-go, mama. When he saw her at Milo's, it took every ounce of self-control to keep his tongue off the floor. The slender but busty redhead batted doe eyes and licked lips; he pictured her in a thousand positions. He'd tear her apart given the chance and almost went for it in the City, but Laura's nosy roommate loitered on the other side of the plywood bedroom door.

Now he had no excuses to avoid getting wet, nor would he devise any. Pecker at half-mast, he jumped into the shower and washed the smell of chlorine off his skin.

Ten minutes later, Jimmy emerged from the steamy bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He expected to find her spread across the bed in nothing but lace; instead, she bent over a bureau with a straw up her nose.

"The fuck you doing?" Jim squawked.

She answered with a raspy snort and then raised her head. A trace of white decorated her upper lip; three, two-inch snowy lines contrasted against the desk's dark surface. "I brought a little Bojangles," she said, while pinching her nose. "Help yourself."

Jim crossed the room, squinted at the powder, and then asked, "Is this blow, or are you riding the horse?"

"The horse?"

"Heroin?"

"Gawd no!" she scoffed.

"What the hell you call it?"

"Bojangles?"

"Blow-jangles?"

"Bo-jangles."

"But it's blow, right?"

"Yeah, coke. You want a hit?"

Jim patted a smidge on a finger and tasted it with a reptilian flicker of his tongue. He had blasted cocaine up his nose a few times while on leave, but the risk of getting a random whiz quiz from Uncle Sammy dissuaded him from being a frequent user (or abuser) of the substance. And the name... _Bojangles_. He knew coke as sugar, glitter, thunderbang or snow. Maybe they called it something different in the Big Apple.

"You don't have to," she said. "I just thought it'd make the night interesting."

"Christ, I'd have never pegged you as a whiffer."

"A whiffer?"

"A coker."

"Because I'm so demure? I like to have a good time, Jim."

And so did he. Plus, when in Rome and looking a gift horse...and all the rest. As usual, commonsense flew the coop. He pushed the straw aside and inhaled a line up his right nostril; the detonation of Bojangles numbed his face. In the confection of oomph and clarity, Jim fashioned a simple thought: _Brooksy needs to get his hands on this shit._

Laura pinched his cheek and asked, "Good, huh?"

"Goddamn," he panted. "Can you get more of this?"

"Shh..." she whispered, running a finger down his hairy chest. "No more talking, handsome..."

***

The foreplay was rambunctious, but they spent a symbolic amount of time exploring each other. He started with her tits, sucked her nipples and then slid his tongue down her stomach; she moaned and crossed her legs around his back. His mouth moved further south until he had the waistband of her panties in his teeth. Aptly stroked, she rolled him over and opened the towel. His cock shot out like a catapult, full attention, reporting for duty. The ridiculous appendage knew what it wanted, and it wanted it post hasty!

The uncomfortable discussion of protection was almost non-existent, an afterthought in the heat of the moment. She stood, wiggled out of the panties, kicked them aside before crawling onto him.

"I'm on the pill," she said before biting his lip.

"Wonderful," he groaned.

He had an inkling of foreboding as his D entered her V, but by then it be too late. Once Laura's long legs cinched his torso into the cordiality of her body, Jim went to town...they both went to town...and how. Stimulated by snorts of Bojangles, they copulated four times that fateful night and fell asleep, at last, on the besmirched sheets.

And there you have it: Jim and Laura made a baby.

***

"We're not gonna be able to screw at my parents," Laura told him as they passed Syracuse. "They'd kill me if we tried any funny business."

Jimmy didn't bother to respond. Screwing was the last thing on his mind; he'd done enough screwing the previous evening to build a city. Besides, the blow did more than stir his libido...

"My mother would kill me if we tried any funny business," she added, rubbing the inside of his thigh. "But I was thinking: if you want to visit Saratoga, I'm..."

His mind was elsewhere; he pursed lips, stared down the road and relived the mind clearing blast of powder:

Sniff. Inhale. Whooshy.

Sniff. Inhale. Whooshy.

Sniff. In-

Laura prodded with an elbow to his ribs until he twisted his head in her direction. "I asked if you still wanna go to Saratoga," she said. "I'm game if you-"

He interrupted, "The...whatchacallit? The high-test blow?"

"Bojangles."

"What's with the name?"

"The guy who sells it...his last name is Boja."

" _Jangles_?"

"I guess because it makes you dance like the song."

"What song?"

"The Bojangles song."

"Huh?"

"You've never heard of 'Mister Bojangles'?"

"It doesn't matter. Is Boja your dealer in the n-why-see?"

She gave him the side-eye and asked, "Why?"

"Any chance of getting more?"

"I went to high school with Frank Boja. If I want more, I can get more."

"The fuck?" he laughed. "You know the dealer?"

"Like... _sorta_ , I mean. I _sorta_ know him. We don't hang out together or anything."

"But he lives here?"

"Near enough."

"Then what's the story? You come home to restock every weekend?"

"No, every _month_ I come home to see my family."

"And restock."

She giggled and then said, "I don't need to come home for Bojangles."

"Hm?"

"Forget it," she said, waving a hand.

"Ah...a top-secret operation, eh?"

"It's not like...Frankie sells _a little_ on the side. He's not Pablo Escobar."

Jim cocked an eyebrow and remarked, "Pablo Escobar said he wasn't Pablo Escobar."

"You know what I mean. Frankie enjoys partying. So what? In fact, we might see him this weekend at Ginn's or the Sandtrap-"

_Peddling his product,_ Jim thought.

"-reminds me: I need to give you the lowdown on a few people."

"How 'bout introducing me to Frank."

"I...I don't-"

"I'm sure he'd appreciate the business."

"You're not from around here, handsome. Frank might get weird if you ask him about Bojangles."

" _Then_ , you put in a good word for me."

She nibbled on a fingernail and then said, " _If_ I see Frankie, I'll point him out to you. The rest is your business."

***

He steered the Mazda off the thruway, through the EZ-Pass Lane, and continued south. In a no-nonsense tone, she briefed particulars like he was piloting a B-17 on a bombing mission over Nazi Germany: "We're on Route 332, also known as New York Road. When we get to the village, 332 turns into Main Street. Thirty is the speed limit. The city cops have nothing better to do than write tickets so watch your speed. Also, pedestrians _always_ have the right-of-way in the crosswalks. Always. Even if they jump out at the last second...Jim, this is important."

"I'm listening."

"You have to let them cross."

"Got it. Thirty on the speed, avoid vehicular manslaughter, and we should be golden. I have yet to kill a pedestrian in my driving career and intend to keep it this way."

"Groovy. We'll take Main through town and you'll catch a nice view of Canesoanke Lake."

"Big lake?"

"Twenty-five miles long, five miles wide, give or take. It's one of the Finger Lakes. Ginn's, the place we're going for cocktails tonight, has a lounge on the north shore. We can stroll the beach, get ice cream, sit on the pier, look at the stars."

"Sounds splendid."

" _It is_ splendid. The lake, boating, concerts at the clamshell...I had a lot of fun as a kid."

"You sound like you're trying to sell me property."

"Well, I like it here. Someday I'll move back. I'm a small-town girl with small town dreams."

He laughed and then said, "Are you're quoting a Mellencamp song? You want a pink house, too?"

"Oh, fuck off," she giggled. "I'm a social butterfly. The Big Apple is spread out and the subways are gross. I like getting from one end of town to the other in an afternoon."

"How big of a place is...um...Cane-sunk?"

" _Cane-sown-key_ ," she corrected for about the hundredth time.

"Whatever."

"No, not _whatever_. You need to get the name right."

"Okay, how big is _Cane-sown-key_?"

"Ten thousand people, give or take. County seat of Ontario County. Most of the big money people live around the lake, which is where you'll find the vineyards. The local wines are fabulous. Anthony Road, Fox Run, Boja Vendimia, Purhogros-"

"Whoa, hold on, chief. Did you say Boja? The same Boja as-"

"The same. In fact, Raul Boja -Frank's father- owns a quarter of the land around the northeast part of the lake."

"The resident drug lords fortress?"

"He's not a drug lord, Jim."

"Wine and Bojangles ain't crackerjack."

"The Bojangles isn't the Bojas business."

"What's their business?"

"Wine, sanitation, an Argentinian restaurant in town, a laundromat in Geneva or...maybe it's Toomey's Corner. I can't remember."

"Ah...waste management. A bastion of integrity."

"I know what you're thinking."

"Do tell."

"Raul Boja isn't in the mob."

"Sure," he said, twisting his head in her direction. "And Frank pushes...what did you say? _A little_ on the side?"

"Jim, stop."

"Because-"

"STOP!" she screeched.

He swung his head left, saw the bright red octagon and laid on the brakes; the Mazda screeched and skidded to a halt.

"Fuck," she exhaled. "I thought you said you weren't trying to kill anybody."

"Not used to stop signs where I'm from," he replied. A quick scan right-to-left, left-to-right...and then Jim saw the green road sign erected on the shoulder:

A white arrow pointed up -straight ahead- followed by (in white characters) _Canesonake 5_. Beneath, next to an arrow pointing left: _Palmyra 6._

"Oh," he grunted. "Oh, I get it."

"Get what?"

Jim snorted again, gunned the car, spun tires, and shot through the intersection.

"Jesus!" Laura hollered. "Take it easy! What the hell's your problem?"

"I knew it. I knew why the hair stood on the back of my neck when we got off the thruway. I swear, I have a sixth sense about things."

"About what?"

"Palmyra. Birthplace of the LDS."

"LSD?"

"LDS. Latter-day Saints."

"Okay...and what's a Letter Day Saints?"

" _Latter-day Saints_ ," he said in frustration. "Mormons, Laura. The charlatan who founded their cult was from Palmyra. The tablets of their...it's like their Bible...were dug out of the soil there."

"If you say so."

"I can't believe you've never heard of the Latter-day Saints. You grew up next door to their holy land!"

She shrugged and said, "They aren't a big deal, I guess. How do you know about them?"

"There's a reason I'm never moving back to Phoenix and it has nothing to do with the heat. Our neighbors were polygamists, right down to the old school Fundamentalist garb. I'm convinced the only reason Joseph Smith invented his religion was to get laid."

" _Pfft._ Come on, Jim."

"I'm serious. Those people are crazy. Magic underwear, multiple wives...they believe the Garden of Eden was or is...whatever...in Missouri. Hell, our neighbors had chickens they'd let run around the neighborhood. And the rooster didn't know day from night. It'd crow all the fucking time. Stupidest rooster in the history of roosters."

"There are weird people everywhere. The people across the street used sheets as curtains."

"No...no, it's not the same thing. Forget the constant visits from missionaries looking to convert us heathenish Reillys...try havin' a Mormon teacher in school. Instead of learning French, I'd sit through lectures on the End Days. Sound like fun? _And_...and they had their seminary on school grounds. School grounds!"

"Wow, how crazy...I guess."

" _You guess_? I went to public school, Laura. Ever heard of the separation of church and state?"

"I thought you didn't care about school."

"You're missing my point."

"Which is?"

"My point is, fuck Mormons," he gnashed. "Buncha coocoos."

"All right, calm down. If it makes you feel better, you don't have to worry about Mormons in Canesoanke. There aren't any, and if there are, they keep to themselves. Now the Catholics on the other hand..."

"I don't have a problem with Catholics."

"You're going to have a problem with the police if you don't slow down," she warned as they approached the town boundary. At once, the speed limit dropped from fifty-five to thirty. He eased off the gas and tapped the brake; the Mazda passed abeam the WELCOME TO CANOSANKE sign at a prudent thirty-two miles per hour. As Laura prophesied, a black and white idled in the Tim Horton's parking lot.

"I told you," she said. "The police have nothing better to do than write tickets."

"Small towns make their money off chintzy tickets."

"I know how it works. My ex-boyfriend is a cop. _Bradley._ _Uch_."

"He break your heart?"

"God no! He's a cheating shithead. Believe me, I'm glad I figured out the truth sooner rather than later."

"Haven't you heard? All cops are assholes...present company excluded."

"Bradley's a special kind of asshole. His dad's the chief and Bradley thinks he runs the town. The depressing part? Someday he will be chief and he _will_ run the town."

"All right, I read you five-by-five. I'll just putter along at thirty. I'd hate to get stopped by Bradley. He might throw the book at me."

"You might meet him anyway," she said, patting Jim on his right shoulder. "He graduated the year before me, but Bradley enjoys making public appearances. The moron thinks he's God's gift to women. I wouldn't be surprised to see him at the mixer or dinner tomorrow night."

But Bradley did naught appear, which be fine and dandy with Jim. He had other business to tackle and its name was...
Gail, November 2007

... _Wetzel the Pretzel, brah,_ the devil on his left shoulder -a devil what sounded like Brooksy- whispered _._

_Stop it,_ ordered the angel -an angel what whispered instead of ordered- on the other blade.

Clearing his throat, Officer Reilly adjusted the utility belt and then smoothed the front of his uniform as the twenty second graders dashed around the classroom. Kid number twenty-one, the introspective Jimmy Reilly, sat in his chair and rolled a crayon between slim fingers.

"They have lots of energy after lunch," Mrs. Carter explained. "At least they're able to get outside for recess and expend some of the oomph."

"This is _after_ recess?" Jim asked. "Good lord, do they ever calm down?"

"You think it's bad? They won't get outside as much when winter arrives. Imagine these monsters cooped up for days on end. I'll take the nice weather when I can get it."

Mrs. Carter stepped from Jim's side, clapped her hands and said, "Citizens, everyone to their assigned seats. We have another visitor for..."

Meantime, Jim meandered into a corner, observed the slender, attractive blond Laura claimed was known as _Wetzel the Pretzel_ , and attempted to conjure non-pornographic thoughts...

***

The juicy gossip was delivered while driving home after September's open house:

"I don't think she remembers me," Laura said.

"Who?"

"Jimmy's teacher, Gail Carter. She used to be Gail Wetzel. I think she's a year...no...two years younger than me. People called her Wetzel the Pretzel."

"Wetzel the Pretzel?"

"You know how teenagers are. She had a reputation, real catty stuff, but I doubt any of it's true. Her husband, on the other hand...if anyone deserved a reputation, it's Tom Carter. Or, perhaps, he still deserves it."

"What's his deal?"

"Tom's one of Bradley's friends, which means he's a pig," Laura said, as she stared out the window. "I never liked Tom. He tried to put the moves on me once. Real aggressive, the jerk. Gail seems nice, though. She had nothing but good things to say about Jimmy..."

While Laura babbled about her firstborn's glowing report, a sneaky voice chirped in Jimmy's head: _Wetzel the Pretzel. Wetzel the Pretzel. Wetzel the Pretzel_...

***

"This is Officer Reilly," Wetzel the Pretzel said, interrupting Jim's thoughts. "He's a policeman. Earlier, we were visited by Hannah's father. Does anybody remember what..."

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

Stop it.

"...and then we had Chad's father. Does anybody remember what he does? Anybody? What about you Trevor? Do you remember..."

Sad to say, but in twenty-five months as a member of the Canesoanke Police Department, his most dangerous assignment was standing in front of twenty-one primary school students. Even sadder? If it were up to him, he'd be nestled safe at his speed trap, stuffing his mouth with chew, whittling away another boring day. But no, Butch had bullied him into attending the career day bullshit by labelling it a _rite of passage_.

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

Stop it.

Being moribund in Canesoanke hadn't been good or bad. It just...was. The job? Easy peasy. His family life? Never better. Nice house in the country, several acres...even Butchy turned into an amicable fella once Jim got to know him; they often met at Calhoun's, split a pitcher, and shot pool. So long as the Bojangles found its way to Geneva, Honeoye, Seneca Falls, Manchester, Shortsville...any number of Podunk bergs littering the Finger Lakes region...Raul Boja never pestered...

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

Stop it.

...yet, despite the simplicity and though it sounded cliché, he missed the excitement of real policing. Writing tickets got to be a drag. The excuses, pleas, curses...blah blah blah...

I'm _bored_ , Jim concluded. I'm _bored_ and I'm always gonna be _bored_. I'm stuck in Canesoanke until the sun explodes and even then, I'm still gonna be _bored_.

Betcha Wetzel the Pretzel ain't boring, brah.

Stop it.

_Bored_ is the way it's gonna be from here on out, Jimmy. Best embrace the future. Now, stop thinking about eating Gail Carter's snatch and embrace boredom.

_But she's Wetzel the Pretzel, brah_.

Stop it.

In an attempt to clear his head, he studied the faces of the students as Mrs. Carter lectured in a singsong voice. The girls followed her words and gesticulations; most of the boys were preoccupied with other things. Two of 'em kicked each other under the desks; one boy stared at the clock and picked his nose.

_Here we have a future drunk,_ Jim thought.

Another poked a girl sitting next to him with his pencil.

_Future rapist,_ his mind concluded.

Then he considered his own boy and-

"...and here's Officer Reilly," Mrs. Carter said, stepping aside.

Jim be in the spotlight, boy howdy. He uncrossed his arms, forced a smile across his mug, and then cleared his throat.

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

Stop it.

Before he could begin, a tousled boy in the back stood blurted: "Did you ever shoot your gun?"

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

Stop it.

"Did you ever shoot your gun?" the child repeated with peevish insistence.

Jim laid a hand on the holstered Glock 17 and said, "All police officers shoot their guns."

"I mean at people."

Care for a demonstration? Go stand next to the chalkboard, brah.

"Did you shoot people?" the little shit demanded.

"Yes," Jim answered, crossing arms.

"Were they bad guys?"

"Yes."

"Did you kill them?"

He gave the teacher the side-eye and shrugged.

Mrs. Carter snapped her fingers and said, "Trevor, enough with the questions. Let's allow Officer Reilly to talk about his job."

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

Stop it.

***

"Tough crowd," he told her afterwards.

"You did well. We get parents here with tedious jobs. Lawyers, grocery store workers, truck drivers, etcetera. You should feel flattered they asked so many questions. It means they're interested and engaged."

He scrutinized the children as they pasted shapes onto construction paper. The line between mayhem and order, however hazy, appeared to be the teacher and Elmer's Glue.

"I don't know how you do it," he confessed. "I'd be splitting a yardstick on my first day over a behind."

"You ought to talk. I couldn't deal with criminals every day."

"Missus Carter-"

"No," she laughed. "Please, my students call me Missus Carter. To everyone else I'm Gail."

"All right, Gail, nothing happens in Canesoanke. Even if something did, I'd rather tangle with the lawless than first graders."

"Believe me, there are plenty of crazy people in Canesoanke."

"I'm not arguing there aren't crazies, but compared to my old stomping grounds, Canesoanke's a nursery of sleeping babies."

She placed a hand on his arm and said, "Speaking of crazies...I have a hypothetical question."

"Mm?"

"It involves harassment, but not the sexual kind. It's more a...like a threat."

"Somebody's threatening you?"

"Um...gosh, this is embarrassing, but I'm not sure who to contact."

"Are we still speaking in hypotheticals?"

"No, I guess not."

"Menacing is a crime. If someone is threatening you, I'd be happy to take a report."

"I doubt a report will accomplish anything."

"They produce a paper trail you can use to obtain a restraining order."

"It's just...hold on. I'll show you what I'm dealing with."

While Gail shuffled papers on her desk, Jim adjusted his belt and watched his son cut a circle with scissors.

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

Stop it.

C'mon, brah. What have I told ya? It ain't cheating if you get a bj.

Stop it.

Gail returned with a folded piece of paper and said, "I received this in the mail three weeks ago."

The pithy, typed letter read:

Bitch,

Quit spreading lies, cunt. Quit spreading lies or I will tell the world you're a filthy, lying corruptor of children. Shut your whore mouth or I'll have somebody shut it for you.

Sincerely,

Your worst nightmare!

"Okay..." Jim began, before shutting his mouth and rereading the letter.

"See what I mean? And this isn't the only letter. I have five, and they all say the same thing."

"Yeah, I see. If I were you, I'd file a report ASAP. In fact, we can do it now. Let me grab my paperwork from the car."

"Like I said, a report won't do anything."

"You never know. I'll forward it to the Chief as soon as I get back to the station. Butch can pass it to the DA's office and have-"

"I know who it's from."

"All the better."

"Not quite. Do you know who Regina Cumberland is?"

"Uh, no. Should I?"

"Her brother is Sal Grittio.

"Grittio? The DA?"

"Him."

Several times a week, the OC DA made a point of strutting about the police station. A loud Italian in expensive suits complete with pinky rings and perpetual bronze skin, Sal Grittio smelled of Aqua Velva and pointed when he talked. And boy oh boy, did Sal Grittio enjoy pointing and flapping his trap.

Jim skimmed the note again and then asked, "How do you know it's from her?"

"God... _ugh,_ this is embarrassing," she mumbled. "She...Regina...she and Tom -my husband- fooled around...or are fooling around-"

Tom's a pig.

"-God knows why, and I went nuts when I found out. Instead of keeping cool, I told a few people, word got 'round and now Regina's sending me hate mail. I don't know what to do," Wetzel the Pretzel bemoaned, blinking doe eyes. "The entire episode-"

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

"-has become a nightmare. First with Tom, then her. I should ignore the letters, right? Not cause any more problems?"

"You can't ignore _this_ ," Jim asked, shaking the paper in her face.

"I-I just feel powerless. She's gloating, threatening my job, and there's nothing I can do."

Far be it for him to spew marital advice, but he remembered how Laura confronted his roving D. Snuffing the betrayal seemed to work for her; Gail-

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

-needed to, at the least, have a sit down with Tom's roving D.

"I sorry to burden you with my private life," she said, rubbing her forehead. "I don't have anybody to talk to and...I'm tired of carrying the burden."

"All right, let's start with a report and go from there. Perhaps Chief Weinager can speak to Regina Cumberland and end the foolishness."

"I doubt Butch will do anything. He and Tom are friends, you know. They'll both have a laugh at my expense."

Aw, doesn't Wetzel the Pretzel look blue, brah? Real blue. Bluer than blue.

Jim knew getting involved in personal matters was no bueno-

But she's Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

-yet Gail's obvious discomfort-

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

-and the way her blue eyes studied his face and implored-

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

-for help.

At least, the little Brooksy devil told him as much: _You gotta help the Pretzel, brah. Why else would she come to you? She ain't got anybody else._

The logic passed the smell test...

...and Jim decided- to get involved.

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

-to stick his nose in the stupid business.

Besides, he needed something to shatter monogamy... _ahem_... _monotony._

Yeah, brah, Wetzel the Pretzel would shatter it, and how!

Not like he'd cheat again. Nope. Gail Carter needed a hand...and maybe an ear to chew...

"Tell you what," Jim said, as he pulled out his wallet and handed her a business card. "Don't engage Regina. If she makes more trouble, call my work phone. Day or night, it doesn't matter. I carry it with me at all times."

Gail brushed a strand of spun hay from her forehead and said, "Thanks for helping, officer."

"Jim," he said, offering a beguiling smile.

"Thank you," Wetzel the Pretzel sighed. "Thank you for enduring my..."
Pirates, Tigers, Trask and Brooksy (Oh My)

...complicated emotions.

Consternation frothing in his mind, he hadn't called Laura after the powwow with Raul Boja. Nope. He and his brother-in-law got hammered and shot the shit until the first hint of sunrise. Hours later, he rode the plane to Memphis and tried to spin the story to seem like the decision be his. But he didn't have a choice and he knew it and...

_You're stuck,_ Father's voice said.

What could he do about his change in latitude problem? Nothing. Nothing without causing _problems._

You're stuck.

It didn't help the stupid Diesel 9 bounced around (and through) thunderstorms all the way from Detroit. Part of him hoped the plane went down, thus alleviating him of _problems._

_You're stuck,_ his father's voice repeated until Jim repeated it with him.

This, friends, is called _acceptance._

Thus, he arrived home feeling...welp, it be what it be. Like a terminal disease, nothing could or would be changed. The sooner Jim embraced the future...

***

Laura and the kids met him outside airport security; she planted a kiss on his whiskered cheek as the children helped themselves to separate legs.

"I'm assuming you'll be joining us in New York," she whispered into his left ear.

He felt an overpowering urge to give her a fresh one across the face. Instead, he hefted both children to keep his hands occupied.

At home, he sat her down in the bedroom and said, "You shouldn't have phoned Butch."

"I should've phoned him earlier," she retorted.

"You don't understand. You can't talk business with _anyone_ , Laura."

"What business, officer?" she giggled.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

He squinted her at said, "You knew what you were doing."

"Hm? What did I know?"

_You're stuck,_ Dad reminded.

"Blabbing to Butch like you did," Jim said.

"I'm looking out for my family, officer. Since you stopped listening to me, I found someone who would."

You're stuck.

"But I don't want to talk," she said, tugging his belt buckle. "Let's pretend you missed me and I missed you..."

Long story short, they fucked (or made love...whatever) for the first time in months.

***

They lounged in a couple of tatty foldup chairs throwing back beers; a couple ribeye steaks sizzled on the grill. Two fellas enjoying a nice summer evening...except one of them wasn't pleased as punch.

"Boja said _what_?" Brooksy rumbled.

"You heard me," Jim answered. "His mind's settled."

"Did you explain-"

"I explained; he wasn't interested in listening. In fact, the old man is concerned about your spending habits."

"It's my money!"

Jim sighed and then said, "What kinda hole you in?"

"It ain't a hole, brah."

"Twenty thousand a month since January?"

" _Pfft._ Is Brooksy down a few? Yeah. But it ain't what Boja's insinuating."

"How much liquid capital do you have?"

"Lookit, you gotta spendy to makey."

"Boja's not spending in Memphis anymore. Fact, he told me you need to get a handle on your problem before it gets worse."

Shoulders slumping, Brooksy stared at his feet and confessed, "I got a mite overzealous but I swear-"

"How much?"

Brooksy shook his head and said, "It's bad."

"Define bad."

"Jeez, I don't know. Ten here, twenty there...I haven't had shit for luck, man. Borrowing to get out. Borrowing more. The typical bullshit."

"How much of the _typical_ bullshit are you buried under?"

Brooksy slumped further in the rickety chair and rested the Silver Bullet on his gut. "It's not like the old days, brah," he bemoaned. "Remember the old days? Man, when things clicked..."

***

Timmy Trask had been a gamblers godsend if the gamblers were named Brian Brooks, Jim Reilly and Tubby Wick. In two years as Hampton's starting point guard, Trask made the trio a cool three hundred thousand while earning ten thousand for his efforts. Timmy T would've been floored to discover he earned just three percent of his handler's kitty, but Timmy thought he made out like a bandit just to miss a shot here or there. Indeed, for a poor black kid from Poplar Halls, ten thousand smackers bought a lot of chicken and grape soda. Yet, he did all the work for a pittance while shouldering most of the risk...which doesn't seem fair, does it?

Jimmy, Brooksy and Tubby could've raked in Big Bucks, but they kept the illegal behavior on the DL. Trask's employers snapped fingers on a handful of occasions, but there be no sense raising eyebrows for easy money, you dig? In fact, most of the cash was earned in one game: be The Year Of Our Lord 2001, and the Hampton Pirates upset Iowa State in the First Round of the NCAA tournament. And because life works in mysterious ways, the outcome of the game wasn't tainted by a gambler's grubby paws.

Though Hampton entered the tournament as the fifteenth seed in their region (out of sixteen teams, by the way) and the Cyclones sat at the lofty two position, something told Brooksy the Pirates were gonna pull the upset. Like God miracled him a vision, Brooksy knew. From the corns on his toes to the dandruff on the top of his head...every molecule in his chubby body screamed: _'Hampton's gonna win!'_

Of course, God didn't give a poop about the NCAA Tournament because God had more pressing matters on His plate. However, if asked His opinion, the Almighty would've pointed out Iowa State: didn't handle the press well; hated a slow-tempo game; took a shit ton of three-point shots because they were a small team and, as a consequence, didn't get many offensive boards. God might've noted in games Iowa State committed ten or more turnovers, they fell behind and forced bad shots. God knew playing from behind wasn't good for Iowa State; all five losses in the 2000-2001 season were the result of the game being turned into a snail's pace, which forced the Cyclones into hurried offensive possessions. Opposing coaches call it the one and done philosophy.

Hell's bells, Brooksy had a gut feeling! If Hampton pulled the ole go-slow Hickory High School b and s, they might throw the Cyclones off their game. If this happened...welp, Brooksy would win _Big_!

Boy howdy, did Brooksy like winning _Big_! Winning _Big_ made his heart sing! Yep, Brooksy was his name, gambling was his game. Alas, Dear Diary, gambling turned Brooksy into a Hyde-like monster. For some folks, booze touching tongue or a pair of long legs and a short skirt kickstarts Mr. Hyde. For Brooksy, laying money down was tantamount to fornication and intoxication. Hell, gambling was better than all them other vices because he knew, _every fucking time_ , he was going to win. And win _Big_! If he didn't win _Big_ , he'd win _Bigger_ the next time! Oh, how Brooksy's stomach fluttered when he thought of winning _Big_. Every _Big_ win justified betting; every loss justified his resolve to win _Bigger_ the next time. He pooh-poohed a conservative approach to gaming because you can't win _Big_ if you're a pussy. Brooksy wasn't a pussy and, as if to confirm the veracity of this statement, the Mr. Hyde voice in his head endorsed his decisions, no matter how stinky and ill-advised they seemed.

Should he have known better after dealing with the kind of degenerates his little sportsbook enterprise in Norfolk drew? You betcha. Did Brooksy give a flying F? Hell and no!

Brooksy tried to convince Jim and Tubby to lay a buttload of cash on the Pirates to win outright. 'They can do it!' he implored in a frenetic voice. Tubby Wick pointed out it take a miracle for Hampton to cover the 21.5 point spread, let alone beat Iowa State. Brooksy scoffed at the logic; Brooksy had a gut feeling.

After much discussion, Jim and Tubby parted with a collective one thousand dollars and told Brooksy he'd owe them if Hampton lost. A seedy bookie in Newport News gave them 50-1 for an outright win. By some miracle, the Pirates pulled it off on Jim's wedding night. Our hero collected twelve point five; Brooksy a smidge more: his ten thousand turned into fifty grand like magic. They each added an additional fifteen thousand two nights later when the Pirates fell to Georgetown 76-57, as Brooksy knew they would, and failed to cover the 19.5 point spread (as Brooksy knew they would) when Timmy Trask missed a pair of meaningless free throws in the final seconds of the game...as Brooksy knew he would.

The net net? Brooksy won _Big_...

And he'd continue to win _Big_...if Timmy got drafted.

Meanwhile, Jimmy bowed out of the gambling game. He said, _'What we pulled at Hampton happens once in a thousand years.'_ Brooksy blew a raspberry. Didn't Jimmy wanna win _Big_? Nope, Jimmy bought a house, a car, a bunch of shit for his new wife and rug rat. Thus, Tubby Wick and Brooksy were left to carry the win _Big_ torch. But back then -then being 2001- Brooksy also had a few braincells firing. He and Jimmy purchased condos and houses in and around Memphis; they got the Bojangles thang hopping; they made smart investments.

Still...

Despite the success...

Brooksy wanted to win _Big_.

To Brooksy's chagrin, Timmy Trask didn't pan out in the NBA, but the brother made a nice living playing ball in Turkey for Anadolu Efas. This didn't help Brooksy any, but Timmy Trask didn't care. What he did care about was his little brother because Momma smoked the crack and Daddy be a deadbeat. Before Timmy left for Turkey, he told his younger brother Dontrelle to listen to the generous Tubby Wick because Wick be a good Baptist man who had the best interest of poor black children at heart. Well, this and Tubby handed Timmy fifteen thousand to push the narrative.

"Whatever Mista Wick say, you do," Timmy told his brother, and Dontrelle made sure he do...which is how Dontrelle found his way to the University of Memphis in 2005. Even though Dontrelle wanted to play basketball at Hampton, Mr. Wick said go to Memphis; Dontrelle got on an airplane and goad. He goad and when he arrived, Brooksy met him at the airport and drove him to University District in a flashy BMW.

Before handing Dontrelle a wad of cash in an envelope, Brooksy said, "Brah, if you get in trouble, you call me first. And just so you know, I'm Memphis police. Ergo, when I mean trouble, I mean _any_ trouble. Now, I know shit happens, but if you're a smart boy like your brother, you won't get into _any_ trouble. You catch my drift, or do I gotta draw you a picture?"

Even tho Dontrelle didn't know what _ergo_ meant, he got the drift and avoided trouble; he didn't mess with drugs, booze or unhinged bitches. Plus, the large policeman with the curly hair kinda scared him.

Like Timmy, Dontrelle was good at basketball...but he also had the advantage of standing a few inches taller than his brother. A shooting forward with wicked ball handling skills, he was a scrapper on the boards and set a Virginia high school record for blocked shots. The problem with Dontrelle? Memphis had stacked teams and was coached by a guy who -in the not so distant future- toddled to the University of Kentucky and almost pulled off an undefeated season. In other words, Coach C had a tactical plan for his squad and said plan didn't include Dontrelle Trask.

After redshirting as a freshman, Dontrelle saw limited playing time the next season. During the 2006-2007 campaign -his sophomore year- D.T. cracked the lineup as the seventh man on a team what utilized seven players. He averaged fifteen minutes, eight points and five rebounds per game, but didn't have the ability to alter a contest like his brother at Hampton. _Perhaps_ as a junior he'd get more playing time...but Brooksy couldn't wager on _perhaps_. And this fucking plan of his wasn't paying off like it had at Hampton. He'd given Wick about 250 with three zeroes behind it to motivate Dontrelle to go to Memphis because...because Brooksy was a fucking idiot. D.T. would've had a four-year run on Hampton. The way things were shakin', D.T. would be _lucky_ to get two years in the Tiger's starting line-up.

Meantime, Brooksy's luck turned sour. One bet after another, after another, after another...nothing went his way. Quick-like, he found himself in a hole and it be _baaaddd_. He wasn't winning _Big_. He wasn't winning small. He wasn't winning jack squat. Losing _Big_ meant he had to chip into the Bojangles money to keep the sharks from circling. What Brooksy needed was divine fucking intervention. One late December afternoon in 2007, he got on his damn knees, folded hands and begged the Good Lord: _'Please, throw ole Brooksy Brooks a fucking bone. Your pal has to win Big again or Brooksy is a fucking dead man. Pretty please and Amen.'_

And then it happened.

God answered his prayer.

God shot a lightning bolt from his finger into the right leg of poor ole Greg French, the starting shooting forward on the Memphis Tigers, and broke his motherfucking leg like a splinter. Talk about a magical moment! Some people remember where they were when JFK got iced or when the Twin Towers fell, but Brian Brooks _where were you moment_ be when Greg French shattered his leg in two against the Arizona Wildcats with 6:32 left in the 1st Half on 29 December 2007.

Dontrelle Trask was next man up. Brooksy cracked a smile. He was gonna win _Big_...

***

However, this so-called divine intervention occurred a few years into the future. In 2005, Brooksy delivered the damage in a strangled voice bereft of emotion:

"...and I'm down half a rock."

As it did when Bean and his father crossed his path the week prior, Jim's jaw about hit the ground.

"Yep," Brooksy affirmed.

"Brian...what...the... _fuck_?"

"I'm in a rut," he said with a shrug.

"You're in a rut? I'd say you're in a fucking crater!"

"Look, man, some of this is your fault."

"My fault?"

"You and your whore. Like...it threw me off my game."

Jim tightened his hand around the beer can until began to buckle. "I'm gonna pretend like I misheard you," he growled. "

"Chill, man. What I'm saying is, your problems didn't help. And don't get all high-and-mighty on me. You ain't a saint."

"Half a mil?" Jim asked in wonder. "What're you wagering on?"

"I got into NASCAR last spring. Dude, it's a rush. I just picked me the wrong drivers. Next year, though...I'm working on a foolproof system, Jimmy. And then the last Super Bowl...the goddamn Colts cost me a bundle. How the fuck do you give up an onside kick in the Super Bowl?"

"Do you know who you sound like?"

"Who?"

"I feel like I'm listening to my father explain to his three kids why we ain't got food for dinner. At least you ain't hitting anybody. But the blame game was Dad's specialty. It was our fault he picked the wrong dog, or the fucking Minnesota Vikings lost in the NFC Championship game to the Redskins or this, that and the other. Who the fuck wagers on the Vikings? A fucking degenerate is who."

"I bet on them in '98," Brooksy reported. "Gary Anderson, the motherfucker. Try convincing me that game wasn't fixed?"

"You're missing the point and yet you've made my point. Brilliant."

"Whatever, man," Brooksy said, as he stood and sauntered to the grill. "I'll mastermind something. D.T. will pan and I got me the Bojangles riven...it'll last a bit."

"Not long enough if you're spending thirty k a month. And not long enough if you don't have any Bojangles coming south."

Brooksy flipped the steaks and then said, "I'll work it out."

"No, you won't. Guys like you never work it out. It'll get worse, never better, until it gets so bad-"

"Fuck off, dude. I'm due for a hot streak."

Jim closed his eyes and then -without thinking- allowed the confession to tumble from his mouth: "Brian, let me tell you about my old man, the late, not so great, John Reilly. He was due for a hot streak, so he claimed, and...

***

1986.

_1986_ be the year Jimmy Reilly realized the world is one _fucked up_ place.

Tho, to set the record straight, pre-1986 had been no picnic:

By 1986, Little Jimmy had resigned himself to the notion life made more lemons than lemonade. Optimistic inclinations? _Pfft._ Mountains of sanguinity had been blasted apart by an alcoholic father who bellowed and beat out of frustration and odium. Between the flurry of fists, Jimmy was called a "shit for brains", a "faggot", or one of the unimaginative labels the old man foisted upon his second born.

Mother Reilly -a submissive _boo-hoo, woe is me_ punching bag what cowered from John Reilly when she should've beat feet years earlier and saved her kids from her degenerate husband- spent most of her time holed in the bedroom. The remainder of the Reilly brood -Richard (two years older) and Katherine (four years younger)- were left to fend for themselves.

Years passed and the abuse from the perpetual boozer got to be old hat. But Dad had another vice: _gambling._ And the gambling problem became the _worst_ problem in _1986._

For most people, it takes a lifetime of accumulated misery to denounce God. Our lad Jimmy was the ripe old age of ten when he damned the Almighty. The Good Lord didn't stick His gilded phallus up the boy's yazoo, but this is splitting hairs. A Mormon deacon did the honors because dear old dad bet what little remained of his meager bankroll -and his two youngest children- on the New England Patriots in Super Bowl XX.

The Chicago Bears dominated the National Football League during the 1985 season (fifteen up and one down), but standing between Iron Mike Ditka's squad and the Vince Lombardi Trophy were the aforementioned Patriots. It didn't matter what the prognosticators prognosticated; it didn't matter the Bears defense allowed zero points in their two playoff victories; it didn't matter the Patriots backup quarterback -a brittle, immobile fella named Steve Grogan (who would, no doubt, be pressed into action after the Bears knocked Tony Eason from the game)- wore a back brace and neckroll. None of those intangibles mattered to John Reilly. The Patriots were a sucker's bet and John Reilly be a desperate sucker.

Jimmy and his younger sis were dragged to the dusky bar in Apache Junction where his father laid the wager, and the shithole would be forever seared into our pal's supple adolescent mind: _The Rock Shadow Tavern_ , a biker joint, off Ironwood Drive. The reason Dad hauled his precious offspring to the raucous place? They were part of the pot. Richard be a vintage too sour for the predictions of pedophiles.

The Bears were ten-point favorites; John Reilly took the Patriots and the points. He also staked a couple of them stupid prop bets: coin toss (heads), the first score (Bears), a Walter Payton touchdown (a gimmie); zero safeties (since there'd only been two of 'em in the history of the Super Bowl...well, it seemed like a sure thing); the first turnover (caused by the Bears).

Dad promptly lost five grand on the coin toss, which proved a bad omen for the rest of the afternoon. The Bears received the opening kickoff and Walter Payton fumbled on the second play of the game. Of course, New England recovered the football. A well-oiled John Reilly threw the controller at the television and cursed. Not two minutes into the game, the old man had already lost ten thousand dollars he didn't have. A hundred twenty seconds later, the Patriots kicked a field goal to take a 3-0 lead; lickety-split, another five grand got flushed down the shitter. As the imaginary cash register trilled in his brain, John Reilly managed to find a smidgeon of consolation: The Patriots looked like they'd come to play.

It dawned on John Reilly -midway through the third quarter after the fucking Fridge steamrolled into end zone- he was going to lose, and how! With seventeen minutes and thirty-eight seconds remaining in the second half, Chicago led 44-3. There wasn't a snowballs chance in hell New England would cover. Then, to solidify the carnage, the Bears added a safety...and John Reilly lost another five grand. The final score: 46-10. Chicago scored 46 goddamn points, but can you guess who didn't sniff the endzone? Sweetness himself, Walter Payton.

Cha-ching.

The man who came to collect from John Reilly a few days later brought a few friends -just in case- but there was no trouble. Dad told Jimmy and his sister to go with the nice man, and off they went into Jimmy's bedroom. Meantime, Dad sat his ass on the living room couch, tipped the sour mash, and watched t.v.

As he adjusted the video camera, the diddler said, "We're going to have fun. We're going to play games for the camera and have _so_ much fun..."

***

"...and the irony is, my old man called me a faggot for what he wagered and lost. Somehow it was my fault."

Mouth agape, Brooksy stood next to the grill while thick, black smoke singed nostril hairs, meandered down his throat and irritated both peepers. The steaks had burned, but it didn't matter. His appetite went bye-bye when Jimmy described...

Maybe he was putting Brooksy Brooks on. Maybe...no, Brooksy _wished upon a star_ the story was some kind of...whatchacallit? A parabola?

"You better pull those steaks," Jim suggested. "You're gonna torch the grill."

Brooksy slammed the cover shut and then said, "Tell me you're pulling my leg."

"Ain't we gonna grub?"

"I've lost my appetite."

Jim shrugged and said, "Welp, to answer your question, I wouldn't invent something so terrible."

"I don't know what to say," Brooksy mumbled.

"I've never told anyone the story, not even Laura. Too embarrassing, I guess. But Isaac Brown haunts my dreams, man. He's a monkey on my-"

"You know who the bastard is?"

"Oh, yeah. I saw his picture in the paper when I was a senior in high school. Isaac Brown. _Brother_ Isaac Brown."

"A blackie?"

"Naw, he's a Mormon. Some kinda deacon or whatnot. Works with kids, or worked...whatever the case. In '92, the City of Mesa gave him an award for helping at risk children."

"What's a Mormon?"

"A fucked-up cult. You should read up on 'em. Bunch of nuts, the whole shitty lot of 'em. As for Isaac Brown...you know, when I got older, I thought of taking him and then...shit, I'd have tortured him. Ida cut off his balls, fed them to him, and stuck a poker up his ass. My brother Richard talked me off the ledge. I wasn't a minor anymore and a murder rap woulda sent me to prison for life...or worse. So, I let it go, joined the Navy, blah, blah, blah. The thought, though...it's never left me. I...I did a little diggin' a year ago. He doesn't live in Mesa anymore. The bastard moved to Colorado City, which is a Mormon enclave in northern Arizona. Getting to him would be difficult, and I've come to the conclusion revenge isn't worth the trouble."

Brooksy wiped sweat from his brow and asked, "You want help?"

"I appreciate the sentiment, but it ain't your fight."

"No foolin', Jimmy. I'd help you break a few chunks off this motherfucker."

Jim grunted, mashed a bug with the heel of his sandal and then said, "You know the story _Moby-Dick_ , doncha?"

"Wha?"

"The story about the whale? I read it in high school. Listen, dude, I hate reading. _Hate it._ But I loved Moby Dick because I can relate to Ahab. He's all screwy 'cause this whale bit off his arm and the-"

"Brah, I had to read _Moby-Dick_ in high school, too. But I don't remember most of it cuz it bored the shit outta me."

"You know enough, right? Settling grudges and whatnot? See, when I was in high school, I dug Ahab's pursuit because he didn't give a fuck. Even though the bastard died, he took care of business. Later...around the time I enlisted...I realized I missed the point. What good is vengeance if you can't enjoy it? Sure, the satisfaction would be worth it, but at what cost? I don't wanna be Ahab. I wanna walk away rubbing my hands, not sitting in prison or worse. And I don't want my boys saddled with their father's bullshit. My father...you know, he...he...jeez, listen to me. I have a few pops and off goes my mouth. I didn't mean to lay a bunch of crap at your feet."

"Eh..." Brooksy garbled. "It's, uh, it's fine, brah. Don't worry about it."

"I shoulda done it when I was in high school," Jim mused. "I shoulda done it before I had shit to lose. Now...now it's too late. But whatever. You get what you get and you don't throw a fit."

"I know what I'd do," Brooksy said, as he reached into the cooler for another cold one.

"Yeah, at this point in the game, you're more of a risk taker than me. But you're also a stupid fuck."

"Gee, thanks."

"You gotta get your shit straight, Brian. I'm serious. You're outta control with the gambling."

"I'm working on it, brah."

Jim grunted and then said, "Hand me another beer, will ya? I'm through taking a shitty stroll down memory lane. Let's get wasted and piss at the moon."

"Sure...sure, Jimmy..."
Tuesday Morning, 8 April 2008

...arrived home a few minutes before four and, for a change, came straight to bed. Laura hated when he worked overnights, but it wasn't because police officers statistically faced greater peril during the witching hours. Canesoanke wasn't what a statistician would pinpoint as an outlier on a graph representing crime. Cops weren't shot, criminals didn't prowl the shadows armed to the hilt...nothing dangerous happened before or after midnight except petty, drunken bullshit. No, his drive home in bad weather was more hazardous than patrolling the city, but she didn't care about his commute either.

What tweaked her nerves? The gawd awful racket Jim made.

Most mornings after his graveyard shift, he'd linger downstairs for an hour, watch television and drink beer. Then he'd tiptoe upstairs and hop into the shower...and now _(maybe)_ she understood why: _Gail Carter_.

Wetzel. The. Pretzel.

Oh, Jim denied it. He screamed and melted down; he puffed his chest and called her a paranoid.

Ha!

Laura knew; her Spidey sense was clued up and she recognized his M.O.: the more defensive -and louder- he became, the guiltier he appeared. And after the gun incident Monday morning, she decided...

(maybe)

...to lawyer up.

(maybe)

On Friday afternoon, she'd drive to Rochester and chat with a divorce attorney...

(maybe)

After Laura unburdened her soul the previous evening, Mother Pine offered strong advice: 'Marriage is a physic investment more than anything. You either get stronger or you get out.'

Thus, it didn't matter if Jim fucked around _(again)_ or not. Driving herself bonkers with theories was almost as bad as knowing the truth. She couldn't spend the rest of her life worrying.

And she wouldn't.

Nope.

Although...

_Maybe_ her raging hormones played a role.

And _maybe_ she didn't want to tell him, 'I'm seeing an attorney on Friday.'

How could she break the news without him snapping his cap? He wanted the kids to have both a father and mother...but his behavior suggested otherwise. Yet, she felt guilty, like it was her fault he snuck around.

Like it was her fault he lied.

_Fuck him_.

_Maybe_ she'd get lucky and he wouldn't come home. _Maybe_ he'd run to Gail (tho the thought made her sick). _Maybe_ he'd cut the cord before she had the chance.

The _maybes_ ticked off in her head as she lazed in bed and rubbed her tummy. Meanwhile, the shrieking wind buffeted the house. Before she crawled into bed at ten, she snuck a peek outside and beheld a wall of white. At least a half foot had fallen and the storm showed no signs of slackening.

Six hours and not a second of sleep later, the garage door opened. She expected the usual nonsense, but Jim changed his routine: instead of beer cans popping and the droning television, the stairs creaked and the bedroom door opened. He didn't hop in the shower, either. Nope, he peeled off his uniform, heaped it on the floor, crawled between the sheets...

"You made it home," she said with zero inflection.

In a similar tone, Jimmy responded: "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I'm _always_ awake when you get home."

"Uh-huh. Well, FYI: I doubt the kids will have school. Snow's still coming down and the roads are awful. I didn't see a single plow on Main after midnight."

"Hmm...you were on Main? I thought you'd be creeping Russell Street."

He grabbed her left arm (kinda hard, Dear Diary) and said, "I know what you're implying."

"Hm?"

"Don't _hm_ me."

"I'm just asking," she said, all innocent-like.

"You're trying to pick a fight."

"No, if I wanted to pick a fight, I'd ask you-"

"Shut the fuck up," he said, giving her arm a squeeze. "I've had a long night in shitty weather."

"Guess what? I've had a long night too."

"Then we're both in need of sleep."

She freed her arm with a jerk, rolled to her right, and presented her back to him.

"Do you want me to sleep on the couch?" Jim asked.

"Whatever," she mumbled.

But he didn't move, and she could feel his wicked stare. Let him stare. Let him stare at her while she stared at the clock:

04:03.

He could enjoy the same insomnia plaguing her.

04:03.

Too bad she couldn't shove the baby inside his stomach.

04:04.

The wind howled; Laura sighed. Seconds later, the sound of snoring.

"Figures," she said to the digital display.

04:04.

***

The ringing of the phone jarred her awake; the clock's red numbers burned her retinas:

06:01?

06:01!

Not even two hours of shuteye.

She didn't have to answer the stupid thing. Thanks to a brutal winter, the recorded message had been seared into her psyche:

Due to inclement weather, the superintendent has decided to cancel all activities, including after school sports and clubs, today, April the eight...

But then she spied the caller ID:

WEINAGER, B.

Butch.

Laura shook her head.

He wasn't the last person on Earth she wanted to have a conversation with, but he didn't rank in the top three billion. Not at six in the morning.

Because he wouldn't be calling at six in the morning to chew the fat.

Cuz, at six in the morning, the chief of police (no matter how much of an a-hole he was or still be) didn't phone for no reason.

Jim, oblivious to the noise, sawed logs.

Muttering oaths, she picked up the cordless, jabbed the _talk_ button and answered with a terse declaration: "Bradley."

"Laura," Butch rejoined in a somber voice. "Apologies for the early wakey, but I need to speak with Jim."

"He's asleep."

"Then wake him."

"He worked graveyard last-"

"Get him up, please and thank you."

Butch's serious voice gave her a case of the goosebumps...and tickled curiosity. Something be up in Canesoanke, something not so pleasant. Her need for information -some would call it gossip- trumped his serious voice:

"What's going on?"

"There was a car accident last evening...er...maybe this morning...it's hard to say when it happened...on County Road 21. My suspicion is a weather-related crash, but Jim patrolled these parts last night. I figure the LEB suits will want to pick his brain."

"He told me he was on Main."

"Eh, um..." Butch hawed, "...he started his shift on 21. Look, I'm not going to plead. Roll his bones. Pronto."

She poked her husband a dozen times in the shoulder until his bones rolled and eyes blinked. "Wha?" he groused.

"Butch is on the phone."

"What's...Jesus, what time is it?"

"Six."."

"Shit," he said, snapping fingers. "Hand it over."

Laura listened to his side of the conversation as she donned her robe. There were a shit ton of _no's_ , a couple _I didn't see anything_ , and then a subdued _I'll be there as soon as I get some high test in me._

At last, he tossed the phone onto the bed and asked through a yawn, "Can you make coffee?"

"Are your fingers broken?" snapped she.

"All right, jeez. I just figured, since you were up...but never mind."

"We're both up."

"Fucks sake, Laura, I don't need your bullshit. My day's already starting on a sour note. Do you think I have any desire to drag my tired ass outside and stare at a corpse?"

She stopped futzing with the robe sash and squealed, "A corpse? Someone died?"

"According to Butch, there's a frozen dude on the side of 21."

"Who?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"What else did Butch say?"

Jim stretched, climbed out bed and then said, "Someday found a truck in a ditch about three miles east of town. Looks like the driver tried hoofing it. Voilà: popsicle city."

"Wow, aren't you full of compassion?"

"I'd have more compassion if I wasn't operating on two hours of sleep."

"Did you-"

"Laura, I don't know anything," he said, pulling a t-shirt over his head. "And I don't know how long I'll be. Christ, of all mornings. I'm fucking bushed."

***

By ten after seven, the snow had slackened to pesky flurries and the temperature climbed into the upper twenties. The sun made sporadic appearances through wispy, fast moving clouds; a sustained breeze from the northwest slashed to the bone. Route 21 was covered by a hard-packed layer of accumulation...which made the drive comparable to ice skating in a two-ton vehicle. Jim stopped the Crown Vic next to a dark blue Statie SUV parked diagonally across the road.

The trooper inside tossed a _Sports Illustrated_ aside and rolled down his window. "The guys are back a few hundred feet with the stiff," he said, jerking his head in said direction. "You're gonna have to walk. Orders of the LEB in charge. You can leave 'er parked here.

"A'ight."

"Tread light. Lots of slick spots."

Jim exited the Vic, exercised his arms and then shuffled towards a knot of a half-dozen men dressed in parkas and ushankas. At their collective feet, a lumpy figure curled in the fetal position.

"Reilly," Butch hailed. "Sorry to drag your ass OOB on such a beautiful morning."

"I'm sorry too," Jim responded. "What's the deal?"

"The deal is, I'm five hundred bucks lighter."

"Eh?"

"I had money on Memphis."

"You should've talked to me, man. The Tigers are lousy at the line. Sixty-something percent on the year."

"It's too bad I wasn't blessed with your statistical acumen."

"If you're going to throw money, you should know what you're buying."

"Fuck you. Trask hits _one_ free throw and I'm buyin' a new pool table. _One._ Criminey, it looked like the basketball got shot out of a howitzer. Just about broke the backboard."

"How 'bout I float you a loan? I made a few bucks on the Jayhawks."

"Lucky fucker," Butch bemoaned before clearing his throat and pointing at the body. "Anyway...this bastard ain't so fortunate."

Jim popped a squat and gave Mister Stiff the once over: brushed clean of snow, pallor skin tone, fingers curled, eyes closed...a congealed, two-inch gash above his left eyebrow...lips pulled pack, the tip of a gray tongue exposed...

"Our boy's been chilling for God knows how long," Butch said. "The baggers from the coroner were supposed to be here an hour ago. But these roads...I figure it's slow going from the R-O-C."

"What a sight," Jim said, as he stood and brushed his pants. "Makes my skin crawl, Butch."

"It ain't pretty. B.W. threw a blanket over him but it blew away."

One of the gawkers, a pinched faced fella blessed with a large beak, raised a gloved hand and said, "Detective Greg Lawson from the OC Enforcement Bureau, Officer. I understand you were patrolling this area last night."

"I was sitting at the town line," Jim said, pointing west. "Bottom of Pumpkin Slope."

"All night?"

"No...let me think. Uh...I was there until my break so...I guess I split around eight, maybe eight-thirty...no later than nine. 21 was damn near impassable by then and I didn't want to get stuck. I relocated to Main Street and stayed put until three."

"You left before nine?"

"Yep...although, come to think of it, I was listening to the game. I musta split midway through the second half. Maybe you can put a stamp on it."

Lawson nodded and then kicked a small chunk of ice. "Looks like he tried walking towards Canesoanke wearing a tee, Levi's and tennis shoes," the detective said. "God knows what he was thinking."

"Where's his vehicle?"

"I arrived a few minutes ago, Officer, and haven't had a chance to walk the scene. Bradley tells me it's a lodged in a ditch...how far away, Chief?"

"A half-mile east," Butch said, gesturing over his shoulder.

"Looks like he bounced his noggin off the steering wheel or something," Lawson said. "Maybe he got concussed; maybe he was drinking. Maybe both."

"I'd take those odds," Jim said. "What was he driving?"

"Green F-150," Butch said. "Two-seater. No chains."

Jim reported: "I don't recall seeing a green pickup, and nothing passed after the snow got heavy. The road was a ghost town after seven, not like I could make out-"

"Shoot, I almost forgot, Detective," Butch interrupted. "One of my officers fished a wallet out of his pocket. Arizona driver's license. He's a long way from home."

Lawson scanned the snow-covered expanse and then said, "A long way is right. What are the chances he has...er...had...practical experience driving in inclement weather?"

"Oh, there's more," Butch said. "The vehicle is registered to a Glen Cumberland. He's a local."

"Any reports of stolen vehicles in your...what is this you lord over, Bradley? A town or city?"

"We're a city, sir. A _quiet_ city. We don't process many vehicle thefts, but I'll check the MVR log when I get to the station. But I'll tell you right now: vehicle theft, if it is vehicle theft, is the least of my concerns."

"Why?"

"There's also a duffel bag full of junk on the floorboard. DVD's, pictures, a USB stick. The pictures...it's some sick shit, Detective. Turned my stomach. Children in various stages of undress and...um...you get the idea?"

Lawson blinked and said, "Okeydokey, this just got interesting."

"I can take you to Cumberland's doorstep ASAP."

"Not yet, Chief. We'll sit tight until I have a look at things. If it's as you say-"

"It is."

"You're champing at the bit, huh?"

Butch gave Jimmy the side-eye and said, "When you see this shit, you'll understand. I don't want child molesters roaming my city."

"Anything else, Butch?" Jim asked through a yawn. "I'm exhausted and it's cold."

"I'm kosher. Detective?"

"There is one thing," Lawson said. "I need a written statement, Officer. Keep it concise; I don't want twenty pages. Just hand me a summation I can shove into the I.F."

***

"Mommy, are you sick today?"

"Mommy's always sick."

"I'm sorry," Jimmy said. "I don't want you to be sick."

"It's just until the baby comes, kiddo. Then Mommy will be better."

"When is the baby going to come?"

"September, honey. Maybe October."

"Is the baby coming for Johnny's birthday?"

"Dear God I hope so."

Jimmy planted his mouth next to her right ear and whispered, "I don't think Johnny is going to want a new baby at his birthday."

Despite the nausea, Laura couldn't help but giggle.

"You know how he is," Jimmy said.

_Yes,_ she thought. _Yes, I know. He's a lot like his father: leaving messes where ever he goes._

"Can we go sledding, Mommy?"

"Oh, Jimmy," moaned she. "Maybe...maybe when Daddy gets home. I'm not feeling so hot."

"When is Daddy getting home?"

Good question, kid.

He left at a quarter until seven which put him at T plus sixty minutes and change.

Sixty plus minutes.

The silver lining? In theory, a silent house. Both kids were passed out and with school cancelled, she didn't have to wake them for the bus. She tickled the fringes of a catnap -reaching the strange place where dream and reality fused- but the fringe is where the good times stopped. At seven-thirty, Johnny burst out of his room, pounded on the bedroom door and demanded breakfast. The smell of eggs and sausage kicked the gag reflex and drove her to a supine position on the couch.

If the sickness wasn't bad enough, her mind conjured conspiratorial thoughts. No school meant Gail would be home; Butch's phone call could've been a contrived excuse to buy Jim time with the woman. Why not? Butchy wasn't an angel; Butchy used to whip his dick around biology class and say, _'Check out the human worm'._

Butchy be a real piece of work and Laura had dated him...dated him for years. Now he and Jim were thick as thieves, running around doing God knows what.

_You wanted to move here_ , her know-it-all voice pontificated. _The stupid change in latitude, change in attitude bullshit, remember?_

"Jimmy!" Johnny bellowed from upstairs. "Jimmy! I wanna play with the cars!"

_Laura, you know my mantra,_ Dr. Phil cheeped. _Once a cheater, always a cheater._

_Fool me once, shame on you,_ President Bush added. _Fool me...you can't get fooled again._

"Jimmy! Jimmy!"

_Stop it,_ common sense pleaded. _You're driving yourself crazy, girl. Besides, you know what Butch and Jimmy are doing. They're working their racket with Raul Boja._

"Jimmy!"

"Jesus Christ," she snapped, pushing Jimmy away. "Can you see what your brother wants?"

"He wants to play with the cars."

"Then go play with him!"

"I don't want to. He throws them at me."

"Then throw them back!"

He presented her with a hung dog expression and mumbled, "All right."

_I'm losing my head,_ she thought.

Then Mom added her two cents worth: _Your husband's not running his racket, Laura. He's fucking Wetzel the Pretzel! The sooner you leave his worthless butt, the sooner you stop yelling at your kids and being a terrible mother!_

Laura closed her eyes and groaned.

***

When Jim moseyed in at nine, he found his wife passed out on the couch and the kids in Jimmy's room engaged in hand to hand combat. Toys -figurines, cars, Pokémon Cards- were strewn everywhere. Johnny had a handful of Jimmy's dark hair; Jimmy yanked on Johnny's left ear. Both kids, shirtless and scratched to shit and screaming...how could she sleep through the racket?

He banged on the wall and hollered, "Hey!"

Jimmy Jr. released his brother's ear and yelped, "Johnny started it!"

"I don't care," Jim said. "You guys better clean this mess before Mommy wakes up. She'll have a conniption."

"What's a con-ibb-in?" Johnny asked.

"It's when Mommy gets really mad," Jimmy Jr. answered. "Like what she had yesterday, right, Daddy?"

"No, Mommy wasn't-"

"Conniption! Conniption!" Johnny squealed.

"Clean it up," Jim said. "I better not have to tell you guys again."

Johnny kept laughing, the little shit...but Jim descended the stairs with his older son's question ringing in his ears: _Like what she had yesterday, right, Daddy?_

_No, son, what she had yesterday was a meltdown,_ he thought.

He hit the landing and saw his scowling wife peeling herself from the couch...

And she's about to have another, no doubt.

"When'd you get home?" she asked in a frosty voice.

"Couple minutes ago. The kids are at war, you know."

"They need to get out of the house. Jimmy wants to go sledding and I need some P and Q."

"You look like you were making due without the P or the Q."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Just sayin'," Jim said, raising both hands.

"I'm not in the mood to argue."

"All right, chill out. I'll take 'em after I do a couple miles on the treader."

"You're running? Now?"

"Why not?"

"Fine...whatever...I'm going upstairs."

"Jesus, Laura, is this the way it's going to be?"

"You mean, I'm going to be a moody bitch for the next five months?"

He joggled his head as if weighing an answer and then said, "Yeah."

"Screw you," she said, taking her feet. "Maybe I wouldn't be so moody if you didn't lie to me."

"You want to go through this again? Saturday night, Butch and I talked to Raul Boja. Those stupid notes...I told you what to do with 'em. End of discussion."

"Sunday morning? Sunday afternoon?"

"Business shit."

"All top secret, right?"

"I'm not getting into it."

"Um-hmm."

"I _can't_ get into it."

"I see. T.S. is going to be your standard copout."

"I've already explained a hundred times-"

"Where were you this morning?"

"What?"

"This morning," she said, poking his chest.

"What the fuck are you talking about? Route 21? The car accident? Butch's call? Hello?"

"You were standing on 21 for two hours?"

"No, I talked to Butch and a detective from the LEB for twenty minutes. Then I went to the station and wrote a report. On the way home, I grabbed a cup of coffee and a donut at Beanie's."

"Where's your receipt?"

"Tell you what: why don't you call Gail Carter and ask her the question you've already asked me."

"Maybe I will."

"Good, then she can tell everyone in this crazy town how much of a lunatic you are."

"I'm not crazy, Jim. I saw the way she looked at you in Wegmans."

"You can tell her that, too."

"I will!"

"Good!"

She puffed out her cheeks and stormed past him; he stuck out his shoulder and gave her a little nudge.

Halfway up the stairs she hollered, "Fuck you!"

***

He powered up the treadmill and then turned on the television. After some channel surfing, he locked onto ESPN and caught some talking head show what featured a couple moronic blowhards blowharding the Memphis-Kansas game from the previous evening.

With customary hyperbole, Skip Bayless declared: "This is the greatest choke job in the history of college basketball!"

Jim chuckled.

The other fella -a brother in a shiny outfit- presented a curt counterpoint: "You got to understand these are young men playing in a high-pressure situation. Skip, I'd like to see you shoot a free throw in the NCAA Championship with the world staring at you."

"Yeah, Skip, you asshole," Jim pipped.

Back and forth, the inane discourse; a replay of the final seconds of regulation repeated ad nauseum: Dontrelle Trask's missed free throw -the front-end of a one and one with five seconds remaining and the Tigers up 3- turned into a Jayhawks rebound, a mad dash down the court, a wild three point shot...which sailed through the net and tied the game with 2.8 seconds remaining. In overtime, the Jayhawks asserted control and outscored Memphis 12-5 to claim the national championship.

He upped the t.v. volume to full blast and set the squeaky treadmill at a relaxed 6 MPH. Satisfied with the racket, Jimmy stepped to a dark corner of the basement, pulled out his cell, and dialed Brooksy's number.

Brooksy answered after one trill: "Detective Brian Brooks, game fixer extraordinaire. How can I be of service, brah?"

"Brian," Jim sighed, "what if it ain't your _brah_ calling."

"The miracle of caller ID, _brah._ "

"Don't play the fool by running your mouth. And you shouldn't be tooting too loud a horn. We got lucky last night."

" _Pfft._ Luck has nothing to do with it."

"Tell me you weren't sweating."

"Sure, Brooksy about had a heart attack, but I knew Trask would deliver."

"If Chalmers doesn't hit the three-"

"Quit raining on my parade, Jimmy. How many guys can say they...shit, where the hell are you? A fucking wind tunnel?"

"I'm in my basement with the treadmill running."

"10-4. I'll keep it short. Kojak's heading your way this afternoon with a half rock."

"Remember: Boja's counting every penny. Zero skimming, Brian."

"Man, we've already had this conversation and you're startin' to hurt my feelings! You think so little of me?"

"You ain't got feelings."

"I ain't got...jeez, you sound tense. We made a little dough last night. You oughta be kicking with the stompers up."

"Don't I wish. There's a shitstorm brewing here."

"What's the poop?"

"Marital, for one. Professional, for two."

"Ech, the ole double trouble."

"Problem two is easier to handle than problem one."

"There's a reason I'll never get hitched. Brooksy can buy his pussy. Brooksy can buy a lot of pussy, _he-he_."

"Mine's not for sale, but I'll get it squared away. I'll get everything squared away. At least this basketball nonsense is put to bed."

"Hey, Jimmy," Brooksy whispered. "D.T. will be back next year."

"Hey, moron," Jim barked, "I don't care what you think or say, we got lucky last night. I'm through playing with fire and if you're smart, you'll be done, too. If not, I can't bail you out again. No way."

"Yeh, but-"

"No _buts_ about it, _brah_."

"I'm just saying, when you think about, we didn't make as much as we should have."

"You wouldn't have made anything if I didn't beg Boja for a handout."

"Shit, I set this motherfucker up. Think about it: Boja wouldn't have made anything if I didn't work D.T. Next year...next year, I won't need his cash. I'll be solid. Yeah, brah, we can...we'll... _ugh_...sorry, I have to run. There's a uniform rattling my door. Give me a holler after you hookup with Kojak."

After tossing the phone aside, Jim hopped on the treadmill and cranked up the speed. Six miles today...maybe seven...maybe infinity. Whatever it took to clear the head...assuming the head could be cleared.

On the t.v., Skip Bayless continued ranting: "...and don't get me wrong, the kid is good, but five turnovers, three in the last two minutes, _plus_ the missed free throws? I'm sorry, but Dontrelle Trask is..."

Neck muscles tight, mouth fixed in a firm line, Jimmy focused on the fuse box and ran on legs what felt like led...
Laura

...Zeppelin radiating from the speakers and floating across the living room. Laura Reilly, née Pine, sipped her afternoon wine (which, Dear Diary, was becoming more a habit than a pleasure...but she already knew as much, so shut the fuck up already) and droned along to the faint strains of "The Battle of Evermore". The Led Zeppelin canon was the soundtrack of her high school life; Robert Plant's wail invoked nights of frivolity and carelessness. Serenaded by Plant's seductive groan, teenage Laura got busy on many backseats. Once upon, the music worked magic; today Zeppelin depressed.

She set down her glass and grabbed Johnny as he pulled himself up by her leg. _Close to walking, this one,_ she thought. _And what a joy it'll be chasing him around the house..._

"Slow your roll," Laura said, as she pinched his cheek. He giggled, clawed at her red hair, bopped to the music. Both boys looked like Jim, right down to the dimples in their cheeks. In other words, constant reminders of her husband. Tokens of their passion stared her in the face.

Babbling nonsense, Johnny reached for her glass of wine on the coffee table. The one-and-a-half-year old's blond hair was coming in thicker; small curls formed around each ear, and a giant ringlet topped his head; blues eyes...the whole nine. But the kid wasn't as sweet as he looked: with reckless abandon, Johnny wielded his huge Irish melon like a battering ram. He also enjoyed biting, didn't nap and turned sullen at the snap of fingers. Laura's day began and ended with a tantrum of one kind or another...and most of the time it was her doing the yelling while Johnny sat on his rump and scowled.

Their four-year old, Jimmy, had lost his flaxen locks. Now his hair was dark and coarse, easy to style....when he'd sit long enough to be touched. Jimmy bristled from affection and enjoyed entertaining himself. Unobtrusive and artful, he'd laze for hours -coloring, stacking Legos, playing with Matchbox cars- and chat into thin air. The behavior seemed a blessing when Johnny got fussy, but she also found the banter odd.

Jim dismissed her apprehension and argued, "I thought all them books talk about the benefits of kids having a ghost friend."

"What books?" Laura challenged.

"Doctor Spock and...Freud...all those eggheads. It's supposed to show, you know, creativity and whatnot. Anyway, I used to do the same thing."

"You talked to ghosts?"

"Not ghosts. I said, _ghost friends_. Jeez, what's the big deal?"

Laura couldn't answer the question; she didn't know enough about her husband to make sense of his childhood behavior. Good, bad, or neutral, his past presented as a surreptitious narrative. She knew the barebones stuff: raised in Phoenix; dead dad; joined the Navy out of high school. His mother still lived in Arizona, but Laura hadn't met her...or talked to her over the phone...or seen a picture of the woman. It appeared _The Bitch_ ( _Jim's words, not mine_ , _Dear Diary_ ) played a detrimental role in his upbringing, and he vowed _The Bitch_ would never see her grandchildren... _ever_. Once (and only once), Laura asked about the friction...

...and he responded with a gruff: "I'm not talking about _The Bitch_... _ever_."

And that was that.

There were two Reilly siblings, but Laura's contact with them occurred over the telephone: An older brother, a teacher, lived in Southern California; a younger sister, Katherine in...Albuquerque or Denver. Richard sent savings bonds on the kid's birthdays and holidays; Katherine sent her love via AT&T.

The distant relationships perplexed. Laura's family thrived on affection and closeness. She spoke to her brothers and sister a few times a month, and her parents once a week. Her hometown of Canesoanke abounded with friends and attachments both good and bad, but attachments nonetheless.

She set Johnny on the floor and watched him crawl towards the kitchen.

_Post-shooting, Day One,_ her mind reported. _The landline started ringing a little after seven. Or was it eight? I don't remember, but it roused Johnny. Jim took the phone off the hook, sat at the kitchen table and stared at the newspaper for a half-hour. There's a terrible picture on the front page...I could only look at it for a second. Jim and one of the men he shot..._

Now he's gone and left me alone, Dear Diary. Left me to meet Brooksy at BarTop's...or so he claims. I suppose he's earned a beer or six, but what's my excuse for drinking before noon?

Jim split to commiserate with booze and Brooksy; she had nobody in Memphis to throw hypothetical arms around except children, and they wanted nothing to do with her.

Laura needed a good ear to chew.

Robert Plant wouldn't suffice.

Mother couldn't help; On Laura's wedding day, Mother said, _'Try to give him a chance before you throw in the towel.'_ What fucking advice! What fucking advice after she goaded her daughter into _doing the right thing!_

Her college roommate Missy? Nope. They'd have the mandatory stilted conversation about Missy White's glorious, extravagant life. Missy even had the vernacular pat, right down to the ridiculous Hepburn accent. _Summertime in the Hamptons is divine, dahling. Oh, and we'll be visiting Bodden Town in July; Martha's in August; Lake Placid in October. You should see the color of the trees from the ski lift. It's ever so delightful, dahling._

What could Laura say? _Mud Island is blah, I'm wasted by three, and Jim almost got killed yesterday._

Missy hadn't always been a UE princess, but she landed a catch who shit diamonds whenever the urge struck him. _Fredrick, dahling, is doing marvelous. He's handling over 200 accounts per-week and earning wheelbarrows of commission._

Well laddi-fuckin' dah. Frederick, _pfft_. Dumpish, haughty and not even a smidge good looking, Frederick. It took all of Laura's self-control to avoid asking Missy, 'What the fuck happened to you? Does Fredrick pump gold into your cunt?'

Then again...in the big schematical, Jim wasn't any better. If nothing else, Freddy wasn't pumping gold into anyone's cunt except Missy. Jim, on the other hand...

So, maybe the question wasn't, 'What's wrong with Missy?' Maybe the question be, 'What's wrong with Laura?'

"What's wrong with me?" she asked the half-empty wine glass.

The vino answered: _For starters, you're talking to me, and I'm almost all gone. Why don't you pour another round and let it rip._

Arm twisted, she topped of the glass, watched Johnny do circuits...

...and pondered irony. Missy had been with Laura when they met Jim and his debauched business partner Brooksy for the first time.

"May 2000," she told the wine.

The glory days.

"Yes, Mister Merlot, the glory days."

You had some grand dreams, girl. Then you went and got knocked up months later.

"Poof," Laura mumbled. "Now look at me."

***

She graduated from Marist the year prior and wormed into an internship at the Met, but things weren't quite hunky-dory: two jobs; menial pay; small apartment she shared with Missy; riding the subway; little disposable income. Her Bachelor's in Renaissance Art wasn't worth more than a used tissue...but what of it? Laura could deal until she finished her Master's. Then she'd return to Italy for a year...or two...or three. She and Missy spent their junior year in Florence having a grand ole time _studying abroad_ : drinking barrels of wine, inhaling the good stuff, screwing swarthy Italian men without compunction. If long-distance phone sex counted, she even maintained a relationship with one of them. Gabriel... _something_...but his last name didn't matter. Another year abroad...or two...or three...fooling around with Gabriel...and then she'd find her way to Canesoanke, get into teaching and settle down.

These errant, dreamy fancies floated in her head...all of which dissipated when the gorgeous man with the cute dimples strolled into her life...though it'd be more accurate to say Laura rambled into his.

Missy and Laura were enjoying a Saturday hopscotching Manhattan and stopped for a decanter at Milo's. Drawn by boisterous screeching from the bar, she spotted him lickety-split: lean face, dark hair, blue eyes...he sorta looked like Aidan Quinn. His companion -tall, plump and frizzy haired- gestured at the t.v. in exasperation and bellowed, "What da holy fuck! You blind, blue?"

Milo's -an upscale, overpriced bistro on 89th Street- catered to pinched-face patrons who sipped and nibbled and talked about refined subject matters. People didn't come to Milo's to get wasted and yell at the television. Judging by their disheveled appearances and the long tab unwinding like an ancient scroll, Laura assumed they'd been at it awhile. It also seemed at least one of them was a huge Yankees fan:

"I mean, his foot wasn't on the bag," the large guy whined, spinning his head left and right. "Lookit! Plain as day! He's safe!"

The bistro quieted while everyone studied the rudimentary sport on the small screen. Quick-like, the patrons returned to posh banter because nobody in Milo's gave a good goddamn about the Yankees.

"Oh, gawd," Missy snorted. "Look at the primate." It had only taken a year for her to develop the quintessential Manhattan snobbism, and the display of rowdiness riled her sensibilities. Uh-huh. This from the same girl who was gang-banged atop a dirty mattress by five Theta Delta Chi pledges. In Missy's defense, she had consumed a lot of alcohol, but being a communal jizz dumpster fashioned psychological repercussions. Who'd have thunk it? At present, Missy worked hard to cultivate a persona not associated with the bawdiness of fraternal circle jerks. Thus, she overcompensated in ridiculous ways, like spending way too much on clothes and rubbing elbows with squares.

As such, Laura ignored her. Instead, she gawked at the other fellow, the quiet one...

Missy grabbed her elbow and said, "Come on, let's sit outside."

But Laura didn't budge. He might have the personality of a board, and probably couldn't recite the alphabet, but his brain wasn't important.

"Laura?"

"I want to sit at the bar."

Missy knew where this was headed and frowned.

"Check him out," Laura whispered.

"The screecher?"

"No, his friend."

"Yep...he's a looker...which leaves me with the banshee. No thanks."

"The banshee's not repulsive," Laura argued. "You've done worse."

"Fine, _one_ drink," Missy said through a scowl.

Laura found stools across from the men and placed herself in direct eyesight of her target. She'd be demure and stick to the one drink as promised...unless things evolved. She nursed the vino and blinked peepers at him, but his eyes focused on America's Pastime.

Missy chugged her wine, placed a twenty on the bar and slid out of the chair. "You ready?" she asked.

Laura held up the glass and said, "I'm not done."

"Jesus, Lar. I know you can drink faster."

"And I know you can drink slower."

A half-hour later, around the time Missy had drawn the line in the sand, the inane guy whooped, pounded the bar and high-fived his buddy. Then he spotted the girls and shouted, "Whadda say, ladies? Buy ya a round?"

"Can you afford two glasses of Chardonnay?" Missy asked in a bitchy voice.

"Can we! We just made five grand on the Yankees! How 'bout we split a bottle?"

So they did, and introductions were bartered for wine: the loud guy, Brooksy; the quiet one, Jim. Brooksy -obnoxious with none of the social charm- did almost all the talking: _Me and my brah here, Jimmy, are in the Navy, blah, blah, blah, in New York for Fleet Week, blah, blah, blah. We're stationed in blah, blah, blah..._

Not at all interested in the particulars, Laura interrupted and suggested they should grab a bite to eat...which merited a kick in the shin from Missy.

Jim yawned, checked his watch and then said, "We gotta haul ass out of here tomorrow morning and I'm bushed so...we'll take a pass on dinner."

***

It _should've_ ended there; it _could've_ ended there. Sometimes, like the instant she knew he had a mistress named Courtney, Laura wished it _would've_ ended there. A different history _would_ be written and she _wouldn't_ be sitting in this chair, drunk in the middle of the afternoon, rehashing the memory. She would've gone to Florence, staged tours at Palazzo Pitti and lived with Gabriel for a year...or two...or three...

Or she could be in Canesoanke among people she cared about, where cops didn't get shot and buildings didn't have bars over their windows.

Instead...instead, she and Jim exchanged numbers. They boinked. She got pregnant. They married. They moved to Memphis. He had-

_The story hasn't changed,_ the wine said, all snarky-like. _Yet,_ _here you are: same place, different day_ , _rehashing and dwelling._

"Enough," she whispered.

_Last night, you told him_ _enough._ _Bless your heart, girlfriend. You were serious, too._

"Enough."

_Do you know what Jim hears when you say_ _enough_ _? Do you know what I hear? Nothing. Matter of fact, I've lost count of the_ _enoughs_ _. Matter of fact, I'm tired of hearing_ _enoughs_ _. Do something or quit talking. Better yet, keep drinking me up._

She glared at the bottle and said, "Enough."

_What did I just say? You better do_ _something_ _, or we'll be meeting like this tomorrow, and so on and so on and...need I continue?_

Most days, she'd have silenced Mister Merlot's snotty tone with merlot up the wazoo.

But this particular afternoon...welp, Mister Merlot pricked her ass.

She'd been dragging her feet...

... _far too long, girl._

Laura grabbed the cellphone, flipped open the cover and punched the eleven digits what would connect her to the Canesoanke Police Department.

Quick-like, the satisfaction she be doing something gave way to the reality she be doing something.

Not _would_ _do_. Not _about_ _to do_.

She be _doing_.

"Jim's not going to be happy," she said as the speaker trilled.

_Neither will the Deputy Chief,_ warned Mister Merlot.

How would she begin the conversation?

A cheesy joke?

A hearty: _Hey, it's Laura, remember me?_

_Let me help,_ Mister Merlot said. _Ahem...Butch..._

### Wednesday Morning, 9April 2008

...Weinager emptied his throat with a hacking cough and took stock of the individuals crammed in the humid, thirty-by-thirty square foot briefing room: eight city cops, two detectives from the LEB, a couple Statie mucky mucks and Ontario County deputies, an OC accident tech and a female reporter from the local paper. A handful of the smushed menagerie rested their butts on janky foldup chairs; the remainder leaned against concrete walls.

While Butch waited for the assembled to quiet, Jimmy scrutinized the chief's wan, creased face and squinty eyes. _Where are we, Butchy?_ he asked telepathically.

No answer could be found in the ether, but if appearance conveyed mood, the chief oozed exasperation. He also looked like he had exited an industrial dryer: in place of the S.I. flair, Butch stuffed his ample beer gut between an orange rumpled polo and bleach speckled denim pants; a gaudy belt buckle, polished to a faultless shine, reflected the recessed overhead lighting. No doubt the casual attire and contrived aggravation sought to invoke irrelevance, but Jimmy knew the man be stressed. Steering the detectives from the LEB required adept hands; one wrong move and the shithouse be up shit creek.

Officer Benny Wells dropped into the chair to Jimmy's left and smoothed a silver, Wyatt Earp-esque mustache. Thin and stooped, Benny had twenty years on Jimmy and sashayed with absolute indifference; if only Butch could've stuck a straw into Benny's noodle and sucked the attitude out of him...

Like many of Canesoanke's finest, Benny Wells was on the take. Every two weeks, a fat envelope found its way into Benny's hands; all Benny need do was twiddle thumbs and look the other way when Raul Boja's fleet of garbage trucks rumbled down Main Street, packed with Bojangles, inbound to Shortsville, Manchester, Clifton Springs...wherever. The sweet deal be even sweeter because B.W. planned on timing out in five years (fifty-eight months, four days, six hours, and a handful of seconds, to be exact -and the running clock ticked in his head every goddamn moment) and making his way to warmer climes with his wife and five cats.

But B.W.'s knowledge of the Boja business began and ended with the transport nonsense. He didn't give a big fat f about the meat and potato b and s; as long as the envelopes kept coming (and even if they didn't, truth be told) Benny Wells knew enough to never give a big fat f about the meat and potato b and s.

"Morning, Jimmy," Benny greeted. "Looks like an AA meeting in here but with more alkies."

"Been to a few?" Jim asked in a weary voice.

Benny cracked a high-pitched cackle; it sounded like a toy bike horn except more aggravating. "Not _moi_ ," he said. "My brother Bart, on the other hand...speaking of which, you ain't looking so chipper."

"I worked the overnight, Benny. This nine A.M. bullshit is for the birds."

"Guzzle a cup of the coffee Henry whipped up. It's Grade A tar but it'll flog the sandman out of you."

Jim grunted but kept his eyes fixed on Butch until the chief glanced in his direction. They locked eyes for a moment before Butch rapped the dais with his left hand.

"Ahem, gentleman and ladies, let's get this show on the road," Butch said. "Detective Lawson from the Ontario County LEB is here to brief the MVA on Route 21. Floor is yours, sir."

Lawson strolled to the front of the room and arranged a mess of papers on the podium. "So, um, morning folks," he said, consulting notes. "I'd like to begin with an administrative request. I have little information beyond personal material, reconstruction data and hypotheticals, therefore I'm asking Troop E, the Sheriff's Department and local police to keep their ear to the ground. Albeit small, there's a chance somebody saw something and either passed the scene or witnessed the accident."

A Lieutenant Colonel from the State Trooper delegation asked, "Any chance this wasn't an accident, Detective?"

"No, sir. My assumption is, we're looking at death by misadventure. But here's what I do know: male deceased, age sixty-five, out of state driver's license." Lawson looked at the female reporter and said, "His name is being withheld until the next of kin are notified Miss..."

"Natalie Shiner from the _Canesoanke Courier_ ," herself answered. "I take it you want me to include a few sentences asking anyone with information to..."

As she and Lawson chatted, Benny jabbed Jim in the ribs and whispered, "Where's Vern Fridley? Ain't he the beater?"

"Hungover, passed out, take your pick," Jim said...which might've been true except Vern Fridley wasn't hungover or passed out in or around Canesoanke. In fact, Vern Fridley vowed to make like a banana a few days ago...

"...the public can be a great resource," Lawson continued, plying the young woman with a smile.

"What type of vehicle was he driving?" Miss Shiner asked.

"A 1999, green Ford F-250, single cab," Lawson said.

"License plate?"

"New York, EGW-250."

_Christ,_ Jim thought, as he blasted Butch with frown; the Chief responded by staring at his stompers.

Lawson droned: "The deceased wasn't a New York resident, but it's believed he had business in the state." Miss Shiner opened her mouth, but Lawson steamrolled her with a terse, "The investigation is ongoing, Miss."

"Can you specify the cause of death?" she asked.

"Exposure," said Lawson. "The decedent was discovered about a half-mile west of the vehicle at approximately 0515 hours on Tuesday, April eighth. It appears weather conditions played a role in the MVA...matter of fact, using cell phone information, I believe the accident occurred after 2127 hours on Monday."

This got Butch's attention: he lifted his head and said, "Rather specific."

"There's enough anecdotal evidence to fix an exact window," Lawson said, as he shuffled papers. "Phone call and textual message timestamps were lifted from a cellular found in the truck. The last communication occurred at 2127 hours."

"Are you saying he didn't call anybody after the accident?" Miss Shiner asked.

"Doesn't appear so. The deceased suffered acute trauma to his head, and a preliminary toxicology report indicates a blood alcohol content of point oh-three and trace amounts of opiates. Taken as a whole, it can be inferred his decision making skills were degraded. Considering the environmental conditions...what's the pertinent data, Charlie?"

A young man topped with a shock of crazy yellow hair stood and smoothed a paisley tie. "ART found a layer of ice beneath the snow, about a quarter inch thick twelve hours after the suspected time of accident. No tire tracks, skid marks or other physical scars were present on the road, but it's reasonable to presume those signs would have been obscured by overnight precipitation. The truck was equipped with two working headlights and four unpunctured, but underinflated and worn, Firestone TransForce tires. No blood stains or unusual blemishes on the vehicle...I can't say with one hundred percent certainty he didn't hit an animal, but I'd be surprised. And...um, I have nothing else to report, Detective."

"Thank you, Charlie," Lawson said. "If additional information is gathered from those in the field, I ask..."

***

The nominal portion of the briefing concluded at ten after ten. After Miss Shiner and the County tech departed, Detective Lawson called the LEO's to order with a shrill whistle.

"Listen up," he said, abandoning an affable tone for one denoting _I mean business_. "This is confidential information I couldn't discuss with the media. Based on evidence gleaned from the beforementioned MVA, the Ontario County Child Crimes Unit will serve a warrant on a target in Canesoanke."

The room erupted in chatter.

"Oh, shit," Benny hiccupped. "Wonder who it is?"

Lawson waited for the murmuring to subside and then continued: " _Operation Goody Two Shoes_ will begin tomorrow morning at 0800 hours. Along with the target in Canesoanke, ten other individuals in Ontario County will receive a visit from LEO's. I'll be lead here, and the Sheriff's Department and Troop E will provide tactical support. Chief Weinager has also asked to participate in the festivities. I guess you want to shake the dust off you bones, eh, Chief?"

Butch pawed at his belt buckle and said, "My officers could use some recurrent."

"I have room for four," Lawson said.

"Peachy," said Butch through an exaggerated grin. "Do I have volunteers?"

Benny Wells raised his hand and shouted, "Count me in, Butch! It'd be nice to do something exciting for a change."

"All right, B.W.," Butch said. "I need three more."

Jim sat back, crossed his arms, and studied the chief's belt buckle. _Enough light to warm a small planet,_ he thought. _Enough light to warm a small planet. Enough light to-_

"Officer Reilly," Butch called. "You have combat experience, pal. Care to add a ribbon?"

"Uh...jeez...I don't...I don't know," Jim drawled. "I'm kinda-"

"C'mon, Jimmy," Benny interrupted. "You afraid of a little action, _he-he_?"

"You're puttin' me on the spot, motherfuckers," Jim carped. He made a show of scratching his head and then acquiesced with a shrug and a halfhearted, "Okay, Butch, I'll tag along."

***

Butch collapsed into a chair behind a desk littered with pens, markers, papers and photographs. He stared at the mess, scowled and then rubbed his eyes.

"You look tense, man," Jim said, as he closed the office door and then leaned against the wall.

"Oh, gee, I wonder why? Let me tell you, it isn't difficult for me to display an appropriate amount of consternation considering Canesoanke is now a hotbed of child pornography. But guess what? I _ain't_ pretending. LEB prims canvassing my town and the corpse of a pervert littering my road...I haven't slept in days!"

Jim pulled a can of chew from his pocket and said, "Yeah...yeah, this is pretty fucked up."

"Not _pretty_ fucked up. It _is_ fucked up! By the way, I had a tipster contact me last night. Some perv sitting in the OC lockup felt the need to unburden his soul or something, and I felt it my duty to notify Detective Lawson. The long and short: molester shitheads like Glen Cumberland pass photos and rub one out in the half-completed scrapheap. My confidential information is enough to get the dump a cursory inspection from the OCCCU task force. And when they climb the stairs to the second floor and enter the furthest room on the right, they're going to find some nasty evidence." Butch gestured at a thick manila envelope on his desk and added, "I don't want to tell ya what I did to get this shit."

"Then what happens."

"Shoreview becomes part of the investigation. And since Mister Cumberland will, you know...since he'll be a fugitive...well, based on my meager understanding of the law, Cumberland's bank accounts get...damn, I can't pronounce the word... _each-eat_...or something."

" _Each-eat_ ," Jim laughed.

"Or something. It means, like, the state of New York can seize abandoned accounts after two years. In the meantime, the Feds keep tabs on financial activity in an attempt to ascertain Glen's whereabouts."

"What about Cumberland's property?"

"Tax liens, foreclosure and then, at last, the property goes to auction in a futile attempt by the state to recompense all agencies involved in this fiasco."

"Raul's gonna sit on his hands for two years?"

"I don't know and I don't care. Real estate ain't my thing. Hell, none of this is my thing. Once we get the Cumberland nonsense tied up, I'm washing my hands."

Jim scooped a tuft of tobacco, shoved it in his mouth, and then mumbled, "What's the deal with Lawson giving out the make and model?"

"Can't be helped. Mister Lawson's a B-t-B man., a prim to the brim, but he isn't stupid. Miss Shiner's story won't go to press until the afternoon. By then, we'll have Glen stitched up."

"Speaking of hisself...change of plans."

"I can't wait to hear."

"Puerto Rico."

"Fine, whatever, I don't give a fuck where he goes but..." Butch spun a pen on his desk, watched it complete a revolution and then continued: "...but forget Glen for a second. Regina can be handled one way _or_ the other."

"I prefer the other."

"It isn't worth nuking our lives because you want to settle a hash. Lawson is tiptoeing around Sal Grittio and all the quote-unquote unbiassed judges and litigators in OC. His words, by the way. The warrant was signed by a magistrate in Rochester. When it becomes obvious our friend has bolted...you follow, right?"

"Grittio's knee-deep."

"Deeper, and Regina Cumberland is right beside him. Nothing they say will carry weight."

"You never know what people will believe," Jim said with a shrug. "I'd rather be proactive."

"I must be losing my mind," Butch voiced in a husky tenor laden with either awe or disgust. "Just...look, man, we're walking a fine line. And try to keep your machismo holstered when we talk to Tom. Bouncing him will throw a wrench into our plans."

"I'm a church mouse, Chief."

"Great, but Tom might not be as quiet."

"Dumbo's full of elephant shit," Jim said through a yawn.

"Jim, please and thank you, keep your lip zipped," Butch said, as he reached for his landline. "We have to impress upon him the importance of the situation, okay?"

"How 'bout you call Vern and stop nagging me, _okay_?"

Butch grunted, hit the _Speaker_ button and then jabbed the keypad. Ringing replaced dial tone...three, four, five trills-

"The motherfucker better not be indisposed," Butch said.

-six, seven-

Click.

"It's...it's...Vern," a winded voice answered.

"Vern!" Butch bellowed. "You had me worried! Thought you might've fallen off the planet, kid!"

"I'm...I'm still around, just a mite hungover."

"Then I'll keep it short. I want you to call at three."

"Got...it."

"Do we need to review the script?"

"Calhoun's...at four."

"With _all_ his shit."

"Butch, you don't-"

"Who's collecting him?"

"My friend Rich."

"Rich is taking him where?"

"To a house in Brighton."

"Uh-huh. For my piece of mind, let's do another dry run."

"Ahh, come on, Butch. I don't need to go over it again. Honest, I'm good. I have the script in front of me and a few hours to get right as rain."

"Wonderful. Because if you muck up, forget the money you _won't_ get. Raul Boja _will_ find you, and you'll be spending an unknown period of time explaining why you screwed the pooch."

"I know the situation but, um, I've been wondering what you want me to do if Glen doesn't-"

"He will."

"But-"

" _He. Will."_

"'Cause you can't pin it on me if-"

"Listen, I'd love to shoot the shit but I'm swamped. Pass the message and remember to ring my cell after you're done speaking to Glen. Comprende?"

"Okay...okay, but...okay," Vern sighed. "I'll call him at three."

Butch killed the connection, raised eyebrows and said, "One down, two to go. Time to visit..."
Richard's Call

...Richard, who wasn't feeling tiptop.

Stage 4 cancer, one of his two loathsome travelling companions, made itself more at home in his gut by the second, worming its slimy tumors into his intestines, fattening on his cells. It was hard to conceive of something so malevolent inside him, destroying him piecemeal.

Pero lo es. Te estás muriendo, amigo

Around Blythe on the morning of Day One, he started a conversation with himself which evolved into an intervention of sorts. In his mind, Body and Soul met to discuss the miserable situation:

" _You gotta cut this shit out,"_ Soul told Body.

Body responded, _"I'm going to keep mutating, bozo. Deal with it."_

It be a useless exercise repeated ad infinitum, mama.

So, Richard started running through the gamut of underclassmen classes he'd taken at Long Beach State:

_Kubler-Ross stages of grief,_ his mind reminded. _Psychology 202. Professor Lenk. MWF 8-845a. Come on, Richard. Let's review..._

Stage 1: _Denial._ He seemed stuck on Stage 1. On occasion, he'd tiptoe into Stage 2 territory: _Anger._ Fun fact: he started the trip at Stage 3: _Bargaining:_ _Please God, let me commit homicide before you take me._ Like Merlin the Magician, Rich be regressing instead of evolving; according to Professor Lenk, that wasn't how the stages of grief were supposed to work...

...so fuck Professor Lenk.

Richard decided he had no use for Psychology. Or Calculus. Or Sociology. Or Native American Mythology. In fact, all the non-electives he'd been forced to take at Long Beach State could take a hike. What be left to pick at?

He settled on the American History lectures of one Donald Taylor. Three-quarters deaf, cranky, condescending...few students liked Doctor Taylor. Richard didn't mind the old man, though. Yes, the tests were a bitch (all essay answers requiring at least five hundred words), but Taylor used sports analogies in his lectures...which was cool as a cucumber, mama:

" _Game Seven, 1965 World Series. Series is tied at three. Winner take all. Sandy Koufax is riddled with arthritis and working on two day's rest. He's laboring early, his pitch count is up and the Minnesota Twins have men on in the bottom of the fifth. Don Drysdale is warming up in the bullpen." Taylor fixed his eyes an airy blond in the front of the room and said, "You're Walt Alston, miss. You're the Dodgers manager. Do you replace the best pitcher in the game for Drysdale?"_

The girl flicked her hair and smacked gum. "Like, yee-ah," she said in a grating Valley Girl voice. "I mee-ann, like, yee-ah...or, like...I guess."

Taylor puckered his mug and asked, "You guess what?"

" _Like...I wouldn't pick the...like, you know, the...Coal-Fax guy."_

" _Uh-huh. What about you?" the professor asked, pointing at a Bohunk sitting next to the ditz._

" _I'd let Koufax pitch," the kid said._

" _Congratulations," Taylor said, "you've won the World Series, son. Koufax weathers the storm, throws a three hit, complete game shutout, on the road, after two day's rest. He's the MVP of the series, hurling two shutouts in three games. He'd have to retire at the end of the season because of the arthritis and bursitis, but he got the job done and went out a champion."_

" _Hindsight is 20-20," someone challenged. "Besides, Drysdale was just as good."_

Taylor disagreed: "Koufax is your ace, sport. He's the best pitcher in the game. You don't take the ball out of the hands of the most dominating force on your team. Ahem...no doubt some of you are wondering why I'm lecturing about baseball, but there's a salient point. President Lincoln faced a similar problem throughout the Civil War. He kept working his bullpen, pulling out mediocre relievers to lead the Army of the Potomac: McDowell, McClellan, Hooker, Burnside, Meade. Desperate, Lincoln settled on U.S. Grant, and U.S. Grant became Lincoln's Koufax. Grant was canny; he understood the philosophy of a war of attrition. He knew the Union possessed enough resources and manpower to sustain the conflagration for another five years. The Confederacy wasn't as flush.

" _The press in the North weren't fans of Grant's tactics. Casualties mounted, the war dragged on, and critics demanded Lincoln replace Grant or, if you will, go to his bullpen yet again. But Lincoln stuck with his man...he should've had Grant leading from the start, but at least he stuck with him. And Grant helped bring about the end of the war a year after he took command of the Union Army. The moral of the story? Always stick with your best."_

Come to think of it, Grant died of cancer, too. Throat cancer...

Richard wondered if throat cancer was less painful...

...and then decided he could do without history for a spell.

The painkillers mitigated a fraction of cancer's needling presence. The doctor said the pain would be bad, and it be, but Richard hadn't counted on persistent, sharp little knives gouging innards. Dealing with this, and trying to drive...mama, it got to be _no es bueno._ Outside Amarillo, he let his other companion, Papabear69, take the wheel. While Richard agonized in the passenger seat, Papabear handled the task of trans-continental navigation.

The one thing Richard feared was sleep, but not deep sleep; he dreaded the drowsy netherworld of semi-consciousness. He didn't want to babble and let his mask slip; he didn't want Papabear to figure out Azzblastr007's real identity.

No, mama...

***

Richard couldn't believe how easy it be to locate Isaac Brown.

The internet was a blessing and a curse. The blessing? Anonymity disappeared and damn near anyone could be found so long as they left a footprint. The curse? Said search thrust him into a seedy world of Bad Shit and Bad Folks. The deeper Richard excavated, the more he found himself disappointed in the human race. Richard knew people were wicked; he knew firsthand the wickedness of some people. But, for whatever stupid reason, he thought the Isaac Browns of the world be few and far between...like one pedophile per zip code. This wasn't the case. Even worse, the web connected creeps across all regions of the globe, put them in contact with each other, and allowed the exchange of information, pictures and videos. Richard wasn't prepared for what he found, and it took some dealing.

Yes, mama, the internet is full of sick things. Lots of sick things. Things so sick, it made the ole sphincter tighter than a virgin's cunny. Richard made a catastrophic boo-boo and watched Daniel Pearl's beheading. Afterwards (and for some goddamn reason he watched the entire clip), he vowed he'd never view anything so disturbing again. But then he made the mistake of peeping the guy what engaged in intercourse with a horse. Mama, Richard had been high as a kite, but the weed didn't numb the experience; shit, weed made it worse. And the horse fucker -known as Mr. Hands- died of peritonitis so...

Needless to say, Richard didn't stroll down Love Street. But, as the old saying goes, _in for a penny, in for a pound._

He found Isaac two days after receiving his death sentence. A search on Google (taking all of .0389 seconds) informed Richard: Bishop Isaac Brown, a married father of six, resided in Colorado City, Arizona. He toyed with the idea of sending an anonymous letter to Brown's Presiding Bishopric...then Richard read a little more about the Fundamentalist Church of the LDS and decided it wouldn't make a difference what he mailed unless it contained explosives, anthrax or both.

A satisfying fantasy blossomed in his head: he'd trek to Colorado City and take Isaac Brown out with a shotgun blast. But on second thought...blowing a hole in the man seemed too congenial a fate. No, Richard wanted to make Brown suffer, and making the perv suffer required Jimmy's help.

Thus, another fantasy took hold, though pulling it off would take mounds of chi. Richard started lurking in chatrooms full of users rapping about sexual fetishes and sundry deviancy. It seemed a forgone conclusion he'd strike gold, find Isaac, lure him somewhere, tie him up and deliver him as a gift to his brother. Aye, it sounded like a pat plan. However, as he sunk deeper into this bizarre world, Richard understood he'd never locate Isaac Brown by sheer luck. Though sickening, none of the animal fucking and/or necrophilia crap came close to touching the deranged shit Richard sought to discover.

Realizing reinforcements were necessary, Richard enlisted the help of a former colleague from LBCC: Willy Greer had gone from teaching Computer Science to writing programs for a defense contractor in NoCal. Willy also had access to parts of the internet Richard lacked the smarts to navigate.

"Rich, just so you know, some of the stuff on the Dark Web verges into felonious territory," Willy preached. "Depending on what you're looking for, if you make contact with the wrong person -like a Fed- you could face serious jail time."

"I know, but the guy I'm trying to locate...trust me, he's not a Fed."

"It doesn't matter. _Should_ you make contact with a Fed, it's game over."

"I got it. Now, tell me how can I track him down."

"First things first. Don't access anything with your work computer."

"No duh."

"Hey, you wouldn't believe the stuff I see. You'd think so-called professionals would be smarter, but they aren't. I have to make sure you hear me loud and clear."

"Consider me warned."

"Next, you have to know his fetish. Is he into animals? Cleveland Steamers? Um...you know, Golden-"

"He's a pedophile. Boys and girls. Likes to film himself."

After a long pause, Willy whispered, "Did I hear you right? Boys and girls?"

"You heard me right."

"Listen...for my own peace of mind...this isn't something you're into, is it?"

"Willy, you find him for me and I'm going to deliver the bastard on a platter to the police." Which was true, in a matter of speaking. Also, in a matter of speaking, jail was too good a place for Isaac Brown.

"Did this guy...I mean..."

"Let's just say I know a few of his victims and leave it there."

"Yeah...wonderful," Willy said in a flat voice. "Do you have a name? Location? Job title? I'll need something to start the search."

"I have all three, man..."

Willy phoned hours later and delivered a terse summation:

"His user name is Papabear69. He frequents a couple of boards. It's despicable stuff." Then Willy rattled off the webpages as if they were infectious before concluding: "I'm done with this, Rich. Keep my name out of whatever you end up doing."

Richard dove into the muck tout suite, created a ludicrous name (Azzblastr007) and found Papabear69 on several of the more nauseating sites. Azzblastr007 reached out to Papabear with a friend request and expected the creep to be cagy, but the horny pedophile took the line and swam. Within twenty-four hours, they were exchanging private messages. Papabear demanded stories; Papabear wanted pictures; Papabear wanted videos; Papabear wanted to see Azzblastr007 doin' some ass blastin'. Reluctantly, Richard sent him pictures of his junk. Papabear reciprocated, but Richard never opened the attachments. Instead, he saved everything onto a thumbdrive. In lucid moments, Richard shivered at his own depravity. Then he remembered who he was dealing with and disgust vanished.

Knowing time was of the essence, Richard decided to damn the torpedoes. He bought a burner phone from Best Buy; he purchased a Smith & Wesson SD9 from a gun show in Anaheim; he PM'd Papabear: _I got a thing setup w/a friend. Give me yer # so we can talk._

On 28 March (six days after Richard's grim diagnosis), they spoke for the first time over the telephone:

"Is this the Assblaster007?" Brown asked.

"It is, Papabear."

"I want you to rub your cock on my face," Bishop Brown -father of six, husband of three, child predator and amateur film maker- declared in a sultry groan.

Richard recoiled on his end of the phone but crooned in contrived elation, "Oh, great, Papabear."

"What is this situation you want to tell me about? Is it sexy like you?"

Richard described the specifics: he had a friend in upstate New York who'd let them have an evening with a couple of boys. The meager price? Five grand each.

"Hmm..." Brown pondered. "Are you with the police? Because if you are, you have to tell me. Otherwise, it's entrapment."

"Police?" Richard laughed. "No, I'm not a cop. But if you're uncomfortable...welp, no problem. Easy come, easy go, right? I'll find somebody else to who wants to have fun."

"Hold on, hold on. How's the logistical problem work?"

"I'm driving."

"I'd rather fly."

"I'd rather not. Less of a paper trail."

"You're driving?"

"Yep," Richard said, drumming fingers on his chin as the pedophile contemplated the offer. Regardless of Brown's decision, Richard was heading to Colorado City and taking care of business. But it'd be a shame if Jim couldn't partake in the festivities.

A real shame, mama.

At last, Brown said, "You know, come to think of it, I could use a little trip."

By the way, this was a slight understatement. Though Richard bet on the perv's deranged appetites as sufficient motivation, Brown desired an extended sabbatical far from Northern Arizona. Isaac Brown's issues weren't as dire as Stage 4 abdominal cancer, but 2008 hadn't been a banner time for Fundamentalist LDS members in Colorado City.

The previous year, their leader -the President and Prophet, Seer and Revelator, Warren Jeffs- had been arrested for statutory rape. Brown reasoned the hogwash charges were brought upon by a corrupt government uneducated in the true Word of the Lord...but the weak-kneed in the community lost their faith quick-like. Alas, Brown came to understand even the Lord he put his faith in couldn't trump the evil of the U.S. Government and the Arizona Attorney General.

Uncle Sam's blasphemous hammer splintered the sanctuary of pedophiles and the hierarchy of the Church: Jeffs, under pressure from authorities, disavowed his status as Prophet; one of his opportunistic brothers (a smarmy heathen named Nephi), crowned himself the latest and greatest Prophet; in a move to consolidate power, Nephi purged the Church of those loyal to the disgraced Warren Jeffs. Isaac Brown soon found himself on the outs; his wives, including the 14-year-old child bride pregnant with his seventh child, regarded him with mistrust. Next came the arrests of those complicit in arranging "child brides" under Jeffs direction. In February 2008, a handful of trustees got slapped with iron bracelets...among them, Isaac's colleague and gangbang companion, Truman Barlow.

Therefore, Isaac Brown decided a trip to New York be a dandy idea. It didn't take twisty calisthenics to discern The Lord bestowed a gift, and our pious Bishop wasn't one to disregard The Lord.

Yea, it appeared unseen forces conspired to pull the schemes of several men into a tight ball. Providence, the ebb and flow of the universe, good or bad luck...call it what you will. The actual factual? Shit be getting real.

"I need to make one thing clear before we cross the country," Richard said before he hung up. "I'm sick."

"What's the matter with you?"

Richard squeezed his eyes shut and said, "I have AIDS."

"AIDS?" Brown cried. "The homosexual disease?"

"Um-hmm. I thought you should know before we...uhm...before we fuck."

"Oh, we ain't getting close, Assblaster! No way! I don't want the AIDS!"

"Darn, I was hoping it wouldn't be an issue," Richard said with manufactured anguish.

"Sorry, but it's a _big_ issue with...hey, wait a second, Assblaster. Are you planning on being with the children when you're full of the AIDS?"

_Shitballs, mama,_ Richard thought. He hadn't considered the fictional children when he devised the fictional ailment; he just didn't want Isaac Brown crawling on him during the journey.

Brown said: "Pardner, I don't care if you want a turn, but I'm setting a rule: I get first crack."

_This is the man you're taking across the United States,_ Richard's mind admonished. _Good luck, mama. I'm sittin' this one out._

Ground rules established, Brown agreed to meet Richard outside a Waffle House in Tonopah on the morning of 2 April 2008. Harboring zero desire to return to Colorado City, Isaac Brown packed two bags, hopped into his Chevy and skedaddled. He didn't kiss his wives, wave goodbye to the clutch or leave a note. No, sir. Bishop Brown went _poof_ into thin air. The Brown Clan wasn't upset to see him go; in fact, they thanked the Lord he am-scrayed. Believe you me, Bishop Brown wasn't going to win father of the year.

Now, here they be: rolling east, Brown behind the wheel, Richard in the passenger seat wrestling with pain and trying to keep his mouth sealed...

***

"You feelin' okay, pardner?" Brown asked.

Richard opened his eyes and was bombarded with sunlight. "Where are we?" he rasped through a grimace.

"Just passed Hydro."

"Hydro?"

"Oklahoma."

With a groan, Richard reached for the duffel bag sitting next to his feet. Stuffed inside was a change of clothes, rope, handcuffs, the gun, and his smoky-smoky. Hands trembling, he dug out a cigarette pack and plucked a thick mother.

Brown shook his head in disgust and sermonized (for the tenth time), "Drugs are poison."

Richard lit the cane and took a deep drag.

"Guess you don't care," Brown said, as he powered down the windows.

"Nope," Richard whispered. "I don't give a fuck."

"What?" Brown screamed over the howling wind.

Richard inhaled, studied the smoldering end of the joint...

When they met at the Waffle House, he had a momentary fear the pervert would recognize him. Twenty some years earlier, teenaged Richard caught a glimpse of the creep strolling into the Reilly home. Had the creep caught a glimpse of teenaged Richard? It appeared not: Brown gave Richard the once over and then remarked they should get something to eat before hitting the road.

Not like Richard had any room to talk, but the molester hadn't aged well: late-50's or early-60's; plentiful wrinkles; bags under both eyes; fat, bald dome encircled by a ring of scruffy grey hair; paunchy; age-spotted skin. They made small talk over breakfast but kept the conversation both concise and G-rated. Besides, Richard was itching to get moving. After pulling the license plate from his Chevy -and then tossing it and his phone in into a dumpster- Brown climbed into the Audi with two backpacks. One of 'em contained pictures and DVD's (mementos, the pervert called them); the other was packed with cash.

"Five grand for the boys and spending money for the road," Brown explained. "Since you set this up, I thought it'd only be fair I pony for gas and lodging."

They drove almost thirteen hours on the first day before stopping at a Super 8 near Albuquerque. Despite Brown's apprehension about getting the AIDS, Richard spent the night sitting next to a window, smoking the pot, eyeing the snoring perv. He half-expected Brown to put the moves on him and the weed didn't help smother the notion. Besides the paranoia, pain riddled his body. More than once, Richard glanced at his duffle and considered ending Isaac as he slept. Then he'd smoke the rest of his stash before shoving the barrel in his mouth...

But what fun would that be, mama?

Be no fun at all, Richard. No fun at-

The windows zipped up and snapped Richard from rumination.

"I can't go hours without talking," Brown said. "So, um...what kind of job do you have?"

Richard exhaled and then said, "I used to be a teacher."

"Yeah? What'd you teach?"

"History. I have a PhD."

"You're a doctor?"

"It doesn't mean shit. Just a piece of paper with Latin on it, you dig? But I reckon I'm the one doctor my white trash lineage ever shit out."

"Where'd you grow up? The coal mines of West Virginia or something?"

"Mesa," Richard answered without thinking, which wasn't unusual considering the filter between his brain and mouth be clogged with years weed residue.

Brown's head swung right and he asked, "Mesa?"

"Yep."

"Arizona?"

Richard realized he let something slip...something Bad. He shook his head, coughed, and then said, "Costa Mesa. Costa Mesa, California."

"Ah," Brown said, returning his gaze to the road. "I grew up in Mesa. Just Mesa. Mesa, Arizona. I moved to Colorado City ten years ago and became a bishop in the Church there."

_I know,_ Richard thought. _I know all about you, Papabear69._

"I brought scripture in case you're interested," Brown said. "Heck, we could study tonight. Once you leave this world you'll be held in judgment, pardner. You don't want to face the Almighty with the AIDS poison in your soul."

Richard took another drag and restrained a powerful urge to leap on Brown. Instead, he blew a smoke ring out his mouth and said, "I'm not a big fan of God at the moment. Plus, it'd be a waste of time. At this point, nothing's going to save me."

"I could be your teacher. Nobody who hears the word of the Lord is lost."

"You can save your breath. I just want to get to New York."

"Suit yourself. I would be ungrateful if I didn't stand today and bear my testimony."

Richard snorted and then took another lungful.

***

On 4 April, the two stopped in Rolla, Missouri; the next evening, they halted outside Richmond, Indiana. Tomorrow, 6 April, they'd head northeast along 71, skirt between Cleveland and Akron, and join 90E as it crossed into Pennsylvania. Then it was a straight shot east: Erie, Buffalo, Rochester...the Finger Lakes region. By Richard's calculations, they had eight hours and change of travel time to Canesoanke.

Eight hours and change.

He felt like dogshit: stomach hurt; head hurt; everything hurt. Nausea overwhelmed. He hadn't eaten in three days and drank little. Swallowing proved almost impossible; every teeny sip of water felt like acid sliding down his throat. A pale codger in a sandwich board strutted around the boardwalk of Richard Reilly's imagination; on his panel, the words _Thy End is Near_ were stenciled in untidy letters.

And then there be the matter of what happened when they arrived in Cansoanke. What would he say to his brother? Phone and announce: _'Hi, bro, long time no see. I'm in the neighborhood and thought we'd wet the whistle and chew the fat. Oh, by the way, remember the guy who raped you when you were ten? Yeah, I got him with me. We had a hell of a journey, but he's all yours now, Jimmy.'_

Maybe he'd show up on Jim's doorstep and shout, _'Surprise!'_

How would Jim react? What if he balked? _What, how, where, when..._

On and on the questions rolled through his head as the car bounced down the highway.

After they settled into the hotel room, Richard grabbed his bag and headed for the door.

"Where you going?" Brown asked.

"I need to have a smoke. I know you don't like it when I burn one under your sniffer."

"You gonna be okay to drive, pardner?" Brown asked. "You look peaked."

"I'll be fine. I just need some of my medicine to help with the...you know...the AIDS pain."

Piloted by a shriveled, aching driver, the Audi blasted from the Comfort Inn; minutes later, Richard parked next to a Denny's, fired a roller and dug the burner from his bag.

"All right, mama," Richard said, dialing the phone number. "Let's see what Jimmy thinks of this new, miserable..."
Monday Morning, 7 April 2008

...situation: awakening on the living room floor wearing uniform pants and a sweaty t-shirt. God only knew where his dress shirt went, but the utility belt coiled next to him like a snake.

Head thudding, Jimbo gained his feet and toddled to the kitchen.

He wasn't in bad shape...

He wasn't in _good_ shape, but he wasn't in bad shape.

He was middle of the road...

He was status quo...

He felt like a man should feel after drinking nine beers, a splash of whiskey and...and some Gordon's (altho Jimmy didn't remember cracking the gin).

If Jim was being honest, however...he wasn't quite _middle of the road_ ; he wandered on the _feeling like dogshit side of the road_...

The slow lane, mama.

The wall clock said it be a quarter past eight.

Not hide nor hair of his wife and kids...which was fine and dandy for the moment.

He downed two glasses of tap water, rubbed the crusty crap from the corners of his mouth and then spotted his phone under the kitchen table...

***

The robotic voice informed, _"Message one, received Monday, April seventh, at six-fifteen A.M."_

After a beep, Brooksy got to gamboling: _"Brah, Kojak arrived safe and sound. I've run all night, but I have most of the honeypot honeypotting. I'll take care of the rest this afternoon. Nothing else to say other than sit back and watch the fun. Talk later, feller."_

" _You have no more messages. To save your message, press one. To erase your-"_

He slid the phone across the counter and exhaled.

Nothing from Richard.

Nothing from Laura.

Nothing from Butch.

Nothing from the Bojas.

Nothing.

Nothing on a day what promised to be filled with somethings.

"But it ain't nothing but another morning followed by another evening at the salt mines," he said, filling the glass from the tap for the third time.

***

A twenty-minute shower restored a modicum of vigor, but staring in the bedroom mirror he felt (as one with polite manners would say) _wistful and detached_. _Hung-the-fuck-over_ was Jim's grim assessment. _Way_ hung. Face the color of paper, right eyelid droopy, both peepers bloodshot, hands trembling...

"Bitch, you look like shit," he said to his reflection.

_A bonafide Grade A mess,_ Dad cheeped. _And I know a mess when I see one, Mama._

Fighting the impulse to call Laura, he brewed a pot of coffee, took a seat at the kitchen table, and pushed the cell around with a finger.

Her theatrics could be addressed later.

He needed to speak to Richard, post hasty.

In the meantime, he stared out the morning room window and watched the first fat snowflakes from the promised storm float through the air.

***

At ten after eleven, the garage door clattered open.

"Keep it civil," he said, sliding from the chair. "Don't lose your shit. Even keel."

The kids hustled in first.

Johnny, a man of few words, waved and made a beeline for the stairs.

"Hi, Daddy!" Jimmy greeted. "We spent the night with Grandpa and Grandma!"

"Oh, how nice," he said through a big smile.

"Yeah, it was fun! I played with Grandpa's trains and we watched Nemo and ate popcorn!"

Looking haggard, Laura appeared from the mud room and dumped their bags on the kitchen floor.

"Johnny's going to his room," Jimmy reported. He held up his right arm, pointed at a raised red welt and said, "He bit me and Mommy got mad."

"Yes, I got mad," Laura said.

" _Really_ mad," Jimmy said. "Mommy's face turned red."

Laura cleared her throat and then said, "Why don't you run to your room and play, honey. Mommy and Daddy need to speak."

"But I want to talk to Daddy."

"Jimmy Junior," she moaned, "I'm not going to ask twice."

"We'll talk later, bub," Jim said.

Jimmy opened his mouth, but Laura snapped fingers and pursed lips. Mommy's _serious look_ couldn't part water, but it worked fine and dandy on little boys: Jimmy withdrew with a frown, scaled the stairs, slammed his door...

"What the fuck?" Jim asked. "Aren't they supposed to be in school?"

"I gave them the day off. I had a bad night and didn't feel like fighting with them."

"You had a bad night? Boy, you're a hoot. Imagine my surprise when I came home and found my family gone."

"I needed space after what you said to me."

"After what _I_ said? You accused me of adultery based on letters and...what is it? Intuition?"

"And your history of infidelity. And your history of being less than honest."

"What fucking proof do you have?"

"Where were you yesterday?"

"Listen to me," he said, shaking a finger in her face. "Don't ever pull another disappearing act with the kids. I about lost my shit last night."

"Don't tell me what I-"

His phone rattled on the table; she smushed her lips, gave the cell and then him the evil eye, and leaned against the wall with arms crossed as he peeped the caller ID.

UNKNOWN

"I have to take this," he said.

She snorted, tapped her foot...

"Work stuff," he explained.

"Uh-huh...whatever. I'll be in the living room if, or when, you want to talk."

Sneaky-like, he sealed himself outside. Already the wind be kicking and the snow thickening; a powdery inch covered the deck chairs and empty beer cans scattered like Easter Eggs.

He rolled his neck and answered: "Little Brother."

"Damn it's cold," Richard greeted. "Why the hell do you live here?"

"It's a long story and I don't have time to tell it. You alone?"

"Yep. I'm out of the room. Brown's watching t.v., but he's champing at the bit."

"All right, you're gonna need to take notes or something. I've worked something out, but it's somewhat convoluted."

"I'm all ears."

"Where you shacked up?"

"Some fleabag motel called the Daisy Inn."

"Ah, the Daisy. A real gem."

"You don't have to tell me. This place has ambiance of _Psycho_ with none of the Janet Leigh."

"The S.O. raids the Daisy every other week looking for parole violators and unregistered sex offenders."

"Then _He's_ a perfect resident."

"Uh-huh, but we'll tighten those nuts and bolts later. First, we need to concentrate on tonight. You payin' attention?"

"Shoot."

"You're taking _Him_ to a bar on Warner Street called Calhoun's. From the Daisy, head south on 332 until you roll into town. Warner Street will be on your left, just past the Canesoanke Arts building. Calhoun's sits less than a half block from the intersection and it'll also be on your left. Look for a green neon sign, white letters. The _l_ and _h_ are burned out. I want you there no later than eight-fifteen."

"Warner Street...Calhoun's...eight-fifteen," Richard recited.

"What're you driving?"

"A blue Audi."

"Park in the lot behind Calhoun's and have _Him_ wait in your car while you go inside. Be inconspicuous, order a beer and keep an eye out for a fat guy with a bad combover. He should be belly up when you arrive. So far, so good?"

"Fat guy, bad combover, got it."

"The fat guy is splitting around eight-thirty. Once he leaves, go back to the parking lot and find a green F-150. The keys will be inside on the floorboard. Put _Him_ behind the wheel and tell the fucker you're heading to Geneva for the rendezvous."

"Summoned reinforcements, eh?"

"I...yeah, I circled the troops, but forget about our chubby friend. Where are you going with _Him_?"

"Geneva."

"This is important, Rich: when you leave the lot, take Warner back to Main Street. Hang a right and travel a few blocks until you see a large church spot lit with orange lights. St. Mary's is on the corner of Allred Street. You're gonna make a right on Allred and keep trucking."

"Right on Main, another right at the church, keep trucking."

"The town falls away within a couple miles and you'll find yourself in the middle of nowhere. I'm sitting at the town line tonight, and I'll be waiting for you to pass. Once I see the Ford, I'll fall in behind. Make sure your seatbelt is buckled and sit on your hands. I'm gonna push you off the road."

"Uh...wha?" Richard cackled. "Push us off the road?"

"Yep, which is why you need to be ready for an impact. It could come at any moment."

"No offense, but this isn't a bright idea."

"Low speed, Rich."

"I vote for something else, bro."

"Save your breath. It's going down this way."

"Hey, man, if you're worried, I brought a gun."

"We're not shooting _Him_ , and you need to keep your gun at the motel, Rich. This has to appear like an accident."

"So...you run us off the road and then _what_?"

"Then Brown's taking a walk."

"A walk?"

"We're getting a blizzard tonight. Sure, it's a bad time for a hike, but _He_ will be a motivated motherfucker. Now, back to what I was saying: you can't leave any clothes, blood, fingerprints...whatever...nothing can be left behind."

"What about the Ford? Your pal is okay having his truck wrecked?"

"He owes me a big favor. Besides, it won't be totaled. A little nudge is all."

"And then we watch _Him_ stroll to _His_ death?"

"10-4."

"We're on a road, right? What about traffic?"

"There won't be many folks driving in a winter storm."

" _Any_ or _many_? There's a _big_ difference."

"I'll take my chances."

"Bro...you have a lot more to lose than me. Are you willing-"

"A couple other things," steamrolled Jimmy. "Make sure _He_ brings pictures and whatnot. Second, you have to make a couple phone calls to the following number. Ready to copy?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing. Don't make a peep, don't breathe heavy, just stay on the line for ten to fifteen seconds. I'm hoping-"

"Brown doesn't carry a phone."

"What?"

"He had one when we met, but Brown tossed it before we left Arizona. I get the feeling he's not a fan of _The Man_."

"Aw, shiiit..." Jim bellyached. "I didn't think...you need to get another burner, Rich. Get one, use it and leave it in the truck. There's a mall in Victor. Take the thruway-"

"I'll figure out how to get a phone."

" _Do not_ call me on it."

"No duh."

"If something comes up-"

"I know how to reach you."

Jim exhaled and then said, "Don't do anything I haven't told you to do. If something strange happens, just...just, you know..."

"Hey, man, I'll be cool as a cucumber. Tell the truth, I'm getting excited. This is some real James Bond shit."

"You don't know the half of it."

"What's the other half?"

"First things first. I'll see you tonight and we can chat about the rest."

"I...I should...um..." Richard stammered. "Er...yeah...you're right. We can play catchup later."

***

Not a second after he slid the door shut, Laura pestered: "Who called?"

"Is this the way every conversation is going to start?" Jim asked, brushing snow from his shoulders as he walked into the living room.

"Who. Called?"

"Goddamnit! I've had enough of your paranoid bullshit. Hand me the rig. I have to get ready for work."

"Your belt doesn't belong here," she said in a bitchy tone.

"Just fork it over. I don't want a lecture."

She picked it up...and cocked her head; both eyes zeroed on the empty holster. "Where's your gun?" she asked, wrinkling her brow.

The drunken events replayed in his mind like a silent film: waving the Glock, shooting at the moon...tossing it into the bushes...

"Oh, shit," he mumbled.

"What do you mean, _oh, shit_? Did you lose your gun?"

"No, I-"

"What if the kids have it!"

"Jeez, shaddup for a sec and let me explain: I left it outside last night."

"Outside?"

"I had a few and it seemed like a good idea to shoot the moon."

"You had a few and handled your gun? And you left it outside? What if you dropped it on the floor or in-"

"I didn't. End of discussion."

"What the fuck were you thinking?"

"Most of what I'm thinking is your fault. Your fucking nagging... _I have letters and a feeling_ , bullshit...taking the kids. Unlike..."
Dr. Fox Again

...their first session, Jim decided to keep the chatter to a minimum. He'd be a chill brah, get the _i's_ and _t's_ dotted and slashed, and mosey to Canesoanke all peachy clean. After all, what choice did he have?

The good doctor wore the same outfit as the last visit; he balanced the notepad on his knee, pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose, studied Jim and cleared his throat.

"How have you been?" Fox asked.

"Well," Jim said, picking at the fronds of the plant, "the time at home has been therapeutic."

"Oh?"

"I took your advice."

"What advice?"

"From the last visit. You said Laura and I needed to discuss my affair."

"How did it go?"

"Um...it went..."

***

The therapeutic conversation occurred a few days after he returned from New York, but it had been Laura's idea. Though her mood blew through the roof after the move became a certainty, there be one detail she needed settled before they left Memphis:

He had arrived home after taking the kids to zoo and found the missus parked at the kitchen table, studying a notebook.

"Have a seat," she ordered. "I need to clear the air."

"Ah...okay," he said, noting the frown on her face. "What about the boys?"

"Don't worry about them. I need to talk to you."

Jimmy Jr. didn't need a kick in the pants; he departed for his room without complaint. Jim placed Johnny in his crib (much to the toddler's displeasure), told the fussy kid it was naptime and shut the door.

When he returned to the kitchen, Laura ruffled the pages and said, "This has been a long time coming."

Arms crossed, he leaned against the wall and asked, "What do you have? A journal?"

"Notes. I got this idea from Doctor Phil and you're going-"

"Doctor Phil?" he snorted.

"Yes, and you're going to listen while I unburden the mountain of crap you layered on my back. No bullshit, Jim. I'm trying to put closure on _your_ affair. You hurt me. You hurt me more than you can ever imagine."

He stared at her for a tick tock and then asked, "How many times can I say I'm sorry?"

"Would you be remorseful if I didn't find out? Be honest."

"Look..." he said, running a hand through his hair. " _Ahem._ Look, if you want honesty, I'll let it rip: she gave me attention when you were giving me the cold shoulder. I got lost in the moment and had-"

" _Moments,_ you mean."

"You're right. I got lost in the moments."

"Don't you think I want attention, Jim? Don't you think I _deserve_ attention? You can't fathom how I felt...how I _still_ feel...after what you did."

"The thing is..." Jim trailed off and tried to think of a way to explain the Courtney situation. Would drugs and fucking in public be an apt way to satiate Laura's thirst for the truth?

The thing is, I dug it. I dug it a lot. I'd still be fucking Courtney if it didn't go to bags. But whatevs. I'm making a commitment to you by moving to Canesoanke...except I'm really doing it because Raul Boja's sticking his boot up my ass after you flapped gums to your ex-boyfriend.

"The thing is _what,_ Jim?"

He decided to put a stake through the Dr. Phil experiment, and not subtle-like: "The thing is, we're both getting something out of this mess."

"Excuse me?"

"You know what I mean."

Her mouth puckered and eyes narrowed. But in a calm voice, she said: "If you fuck around again, I'm taking the kids. I've given you a pardon. You won't get another."

"Fair enough. Now, are we done?"

She closed the notebook, ran a hand over the cover and then said, "You're making dinner tonight."

***

"...it went well," Jim said. "We needed to clean the wound before we moved. No Band-Aids, right?"

"What?" Fox asked, straightening in his chair. "You're moving?"

"Yeah. We're headed north to Canesoanke, New York."

Fox stumbled over the pronunciation several times before asking, "Where?"

" _Cane-sown-key_. Her hometown. Upstate. Wine country. Rolling hills. Finger Lakes. Quiet, tranquil, crime free." _No problems in Canesoanke, Doc_.

"Mayberry, huh?"

"You bet. I went there last week and interviewed with the police department." _And the town's resident drug lord._ "Received the job offer the same day."

"When do you move?"

"By the end of August, which means I'll have to double up on our sessions. Laura wants to be settled before our oldest starts school."

"What spurned your change of heart?"

"Our conversation last week got me thinking. Relationships are about give and take. I've taken a lot; now it's time I gave."

"You mentioned no Band-Aids, but you should understand changing locations isn't a long-term solution."

"Sure it is. _Very_ long-term. I could see myself retiring there."

"What I mean is, I still recommended marriage counseling."

"Oh, yeah, right," Jim said, waving a hand. "We're gonna do the counseling thing and whatnot. But a change will do us good. Laura's happy, I'm happy, and I won't have to worry about anyone shooting at me. I'll be a regular Barny Fife."

"A good segue, Jim. Would you care to discuss it?"

"Shit," Jim said with a shrug. "I don't have much to say other than I did my job. Sometimes doing the job requires lethal force."

"Any thoughts of sorrow, regret...perhaps...pleasure?"

"I don't feel anything."

"Nothing?"

"Nope. Those dirtbags had it coming, don't you think?"

"My opinion doesn't matter, Jim."

"I understand you're supposed to be impartial or whatever, but tell me those two didn't get what they deserved."

"We're not talking about me. You're the one who has to deal with the decision."

"Good, cuz I'm not losing any sleep, Doc."

Fox glanced at his pad and said, "Many men and women in law enforcement tend to internalize stress. It's important you find a healthy outlet beyond the usual steam blowing mentioned at our last session."

"Do I look like a reading or knitting guy to you?"

"I'm not here to sell you on the virtues of counseling, although I believe it works. But if it's not for you, here's another idea: jogging."

"Even worse," Jim laughed.

"I used to be Joe six-pack until I had a health scare a few years ago. One night, I suffered what my doctor claimed was a mild heart attack. I wasn't even forty. By the way, mild doesn't do the pain justice. I tell you, what a wakeup call, Jim. I'm not saying I thought of myself as immortal, but I figured I wouldn't die before forty. I don't want to get into a spiel about living on borrowed time. However, my health scare served as a wake-up call. I dropped the booze, bad food and weekly cigar, and took up jogging."

"I haven't run further than a hundred feet since the academy. In fact, anything further than a hundred feet might give me a heart attack."

"Trust me: I was in the _worst_ shape when I started. And I didn't like it at first, but running developed into a form of meditation. A couple times a week, three or four miles a pop, does the trick. When I'm finished, I feel great. Energized. My mind is clean of clutter."

"Sounds splendid, but running...I hate running."

"Start small. I began by walking five minutes and running one. Then it became four by two; three by three...you get the picture. Set aside a half-hour block and go for a walk-run. Who knows? You may enjoy it."

***

Our pal returned home to find the kids huddled around the television, watching the stupid sponge show, giggling like lunatics. The house smelled of burnt garlic; a blue haze hung in the living room. He coughed, fanned the air, and yelled, "Are you trying to burn down the house, Laura?"

"I'm _trying_ to make dinner," she called from the kitchen. "Guess how it's coming."

He found her hunched over the oven, poking a piece of burnt bread with tongs. "I got distracted by your kids and presto," she said. "Hope you like your Texas Toast well-done."

"Looks delicious."

"It looks like shit. How was your session?"

"Good. He said I'm cured."

"Wonderful. How 'bout you help me with dinner."

He frowned at the mess of pots and pans and then asked, "Would you mind if I went for a run?"

"A run to the store? You need more dipody-do-dah?"

"No, a run, like, you know, exercise."

"Are you serious?"

"The doc said it'd be a good stress reliever."

"It's hot as hell outside. You'll give yourself a heatstroke."

"I'll only go for a half-hour and I won't run fast."

"Dinner's going to be ready soon."

He glanced at the bread and then said, "I can't wait."

"The rest of the meal won't be awful, smartass. Chicken parmesan, spaghetti-"

"A half hour, no more."

"Fine, but tonight after dinner I want to look at those listings in Canesoanke. There are a couple nice places on Main within walking distance of the primary and elementary school."

"What about the country?"

"You don't understand how bad the roads get in the winter."

"We could live anywhere surrounded by people. I'd like some land for a change, a view of trees, fields and...whatever else lives in the country."

"Bears?"

"Bears?" he jeered.

"Beers and coyotes."

"If I can handle the riffraff in Memphis, I can deal with coyotes and the occasional bear."

"Humor me, Jim."

"I'll be back in a half-hour," he said, patting her ass. "Then we can talk about houses until..."
Thursday Morning, 10 April 2008

...the signal from the tactical commander blasted over the radio. Meantime, a bulky deputy with an iron battering ram hunched inches from the Cumberlands steel front door. Crouched ten feet behind the tip of the spear, Jim unhoused his service weapon and checked the safety.

Detective Lawson had been clear in the briefing: Glen Cumberland _was not_ a perceived danger. As a rule of thumb, perverted lumps of shit didn't throw down when the pinchers pinched. Of course, with any warrant application the threat of violence existed. Thus, the tac team donned vests and brandished weapons because...well, you never know.

Unlike the rest of the squad, however, Jim and Butch knew the violence meter crept a hair above imminent. They also knew Glen wasn't home...which meant the lone Cumberland capable of creating mayhem was poor ole Regina. Now, Regina had no plans to create said violence but she didn't have a say in the manner.

Then again, she did; Dumbo got her warning and Dumbo didn't listen.

Too bad for Dumbo.

After Lawson's briefing, Butch took Jimmy aside and said, "I wouldn't be surprised to find her parked in front of the t.v. chowing down on breakfast."

If so, Regina wouldn't have time to pull her weapon -a Smith and Wesson SD9- and go out in a blaze of glory.

"We can skin her a number of ways," Butch concluded. "But the last thing we need is you getting trigger happy."

Jim didn't need a lecture; he wouldn't blast her to Kingdom Come in front of twenty pairs of eyes. But given the way the cookie crumbled as of late, he figured the odds were better than sixty/forty Dumbo lazed in bed.

The radio clicked three times and Lawson broadcast: _"All units, green light."_

Neck muscles tight, the deputy squared shoulders and then heaved the battering ram three times before the door gave way; seconds later, ten cops from three agencies poured into the front of the house. The same boloney was happening at the rear...

The factual? Twenty police to comb a 3,500 square foot house.

The actual factual? Jim needed to put a hustle into his bustle.

Elbowing his way to the left, he took the stairs two at a time. At the top of a landing intersected by a dark hall, he summoned the floorplan from his noggin and charged left towards the closed double doors...

_Dumbo's pen_ , he thought, thumbing the safety off. Behind, ascending the stairs, the sound of heavy footsteps...

He dug his right shoulder into lacquered plywood, turned the doorknob, and swung into the master bedroom.

Dumbo -snug beneath a colorful collaged quilt drawn to the bottom of her double chin– stared at him with wide eyes.

Ole Regina wasn't the sight of beauty at seven in the morning -though not many people are- but she had the added handicap of being wigless; her patchy _hairdont_ gave the appearance she was about to pop a squat on Old Sparky.

"G-G-Glen's na-not here," she blubbered.

"I ain't lookin' for Glen," Jim drawled through a smile.

Somehow, her wide eyes got wider. Yes, Dumbo thought she knew why the Five-O was delivering a wakeup call to the Cumberland homestead. Alas, Dumbo didn't know what the real poop be.

When she recognized Jim, however...

***

The previous evening, Regina's oldest brother -Ontario County DA Sal Grittio- had been less than helpful:

"Sal, I got word the police are serving an arrest warrant on Glen tomorrow," Regina fussed over a landline. "What have you heard?"

"A warrant?" he chuckled.

"It isn't funny!"

"On Glen? Please!"

"I'm serious!"

"Somebody's pulling your leg."

"This is the real deal!"

" _Argh_...Regina, who told you the police are coming for Glen?"

"What's it matter? Is it true?"

"Are you, um, feeling okay?"

"No, I'm not okay! The police are coming, Sal! What am I supposed to do?"

"Why are the police coming for Glen?"

"I DON'T KNOW!!!"

Not for the first time, Sal Grittio thought his sister dun lost her mind. If it wasn't one thing with her, it was another or something else...or one thing _and_ another _and_ something else. Regina's constant solicitation for advice and slash or the mighty sword of the Ontario County District Attorney was the kind of stupid nepotism bullshit what got the asses of other DA's in other counties across the U.S. doing the hotfoot carpet dance. Dig: Sal Grittio did not wanna do the carpet dance. So, on _infrequent_ occasions, he helped unscramble personal disputes Regina (no doubt) instigated, but sometimes she made a bed even too big for her to lie in.

Like the bullshit with the city cop in December...were Canesoanke's finest on the up and up? Not by a long shot. But Bradley Weinager's soldiers never made it a point to rattle the wrong doors. If Regina caught a tongue lashing from a patrolman...well, Sal figured she had it coming. Even then, he paid Weinager a courtesy visit to settle the matter because blood is thicker than whatnot but...

...but sometimes she irritated the stuffing out of him.

"Regina, say your Jesus prayers," he ordered in a litigator's voice.

"I've said 'em! All of 'em! They aren't helping, Sal!"

"Look, you're getting worked up over nothing. I'm _certain_ someone is screwing with you."

"I am calm! I'm calm and I'm _certain_ you're wrong!"

"You've irritated a few people over the years, haven't you?"

"So?"

" _So,_ maybe somebody's goosing you."

"I'll goose you!"

" _Ahem_...okay, I'll make a couple phone calls and see what the deal is...or isn't. Hang tight."

Sixty-five minutes later (sixty-four minutes and fifty nine seconds after Regina stopped _hanging tight_ ), he called back and related the following information in an icy voice: "I can neither confirm nor deny an arrest warrant has been issued for your husband, but I suggest you get your house in order by seven tomorrow morning. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Regina understood; her fat ass puckered like it had the first time Glen stuck his little thingy up it.

Sal continued: "If my friend in Monroe County can be trusted...and he can...Christ, it's alleged your husband dabbles in child pornography."

"WHAT?!"

"You heard me."

"Child pornography? Are you crazy?"

"Warrants aren't drawn out of a hat. If there's smoke, hm?"

"It's not true!"

"Are you sure?"

"Am I sure? You don't believe me?"

"I believe you don't know...which is what I'd tell you to say if you were my client."

"I-I'm not following."

"Plausible deniability isn't an obtuse defense. The police want Glen, not you."

"This is a screw job, Sal! It's a screw job by the Bojas and...and Chief Weinager and...and all of 'em!"

"Chief Weinager doesn't work for the Ontario County Child Crimes Unit."

"Oh my Lord Jesus," she wailed. "Can't you see? We're being framed?"

"Why?"

"Glen gave Vern Fridley, you know the reporter from the-"

"I know who Vern Fridley is."

"Glen gave him some information Monday night."

"What information?"

"The Shoreview financials."

"What?"

" _Raul Boja's_ illegal transactions, Sal! He...he's trying to screw me out of my property!"

"Glen?"

"Aren't you listening? Raul Boja!"

"How is-"

" _My_ property! I told Glen to keep records because Raul would pull a screw job!"

On his end of the connection, Sal massaged his forehead. Yes, he knew the Bojas were shady; he knew Glen and Raul Boja pulled a fast one with the Shoreview sale. Sal Grittio knew but he didn't stick a toe in those murky waters because he didn't want to dance the carpet in case something happened.

But here he be, dragged into the mess...whatever the mess...confiding information about an upcoming no-knock...a Big No-No...

"Fuck me," he moaned.

"You have to help!"

"Regina, why in God's name didn't you come to me before you found yourself in this pickle?"

"Glen thought the media was the better way to go. He doesn't trust the police or lawyers, but I told him you'd help. I wish he would've listened to me!"

"Okay...maybe... _maybe_ I can work something out."

"Thank you, Dear Jesus!"

"I said _maybe_. First things first: I need all the information you have on Raul Boja."

"Glen give Vern everything."

"You made copies, didn't you? Kept the originals?"

The question gave way to silence, and the silence be enough for Sal to comprehend the answer: "You didn't make copies," he pronounced in a listless voice.

"Of course we made copies!"

"Good...good. We have something to build a-"

"I just don't know where the originals are. Glen handles the paperwork."

"Then put him on the blower, post haste."

"He's...busy."

"This is kind of important, Regina."

"Quit yelling at me! I'm already stressed!"

"Put. Glen. On. The. Phone."

"I ALREADY TOLD YOU HE'S BUSY!"

Her screeching damn near rattled the phone off his desk. "You have to calm down," he implored, reaching for a bottle of aspirin tucked in a drawer. "Glen needs to call me ASAP. Now, as far as the warrant goes, I can't stop its application."

"Why not? You're the DA!"

"I can't squash a warrant. In fact, I've violated the law by telling you one's been issued."

"Then...then what am I supposed to do?"

"You, and Glen, do nothing. You sit, you wait, and when the police come knocking...well, they won't come knocking but... _ahem_...be cooperative and don't speak to anyone. Invoke your right to remain silent and remain silent. If it's as you say-"

"It is!"

"Glen will have his day in court. As soon as we're off the phone, I'll contact a dynamite counsellor. In the meantime, you'll have to deal with the humiliation of a public spectacle. No doubt they'll drag Glen out of your house, in cuffs, for your neigh-"

"Ha!" she cackled. "They're not laying a finger on Glen!"

The forehead rubbing ceased post hasty and he garbled, "Uh...what...what do you mean?"

"Glen left."

"He left?"

"He's gone into hiding."

"When did he leave?"

"After we heard about the warrant," she said in a smug voice.

"How did...you know what, I don't want to know. Where did he go?"

"He wouldn't tell me."

"Regina," Sal said, attempting to keep his voice even. "You better figure out where he went. Glen needs to come out of hiding, with his documents, or they're will be hell to pay."

"Why? So he can be railroaded?"

"Railroaded or otherwise, he'll be branded a fugitive...not to mention, innocent people don't run."

"No! No way! I'm not letting the Bojas get my land, Sal!"

"Your land?"

"If the crooked cops catch Glen, they're going to take my land... _our_ land...the Shoreview land."

"I'm not sure you appreciate the situation. Land is the least of your worries. I advise you to stay put and Glen...he needs to see reason and return to face the music."

"I'll stay put, alright! I'll stay to spit in Butch Weinager's eye!"

"For crying out loud, you can't spit in anyone's eye. Or on their uniform. Don't spit or speak. Above all, don't tell a soul you were tipped off."

Long story short: Regina hung up the phone and concluded she had to weather the storm. She ate a bag of Funyuns; watched Sister Angelica until midnight; swore Hail Mary prayers...

But none of those surefire remedies calmed the nerves...or the tum-tum: in the span of forty-five minutes, Regina took three big mounding poo-poos. Had she not turned to the suffering Christ on her wall, poor Dumbo might have tossed and turned and pooped the night away.

" _Regina,"_ Jesus said, _"you have my blessing to drink the Irish and eat the Unisom SleepGels."_

And wouldn't you know? Jesus's potent cocktail blasted her into the Sandman's den.

Therefore, she was groggy when the Gestapo burst into her house. Regina heard scuffling downstairs...up the stairs...in front of her door...

...which opened and slammed against the wall.

She yelped and made a sluggish attempt to cover herself with the quilt.

And wouldn't you know? Officer Jim Reilly studied her with squinty eyes.

And wouldn't you know? Officer Jim Reilly, and his gun, woke her ass up quicker than a cattle prod to the privates.

And wouldn't you know? Regina Cumberland made a little tinkle in her panties.

***

"Get up, Dumbo," Jim ordered.

"W-wa-wait," she whimpered.

He jerked the business end of the Glock at her and repeated, "Get up, Dumbo."

Regina rolled out of bed, dropped the quilt on the hardwood floor and raised her hands. "Gl-Glen's na-not here," she stammered. "H-he's...he left."

"Police!" Jim yelled. "Police! Show me your hands!"

"Wha?" she cried.

"Show. Me. Your. Hands!"

"Wha?"

"Ma'am...Ma'am...DROP THE GUN!"

"WHA!"

Jim took a step back, aimed at center mass, and then shouted: "DROP THE GUN! DROP THE GUN!"

"WHA! WHA!"

Bug-eyed, howling, she waved paws, bounced from foot to foot...

Jim shot her once above the left bosom; she rotated like a top before crashing face up on the hardwood floor. Ears ringing, he took a step forward and fired a second slug into her chest.

"Shot's fired!" a hassled voice reported over the radio.

"Who's shooting?" another voice demanded.

Hustling his bustle, our hero extracted the S&W from the inside of his body armor and placed it near her twitching right hand.

" _Arguhh,"_ she gurgled.

"I warned you, bitch," he whispered. " _Warned_ you."

" _Arguhh..."_

There wasn't much else Dumbo could say. _Arguhh_ gave way to the death rattle...

...and Regina Cumberland kicked off at 0809 EST on 10 April 2008.

Looming in the doorway behind Jim, Butch thumbed the PTT on his collar radio and reported, "Shot's fired, second floor, master bedroom, suspect secured. Call for an..."

***

"...and Chief Weinager radioed for an EMT," Jim concluded.

The middle-aged, buzzcut female detective from the OC LEB...Ms. Spencer, or something, but the name didn't matter...scribbled notes and then studied her writing. Behind the butch desk jockey, Detective Lawson paced the office and shook his head.

"How many times did you fire your weapon?" Ms. Spencer (or whomever) asked.

"Twice."

"Once when..." Ms. Spencer (or whomever) led, tapping her pen on the steno pad and raising an eyebrow.

"Once when she charged and the second because, despite being wounded, she reached for her weapon."

"Did Missus Cumberland say anything?"

"No."

"Nothing?"

"Well...she..." Jim shook his head, took a sip of water and then mumbled, "Sorry, I'm replaying it in my head."

"Take your time. We need to make sure we get the story straight."

"Right. Um...she screamed at me, but she didn't say anything."

"Have you discharged your firearm before, Officer Reilly?"

"Yeah," Jim answered with appropriate sedateness. "2005, when I was with the Memphis P.D."

"Memphis?"

"You know Memphis. It's a rough place. The irony, huh? I wanted to escape the violence by moving here."

"What were the circumstances in Memphis?"

"Two guys...they killed a couple deputies during a traffic stop...and I gave chase. I ended up exchanging fire with them after a short pursuit and subsequent crash."

"Lethal force?"

"Yes, ma'am. It was them or me."

"All right, I've kept you long enough. If you remember anything else, call the number on my card. Until the investigation is complete, you'll be-"

"You don't need to explain," Jim interrupted. "If I have any questions, I'll contact Chief Weinager."

She snapped the notebook shut, glanced at the orbiting Lawson and asked, "Anything you want to add, Detective?"

"It would have been nice to have a chat with her and figure out where her husband went," Lawson said.

"Kind of strange," Jim mused. "The mister gone and the missus waiting for us."

Lawson stopped walking and cocked his head.

Jim said: "I could be way off, but it looks like she knew we were coming. Why the missus didn't go with the mister...who can say?"

"Shit, isn't her brother the OC DA?" Ms. Spencer (or whomever) asked Lawson.

***

Weinager took the circuitous route to Jim's house: windows rolled down, they cruised to Toomer's Corners and stopped at the decrepit Exxon on the corner of County Roads 18 & 4. After grabbing a case of Coors, Butch took CR4 west; a mile outside Bloomfield, he hung a right onto a gravel road and followed it for a spell. When the trail terminated at a furrowed field, Butch stopped the SUV and announced:

"You're on hallowed ground, Reilly. I used to bring my dates here."

Butch's sexual history was way down on the list of Jim's interests; hisself cracked a cold one and asked, "What'd Miss Spencer say?"

"Who?"

"The dyke from the LEB."

"Oh, her. It's, um, Missus Richmond, by the way, not Spencer. She's married to some big shot at Paychex."

"Great, I don't care. What'd she say?"

"It appears the serial number on the Smith and Wesson was filed. The Cumberlands kept other firearms in the house, but they're registered so...Richmond's looking into it. I mentioned it wouldn't be out of the realm for a child molester to keep an unregistered gun."

"Makes sense to me."

"She's of the same opinion."

"What else?"

"Sal Grittio is screaming bloody murder. Lawson's screaming back, though. He claims the Cumberlands were tipped about the warrant."

"No doubt."

"Based on incriminating shit found in the Cumberland house, the OCCCU will be raiding the Daisy Inn, Room 133, within the hour."

"They won't be disappointed. My brother even left a few ounces of pot, much to his chagrin."

"Well, if the videos and whatever else doesn't make a case, get this: Isaac Brown has a warrant out of Mohave County, Arizona. He's part of a polygamy cult and the warrant details crimes against minors. There's a working theory he had contact with some of his tribe in Palmyra. Lawson's interested in taking a look-see."

"Shit," Jim mumbled as he tipped the can. "And to think you were worried, Butch. It's all coming up roses."

***

Laura didn't lift her eyes.

Not even a twitch.

She sat at the kitchen table, perused _People_ , and gobbled a cookie.

"I thought you weren't eating sweets," he said.

"You're home early," she said to Angelina Jolie."

"I participated in a no-knock this morning. We wrapped up quick."

His announcement grabbed her attention: she pushed the magazine aside and asked, "In Canesonake?"

"Yep."

"Here?"

"Um-hmm."

" _Here,_ as in Canesoanke."

Jim nodded.

"Who?"

"I'll tell you about it later."

"Of course you will," she huffed. "I'm still waiting for an explanation about your brother."

He took a seat opposite her, stared at his clenched hands and then said, "Richard is dying."

"What?" she gasped.

"You saw him. You even said he didn't look good."

"I-I meant he...are...are you sure?"

"Abdominal cancer. He has months."

"How many months?"

"Rich couldn't say for certain. Less than a year, I guess."

"Why isn't he getting treated?"

"There's no treating it."

"But...he's doing _nothing_?"

"Sometimes you can't do anything," he said, grabbing her wrists. "Sometimes shit happens. Sometimes you get what you get and you don't throw a fit."

"Jim, you're-"

"Laura, _you don't throw a fit_ ," he interrupted, giving her wrists a firm squeeze. "My phone calls and running around, quote unquote. I've been dealing with Richard, helping him get here and...so, yeah, I've been stressed. Your questions...accusations...everything pushed me over the edge. Do you understand?"

The explanation made sense...sorta. The Wetzel the Pretzel Situation nagged -and would always nag- but what could she say? By the sound of it, nothing. Nothing without receiving the _you get what you get_ spiel.

And then, like he be addressing the elephant in the room, Jim said: "The warrant this morning? We served it on Glen and Regina Cumberland."

"Them?"

"Them."

"What did they do?"

"I could say it doesn't matter...but between you and me, they pissed off the wrong people in this town. You get what you get, remember? And they got it, alright. Glen...he took off. I guess he caught word the cavalry was coming. I reckon nobody will ever see him again. As for Dumbo... _ahem_...she was armed and determined to exercise her rights under the Second Amendment."

"You mean..."

His met her eyes and he whispered, "Dumbo went out in a blaze of glory."

"Regina's _dead_?"

"Bingo," he said through a smile. "Wanna guess who took the shot?"

She pulled her arms away and squeaked, "You killed her?"

"Anyway," he said, rubbing palms together, "we're both frayed. You with the baby, me with...everything else..."

_Like planning how to kill Regina Cumberland,_ her brain proclaimed.

Jimmy continued: "I had a lot going on, hon. But I'm solid now. Business has been handled. Let's get on with life. Sound good?"

_Sound good?_ Again, what could she say? The double whammy of Richard and Regina's fates; his confession of murder; the baby deciding to get active at the worst moment...she muttered, "You just dropped a couple bombs on me."

After studying her pale face for a couple tick tocks, he said, "Laura, you wanted to move here, not me. So be it. But the next time you get wild ideas in your head, try to remember I might be burning the candle. If you think I am, best step back."

Slow-like, she nodded.

He...
Courtney

...met her in New Orleans, though Jim recalled the encounter with minimal clarity. Who could blame him for the small lapse in memory? Working in tandem, alcohol and Bojangles obliterated large chunks of gray matter. Never fear, though. As luck would have it, Brooksy recorded the encounter for posterity.

Jimmy and his bestest pal were in the Big Sleezy for the (so-called) 2004 Conference of Southern Peace Keepers. And just so we're on the same page, it's hard to present the proposition of work to a horde of middle-aged married men with a straight face. Nobody goes to New Orleans for work, especially paunchy men whose definition of a good time involved a few brews at Buffalo Wild Wings and some mind-fucking of college-aged waitresses. No, this was an excuse to spend three decadent days -all expenses paid- on Bourbon Street. The seminars weren't even mandatory, but Jim thought they should make an effort and attend _at least_ one. Thus, he and Brooksy sat through a boring lecture on "Deadly Force in the Workplace: How to Mitigate Civilian Panic" before tapping out. Bourbon Street and the French Quarter beckoned.

The Dynamic Duo didn't return to the convention center after day one. Instead, they filled their tanks with booze and Bojangles and pulverized the go pedal. After day two, they didn't return to their hotel room until it was time to am-scray. Day two began as day one ended -on Bourbon Street- and dissolved into day three: slumping at a blackjack table in Harrah's. About the time Jim realized he was down six grand, he remembered he had a flight to catch to Memphis.

"Fuck me," he hacked whilst digging the cellphone out of his pocket. Somehow, the digital clock on the phone's face reported the time as _10:00._ _10:00...in the morning_. Thunderstruck, he tried to recall the preceding thirty-six hours but only managed to piece together a medley of ambiguous images. Real, imagined, who knew?

_Forget it,_ Jim's brain scolded. _Time to get a move on, homes._

He staggered across the casino feeling and looking like the grungiest patron in the place. It's not easy going almost three days without sleep; anyone who's done this type of drunken two-step can testify to the heroic effort it takes to motivate the body to _Do Anything_. Jimmy wasn't feeling driven, but he didn't want to miss the Diesel 9 home. Never mind explaining _why_ to Laura...another night in the Big Easy might punch his ticket. Stumbling past a row of slot machines, he found Brooksy at a roulette wheel, the moron's fathead moving in circles as it attempted to follow the rattling ball.

Brooksy looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a grizzly bear and lost by a split decision. Clothes: stained and wrinkled; hair: a kinked mound on top of his dome; scrapes on arms and elbows; a small cut on his chin.

"We gotta go," Jim said, tugging the fringe of Brooksy's shirt.

Bleary-eyed, Brooksy shook his head and whispered, "Naw, brah, I'm gettin' hot."

Jim jerked him from the table and hissed, " _Move_ , dude. We gotta get our shit from the hotel and then we gotta vamoose to the airport. Our plane leaves at noon."

"Hotel?" Brooksy croaked. Yes, Brooksy Brooks had entered the feared "useless mode". There'd been mucho trips - too many to count- when Brooksy's brain flipped a switch and shut off. Somehow his body kept operating but the command center hung a _Closed_ sign on the door.

"Remember the place we checked into two days ago?" Jim asked. "The place where we left our luggage? It's called a _hotel,_ moron. Ring a bell?"

Ah, a sign of life busted through incoherence: a blinking of bloodshot eyes and the sluggish nod of Brooksy's head. At last, Frankenstein understood.

They shielded their eyes from the punitive sunlight and fell into the first cab parked next to the curb. The driver stared at his fare in the rearview and cocked his head with impatience. His first thought: _These two jokers have been through the wringer._ Quick-like, he did taxi driver math -two jokers plus the wringer _always_ equaled a pain in the ass- and asked, "Where to?"

"Hilton," Jim said in a weary voice. "Then the airport."

"Which Hilton, buddy? The Hilton Riverside, the St. Charles, or the Doubletree in the French Quarter?"

After digging out his wallet out and studying the room key for what seemed like minutes, Jim sounded out the words like Helen Keller: "Riv. Er. Side."

"Riverside, bingo," the cabbie said. "On our way."

"Then the airport."

"Look, bud, I only make one stop. You want a cab to the airport, talk to the concierge."

Brooksy sprang into action: he rapped on the plastic partition with a hand full of cash and said, "Yo, brah, there's a couple hundred here. You take us to the airport and it's yours."

The cabbie slid open the slot and Brooksy shoved the bills through the hole; the wad thumped onto the beaded seat.

"Fine, but I'm not waiting long for you clowns. You got five minutes," the driver said, snapping the divider shut.

"10-4," Brooksy replied. "Just no more yappin', brah."

And there was none, from anyone, until they pulled to the curb in front of the hotel.

"You got five minutes," the driver repeated, as he put the car into park. "The clock is ticking."

"Don't go anywhere," Brooksy warned as he stepped outside. Then, as an afterthought, he flashed his badge in a futile effort to impress the cabbie.

Back in the room they changed and then tossed their clothes into suitcases. Observing the immaculate beds, Jim shook his head and said, "What I wouldn't give to lie down."

"Brah, we can sleep on the plane."

"I can't sleep on airplanes."

Brooksy pulled an envelope from his back pocket and spilled the powdery content into a little mound on the table. "Then let's forgo shuteye and pep the ole bones," he said. "A little pick me up is just what Doctor Brooksy prescribes."

"No way, dude. I'm tapping out. My nose feels like I've been snorting glass."

"I ain't flushing it," Brooksy said, cutting four messy lines with the room key card.

"I hit blotto territory last night," Jim confessed, as he watched Brooksy's nose vacuum Bojangles. "The last thing I remember...the place we got food...I think. Fuck..."

"You don't remember sucking face with the tranny, he-he?"

"The fuck I did."

"Thought I might fool you. Here, have a snort. It helps the headache."

Though his brain screamed, _No!,_ Jimmy leaned over and inhaled the last bit; sinuses drained as the residue tickled the back of his throat. At once, the pressure in his thudding head relaxed.

"I'm gonna need something stronger," Jim said, wiping his nose. "These damn cobwebs are thick, Brian."

Brooksy brushed the remaining triturate onto the floor and then said, "Welp, there be booze...we did karaoke...hmm...I seem to recall 'The Breeze' belted out in your dulcet baritone."

"Skynard?"

"Fuck if I know why. Then... _then_...um... _dude_ , you don't remember _anything_?"

"Not until I found myself playing blackjack this morning."

"Whoa, brah. Too bad. You scored a _bodacious_ piece of ass. Blond, big ole titties-"

"Bah, you're fucking with me."

"The hell I am! I even got evidence."

"What kind of evidence?"

Laughing like a maniac, Brooksy pulled out his phone and flipped through pictures with jittery fingers. At last, he found what he was looking for and handed the phone to Jim.

There it be: college age girl, wearing beads, arms around a disheveled Jim Reilly; his cocky lopsided smile, evidence of inebriation, taunted present day Jim to intervene across the expanse of time. _Go ahead_ , his red eyes twinkled, _but you're SOL. By the time you see this...well, it'll be too late, knucklehead._

"Look at the next one," Brooksy cackled. Against better judgment, Jim punched a button and studied the pixeled picture: the same smirking girl, minus shirt, a huge "fuck-me" smile spread across her face. And howdy doody her tits were _huge_. He scrolled to the next picture: a full body shot, her in pink panties, a tiny butterfly tattoo on the inside of her right thigh.

"I...her...we..." Jim stammered.

"Yeah, you and her!" Brooksy hooted. "We met 'em-"

"Them?"

"I get me a piece of ass, too, brah. We met 'em at the karaoke joint...went back to their room...any of this ring a bell, Professor?"

Jim shook his head.

Brooksy grabbed the phone and mined for more treasures. "I can't _believe_ you don't remember," he said in a morose voice. "What a tragedy, Jimmy. _What. A. Tragedy._ "

But in the same way a dream returns to the new awakened, the brainpan sizzled and until Jimmy distinguished the meat and potatoes. Just as quick, he wanted to dump it all into a trash bin _. Way to go_ , his mind reprimanded. _You've screwed the pooch this time, buster_. _Or the pooch screwed you. Either way, you're screwed._

To confirm the thought, Brooksy held up his phone as it played a grainy, black and white video: Jim, seated on a chair, pants around ankles; the bodacious woman, on her knees, the back of her head moving in time to his groans...

"Fuck me," Jim whispered, leaning forward until his face hovered millimeters from the tiny screen.

Her mouth worked his shaft like a Popsicle and he couldn't help but stare, slack-jawed, like a man watching Jesus walk on water or something. Meanwhile, the video kept rolling -just like Jim's lower body- while Brooksy narrated in a hushed tone like a perverted Marlin Perkins describing the behavior of the _Americanus Male Away From Wife_.

" _My brah, getting down,"_ Brooksy's slurry voiceover described. _"Oh, man...he's about to bust a nut, he-he."_

After a minute, the girl's head slowed as Jim brought ran his hands through her long hair. His hips rose one last time, head flopped back, and she made an unpleasant gurgling sound...

"There it is," Brooksy said, nudging Jim with an elbow. "Boo-yah."

"I don't want to see anymore," Jim said, but he kept watching despite himself.

The girl leaned forward onto his lap and stroked his inner thighs. He spotted Brooksy in those last seconds -eyes glowing green- and presented a double thumbs up to the camera. The film cut to black a second later.

"Get rid of this thing," Jim snapped. "Delete it now, post haste."

"Relax, brah. If yer old lady finds out-"

"Get rid of it!"

"I'm just saying, it ain't cheatin' if-"

"Get rid of it, motherfucker!"

Brooksy shrugged, futzed with phone, held it in front of Jim's face. "All gonzo," the fool reported. "Gonzo to the great beyond."

"This stays between you and me. You tell nobody. _Ever._ "

"Unlike yer now delated babe, my lips are sealed."

***

Motoring to the airport, boiling on Bojangles, Jim replayed the sordid video in his head. The cheating...well...nobody except his dumbshit pal knew the truth. Besides, he didn't plan the monkey business, it just happened...and...and he didn't remember much of the nitty gritty...at least the best part of it...so this be one of them...um...

Actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea

...situationals.

But since Jim didn't know Latin, his brain oozed something less refined:

Whatevs, dude. Chalk it up and move on. Ain't nothing you can do about it about it now. Brooksy's the Class A degenerate, filming the episode and...and...

...and justification gave way to a depressing memory:

The first time he got laid (if one could label the hand job...and the other thing he did with Isaac Brown...as an act of _getting laid_ ), a tripod SLIK recorded the goings-on for the world to see. _'Make it go,'_ Isaac Brown chanted while his rough hands worked Jimmy's d. _'Make it go, make it go, make it go for me.'_

It took a spell but Jimmy made _it_ go and almost screamed in terror (or was it pleasure?) when the goo shot out of _it_. Then Brown patted Jimmy's head with slick hands, called him a _good boy_ , and unbuckled his trousers _._ Meanwhile, in the living room, John Reilly tied one on and ignored the ruckus. The theme song to _Hogan's Heroes_ vibrated through the wall as Brown stared popping Jim's cherry; the diddler didn't make his goo until _Mama's Family_ began. In other words, a full-half hour of some _really, really_ unpleasant stuff.

He should've told the police, or a teacher, _anybody_...but Jimmy swore he'd never confess the details of his terrible ordeal. Knowing perverts watched the film was bad enough. The embarrassment, the shame, the fact his father organized the liason...the fact Jimmy let it happen without doing _something_ to stop the-

_Because you enjoyed it,_ Dad said. _Be honest, faggot. You enjoyed every second of it._

He felt a hammering in his chest, struggled to catch his breath and thought, _I'm gonna have a heart attack in this cab_. Eyes squeezed eyes shut, he tried to conjure something pleasant, but shapes tumbled through the blackness; intricate designs folded into each other...prisms, squares, triangles, one after the other, until they formed Isaac Brown's leering, warty face.

_Yeah, you loved it,_ the pervert's rough voice said. _You were such a good boy, too. You get what you get and you don't throw a fit, right?_ _Now, why doncha bend over sweet cheeks and take what I give you._

Jim opened his eyes, stared at the haggard face reflected in the window and decided: like the incident with Isaac Brown, the bj from the unknown woman would remain a secret he'd take to his grave.

_Or_ -like the incident with _Him_ \- he'd dwell on the incident with _Her._

Why, even now when he didn't want to think about _Her_ , he thought about _Her_. _Her_ and the tight body, beautiful tits and desire to satisfy...

His BlackBerry buzzed and up popped a text:

_Loved last night, J. Please call. See u sexy_ :)

He reread the message and felt _it_ stir.

He felt _it_ stir for _Her_...

He felt...
Tuesday, 12 July 2005; _The Massacre In Memphis_ , Part Two

...the BlackBerry buzz a third time.

"Christ, Kojak, hold yer horses," Jim grumbled.

For obvious reasons, the bald fucker didn't like to be kept waiting. And if Kojak's call wasn't returned in a timely fashion, Kojak got jumpy. Never mind if Jim was on the clock. Never mind if-

The police radio broadcast a stream of static, an automated _ding-dong_ , and then a robotic proclamation from a female dispatcher: _"All units, Signal 7. All units, Signal 7. Standby for further."_

Jim frowned and tilted his head. _Signal 7:_ _Serious Situation._ In layman's terms: _B.J,_ otherwise known as _Bad Juju_.

The dispatcher continued with perfunctory nonchalance, _"Attention all units, 10-34, Brooks and Fontaine. Suspects are two white males driving a white or gray Cadillac Seville, no license plate number, last seen heading east on Brooks. Suspects are considered armed and dangerous. Attention all units..."_

_10-34: OA._ _Officer Assistance_. A _Signal 7_ plus a _10-34_ equaled _Mucho_ _Bad Juju_.

Kojak _would_ have to wait.

From his current position -south on Millbranch- he'd intersect Brooks Road in less than a half mile. Our hero flipped on the works, accelerated, and said: "East...right to left...two crackers...whitish Seville...all right, let's playball."

***

The backstory of these two miscreants would soon be familiar to Jim and the rest of the city when the dust settled: A father-and-son duo, wanted for drug warrants out of Arkansas, had been stopped by a Shelby County Sheriff's Deputy for speeding and displaying an expired sticker. An additional unit responded to the call and the two lawmen vetted the driver in front of the Sheriff's cruiser. Shoddy police work or complacency could be blamed for what happened next, but why the passenger had been left unattended wasn't a question neither man would ever answer. Dashcam footage recorded what happened next: cradling a Bullpup rifle (a Steyr AUG with a 30-round box magazine and a fire rate of 680 rounds-per-minute), the shirtless occupant jumped from the Seville and gunned down both deputies before they could draw weapons. Then he added a couple double-taps to their noodles _just in case_. Traffic stop to the moment the Seville departed in a veil of black rubber lasted a total of four minutes and eight seconds. The bad guys would've had a healthy head start if not for a passing motorist who observed the crime. Though shaken, the woman placed a call to 911 and provided spot on information...

***

Six minutes later, the Caddy crossed Millbranch against a red as Jim's cruiser approached from the north. Jaw dropping, our hero fumbled for the handmic and keyed the push to talk button. _"Unit 12 in pursuit, turning east on Brooks from Millbranch,"_ he reported while cranking the steering wheel left and skidding through the intersection.

" _Roger. All units, the suspect is east on Brooks. One in pursuit."_

He dropped the mic, righted the car, and then mashed the go-pedal. Chatter on the radio registered as background noise as concentration divided between the fleeing Cadillac and inattentive motorists. They swerved right onto Airways -rushing past sweaty Negros selling newspapers on the curb- and headed south, paralleling Memphis International. FedEx was pushing their morning freight and purple tails lined up like shark fins. Out of his peripheral, Jim observed a 727 rocketing down the runway. Whistling, he checked the speedometer and then whistled again. Eighty-five and accelerating. The good news: little traffic on Airways. The bad news: he had never pushed a Crown Vic above eighty and the POS voiced displeasure in vibrations so strong, Jim's body wiggled like a live wire.

"All right, baby," he soothed, flipping off the AC to squeeze extra oomph from the V8. The gap between the cars shrunk; he now trailed the prehistoric Caddy by less than fifty feet...about four lengths or three seconds between roadside reflectors...almost close enough to read the license plate. Jim checked the rearview and saw another local unit trailing far behind as he crossed the state line into Mississippi...or, as Jimmy Jr. pronounced, _Miss-ah-bis-sippy._

" _Crossing Stateline Road,"_ Jim radioed. _"Speed...ninety. Light traffic."_

At once, the Seville's brake lights flashed a couple times and then turned solid red; rapid declaration kicked gray smoke from the tires. Meantime, the Vic closed the gap to twenty...fifteen feet...

Jim reported: _"He's slowing. Speed now fifty miles per hour."_

" _Roger. Speed now-"_

A husky female voice belonging to the D.C. of Uniform Patrol One stepped on the dispatcher: _"Twelve, if the road is clear, you have authorization to perform an intervention. Use caution: suspects are wanted in the shooting of two Shelby County deputies."_

Our pal had never attempted a pursuit intervention maneuver _in situ_ , but videos and practical training on the road course presented hypothetical outcomes: perhaps the perp's car would spin like a top, or shoot into the median, or swerve onto the shoulder. Results varied on driver reaction and speed, but at fifty...there was the possibility of rolling the Seville, not like Jim cared at the moment.

Pointing the cruiser's snotbox at the Seville's left fender, he checked his seatbelt and exhaled. A _little_ tap would do the trick. A little tap and the incitement of physics totaled a tidy P.S.: _Problem Solved_. Jim's dashcam video might even make it on _America's Deadliest Police Chases_ or something.

But PIT-ting wouldn't be so easy. The scrawny passenger snaked out the passenger window and attempted to get a bead on poor ole Jimmy. Gyrating like a ragdoll, buffeted by the airstream, the shithead jammed a rifle into his left shoulder.

"Motherfucker," Jim growled as he checked the speedometer. At forty miles an hour, the fool wouldn't get a clean shot...but this didn't stop the bastard from trying:

He heard the firecracker-like report; errant shots nipped pavement and produced flinty sparks.

" _Shot's fired,"_ Jim radioed. "

Another salvo: a spatter of asphalt peppered his windshield and a swarm of butterflies took flight in his tummy.

"The fuck," Jim said under his breath.

The passenger steadied the iron sight to his right eye.

Jimmy gritted teeth, veered right...

Twisting his torso, adjusting aim, our bad guy almost tumbled out the window. One hand fumbled with the semi-auto, the other clamped the car frame. But the dude had wicked dexterity and-

"The fuck?" whispered Jim.

He recognized the emaciated, sallow face. If memory served, the motherfucker wasn't more than eighteen. His name...Jim couldn't recall...but the kid, and his father, were two of Brooksy's wholesalers. Fact: he saw them on a handful of occasions idling in the parking lot of the Catfish Cabin...

Yes, he'd seen them take the reup.

And he watched them drive away...

...in a white Seville...and...

...and there be _zero_ doubt in Jim's mind...

"Fuck me," Jim said to the ether.

It wouldn't have mattered what crime the two crackers committed: cop killers, purse snatchers, public masturbators...tangential association to anything Bojangles-related meant they were living on borrowed time.

Jim freed his right hand from the steering wheel and killed power to the dashcam.

Traffic clotted as they entered Southaven. The Caddy hooked a right onto Goodman, struck the back of an SUV and then half-rotated into oncoming traffic. Seizing the opportunity, Jim mashed the accelerator and attempted to end the pursuit with a collision.

His cruiser missed a crippling broadside blow (Jimmy may or may not have closed his eyes at the last second) and nudged the Seville across a sidewalk (scattering a knot of wide-eyed teenagers standing at a bus stop) and onto a grassy embankment. Kicking sod and dirt into the air with stressed tires, the Caddy crested the knoll and continued into a parking lot littered with fast food restaurants. Sensing victory, our pal Jimmy followed the muddy grooves, flew over a curb and skidded around a handful of stationary vehicles.

Left rear tire flat, fender scraping asphalt, the Seville plowed into a light stanchion next to a Zaxby's. Front end crushed accordion-style, steam drifting from beneath the hood, the vehicle appeared out of commission. Just to be sure, Jim crushed the gas and crush the Caddy's left rear quarter panel at twenty miles per hour.

He forgot the Crown Vic came equipped with an airbag until it exploded into his chest. The sudden burst of cold air and talcum powder knocked Jim for a loop, but comprehension returned quick-like when automatic fire punctured Vic's hood and shattered the passenger window.

Fighting to catch his breath, he clawed at the seatbelt release with his right hand and the door handle with the left. Freed from confinement, Jim rolled onto the blacktop as another thirty odd bullets pinged and panged. Drawing his service weapon -a Glock 17C with a magazine capacity of seventeen rounds- Jim bear crawled to the rear of the Crown Vic and peered around the boot. Sirens wailed, increasing in volume, signifying the cavalry was coming.

From his angled vantage point, it appeared the driver slumped over the wheel, no discernable movement...but the kid...whatever his name...sat on the ground and tried jamming another magazine into the semi-auto.

Two russet squad cars, Mississippi Staties, hauled ass into the parking lot...

"Yo!" Jim yelled, as he clicked off the Glock's safety. "Come on, kid! You ain't going nowhere!"

To Jim's surprise, the shithead tossed his weapon aside and said, "Okay, man, okay! I'm hurt! I'm givin' up! Don't shoot!"

"Get 'em up, shitbag!" Jim barked.

The kid complied. Both arms raised to the sky...

Stepping from concealment, Jim shouted, "Keep 'em up!"

"They're up, dude!"

He'd later claim the events were a blur, but this was a lie. No, Jimmy had complete control of his facilities and his memory be keen. He fired six times at the kid; four hit their mark and pierced both chest and stomach. The shithead yelped, fell to his back and moaned. Jim crossed the short distance, kicked the automatic aside, and then put eleven into the prone driver. Each strike (nine to the body, two to the head) smeared the leather interior and driver's side window with viscera and brains.

A trio of Mississippi's finest sprinted towards the scene with shotguns, but Jim slowed their progress with a terse, "Secured! Two out of commission!" Then he leaned over the kid for a quaint man-to-man chat.

"Hey, fuckhead," Jim whispered. "You shouldn't be shooting at the police."

"I can't feel my legs," the kid moaned between raspy breaths.

Jim placed his left hand on the boy's neck and found a feeble pulse. Snap of fingers, the name came to him. "Hey there, Bean," he said through a smile. "It's Bean, right?"

"Fu-uk...u-wa," the kid slurred as blood gurgled from his mouth. Be the real dark stuff, tar black, the same color his old man spewed when his liver burst.

At this instant, a frustrated, middle-age freelance photographer caught the break of a lifetime. Years later, when he was getting shelled in Sirte, he'd think about _His Picture_ and the doors _His Picture_ opened. Sure, it didn't seem like such a hot deal covering the Libyan Civil War, but it was a helluva lot more exciting than anything he saw in Mississippi and Tennessee...except for the day he snapped _His Picture_.

_His Picture_ wasn't _Hindenburg_ or Buddhist monk self-immolation worthy, but it beat the usual, boring-as-shit static shots capturing indifferent cops hiking pants over plump guts and gawkers pointing at corpses covered by tarp. No sir, this was the real deal.

While Jim Reilly had his moment of meditation, the photographer embraced his own. The scanner in his car led to the epicenter of the shootout in progress and, for once, he arrived to find beautiful, fresh chaos: white steam billowed from under the Seville's hood; a body in the car; one on the ground; Staties advanced with shotguns; a Memphis P.D. cruiser jammed against the rear of Seville; a quartet of gawking kids stood on a berm; glittering shell casings...the kit and caboodle in all its glory! He jammed the plunger on his Nikon F3 a dozen times and fantasized about telling his old lady to kiss his ass after the prints went public. Had he arrived a minute earlier, our valiant shutterbug would've captured the moment of execution, not the aftermath...

Not so long ago, there existed a time before social media played a role in documenting the barbarity of the police. Images like Rodney King were the exception and evidence of police brutality seldom saw the light of day. Had he captured the bloodletting, our chum might have lost more than his camera and his bitchy wife would've been carping about paying for a funeral, not the mortgage on their double-wide.

But the cookie crumbled all nice like: the photographer struck gold and _His Picture_ graced the front page of _The Commercial Appeal_ the following morning. The poignant but graphic visage _appeared_ to show the simultaneous reactions of crime meeting punishment. The two stars of this drama were framed in perfect poses: the gore-smeared Villain, a look of contempt and anguish adorning his countenance, stricken with malice to the end; left hand placed on the neck of the wounded, a look of pity on his face, the handsome nemesis representing Law and Order. Sunlight reflected off the wedding band on Johnny Law's finger and illuminated like a halo. Oh, the element of humanity!

Soon, publications across the country were showcasing _His Picture_! _His_ Fucking A Flawless _Picture_ paid _all_ the bills for seven months. _His Picture_ also harvested a nomination for the _World Press Photo of the Year,_ though the photographer's old lady claimed awards were as useful as a third tit.

Perhaps pictures are worth a thousand words, but they can't communicate words exchanged. Jimmy Reilly got the last avowal and despite appearances, he wasn't the least bit repentant.

"See ya," Jim said without compassion, feeling Bean's pulse wane beneath his fingertips. Seconds later, the kid's brain fired its last hurrah in the form of a pathetic croak. Jim shook his head as he walked to his damaged cruiser on legs feeling like they weren't attached to his torso. He brushed broken glass from the seat, plopped onto his ass, and waited for whatever was supposed to happen next. Hands trembling, he fixed a dip and watched the Staties pull the limp driver from the Seville.

***

First, he phoned Brooksy from 201 Poplar, and then he rang Laura. Perhaps the order should've been reversed, but business took priority over the old lady. Brooksy kept the conversation short; Laura pestered with questions. Citing the need to debrief with investigators, Jim told her the bare minimum other than he survived without a scratch. The nitty-gritty, he said, could be discussed after he arrived home. Next came the whiz quiz and then hours rehashing the details with two representatives from the union until the story was cleaner than the Virgin Mary's kootchar.

Finger resting above the red "record" button of the video equipment, Mike Keenan arched his unibrow and _suggested_ : "You had no way to _ascertain_ the suspect wasn't armed or reaching for a weapon while he sat on the ground."

"Right," Jim said. "I thought he-"

"No, not _I thought_. You couldn't _ascertain_ the passenger wasn't armed. Understand?"

"Jeez, Mike, what's the fucking difference?"

"The difference is, three Mississippi Smokies claim the scumbag was raising his hands when you pumped lead into him."

"The fuck they did."

The other rep -a large, dusky man- leaned across the table and said, "You gotta get your shit straight before the T-aye-B wants their powwow, Officer. You couldn't _ascertain_ , a'ight? Then the motherfucker made a sudden movement with his arm...hell, both arms...towards the interior of his car. We won't even touch the dashcam question because those things shit the bed on a regular basis. But, between you, me and Mikey, we know the deal. You ain't the first cop popping shitbags, but those fuckers at the Tennessee Bureau don't like hearing peacekeepers say they _thought_ such and such _might_ happen especially when it _appears_ the kid tried to surrender."

"I had no way to ascertain he wasn't armed," Jim declared.

"Good," Keenan said. "You ready?"

Jim nodded, stared into the camera...

Keenan jabbed the red record button and then announced: "Statement from Patrol Officer James Lawrence Reilly, Airways Station, Southeast Precinct. At your leisure, Officer."

"I couldn't ascertain the passenger wasn't armed when he fell from the vehicle," Jim said. "He...the passenger...he made a sudden movement towards the car with both arms and I had no choice but to discharge my..."

After the statement was recorded, Keenan said, "Jim, those two scumbags had it coming. After what happened to the S.C. deputies...look, they wanted to go out in a blaze of glory and they got their wish. I.A will poke, but stick to your story without offering opinions. Now, _ahem_ , there's something else we need to discuss. Effective now, you're placed on administrative leave -with pay- until the investigation is complete. Don't take it personal. ALP is SOP when lethal force is rendered. You're looking at two-"

"-to three weeks at a minimum," the black man finished.

Keenan dug into his briefcase and handed Jim a business card. "Give this doctor a ring," he said. "Whether you want to or not, you have to-"

"- _endure_ psych counseling," the black man grumbled.

"Doctor Fox is a department favorite," Keenan said. "Sit back, relax, smile and get the boxes checked. Until you do, you won't be allowed to ride anything faster than a desk."

"I'm fine," Jim insisted, raising hands.

"It doesn't matter what you _think_ ," said Keenan. "You have to see the man, Reilly. We'll push our paperwork to I.A. and you'll get a call from them sooner rather than later. Then you'll sit in front of a review board with the T aye B. One of the union guys will give you the gouge but, like I said, the board will be a formality given both the circumstance and your concise, _unopinionated_ answers..."

***

Hair askew, tears flowing, Laura rushed to hug him the moment he walked into the house. He embraced her, inhaled the nauseating aroma of Similac, and spied the muted television. Photographs of the two dead officers, mugshots of their killers and an academy print of a smiling Officer James L. Reilly shuffled across the screen.

"Christ, my name's been released?" he griped.

She whispered into his ear: "Forgot about the t.v., Jim. Are you okay?"

"Peachy," he said, wiggling out of her clutch. He walked into the kitchen, yanked open the refrigerator door and snagged a Coors. After rubbing the can across his forehead, he popped the top and took a four Mississippi slug.

Laura watched him for a moment and then asked, "Do you want to talk?"

"No," he said between swallows. "I need a shower."

"Jim-"

"For fuck's sake, Laura, I need you to back off. I've been recounting my shitty day for the last five hours. Right now, I'd like to wash the smell of cordite off me."

"Jim-"

He held a finger to her lips and then slid around her.

***

Hot shower, cold beer...

He leaned against the tile, stewed in steam...

Supped and stewed.

Stewed and supped.

The shower curtain rustled...

...and was pulled aside on rattling rings.

Jim half-expected to see Raul Boja standing there like Norman Bates...

But it was Laura shrouded in vapor...

"I can't do this anymore," she stated in a frosty voice.

"Jeez," he whined. "What did I say about backing off?"

"You were almost killed today!"

He slammed the shower handle off and then said, "Now is not the time, Laura. Not after the day I've had."

"When is the time? After you've been killed? Do you want your boys to grow up without a father?"

"Of course not, but you know my job comes with a certain amount of risk."

"It's not just the job, it's _everything_. Enough is enough. I don't like it here, and you know why. Today is the tipping point."

"Whadda want me to do? Gather our shit and make for the hills?"

"I don't care what you do, but I want to get the hell out of Memphis."

"Again and again with the _same_ bullshit. I have business interests, kay."

"Then you better sort them out."

"The fuck," he spat. "I can't snap my fingers. Dealing with...you know...I have to be diplomatic. I've made commitments."

"Commitments?"

"Yes, and those commitments mean-"

"They mean you don't have the balls to say _enough_!"

"You're acting hysterical and you're gonna wake the kids."

"I'm not _acting_ ," she seethed. "You need to decide what's more important: your family or the _unmentionables_."

He wanted to grab her throat. What did she know?

Nothing.

Nothing _but nagging_.

Nothing but nagging _into perpetuity_.

Maybe she'd appreciate the situation if he explained, _I killed those two fuckers to cover asses and keep things kosher_. Then maybe she'd understand how committed he be. And maybe she'd understand better if he explained the situation while shaking her like a ragdoll.

Then she'd know _something_ : she'd know to stop nagging.

Instead, he grabbed a towel and said, "You're giving me a headache. Get outta my way."

Laura shook her head and scoffed, "Fuck you."

Jim wrapped the towel around his waist, retrieved the Coors from the soap dish and then shouldered her aside.

***

Reeking of beer, he fell into the sack ten minutes after two and began snoring in seconds.

Laura rolled to the edge of _her_ side of the bed and ground teeth.

_Commitments,_ he said.

Always with the _commitments._

Believe you me, she could yap about _commitments_.

_Again and again with the_ _same_ _bullshit,_ he said.

The fact he'd almost been killed didn't seem to faze him _in the least_.

No, he came home, hopped in the shower and got wasted.

When she tried talking sense...

_Again and again with the_ _same_ _bullshit._

Again...but not quite.

There was also _The_ _Subject_ she didn't have the inclination to mention:

Her.

Jim's mistress.

Every day -rain or otherwise- _Her_ wormed into Laura's thoughts. Nothing particular stirred _Her_ : Memphis; a glance out the window; Jim's face; his wedding band. Did he wear it when he fucked _Her_? While she handled their kids, was he sticking it to _Her_? Did he plant a kiss on Laura's mouth after...

Her.

_Her_ would be back at some point. Laura knew it. Jim claimed the affair was kaput, and she _wanted_ to believe him...but she smelled his shirts before they went into the laundry and studied his mannerisms when he came home late...

Not like it mattered. He'd done a stellar job of keeping _Her_ a secret.

She'd seen _Her_ the one time: the cunt showed up to their house and screeched, _'Jim Reilly's an asshole and a lousy fuck!'_

_Her,_ trashy looking in a sorority girl way: blond hair, big tits, skimpy shorts and a cut-off shirt. Like a fool, Laura thought _Her_ stood in front of the wrong house even as _Her_ screamed Jim's name.

Stooped in the living room, staring at _Her_ gesticulating on their lawn like a deranged ornament, she phoned him in tears. In a strange twist, _Her_ demonstration almost validated Laura's esteem. She thought there was something wrong with her, but his indifference wasn't anything she'd done. Not the droopy breasts, post-childbirth body, the stink of toddlers...no, Jim was getting some on the side, question answered.

He denied the obvious: "Calm down. It's some pissed off woman I arrested last week for drunk driving. She's trying-"

"Why is she on the front lawn talking about _fucking_ you?"

"Laura, I told you. She-"

"In front of our neighbors, Jim! In front of our kids!"

"Calm the fuck down, kay? I know what it sounds like but...but she's trying to embarrass me."

" _Fuck you, Jim!"_ _Her_ screamed.

Laura recoiled behind the curtain and peeked outside.

" _Fuck you, Jim!"_

"I'm on my way home," he said. "Don't go outside. I'll take care of it... _Her_. I'll take care of _Her._ "

_Her_ bellowed for five minutes; _Her_ squashed flowers, kicked dirt, threw stones at the front door. After the tantrum ran its course, the bimbo stumbled into _Her_ car and burned rubber down the street.

Jim fed her more horseshit when he got home; he grabbed her hand, stroked her hair, talked to her like an infant.

"Hon, it's nothing," he droned. "Nothing at all. Let's forget about it...go to dinner...take the kids for a walk. Then you'll feel better."

Outraged by his audaciousness, she demanded he come clean.

"I'm not an idiot," she said without inflection. "Quit treating me like one. And if you keep lying, I'm walking outta here with the kids."

At last, he put his head in his hands and confessed the transgression.

It was after his admission, after howling and hurling heavy objects, after she locked herself in the bathroom, dug fingernails in her thighs...

... _and had a good cry,_ as the old folks say.

After purging every ounce of emotion, Laura stared at herself in the mirror. A clinical eye zapped her up and down...the eye of indifference...and broadcast a grim report:

_Look at you, girl. Your life has come to_ _this_ _: A showdown with your husband's whore. A showdown on the front lawn, in front of the neighbors and kids. Look at you!_

She should've dumped his cheating ass and strolled to Canesoanke with her children. But, for some reason, she wanted to make it work. Why? To avoid the stigma of being a single mother? To show everyone -Mother, Missy, Butchy, those far and wide who knew Laura Pine got knocked up at twenty-four- her life wasn't a Lifetime movie cliché?

Jim rolled over and snorted; she glanced at his slack face.

Proving everybody wrong wasn't a valid reason to stick with him, but the D...the _Big D_ at twenty-seven? God knew she earned her right to dance the D. She earned her right and, what's more, dumping a no-good man would feel empowering...or so the narrative went. The yentas on daytime television (except Elisabeth Hasselbeck, but Laura couldn't stand the bitch) crowed about the freedom of being unattached and unrestricted. _Marriage is an antiquated institution akin to indentured servitude,_ they declared, as if making the statement conjured instant autonomy.

Laura understood the lib stuff, acknowledged merit in the vitriol, but acceptance wasn't so easy. And there be a stubborn side to her, too. After all the shit endured... _still_ endured...the sacrifices she made...it oughta count for something.

And it would.

Just as soon as she worked the nerve.

However, Jim had...
Jim's Plan

...no plans for the Saturday evening but to watch the two Final Four games and drink a few beers. A half-hour before Memphis and UCLA tipped off, Brooksy called to bitch about the spread...and beg for moola.

"Vegas is a bunch of crooked motherfuckers, brah. The Tigers by two and a half? And the under at 135! Fuck them Vegas sharps. But I'll show 'em. If everything shakes right, I'll be waving my ding-dong in their faces come Monday night."

"Because of Dontrelle Trask?"

"Yup."

"Because you're going to fix the game?"

"Yup."

"Horseshit," Jim laughed.

"Nah, not _horseshit_! We're gonna _Win Big_ on Monday, brah! _Big_! And, um, to be a party to _Winning Big_ , all I need is another donation."

"Ahhh...I get it. The ole solicitation call."

"Jimmy, I'm cuttin' you in on a great opportunity!"

"Fuck off. I've already given you what? A brick?"

"And it's been invested. You've made a few shekels."

"I haven't made more than what I've spent."

"But you will. _Trust me_."

"Dude, I'm not the Monopoly Man. I took a big hit in Cypress."

"Which is why you should recoup your losses."

"Welp, you've already poisoned your argument, moron."

"Heh?"

"You said, _if everything shakes right_. I wouldn't call that a confident statement."

"I mean...see, the way I figure, Memphis will blow North Carolina out of the water. There's zero chance the Tar Heels cover anything less than ten and half. But if the Tigers meet Kansas...shit, forget the spread. I believe the Jayhawks can beat Memphis."

" _You believe_ , eh?"

"Yup."

" _You believe_ Kansas can win isn't the same as Kansas _will_ win."

"Jesus, brah. Fine, I misspoke. Kansas _will_ win. Now, it might be close, but the difference maker in close games is free-"

"-throws," Jim interjected. "I know."

"Them and turnovers. Lazy passes, dribbling the ball off the ole toe...shit D.T. is capable of doing if the price is right."

"Hmm...you know what I think? Tubby's stringing you along."

Brooksy blew a raspberry and then said, "Negative. We had to seed the Trask brood. Now's the moment to sow."

"A hundred thousand oughta be enough fertilizer."

" _Ahem_...you have no idea how the process works."

" _Ahem_...yes, I do. Matter of fact, how do I know you're not the flea?"

"Man, I ain't no flea."

"Come on," Jim scoffed. "You're not fixing the National Championship game, Brian."

"The fuck I'm not! Brah, we're gonna _Win Big_! _Trust me._ " Then, for the next ten minutes, the fool discussed parlays, his beard and other things only a degenerate gamble gave a flying f about. At last, all out of breath, Brooksy said, " _Trust me_ , I'm masterminding this bitch. I'll phone tomorrow and give you the lowdown."

Jim hung up and concluded Brooksy dun lost his mind; he also decided the goofball wouldn't get another penny.

Two hours later, Memphis had dispatched UCLA 78-63. Dontrelle Trask scored 27 points, shot 10 of 15 from the field and 7 for 9 from the charity stripe. He also pulled 10 rebounds.

_There's no way the D.T. is taking a dive,_ Jim thought, which was just as well. Perhaps Brooksy would accept reality instead of trying to create one.

But Jimmy should've known better.

The Jayhawks and Tar Heels were taking the court when his phone hummed. He expected Brooksy be callin' to beg and babble about winning big, but the caller ID reported UNKNOWN and UNKNOWN meant Jim let the annoyance drop to voicemail.

The phone buzzed again a minute later.

Jimmy gave it the hairy eyeball and then pointed his peepers at the 42-inch television.

As the ref tossed the ball into the air, the cell vibrated _yet again_.

"Jesus Christ," he bellyached. Some moron meant to ruin his night with persistent calls? Well, they had another thing coming! Yes, sir.

He snagged the phone, flipped it open, jammed the stupid thing to his ear...

"Who the fuck is it?" Jim barked.

A feeble voice answered, "Jim, it's Richard."

This threw our pal for a loop. Richard phoned with such irregularity, Jim couldn't remember the last time they had a conversation. Perhaps Thanksgiving or-

"Your brother, Richard," hisself said.

After the muting the television, Jim said, "Bro, sorry, your number came up as unknown."

"I'm on a burner."

"A burner?"

"A burner cellphone."

"I know what...why are you calling me on a burner?"

Richard responded a flurry of coughs.

"Are you high?" Jim asked.

"Kinda," Richard chuckled. "Not high enough for my liking but I'm feeling okay."

Jim rolled his eyes and asked, "Okay, can you tell me why you're calling on a burner, or have you burned too many?"

"Eh...in a second. Are you're still on County Road...what is it? Eight?"

"Yep. You want to send Jimmy a birthday card?"

"Huh?"

"His birthday is on the twentieth."

"Well...I've decided on something different this year."

"Like?"

"I'm going to wish him happy birthday in person."

"Uh-huh," Jim grunted. Quick-like, his attention shifted to the silent basketball game.

"I'm serious. I'm on my way."

"Uh-huh."

"Jim, listen to me: I'll be arriving in Canesoanke tomorrow evening."

Quicker-like, Jim's attention shifted back to the phone: "Did you say tomorrow? As in tomorrow, Saturday tomorrow?"

"Correct. And I'm delivering a present to you."

"Man, I'm not in the mood for twenty questions. So, why don't you tell me what the fuck you're talking about."

"I'm coming with _Him_."

"Him? Him what? Your boyfriend?"

" _Him,_ Jimmy. _Him_ as in _Him_. You know who I mean. _Him_."

Jim shot up, walked onto the deck and slammed the sliding door with a frame rattling _whump_.

"You still with me?" Richard asked.

"The fuck you mean you're coming with _Him_?"

"I know I'm springing a nasty surprise, but Brown and I have driven almost the entire gut of this country. Let me tell you, it's tough sitting next to _Him_. I've considered shooting the bastard more than a million times. _He-he_...fill 'em with lead, like in those old mob movies we watched when we were kids, remember? _Johnny Apollo_ , _Johnny Eager..._ um...what's the one with Ben Lyon and-"

"Richard, just...stop talking," Jim said, rubbing his temple. "I can't believe...you're serious?"

"As cancer, man."

"All right, I don't know what know the fuck's going on, but stay put. I'm coming to get you and then we'll...uh...I'm...I'm going to-"

"You're going to _what_? No, you _stay put_ and wait for me."

Laura appeared at the door and mouthed the words _who is it_ , but Jimmy shook his head and turned around. "What's your plan?" he asked through a clenched jaw.

"Like I said, we'll be there tomorrow night. Brown thinks we're hooking up with children."

" _Children_?" Jim hissed. "What the _fuck_ , Richard?"

"It's not what you think. I had to lure _Him_ and...so, it's a long story but when we get to Canesoanke, I'll call you and then you come and get _Him_."

"Get _Him_?"

"Yeah, you could arrest _Him_. He has child porn and he's travelled across the country to rape children."

"As have you, moron. I hope to God there aren't any children, because if there-"

"I said you _could_ arrest _Him_. You _could_ arrest _Him_ or you could do something else, if you know what I mean."

Jim cupped his hand over the phone and growled, "Are you talking about killing _Him_?"

"I sure am."

"What the hell's gotten into you?"

"Look, bro, if you don't want a piece, I'll put a bullet in Brown's head tonight and hit the road. Maybe I'll get caught, maybe I won't. But I'm certain neither of us would have to worry about the cops in your neck of the woods."

Legs shaking, Jim steadied himself against the knobby railing; a tingling filled his tummy and a vision of Isaac Brown's disgusting face floated in front of him. A vile face...a leering face...a face he wanted to smash like a bug.

"Tell me _He_ doesn't deserve it," Rich pressed.

_Forget the Moby-Dick bullshit, brah,_ the devil on his left shoulder named Brooksy said. _Richard is right._ _You know you want to stick a blade through each eye and play snip-snip. While you're at it, you can try some of the scaphism shit you read about on the-_

His phoned buzzed and interrupted the satisfying thought of murder. The timing couldn't have been better...or worse...whatever: Butch be ringing. Maybe Weinager wanted to grab a beer and shoot pool; maybe he wanted to know why Jim and his brother were planning a murder. At this point, anything was possible.

"I have an incoming call," Jim said. "Give me your number and I'll get back to you in a minute."

"Don't bother. I'll call you after we roll into town tomorrow. I'm guessing it'll be later in the evening. Brown's not an early riser."

"Wait-"

Click.

Jim ran a hand through his hair, exhaled and then jabbed the little handset icon. "Butch, what the fuck do you want?" he snapped.

"Whoa, dude, turn down the intensity. I need you at about a four or five."

"How about a seven? I don't think I can go any lower at the moment."

"Fine, whatever. You some place where you can talk?"

"Funny you should ask."

"Why?"

"Em...I just had an interesting conversation with my brother. Family stuff. I'm working on digesting the information."

"Bad news?"

"Not bad or...forget it. What's with the call?"

"I'm coming by in twenty. We got a problem. Well, Boja has a problem but it's now my problem and, 'cause shit rolls downhill, it's your problem, too. We need to do a little brainstorming."

"About?"

"Damnit, man, not over the phone. Be ready in twenty."

"Butch-"

"Sorry, but its time you _make yourself useful_. Boja's exact words. I'll see you in twenty."

Click.

Laura, hovering over a carton of ice cream with a spoon, shot him a look of intrigue after he stepped inside.

"Butch," Jim explained, shaking his phone. "He wants to catch the game at Calhoun's."

"What'd you tell him?"

"He's coming by in twenty."

"Mm," she grunted. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong?" he asked through a phony smile. "No. Nothing's wrong."

"Mm. You slammed the door when you went outside."

"I didn't want moths flying in."

"Mm..."

"What's with the _mm's_?"

"Nothing," she said, plunging the spoon into the ice cream. "I haven't been feeling good and it'd be nice...or maybe the word is _considerate_...it'd be _considerate_ if you helped get the kids in bed."

He recognized her annoyed voice and decided to beat feet before the conversation turned nasty. Yes, her sleep schedule was all screwed up. Yes, she was cranky. Yes, she could've used an extra pair of hands getting the kids (Johnny more than Jimmy) in bed. Yes, she had a right to be annoyed.

But sometimes life isn't fair.

"I'll see you later," he said, trying to plant a kiss on her cheek.

She pulled her head away and mumbled, "Don't be late."

***

Butch had a pounder comfy in the crook of his crotch; he tossed another to Jim and said, "You'll need the roadie. Tonight ain't gonna be pleasant."

No shit. Laura is not happy with this situation."

"T.S."

"I'll T.S. you. What's so goddamn important?"

"Glen _fucking_ Cumberland."

"Cumberland?"

"The fuckhead won't listen to reason."

"And I'm supposed to care because..."

"Because I have a feeling we'll be tasked with fixing the problem."

"Tonight?"

"Tonight, tomorrow, the next day...I don't know. Let's just say sooner rather than later."

"What did he do?"

"Jesus Christ," the Chief said to himself. "I didn't think Glen had the balls. It isn't my fault the-"

"Hey, Earth to Butch!" Jim hollered, snapping finger. "Can you clue me in?"

"Yeah...I'm... _ahem_ ," Butch said, shaking his head. "You know the Shoreview project? The half-finished monstrosity and tax suck? Glen owns it...except he doesn't. When Raul ran for city council, he sold Cumberland the real estate for ten bucks. Fast forward four years and Raul's no longer on the council. Guess what?"

"The old man wants his real estate."

"Bingo. And the thing is, Glen will keep collecting envelopes, so it's not like he's getting the heave-ho. But no...no, he's playing hardball."

"If what you're saying is true, Cumberland has-"

"It's true, and all for ten fucking dollars."

"And _why_ is this our problem?"

"Cuz I propped Glen in front of the old man!"

"Let me rephrase: What the fuck does this have to do with _me_? Besides, doesn't Boja pay guys to handle these problems?"

"Glen claims to possess _incriminating documents_."

"Like?"

"According to Glen, Raul Boja has been skimming public funds, using contractors to pad the cost of construction, laundering money and whatever the hell else you can think of. If anybody attempts to strongarm him, the stupid fuck is blabbing to the press. I also think...check it...I _know_ Sal Grittio would roll sleeves and dig deep. And you can bet the A.G. will make his presence felt."

Cool as cucumber, Jim popped the top, wiggled off the tab and then said, "If Cumberland goes public, he'll find himself under a microscope, too. Ten dollars says he isn't clean."

"Oh, I know he's not," Butch mumbled.

"Uh-huh, and I don't care if his brother-in-law is the DA. Someone, somewhere, will somehow tie him to Raul Boja. It shouldn't be hard considering Cumberland bought the land from the old man. Why risk millions of dollars to stick it to the Bojas when he could go down with them?"

"Man, I don't know but one thing: if the Boja nut gets cracked, guess what else sees the light of day? And if _it_ sees the light of day, the department will catch a bullet and _all_ of us will be fucked. I'm not doing the walk of shame, Reilly."

"You can't muscle Cumberland?"

Butch shot Jim a glance and said, "Say, you remember the local officer who threatened Regina Cumberland in December, don't you?"

"Whoa, don't blame me for-"

"I'll blame whoever the fuck I want," Butch rumbled.

"I bet his twat's making him pedal," Jim said between sips.

"Come again?"

"Dumbo."

"Ahhh...you don't like the beast, eh?"

"Do you?"

"No, I can't stand her. She's a gossipy cunt. Always has been, always will. And since we're on the topic, I think your dislike of her is more personal than professional."

"People like her need a _professional_ cuff across the nose."

"With a personal touch."

"As I stated-"

"You know Tom Carter's fucking her?"

"Am I supposed to care?"

"Tom's married to Gail Wetzel," Butch continued, as if Jim hadn't spoken. "We used to call her-"

Wetzel the Pretzel, brah.

"-Wetzel the Pretzel back in the day. For whatever reason, Regina's filling Tom's head with stories of you and the Pretzel and _something-something_ immoral behavior. Man, he chewed my ear off something awful a few nights ago."

Jim ground teeth but maintained a poker face. Meantime -inside his noodle- Regina Cumberland's face sat between the iron sights of a high caliber weapon.

"Anything to add?" Butch asked.

"You're telling me Tom Carter is bent out of a shape because his sidepiece told him he's been cheated on?"

"I didn't hear the word _allegedly_ in your sentence."

"Fuck off. You said it yourself: Regina Cumberland's a gossipy cunt."

"Welp, I won't admit to being the sharpest knife in the drawer. Years of football and Bojangles made me stoopid, but I've been thinking about why you gave her the business and wouldn't you know? On my way to your place tonight, I had something resembling a cognizant thought. Care to guess?"

"Fuck your cognizant thought. Gail...Missus Carter...came to me for help because Dumbo sent her threatening letters."

"Gail asked you for help?"

"She's Jimmy's teacher. Our paths have crossed. Seein' as you and Tom are best buds, she didn't think filing a police report would amount to jack shit."

Butch cocked an eyebrow.

"Quit with the face," Jim said.

"You're the Pretzel's knight, eh?"

"I'm not a fan of bullies."

"Look, I don't care what you did or did not do with Wetzel the Pretzel. But whatever you did or not do, Regina's flapping her trap."

"Let her flap," Jim said, as he turned on the radio. He scanned the AM dial, settled on Westwood One and cranked the volume:

"... _at the half with Kansas leading the Tar Heels by 17. We'll get you back to San Antonio for the second half after a station break..."_

"I'm not busting balls for the hell of it," Butch said.

Jim stared out the window...

"... _from WPXI meteorologist Jim Brewer..."_

...drained his roadie...

_Fucking A, I'm having a banner evening,_ our hero thought.

"... _the National Weather Service in Buffalo has issued a..."_

"I thought you should know because you might need to...um...nip it in the bud," Butch said.

"How 'bout we play the quiet game," Jim said to the window.

"... _expect measurable snow beginning Monday afternoon, continuing through..."_

_Forget Regina,_ Jim's brain instructed. _And forget Raul Boja's idiotic real estate bullshit. You have something else to nip. Something attached to-_

Butch interrupted musing with a gruff, "Fuck me."

"What now?" Jim sighed.

"What now? Didn't ya hear the weather guy? He called for snow on Monday! _Measurable_ snow! It's fucking April!"

Butch's complaint went in one ear and out the other as our hero's brain resumed the thread of the abandoned thought:

_Something attached to_ _Him_ _._

***

Arms crossed, Raul Boja stood in front of the picture window and glowered at Canesoanke Lake. Moonlight painted a white stripe along the eastern edge of the water; a glint of silver lit the dour countenance of Canesoanke's resident drug lord. Behind the bar, Frankie combined the contents of several bottles into four giant tumblers. A doughy, suit and tie fella sporting a crooked, coal black rug on his plump melon, leaned forward on the couch and rifled through a stack of papers.

"Ah, the cavalry has arrived," Frankie greeted. "Care for a drink, my friends? I'm making killer cocktails."

"Francis!" Raul yapped. "Shut your mouth! I can't hear myself think!"

The man on the couch cleared his throat and then said, "Raul, I've gone through the documents a hundred times. In laymen's terms, you're between a rock and a hard place."

Raul Boja wasn't tickled by the information: "Why do I pay you?" he screeched. "How can I have no options?"

"Because you have _no_ options. Your _physical_ contract with Cumberland is binding. Just because you have a verbal agreement...the law recognizes documents, documents you signed. There's no loophole you can exploit."

"Bah!" Raul spat. "You do nothing but slouch and shuffle papers, motherfucker! I ask you to find a hole in the contract and you tell me nothing!"

"Are you deaf? _You. Don't. Have. Options_."

"You needed to put a hole in the contract!" Raul bellowed as he swung around and flailed arms. "I say he is a dead man! I want Cumberland dead!" Then he looked at Butch and whispered, "I want him dead."

"This won't help you, either," the man mumbled, as he scooped the stack of paper and shoved it into a leather briefcase. "And on that note, I must bid adieu." Without making eye contact with anyone, he stood, grabbed his case and made like a banana.

"Fucking lawyers," Raul griped. "I pay for the best and hear excuses, not solutions."

"Yes, Father, they tell you nothing," Frankie said.

Raul jabbed a finger at Butch and said, "Most of this is your fault, Weinager."

Butch's right eyelid twitched and both hands fashioned into fists. " _Most_ is a tad harsh," he rasped. "The _incriminating evidence_ Glen claims to possess-"

" _Evidence_ ," Raul interrupted through a sneer. "What evidence? A few papers I signed?"

"Man, this is called _evidence_ ," Butch said. "Didn't you think to keep your involvement on the downlow?"

"Don't tell me how to conduct my affairs, Weinager. So I signed papers? My responsibilities on the city council necessitated the allotment of funds to contractors."

"How many of those contractors are real?"

"We wouldn't have a problem if your man acted as promised!"

Frankie fussed, "Father, why don't you have a cocktail?"

Raul waved a hand, dropped on the sofa and said, "Bring me Cumberland, Weinager."

"Disappearing Glen doesn't make his _incriminating evidence_ vanish. For all we know, he's put the shit in a safe deposit box, handed it to his wife or...or his lawyer."

"Butch is right, Father," Frankie said, as he stepped around the bar. He handed Jim and Butch separate tumblers and then continued: "And Father is right, Butch. We need to talk with Glen, face-to-face. Conversation over the telephone is prone to...eh...misunderstanding."

"Glen isn't gonna sit down with you two unless he's trussed to a chair," Butch said.

"Then truss him to a chair and bring him here," Raul hissed.

"I already told you: Glen's not going anywhere with me," Butch said. "You're better off sending your goons to pry him out of his house."

"My men take care of what comes after you bring me the motherfucker!" Raul bellowed. "Your men take care of what comes before!"

" _Ahem._ As I explained-"

"Do you not hold _any_ sway in this town?"

Butch glanced at Jim and said: "Glen is, um, leery of the police. One of my officers had a run in with his wife a few months ago. Like her ass, Regina Cumberland has a big mouth. My officer...well, he sorta lost his cool and threatened the missus."

"Then...then arrest Cumberland, toss his house and bring him to me!"

"I need a warrant to toss his place."

"Then get a warrant!"

"Do you understand how warrants work? They require a judge's signature after an affidavit establishes probable cause. The last time I checked, we don't have any J.O.'s in pocket, which means my _sworn_ affidavit won't receive a signature without some persuasive evidence. So, what crime would you like me to fabricate? Drug running? Money laundering? Or how 'bout one of the hundred things tying him to you?"

"You're the Chief of Police! Invent something!"

"Fuck," Butch sighed. "Do I need remind you who his brother-in-law is? If I rope Glen on a bogus charge, you can lay money Sal Grittio will ask questions. You wanna guess what happens next? Not to mention, the S.D. is in the business of serving warrants. Even if I'm allowed to participate in the application, I'll be butt to nutsack with Rusty Tidwell's troops. How much tossing can I do? And how do you suggest I convince Tidwell to loan me Glen for the afternoon?"

"You're no better than my attorney," Raul said under his breath. "Excuse after excuse...must I do all the problem solving?"

"Your problem solving will get our assess tossed into the slammer!"

Serenaded by bickering, Jim wandered to the window and supped Frankie's potent potable.

Raul: "You can't rub two thoughts together, Weinager!"

Frankie: "Father, relax!"

Butch: "I'm not the one signing papers, Raul!"

Raul: "Bah! Bring me Cumberland! I'll shove those papers up his ass!"

Frankie: "Father, relax! You'll give yourself palpitations!"

Raul: Blah blah blah!

Frankie: Blah blah blah!

Butch: Blah blah blah!

Blah fucking blah...

The circuitous argument continued: three strident voices filled the chamber, bounced off walls and the ceiling. Our pal finished his cocktail, swirled the glass, and listened to the rattling of ice cubes.

Talking...

Clink.

_(I'm coming with_ _Him_ _.)_

Talking nonsense...

Clink. Clink.

(We'll be there tomorrow night. Brown thinks we're hooking up with children.)

Talking of an impetuous plan...

Clink.

(I thought you should know because you might need to...um...nip it in the bud.)

Jim exhaled, stared at the moon...

Clink.

...and watched the Man on the Moon turn into Isaac Brown...

Clink. Clink.

...turn into Regina Cumberland...

Clink. Clink.

...turn into Bean...

Cli-

Quick-like, the bickering faded to a faint hum; like Jimmy be looking through the wrong end of field glasses, the moon shrunk to a gray pinprick. A bolt of energy entered the top of his head, shot down the spine, rushed to extremities. Fingertips tingled; he almost dropped the tumbler.

An idea formed...a rough sketch...a winter tree-like outline with gnarled limbs leading to naught. Given time, the foliage would fill, plump as the apples hanging from the trees in his backyard.

Clarity washed over Jim like a wave; seconds later, vision and hearing returned...

"-want to hear sniveling, Weinager!" Raul shouted. "I want Cumberland! I want him-"

"Whatever idea you have of twisting Cumberland's arm to get his signature on a deed, forget about it." Jim interrupted. He turned from the window, raised eyebrows and then continued: "You're not getting the resort, Mister Boja."

Through curled lips, Raul barked, "You're not helping, Jim Reilly!

"Whether he has zero, one tenth or one-hundred percent ownership of Shoreview, Cumberland knows what's-what," Jim said as he strolled to the bar.

"Then we kill him," Raul pronounced.

The old man's bee in a bonnet was starting to annoy the fuck out of our hero. Jim poured a tall whiskey, leaned his left flank against the bar, and then said, "Like Butch told you, a third party might be holding Cumberland's juicy crap _just in case_."

"Right," Butch said. "I'm-"

Steamrolling the Chief, Jim continued: "Cumberland's sudden disappearance would raise...shit, Sal Grittio's eyebrows for one...and a bunch of other eyebrows we don't want raised. However, if Cumberland, say, became a fugitive from justice then...you smell what I'm cooking?"

Raul cocked his head; Frankie pursed lips; Butch set his cocktail on the coffee table and crossed arms.

Jim continued: "Fellas, I'm not talking about pennyante b and s. Cumberland has to be knee deep in a mess of trouble, the kind of trouble what motivates the S.D. to raid a troublemaker's house." Butch opened his mouth, but Jim waved it shut and said, "Driven by a tip, Cumberland gets the hell out of Canesoanke before the police -the real police- get their hands on him. Being said, we'll need to find someone Cumberland trusts."

Butch rolled eyes and muttered, "It ain't gonna be any of us."

"No shit," Jim said. "But there has to be a mister or a missus in Canesoanke who can be manipulated or bought. And this someone...I don't know how, but they must entice Cumberland to flip pages."

"Busy work," Raul pooh-poohed. "You prattle of busy work requiring _my_ money. Bah! Bring me Cumberland and I'll manipulate the motherfucker!"

Frankie sucked air through his lips; then a smile spread across his lean face. "Not busy work, Father," he said, handing his drink to Butch. "I know just the man: Vern Fridley."

"Who?" Jim asked.

"A journalist at the _Courier_ ," Frankie said. "Vern's favorable articles on the Shoreview Resort helped sway public opinion. The man will work for a commission."

"Glen won't trust Vern," Butch scoffed.

Whip quick, Frankie answered: "My man contacts Cumberland and reveals he and Father had a falling out over...let's say...money owed for services. As a result, Vern is composing a nasty expose on both Father and the Shoreview Project."

"Uh-huh," Jim seconded with a nod. "The reporter can persuade Cumberland to hand over your shit, Raul."

Raising hands, Butch argued: "Reilly, on the way here, you said Glen would be...what was it? Putting himself under a microscope if he talks to the press?"

"Not if your buddy feels threatened." Jim said. "We gotta turn on the heat and make Fridley a desirable outlet."

"How?" Butch asked. "Some bogus warrant?"

"The warrant comes after Cumberland talks to Fridley," Jim answered."

"What's gonna make Glen yap to Vern?" Butch countered.

Hell if Jim knew. He shrugged and glanced at Frankie; the latter sucked more air through his lips and scratched the stubble on his left cheek.

Irritated by the silence, Raul barked: "I don't care about reporters and stupid games! How do we deal with _him_?"

Our hero studied the contents of his tumbler and then said: "Um...I'm spitballin' here, kay? Two things, though: after the warrant drops, Cumberland hits the road. We'll use Fridley as our mouthpiece to give our boy the tip. Then we collect him...Cumberland...we'll collect him...somewhere. Maybe...I don't know...Fridley gives Cumberland a ride or...jeez, I gotta pound the details, but it'll come together."

"Allow me to _pound the details_ ," Raul said, rubbing hands. "You bring me Cumberland; he signs papers; I get the property. End of discussion."

"No, not the end," Jim said. "The motherfucker will be on the lam. Criminals on the run don't meet with attorneys and sign paperwork."

" _Ahem_ ," Butch gargled. "Can we discuss what crime you wanna say Glen committed?"

Casual-like, Jimmy took a slug and then declared, "Welp, your buddy is a pedophile, Butch. He's a pedophile who intends to rendezvous with another pedophile for the purpose of engaging in child molestation."

"Wh-what?" Butch laughed. "Glen?"

"Um-hmm. I have-"

Butch blew a raspberry, turned to Frankie and asked, "What'd you put in his drink?"

"Shaddup," Jim said, pounding the bar. "Shaddup and listen. I have information an Arizona resident is coming to Canesoanke to have his way with minors."

"You have information?" Butch cried. "From whom? And why I haven't heard about this 'til _now_?"

"It's a recent development."

"How recent?"

"It doesn't matter, dude. The fucker is coming. _He's_ coming with kiddy porn. _He's_ coming in hot, carrying _His_ sick shit, and the sick shit will tie Cumberland to a comprehensive pornography ring. Facing the threat of prosecution, the fat fucker heads for the hills."

"How do you propose we pull this off?" Butch asked, all wide-eyed and bewildered like. "Frankie? Raul? Does this sound like a feasible idea?"

The old man didn't twitch.

Frankie read his father's stony expression and said, "It sounds feasible."

"This is crazy," Butch mumbled.

"Crazy or otherwise, Cumberland's pervy friend is arriving tomorrow," Jim said. "We have limited time to move the pieces."

"No way are we doing anything tomorrow," Butch said. "No _fucking_ way."

"Not tomorrow but soon," Raul cooed.

The Chief ran a hand through his buzzcut and said, "Guys...I mean, let's not jump into anything we're going to regret."

Raul folded his hands together, twiddled both pointer fingers, and said, "Weinager, I handle problems, not talk around them. Give me something concrete in the morning."

***

Face scrunched, both eyes on the road, Butch said, "You need to do some explaining, pal."

Jim sighed and then said, "It's a story I have no desire rehashing."

Butch fixed both peepers on Jim and said, "Motherfucker, if you're into children, I'm not sparing the rod. I don't care what the old man says."

"I'm not a perv, Butch."

"Fuck me," the Chief muttered as he swung his head left. "Can you explain what the hell is going on?"

"Remember when I said my brother phoned? He's headed here with a piece of shit named Isaac Brown."

"Eh...so...what the fuck? Your brother is a perv?"

"I know how it sounds, but Rich isn't a child molester."

"He just brings you pervs to... _what_?"

"Well, you know, we were gonna make _Him_ disappear him, Butch."

"What are you, the fucking Equalizer?"

"Look, man, this business is between me, my brother and _Him_. None of it woulda come back on you or the department."

"A perv with pictures," Butch stated in an even voice.

Our hero grunted.

"Pictures you're gonna use to link Glen and...what's his name...Isaac..."

"Brown."

" _How_?"

"What did I say at the Bojas? I need a few hours to pound details."

"Mm..." Butch grumbled. "See, I-" The SUV's right front tire hit a deep pothole; the vehicle rattled. Peeping the rearview, the Chief said, "Goddamn it. Big 'un."

The bouncy-bouncy jarred something in our hero's brain. Patting the dashboard with his right hand, Jim asked, "What does Cumberland drive?"

"Huh?"

"Cumberland's car? What is it?"

"Oh...a-a pickup. Ford, I think. Why?"

"Pounding details."

"Man... _ugh_...do you realize what kind of scrutiny you're inviting? We're gonna have LEB prims prowling, digging, scrutinizing _everything_."

"Which is good. Cumberland isn't flying the coop if he's not wanted."

"Handing Glen to the old man is a death sentence," Butch declared. "You may be indifferent, but I grew up with him. Am I angry? You bet. But you're not leaving Glen any avenues."

"You know the deal. The old man hates problems. Mister Cumberland, Dumbo Cumberland...maybe Sal Grittio...but Glen and Dumbo, for sure."

"Ahh...good pep talk, coach."

"Butch, c'mon, you have to approach the situation from another angle. Your...friend...is threatening to throw us to the wolves. It's him...sorry... _them_...or us."

"I'm...you know...this is a lot to digest."

"Sure, but you took me from my pleasant night at home to deal with our problem. So, I'll handle Brown and the rest while you fold Vern. Make him understand, in the nicest way, he doesn't have a say in the matter."

In summary, the conversation didn't make Butch Weinager feel a lick better. As he brought the SUV to a stop in front of Jim's garage, the Chief said: "For the record, I think you're pitching a lousy idea."

Jim opened his door and responded, "We'll talk in the morning."

***

Laura checked the striking clock on the mantle and squeezed both hands into fists.

12:15.

She should've been in bed, but sleeping would've been impossible. Instead, she watched reruns of a vapid reality (so-called) show on the television: _The Real Housewives of Orange County._ Tonight -and now into the morning- a gaggle of Botox-infused wenches postured, pouted and screeched.

Jim called it trashy t.v., and it be trashy, but the _Real Housewives_ knew how to throw a fit when they got pissed.

She should've thrown her spoon at him. Her spoon and the container of Neapolitan. Something heavier, too. The cinnamon apple scented candle would have worked. Or a platter. Or everything in the kitchen.

It wasn't just him splitting to "guzzle beer" with Bradley. Leaving her with the kids in her condition was thoughtless, but what bothered her more...

The Letters.

On their own, _The Letters_ were stupid and childish.

Today, though, she caught a glimpse of something more damning than Regina Cumberland's prose:

They had gone to Wegmans to stock up on groceries and ran smack into Gail Carter.

Wetzel the Pretzel...

***

The chance encounter (or maybe it wasn't chance) happened in the cereal aisle. Jimmy Jr. saw her at the far end and squealed, "It's Missus Carter, Mom! Can I say hi?"

Jim, steering the cart, stopped like he stepped in glue; his face went through contortions: frowns, shifty eyes, puckered lips. Laura caught the mannerisms but what of it? He hated shopping and didn't want to stop and make small talk. Big deal, yo.

But the letters shuffled -one at a time- in Laura's head:

_Your husband is fucking Gail Carter_...and the rest.

He said: "Let's not bother Gail...er...Missus Carter...son. She sees you enough at school."

For once in his life, Jimmy paid no attention to his father. He ran down the aisle and hollered, "Missus Carter! Missus Carter!"

"Oh, man," Jim mumbled.

"I want Captain Crunch!" Johnny demanded.

Laura shrugged and said, "We should be polite and say hello, don't you think?"

"Go ahead," he responded. "I'm, uh, grabbing cereal." And so he did: three boxes of the peanut butter crap.

"Not the brown kind!" Johnny bellowed. "The red kind!"

Arms crossed, Jim gave the approaching Mrs. Carter the side-eye and then griped, "Kid, I don't see the red kind. Maybe it's in the next aisle."

"No! The red kind! I want the red kind!"

In the meantime, Gail sauntered ( _or strutted_ , Laura concluded later) to them with her son...whatever his name...and gave Jim the once over from feet up. Her eyes lingered on his groin for a touch too long and a smile appeared when she got to his face.

Then she gave Laura a squint, checked out her tummy and cracked what amounted to a pity smile.

And even if it wasn't a pity smile, Laura thought it looked like a pity smile.

"You'll never know who you'll run into at Wegmans," Wetzel the Pretzel greeted.

"The red kind!" yelled Johnny.

"I'm looking for the red kind!" Jim snapped.

"Oh, he's a demanding one," Wetzel the Pretzel said.

Laura responded: "Just like his father."

"I must tell say, your husband was a trooper on Career Day. My students peppered him with a thousand questions, but he took the fire."

_Are you fucking him?_ Laura asked with her nonexistent mental powers.

Lo and behold, the question penetrated someone's skull: Wetzel the Pretzel's son. The blond boy looked at Jim, flinched, seized his mother's left hand, and levelled his eyes at the floor.

And his face turned bright motherfucking red. Red like a tomato.

Your husband is fucking Gail Carter.

The stilted conversation (inane talk of Jimmy Jr.'s deportment and outstanding work ethic) dawdled for minutes while-

-your husband is fucking Gail Carter-

-blasted through her head.

At last, the boy started to drag Wetzel the Pretzel in the other direction; Wetzel the Pretzel patted her son's head and said, "Kids. Always anxious to do something else, ha-ha. I'll see you on Monday, Jimmy."

Johnny whined: "The red kind, Daddy!"

Jim, _pretending_ to study the assortment of sugary cereals, scratched his head.

"Bottom shelf," Laura whispered.

"Oh, there," Jim said.

Right in front of his nose.

And right in front of her nose...

***

Wetzel the Pretzel.

All signs pointed in the _Pretzel_ direction:

His secret phone call on the deck?

His convenient night out on the town?

What was he doing?

_Who_ was he doing?

Laura knew: her husband went to _Her_ ; we went to _Her_ and demanded they get their story straight.

She wanted to call _Her_ and scream, _'Put my no good, cheating husband on!'_

_Yes, make a spectacle,_ her brain demanded.

But she couldn't lift her hand for the cordless; instead, Laura worked the remote and found the _Real Housewives._

The sad (or stupid) part? She thought Jim had changed.

_Hold on a sec,_ the sliver of common sense lingering in her melon argued. _He left with Bradley tonight. How does Bradley fit into the equation?_

Easy. It wouldn't have surprised her to learn Bradley covered for Jim. It wouldn't have surprised her _In. The. Least._

_You have to confront your no good, cheating husband,_ Brain lectured. _Otherwise, you'll drive yourself bonkers. Bonkers is bad for the baby._

"His baby," she said to the television.

One chime: _12:30._

Laura knotted her brow and ground teeth.

***

At _12:57_ , headlights painted the study; rumbling engine; slam of a squeaky door...

Jim charged in and made for the computer room without saying boo.

"Uh, not even a hello," she carped.

"Hey," he said. "Sorry, I'm...Butch wanted me to look something up."

"Now?"

"We got to talking about, uh...well, arguing...we got to arguing about the...the aught one World Series. I say Jay Bell scored the winning run; he claims Luis Gonzalez. We put a hundred dollars on it."

She heard the clatter of fingers on keyboard and asked, "What if it's neither?"

"Naw, it's one or the other."

_Pfft. Baseball,_ she thought.

"I hope you're not waiting up for me," he said.

"What if I am?"

"I might be a while."

"How long is _a while_."

His fingers stopped typing.

"Just wondering," said she."

"I don't know...an hour or two."

"To look up a sports fact?"

"I need to unwind a little."

"Weren't you just unwinding at Calhoun's?"

He poked his head around the wall and said, "I'm not ready for bed."

Pfft. Not ready for bed.

Oaths flying in her head, our girl...
Wednesday Evening, 9 April 2008

...blurted the police (in other words, _Butch Weinager_ ) be coming with an arrest warrant for hisself.

After delivering the blue news, Regina went about the business of losing her mind. Flapping arms like a hyper chicken, she circled the living room and screeched: "What are we going to do?"

Hell if Glen knew. Minutes earlier, he'd been watching a rerun of _Match Game PM_ ; his mind wasn't ready to tackle a complicated problem like fleeing the police.

As such, he didn't move from the recliner. Though Regina tried shooing him into the bedroom to pack a bag, Glen crossed arms and said, "Vern told me to stay put. Besides, I ditched my truck. For all the police know, I'm wherever my truck went."

"I think Butch has a good idea you didn't go anywhere, otherwise why would he come _here_ to arrest _you_?"

"According to whom?"

"Tom...er...somebody said-"

"Tom?"

" _Somebody_ overhead Butch Weinager say-"

"Why would Butch _announce_ he has an arrest warrant for me? Hm?"

"You shouldn't have met Vern," she fussed. "Butch...Raul...they know and...and now...you... _we_..." 'Gina's choppy intonation petered into the musty Cumberland manor atmosphere. A few seconds of silence followed, and then she started again with the pacing and finger twisting.

Exasperated by her twitchiness, Glen sighed and then said, "Jebus Crackers, Regina. Why are you getting cold feet? We talked about this _exact_ situation, remember? If the Bojas pushed back, I'd go to the press. You can't argue they didn't leave me a choice."

Regina didn't want to admit she never expected the Bojas to _push back_. When Glen told her about the GPS tag, she questioned his lucidity and concluded her scheme carried a heady side effect: _paranoia._ His instance in spooning copies to Vern Fridley -of all people- didn't sit well in her bottomless tum-tum.

Now _this_...but _this_ wasn't paranoia bunching her panties:

Tom told her Butch was gunning for Glen's _computer and whatnot._

Tom told her Butch was throwing around words like _malfeasance and whatnot_.

Tom told her Butch was gonna _bust down her front door and whatnot!_

Oh, her poopie-headed husband should've gone to Sal!

While Glen hunkered in front of the idiot box, Regina clucked, badgered and fumed. She tried contacting her brother about a million times, but Sal wasn't answering his phone.

At last, he tired of her constant futzing and snapped, "Can you stop already? You're driving me crazy!"

"How can you sit there?" she cried. "Butch and his minions could come at any second!"

"Butch wouldn't dare. I warned him. I warned _all_ of them! I said I'd go nuclear if-"

"But you've already talked to Vern!"

"Butch doesn't know I talked to Vern. And Butch doesn't know _I know_ he put a tracker on my truck. So, Miss Smartypants, why would he risk serving a warrant?"

"Because he wants your stuff!"

He waved a hand and focused on the television. For obvious reasons, Charles Nelson Reilly wrapping a polka dot ascot around Gene Rayburn's neck interested him more than Regina's nagging.

She stepped into his line of sight and hollered, "What in the Hades is wrong with you? We should leave, Glen! We should leave now!"

"Regina," he sighed, "remember the cop who threatened you in December?"

"Of course!"

"They're nothing but bullies."

"But-"

"Even Sal wasn't concerned."

"But-"

"Besides, it doesn't matter what Butch or the Bojas do. I've already given Vern enough to roast those crooks."

Indeed, Glen knew the press would blow the lid off the Shoreview fiasco. Even a lush like Vern put two and two together; he thumbed through the copies and muttered, _'You got good dope, Glen. Shit, you got the goodest dope.'_

_Goodest_ , he-he.

Goodest.

After the rendezvous Sunday evening, Glen boasted to Regina: _'You should've heard Vern. Believe you-me, the Bojas will get their comeuppance.'_

Once Vern handed the _goodest dope_ to the reporter at the _Democrat And Chronicle..._ well, sir, it wasn't out of the realm _60 Minutes_ would run with the story.

And in case you don't know, _60 Minutes_ is the real deal.

But you know what else is the _real deal_? Having your balls removed with a big ass knife, which would be Glen Cumberland's fate in eight hours and twelve minutes. Had our pal divined such a shitty end, he'd have run faster than he ever thought his fat ass could move.

Faster than a motherhumpin' cheetah, baby.

Alas, Glen didn't move. At least, not 'til it be too late.

Waving a fat finger, Regina said, "I don't care what Vern told you. I say we go to a hotel until I can talk to Sal."

"Damnit, 'Gina, you're getting worked up over nothing. There is no warrant. Call Sal if it makes you feel better, but I don't want him butting into my business."

" _Our_ business, Glen. Shoreview is _our_ -"

He pecked at the remote until the t.v. volume drowned her out; she gave him the frowny face, grabbed a handful of Canada Mints from the dish on the coffee table, and then lumbered into the kitchen.

Regina wanted to list hypotheticals?

"Let her list hypotheticals," he said to the t.v.

She wanted to fret?

"Let her fret," he chuckled. Aye, Glen Cumberland felt pretty cocky. No, scratch it. Glen Cumberland _was_ cocky.

Though...come to think of it...

He adjusted his ample rump and drummed fingers on the armrest.

Abandoning his truck seemed like a smart idea. GPS devices weren't an old wives' tale; in fact, he recalled a segment on _60 Minutes_... _something-something_ about tracking al-Qaeda poohbahs in Afghanistan with cellular signals...

Speaking of which...

Monday evening -while waiting at Calhoun's for Vern- he received a handful of calls from an UNKNOWN source. Nothing had been said and Glen assumed someone dialed his number in error.

Dialed his number, _in error_ , four times.

Strange.

Strange but...Glen was cocky. He wouldn't fret. No, sir.

"Regina can worry," he said under his breath. "I'm not losing my head."

***

At 2:58 -some two hours after Glen vowed he wouldn't lose his head- his phone vibrated on the coffee table.

"Vern's calling!" he hollered.

Regina had gone to the mattresses, meaning she sealed herself in the kitchen and shoveled ice cream into her yapper. Her response -muffled by a mouthful of Brownie Batter Core- translated to: _"Hurgumh."_

"Just keep your mouth shut," Glen said, as he flipped open the phone.

"Afk about-"

Motioning her quiet, hisself answered, "It's Glen."

"Thank God," Vern wheezed. "You able to talk?"

"What are we doing now?"

"In private?"

"I'm at home, which is where you told me to stay."

"Right...okay...eh...you need to listen to me, Glen. I-I passed your information to my friend at the _D And C_."

"What did he say?"

"Oh, he's real excited. You have killer dope."

"I told you, didn't I?"

"You told me but...see...I..." Vern halted to cough and clear his throat. Then he continued: "My friend...um...Willy...Willy phoned Raul Boja last night for a comment. I reckon Raul's steamed-"

"Good!"

"No, _naught_ good. I told Willy to give me a HU before-"

"HU?"

"A heads-up, man! 'Member what I said about keeping the poop quiet until you're ready to drop the hammer? Willy didn't give me the courtesy of a HU, the moron, soooo...wanna guess who strolled into my office at the _Courier_ no more than thirty minutes ago?"

"Who?"

"The Big Bad Wolf," Vern whispered. "Butch Weinager and one of his deputies. Those guys have put two and two together, man. They _know_ you and I talked, and they _know_ I passed Willy your dope. And let me tell you: Butch ain't happy."

Feet up, Glen (still cocky, mind you) rocked in the recliner and said, "Butch _knows_ better than to make waves."

"Not if he has your dope."

"Huh?"

" _Your dope_ , Glen."

"My papers?"

"Butch has a briefcase full of _your dope_. Then he asked me where you were hiding, but I told him to kiss off."

Needless to say, Glen felt less cocky. He stopped rocking, kicked down the footrest, and shot to a standing position.

Hovering behind Glen's Laz-e-boy, Regina garbled, "Whaf hef faying?"

Glen turned his back to her and whispered, "How did Butch get my papers? You told me they were safe."

"I called Willy, but he's not answering. My guess is Butch...well, he _is_ the police. He prolly called a bud in the r-oh-c, or a few buds, and had them shake Willy down. You know those coppers, man. They're thick as thieves. And, um...shit, I bet Raul Boja has Willy chained in a dungeon, which is where we'll be if we're not careful."

"Whaf hef faying?" pestered Regina.

There was a rustling though the receiver...or maybe it was static. Glen wasn't sure, and he adjusted the phone from his right to left ear. Meantime, it felt like someone grabbed his potatoes with a fist.

A _strong_ fist.

"Vern?" Glen asked in a nervous falsetto. "Vern, are you there?"

"Yea, sorry, I dropped my gizmat," Vern said. "Nervous hands or something. So... _ahem_...I'm in a public place at the moment, but I think I'm being watched. You, on the other hand...whether or not he believes you've split, Butch is headed your way and, like I said...you know, he ain't happy. He'll be fishing for _all_ your dope. You need to wipe your computer, pack your hardcopies, and get the hell out of Dodge."

"And go where?"

"I have a lady friend in Brighton. You can stay with her until I get everything straightened out."

"How are you going to straighten everything out?"

"My lady friend will take your hardcopies and pass them along to a reporter from _The Buffalo News_. There's zero chance Butch and Raul Boja hold sway in Buffalo."

"Maybe we should've started with _The News_."

"Hey, I'm flying by the seat of my pants. Do you want to get out in one piece, or are we gonna argue about what I should've done?"

"What do you think!"

"Then pay attention. At four o'clock, someone will pick you up at Calhoun's and take you to my friend's place in Brighton. You'll lay low, my friend will work the particulars, and in a few days, we'll be giving Raul Boja both barrels."

"Who's the someone picking me up?"

"Another friend from way back, name of Rich. Now, you gotta be sneaky, Glen. Have your wife give you a ride to Calhoun's but...like, hide in the trunk or something."

"The trunk?"

"Trunk, backseat, under a blanket...get the picture? One more thing: It should be obvious, but don't tell anyone squat. It's important we keep your whereabouts a secret."

"I understand," Glen said as he peeped Regina over his shoulder. "Be sneaky."

***

Glen Cumberland dropped the duffel, plopped his rump on the barstool, and patted his forehead with a cocktail napkin.

Boy, Regina had given him sass!

From the moment he hung up with Vern until the second he shimmied out of the backseat of her Impala... _bitch, bitch, bitch_ :

' _See, I told you about the warrant! I told you! Even Vern knows what's going on! You should've left hours ago!'_

Then she demanded answers: Where are you going; how long will you be gone; _blah blah blah_...

He gave her nothing but a blank stare and a terse response: _'The less you know, the better.'_

Well, sir, she didn't appreciate the zipped lip, but poop on her.

With each rebuke, he felt cockiness return; it burst through apprehension like a weed through concrete.

He felt like a secret agent.

A secret agent doing secret agent work.

Yeppers.

Sure, there'd been a little hitch, but everything would turn out hunky-dory.

Nice and neat.

Wrapped with a bow.

Pooper scoopered.

In the meantime, Glen Cumberland be Mister Incognito.

Indeedy.

Glen Cumberland also wanted a beer, tout suite, but Chester huddled over the old rotary next to the cash register...

Staring at hisself in the dirty mirror behind the bar, Glen stoked-for about the millionth time- a smoldering coal of ire. Raul and Butch wanted to toss him in a dungeon and make him beg for mercy? Well, those two had another thing coming! They assumed Glen Cumberland could be pushed around. Ha! They were wrong. You could bet your bottom dollar...hell, your last penny...Glen Carl Cumberland wasn't stepping back.

And everything would turn out hunky-dory.

Nice and neat.

Wrapped with a bow.

Pooper-

"Heya, Glen," Chester greeted as he dropped the handset. "Getcha a beer?"

"I needed it five minutes ago," Glen joshed.

Chester dug a Genny from the ice chest, slid the can across the counter, and then said, "Drink yer drink, grab yer bag and follow me."

"Huh?"

"Got cotton in yer ears? Come on. I was tolds to take you to my office. Someone's coming to collect you."

"I know someone...wait, you're in on this?"

"Yup, and I don't believes a word of it."

"A word of what?" Glen asked, reaching for the beer.

"Of you killing somebody, he-he."

Lickety-split, cockiness left Glen Cumberland like a fart. He pushed the can aside and stammered, "W-w-what?"

"You know," Chester said, all matter-of-fact-like.

"I-I...wha...what did you say?"

Instead of explaining, Chester toddled around the bar and grabbed Glen's sleeve; like a dog in tow, he followed the old proprietor to a musty storage room crammed with cardboard cases of Genny.

Pointing at a crooked door decorated with a nudie centerfold ( _Ms. October 1974_ , in case you're wondering), Chester said, "Wait for a knock."

Our friend Glen nodded like a retard while Chester Pollop's statement rang in his noodle:

Of you killing somebody, he-he.

Of you killing somebody, he-he.

Of you killing somebody, he-he.

"Good luck, Glen," Chester said, as he backed out of the room. "Keep your name out of the funny papers."

_Well, isn't this dandy,_ Glen thought as he paced the room.

But for every frowny face there is a smiley one, too. At least he wouldn't be home when Butch and his thugs kicked in the front door. Nope, some guy named Rich was taking him to Brighton.

_Hmm...some guy named Rich,_ Brain mused.

"Some guy named Rich," Glen seconded.

Ahem. Don't you think this situation is a tad strange?

"Sure...I guess...a little...although-"

Seems strange to me, but what do I know? After all, I'm just your brain.

Glen stopped walking, scratched his head and said, "What choice do I have? You heard Vern."

Maybe Vern lured you to Calhoun's.

Then _Ms. October 1974_ -a Farrah Fawcet clone wearing nothing but a cowboy hat- decided to toss in her two cents worth: _Hey, sexy, Butch is coming to haul you to Attica or Rikers. Then you'll be posing like I am for a big black man or a Nazi. Posing on a prison cot instead of this barrel I'm leaning over._

Chester added: _Of you killing somebody, he-he._

Next, Regina: _You should've left hours ago._

Once more, Ms. October 1974: _Take it from me, sexy. You're in for quite the experience._

With perfect timing, the backdoor buckled from a handful of knocks; Glen yelped and retreated on shaky legs until his butt made contact with a listing tower of cases.

"Glen?" a muffled, twangy voice beckoned. "Glen Cumberland? Are you in there? It's Rich."

Tiptoeing (as best Glen could), he approached the door and whispered, "Vern sent you?"

"Yeah, Vern. He asked me to give you a lift."

"Where are we going?"

A pause and then: "Brighton."

"How do you know Vern?"

"Yo, Vern said we need to rock and roll, como ahora. We can talk in the car."

Our nervous pal Glen and his staid voice of reason ticked the pros and cons of rocking and rolling. In the end, the decision came down to a dearth of options.

Exhaling, Glen Cumberland grabbed his bag, gripped the greasy doorknob...

***

...sweaty, pale and trembling, he drained the remainder of the Aquafina and then said, "I don't know what Vern told you, but I'm in a lot of trouble."

Richard glanced at his newest travelling companion and thought: _Si, amigo._ _Estas maldito tooting!_

***

Tuesday evening, Jimmy took a 10-63 (official police jargon for plotting an abduction and murder) and paid a visit to the Daisy Inn, Room 133.

"I could use your help tying a loose end," Jim said, fanning the purple haze with a hand. "I mean, if you're up for it."

Prone on the single bed, Richard engaged in the puff-puff and then said, "Sure, I'm game. Why stop the fun, eh?"

"I'm serious, Rich. If you're spent-"

"Bro, I'm feeling solid, all things considered. Without you know who around, I've slept through the night for the first time in almost a week."

"Okay, tomorrow afternoon, I need you to pick up a friend at Calhoun's. His name's Glen Cumberland and he'll be waiting in the back. You can access the alley off Warner Street. It'll take you to the rear."

"Glen Cumberland at Calhoun's. What time?"

"Four o'clock."

"Got it. Four bells. Anything else?"

Jim sat on the edge of the bed, patted his brother's left leg and said, "Glen is in a spot of trouble, so he might seem nervous. He's expecting a friend of a reporter named Vern Fridley to pick him up at Calhoun's. This friend -we'll call him Richard- is taking Mister Cumberland to a safe house in Brighton."

"Where's Brighton?"

"It doesn't matter. You aren't going to Brighton. When you leave the alley, make a couple rights until you're headed north on Main toward Saint Mary's. After you pass the church, I'll overtake you in a black Lexus. You're going to follow me, Rich."

"Easy enough."

"Easy peasy," Jim said through a smile. "Now, this Glen Cumberland is the same fatbody you saw at Calhoun's last night."

"The guy with the sacrificial truck? They guy you had me ring?"

"The same."

Richard dropped the joint in the ashtray and then worked some math in his head. "You know," he said, rubbing his chin, "I get the feeling he...what's his name?"

"Glen Cumberland."

"Glen wasn't...isn't...keyed into our endeavor, is he?"

"Uh...sorta. Look, it's a long story and I-"

"You're taking him someplace until the heat dies down?"

"Rich, Glen and _Him_ are birds of a feather, if you catch my drift."

"Ahhh...I catch it. Glen Cumberland's hosed."

"If you're uncomfortable participating..."

Until a few weeks prior, Richard Reilly would've been horrified by his current behavior. But not anymore, mama; he had abandoned his moral compass the moment he decided to take Isaac Brown on a trek across the country. "I'm good," he said with a nod. "But what if Cumberland doesn't want to come with me?"

"If worse comes to worse, somebody will help motivate. But I'm ninety nine percent certain it won't come to muscle. Glen's a big pussy and he'll be frightened."

"Shit, you're like the Make-A-Wish foundation," Richard laughed. "I always wanted to snap fingers and have a thug do my bidding, _he-he_."

"Glad to be of service. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make a phone call. Hang tight. I'll be back in a few."

Ten minutes later, our pal Jimmy returned with a plastic shopping bag. He removed a bottle of water and said, "Offer this to Cumberland after he gets in your car. A couple swallows and he'll be lights out."

"Wait...you want to poison him in my car?"

"Cumberland's taking a nap. I crushed a half-dozen Benadryl in here," Jim said, tossing the bottle on the bed. "It'll be easier with him sedated, but if he doesn't want the water, don't force the issue. Follow me, make small talk if needbe and we'll deliver Cumberland to a man with a bone to pick."

"Who-"

"Don't worry about who. In fact, don't worry about anything. Your job is to be Miss Daisy's driver."

"Yesh, master."

"A'ight, I gotta roll, Rich. You set for the night?"

"Shoot, I have my smoky-smoky, a color t.v. and the HBO. I'm more than set."

"If you need anything, you know how to reach me. Otherwise, I'll swing by tomorrow afternoon and we'll run the scenario a few times. And, uh...and so you know, I spoke to my man with the airplane. He wants to blastoff tomorrow evening."

"Hey, whatever, my calendar is wide the fuck open."

Jim glanced around the room and then said, "If you're not up for the trip, you can stay with me. I-I didn't know your condition before-"

"Are you kidding?" Richard hooted. "No offense, but I'm not spending my last months on Mother Earth in upstate fucking New York."

"The offer stands if you change your mind."

"Naw, my mind is set. I've always been partial to the beach, bro. The smell, sunset, seagulls, swells...I'm gonna kick back, smoke fatties and ride into..."

***

"...the thruway?" Glen asked, gesturing at the windshield with a limp hand.

Richard scattered the thought with a headshake and croaked, "Wha?"

"We're not heading towards the thruway."

"Oh... _ahem_...yeah...yeah, I know, man. Vern said to take a circuitous route."

Glen sighed, relaxed in the seat and yawned. "I'm exhausted," he mumbled, leaning his head against the window. "I think...I-I'm...close my eyes."

"Sure, close 'em. I'll wake you when we arrive."

"Thanks...I'm...I...I'm tired...I've had a...a long day and...I need a recharge..."

Soon, the double whammy of Benadryl and the gentle rocking of the car lulled the passenger into dreamland.

When Cumberland's snoring became profuse and ear-ringing, Richard flashed the Audi's headlights...

***

He was no expert, but the muscular waste management employees dragging Glen Cumberland's slack body from his car looked like goons. And the short, balding man overseeing the work wore a five-piece blue suit and skinny tie, none of which fit the austere milieu of a landfill...

Jim stepped from his Lexus and sauntered to the olive-skinned supervisor. Two manila envelopes were passed and then Jim turned 'round and hollered, "Jump in my car, Rich! I just sold your ride!"

***

"Fifty k in travelers checks," our hero said, tossing the smaller of the packets onto Richard's lap. "If you need more, you know how to reach me."

"Fifty oughta last me long enough."

"If customs give you trouble, my pal included a bill of sale for the Audi."

"One look at me and anyone with a couple firing will see I've cashed in the chips...which I have."

Jim put the Lexus into drive, cleared his throat and then said, "There's also a passport for Glen Cumberland in there. Remember, once you clear customs-"

"We've been through it a hundred times. I'm solid."

"A'ight. We'll hit Kinkos for a photo, tidy your room at the Daisy and then visit my place before heading to the airport."

"A reg'lar afternoon on the town."

"We know how to do it up."

"Hmm..." Richard purred. "Funny, isn't it? I haven't felt closer to you than the day dad died. Seems like we bond in death, bro. Kinda fucked up, don't you think?"

"A little, I guess."

"A little? You guess? Ha! I'd say _a lot_ , and I'm not guessing. It's better if I'm not around. We'll do less damage, eh?"

"You make a good point," Jim laughed.

"Yo, the Reilly DNA is brimming with mayhem."

"Maybe...but I hope it skips a generation. I don't want the boys following my footsteps. 'Course, I'm not setting a good example at the moment. But once this shit is in the rearview, I'll get it together."

"Kids..." Rich sighed. "Kids were never in the cards for me."

"The trick is gettin' laid, "Jim joshed as he elbowed his brother in the ribs.

"Gee, thanks for the tip."

"Just sayin'"

"I'll have you know, I had a good run. But kids...naw. I had a dog, bro...be the ole Boss Hogg. The Boss was enough.

"Want to hear something crazy? We have a third bundle coming in September."

Richard whistled and shook his head.

"Yeah," Jim mumbled. "But it'll be no sweat. Like I said: I'll get it together, Rich."

They sat in silence for the remainder of the drive to the Daisy Inn. Jim kept his peepers pinballing; left, right, a continuous scan meant to detect the threat of suicidal deer; Richard laid his melon on the headrest and studied the passing landscape.

***

Jim poked his head out of the mud room: eyes glued on the television, Jimmy and Johnny sat Indian style in the living room; Laura worked a knife on a cutting board in the kitchen.

"Come on," he whispered.

Laura heard scuffling, dropped her knife, and tossed a stony glare at her husband. When she saw Richard, her expression transformed from salty to puzzled.

"Boys!" Jim hailed. "Hey, I want you to meet Uncle Richard. He's travelled a long way to see you."

The kids acted like they didn't hear their father, which wasn't a surprise considering the stupid sponge cartoon worked a hypnotic spell or something.

"Guys," Jim said, clapping hands. "Your uncle-"

"Aw, hush, bro," Richard chided. " _SpongeBob SquarePants_ is a masterpiece. You can't interrupt a masterpiece." He strolled into the living room, settled between his nephews with a groan, then elbowed Johnny in the ribs. "I'm a big fan of Mister Krabs," he confided. "Man, does he know how to run a business."

"Mister Krabs?" Johnny cried. "I hate Mister Krabs!"

"Jim, what's going on?" Laura asked as she sidled next to him. "What's he doing here?"

"Oh, you know, Richard decided to say hello."

"He doesn't look well," she whispered.

"Shh...we don't have a lot of time. Rich is leaving tonight."

"Leaving? He just arrived."

"We'll talk later," he said, pushing her towards the living room. "Go say hello and try to be pleasant for a change."

***

Located on the western edge of the municipality, Canesoanke Airport (FAA designation D56) was home to twenty aircraft and a Fixed Base Operator who sold Avgas and Jet A for about a quarter more than the national average. D56 had two non-precision instrument approaches (both GPS) and a 6500 foot grooved runway with a slight incline at the approach end of runway 6/24 and a PAPI on the right side of Runway 24.

Kojak owned a green on white Piper 34-220T Seneca V. The "T" stood for turbocharged. With a range of 870 nautical miles, the Piper required only one fuel stop on trip south to KFLL, Fort Lauderdale. After consulting a few charts, Kojak settled on KFLO (Florence, South Carolina) as an apt pit stop. If anyone was curious (or even if they weren't), Kojak could tell them a not so pleasant story about how the U.S. Air Force accidentally dropped a Mark 6 nuclear bomb (weighing about 8,000 pounds and utilizing a 32-point implosion system) near Florence in 1958. Furthermore...well, there were a lot of furthermores. _A lot._ Boy, did Kojak hope his passenger enjoyed trivial historical information. They'd have to talk about something over the next seven hours.

In the remarks section of the IFR flight plan he filed online with DUATS, Kojak listed two souls aboard: hisself and a Mr. Glen Cumberland, current address 612 Trent Street, Canesoanke, New York, 14424. For the return leg, he'd file one aboard. When it came time to talk to the Feds (and the time would come because Raul Boja wanted the time to come), Kojak would play the part of huckleberry: _Aw shucks, Glen approached me for a ride to Florida and the bastard threw six grand my way. Six grand! How was I supposed to know Glen's a wanted fugitive?_ When the Mister or Missus Fed asked where Mr. Cumberland went, Kojak would scratch his bald dome and say, _Hell if I know. He talked about visiting Cuba or something crazy. But for six grand, I wasn't asking any questions. Matter of fact, he did seem kinda jumpy. I thought he didn't like flying, but in retrospect...well, I guess it had nothing to do with my shoddy airmanship, ha-ha_.

Shoulder to shoulder, the Brothers Reilly walked across the ramp to where Kojak loosened the chain tiedowns.

"Your wife seemed...not pleased to see me," Richard said. "But I can't blame her. I look like a zombie."

"Don't take it personal. Laura's been pissy as of late. Hormones, you know. They make her a little... _ahem_...here we are," Jim said, halting in front of Kojak's aircraft. "Your chariot to brighter skies."

"I'm going to Florida in this?" Richard laughed.

"Not to worry," Jim said, tossing his brother's bag into the cabin. "Kojak's a good pilot. You'll be in safe hands."

"Aw, I'm just funnin'. No estoy viviendo para siempre."

"The fuck you say?"

"I'm not living forever."

Kojak threw the last chain on the ground and said, "Sorry to be the bad guy, but the flight plan becomes active at nine. We need to scoot."

"Well, shit," Richard said. "I guess this is it."

Jim embraced his brother and said, "Promise to call and send postcards. I don't want it to end here."

"No problemo. And you need to promise me something: when I'm close, please come down. I'll let you know where. It'd be nice to see a friendly face before...you know."

"Jeez, of course, Rich."

"I'm holding you to it. Oh, and scatter my ashes in water. Ocean, sea...dump 'em in the toilet if you want. Just put me in water."

"Sure...sure, but listen: I'm calling Mom. She'll want to see you."

"You on speaking terms with her?"

"No, but I'll make an exception."

"Might as well bring Katherine while you're at it. We'll have a family reunion at my death bed."

"T minus three minutes," Kojak nagged from the left seat.

"Bro, we pulled something magical," Richard whispered.

"A long time coming," Jim said as he released his brother.

The rotating beacon bathed them in flashes of red light; Richard wiped both cheeks and gave Jim a playful punch on the shoulder. "I'll call after I arrive in Puerto Rico," he said between sniffles. "Don't forget your promise."

"I'll be there, bro."

Richard grinned, flashed the peace sign and then...
Calhoun's

...rolled past the Ontario County Courthouse as the clock struck twelve bells. The temperature had already returned to seasonal highs: the mercury hit 55 on Tuesday; by mid-Wednesday, the digital display on the Cansoanke National Bank sign reported _60F_.

Under the clear sky and sunshine, snow from the freak April blizzard was whittled to dirty clumps and gritty puddles. Pedestrians milled in shorts and t-shirts; Crazy Ed pushed his cart north on a wet sidewalk; a group of teenagers stood under a gazebo and burned heaters...

...which reminded Jim of Richard:

_Cancer,_ he thought. _Cancer at thirty-four. The crapshoot struck poor Rich with both barrels._

Whatever notion Jim subscribed to the vengeance _He_ received -metaphoricals, ironicals, good luck, good planning-

Cancer at thirty-four...

-and the satisfaction of watching _Him_ expire-

Cancer at thirty-four...

-Richard's death sentence pissed on the fire.

Cancer at thirty-four...

Jim powered down the window.

"Beautiful day," Butch said. "We lucked out with the weather-"

Our hero spat out the hunk of chew in his mouth and then fished the tin out of his pants pocket.

"-day like this would've-"

"I'm done with dip," Jim interrupted, dropping his old pal like a hot potato. It struck the pavement, bounced a couple times and rolled down the street.

Butch gave him the side-eye and said, "The cold turkey route, huh? Good luck."

"Laura's been asking me to quit," he said, watching the container in the side mirror until it disappeared under the wheels of a trailing vehicle.

***

Known to the locals as the "Boulevard of Blood", Warner Street was home to a half dozen drinking establishments. The epicenter of most mischief in town took place within a two mile radius of the "B-oh-B"...which isn't an indictment of the booze holes but more the denizens. The residents within stumbling distance of Warner Street rambled from tornado magnets carrying meager wallets. The V.A., located a mile east on Hummock Road, added a salty mix of combat veterans to the pot of degenerates.

Opening early and closing late, Calhoun's served canned beer and canned beer only, but the no frills atmosphere satisfied a clientele of equal disposition. In front of a prehistoric black-and-white television propped on the corner of the bar, five prehistoric, bleary-eyed men wearing ballcaps inscribed with the names of Navy ships watched Al Roker gyrate in front of a map of the United States. The two men in polos and jeans didn't register a glance as they strolled through the door.

As Roker pointed to an "L" looming off the East Coast of the United States, one of the patrons pronounced, "I'm tellin' you, it's an Alberto Clipper."

"What the hell is an Alberto Clipper?" a second man (wearing a soiled t-shirt with the words " _I proudly served on the U.S.S. I Don't Give A Fuck_ " embroidered on the back) jeered.

Butch located Calhoun's owner, Chester Pollop (a prehistoric, fragile fella what resembled an Old West prospector and talked like Walter Brennen), in a dark corner, shooting darts, a hand rolled, unfiltered cigarette dangling from the left corner of his mouth. The dartboard sagged from a bent nail pounded into a leaning buttress, and the impact of the plastic missiles threatened to knock both its target and the splintered post to the sticky floor.

"You need a new form of entertainment, Chester," Butch announced. "You're fixin' to bring down this shithole with an errant shot."

"Ah, fuck off your majesty," Pollop rasped.

"And what's with the smoking? City ordinance 11-91 states-"

"I know what it states, Chief. You comes to write me a ticket?"

"Naw, we came for the atmosphere."

Pollop laughed, tossed his heater on the floor, and then said, "What's up? You wanna a Genny?"

"In a minute. I have a question for you, though: Did you see Glen Cumberland on Monday night between eight and nine?"

"I didn't overserves him," Pollop said, raising his right hand. "Swears to Gawd. If he gots popped for a dewey it wasn't cuz of me."

"So, you're saying he graced your establishment with his presence?"

"Yeh, Glen was here. Same spot as always, hogging the stool next to the t.v. Cames in about eight, left around nine. I remembers cuz it was just after halftime of the basketballs game. Had a few, but less than usual. He do something stupid?"

"Um...in so many words."

"Oh? Wha?"

"We think he may've been involved in a homicide."

Pollop's face drained of blood and he stammered a shrill, "W-wh-wha?"

"Uh-huh, but...see, the thing is we're not sure. We got to, you know, try to figure it out."

"Investigate," Jim chirped.

"Yep, investigate. Chester, we're trying to get Glen to, um...shoot, what's the word, Jimbo?"

"Surrender."

"Indeed. We don't want poor Glen to...damn it, my mind's a blank. Help a pal, Jim?"

"We want to prevent Cumberland from ending up on _America's Most Wanted_."

The old man's wide, filmy eyes pinballed left and right; the impassive expressions of both men invoked a hushed, "Shit, you fellas is not jokin'."

"No," Butch said with a head shake. "No, we is not. Did Glen do or say anything unusual Monday evening?"

"Jeez...I don't recalls anything hinkey, Butch."

"Nothing?"

"Matter of fact, he didn't say much to me. Glen was on his doodad talking to somebody. I don't know what the conversation be, but like I tolds you, thereabouts ninish, he threw a couple of dollars on the bar and left."

"Any of these rummies here Monday?"

"Hells no. The storm kept the place quiet. I had me a couple o'regulars...let's see...Glen and the fella living upstairs...and...eh...Lean Pete...he lives down the street...and...and there was another fella I ain't seens before. Almost forget about him cuz he sat in the back by the window. Skinny guy, no hair...maybits a new resident of the V.A."

"Skinny?" Jim asked.

"Yes, sir. _Real_ skinny. Skinner than Lean Pete."

"Hm...I don't think you saw anybody," Jim said.

"Wha?" Pollop cried. "Swear to Gawd I saws him. Had hisself a beer, he did. Sat right-"

"By the window," said Jim. "I heard the first time."

"I heard ya, too," Butch said, taking a step towards Pollop. "I heard ya, but I think you're mistaken."

Pollop, who be a whole lot smarter than he looked, nodded with vigor and presented a grin of crooked and missing chompers.

"Right, Chester?" Butch asked. "You're mistaken?"

"Eh...well, funny you mentions it. I was just thinking today how my eyes...it seems they gets worse by the second."

"Yep, it seems. Nonetheless, if you happen to see Glen, don't call 911, don't call Sheriff Tidwell, you call _me_. Understand?"

Chester Pollop wondered what was going on but, again, Chester Pollop be a lot sharper than he appeared. He knew the appropriate time to ask questions; this wasn't one of 'em. He jiggled his head and chucked a dart at the board. It smacked the corner and fell to the floor.

"Great," Butch said. "We'll take a couple Genny now, Chester."

Pollop shuffled behind the bar as the two men took seats behind an uneven table in the back of the establishment.

When Pollop returned, he set both beers down and announced, "On the house, gentleman." The table lurched from the weight of the cans...and from the thick letter-sized envelope of cash. Pollop regarded the carrot for all of a hot second and then snatched it like a gypsy pickpocket.

"For the table," Butch said.

"Yeh" the old man responded. "Yeh, I remembers. You broke it Saturday night."

"My business card is mixed in with all those fifties. If Glen shows his face-"

"I'm callin' you," Pollop finished. Then he shoved the envelope into his back pocket and ambled to the dart board. Chester Pollop was smart this way.

Butch took a sip and then said, "One down, one to go."

"What's the plan if Tom doesn't want to play ball?"

"Tom and I go back to grade school. He'll listen to reason."

About the time both men finished emptying their cans, Calhoun's squeaky door opened. Rolling sleeves, Tom Carter strolled in and scanned the smoky room. When he spied the two members of Canesoanke's Police Department, Mr. Carter squeezed his face into a scowl.

"Be cool," Butch whispered as Tom crossed the floor.

_He's...handsome, smart, makes great money,_ Gail had said.

The handsome attribute was debatable; Jim wasn't an apt judge of male beauty, but Tom looked like a meathead: square face, crooked beak and droopy eyes; wide fish mouth; lank lobes; blond hair slicked on the scalp with product.

_Christ, I'm better looking than him,_ Jim thought.

Both of Tom's hands clenched into little blocks and his neck muscles tightened. Jim figured he could've mopped the floor with Mister RIT Poindexter and it wouldn't feel sweet? He'd make Sir Handsome (which Tom _wasn't_ ) less handsome and a whole lot stoopid after bashing the guys head into the floor.

The visceral reaction to Regina Cumberland's paramour and Gail's-

You mean Wetzel the Pretzel, brah. You kinda miss her, doncha? The other day in Wegmans, when she blinked her eyes...

-husband-

... _your ole humper started movin'. Started movin' and shakin' even with Laura standin' there and Aiden starin' at his feet. I seen it, brah. And 'at bitch Regina had to go and make it official. Her and this piece of shit what be flexin' in front of you._

-triggered a bevy of solutions, none of them gentleman-like.

"Shit, I shouldn't be here," Jim said.

"Sit straight, smile and be a good boy," Butch said out of the corner of his mouth.

Tom halted a foot from the table, crossed arms and barged, "What do you want, Butch? And why the fuck is he looking at me with a shit-eating grin?"

"Now, now, Tom, you're not being cordial," Butch clucked.

"This guy fucked my wife!"

Like magic, those at the bar forgot about the _Today Show_ and craned their necks to watch something a tad more exciting.

"Jesus, Tom, enough with the theatrics," Butch said. "I'm gonna clear the air and then give you some advice."

"The fuck you are," Tom gnashed.

Butch swatted his empty can aside and said, "The tub of lard you're banging? She's in the business of causing trouble. First, she threatened your wife. Then, when Jimmy attempted to corral the big girl, she sent my pal's pregnant anchor a few offensive letters. I shouldn't have to explain, but whatever Regina's told you about Jim and Gail is fiction. She's angry Jimmy gave her a tongue lashing for being a primo cunt."

"Why's he butting into my business, Butch? My wife, my life, my-"

"Your wife asked for help," Jim interrupted. "You weren't lifting a finger and, no offense Chief, neither were you."

"Look," Butch sighed, "I agree with Tom. Personal matters are personal matters. Jimmy, you got a little out of line, but Gail's an attractive lady so...I'll chalk it up to the damsel in distress syndrome."

Tom snorted and then said, "He needs to stay out of-"

Butch raised his right hand and silenced the man who once competed with him in a vainglorious endeavor to bed the most women in western New York. "Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," he muttered. "Brother, Regina's in a little more trouble than letter writing and spreading fibs."

"Huh?"

"Don't _huh_ me. You know what's going on."

"I...what the hell are you talking about, Butch?"

"Well, shit," Butch said, elbowing Jimmy. " _Maybe_ he doesn't know."

"Know _what_?" Tom asked.

"Glen and his contractors have _allegedly_ siphoned money from the public works book."

Much like Chester Pollop minutes prior, Tom Carter appraised both men with a sprinkler head-like reaction.

"Come on, don't play dumdum," Butch said, snapping fingers. "The mess by the lake? The Shoreview Project? Taxpayer dollars have _allegedly_ been taken...were took...pardon my shitty English...by Glen Cumberland. It's called misappropriation, by the way, and misappropriation is against the law."

"Glen?" Tom snorted.

"Mm-hmm. I got word this morning: Monroe County's issuing a warrant for Glen's arrest. Regina's not named but knowing her penchant for sneakiness..."

"Yeah, Dumbo knows the score," Jim piped. "She's a schemer, Chief. I bet she told her brother...what's his name...ummmm...the leathery slime ball..."

"Sal," said Butch with a nod. "Makes sense considering Monroe County's stamping the warrant. Sal has to recline himself or something."

" _Recuse_ ," Tom corrected. "Sal has to _recuse_ himself, Butch."

"See, I knew you had an inkling about-"

"Goddamn it, I'm telling you the correct...never mind. What's this have to do with me?"

"Glen needs to blow town," Butch announced. "And you, my friend, are going to help him."

"Uh-uh. No fucking way. I'm not sticking my neck out for Cumberland."

"I disagree."

"What am I supposed to do? Warn him? You're asking me to commit a felony, aren't you?"

"You understand Glen's silent partner in the Shoreview Project is Raul Boja, doncha?" Butch asked.

"What's your point?"

"Jeez, Tom, you're smart. I shouldn't have to tell you Mister Boja wants Glen squirreled away until his lawyers get a handle on the misappropriation charge."

Tom ran a hand through his slick hair and then asked, "Again, what does any of this have to do with me?"

" _Because_ ," Butch said, jabbing the wobbly table, "you have a tangential relationship with Missus Regina Cumberland."

Tom opened his mouth...and then shut it with a teeth rattling clack.

"So, there's problem one," said Butch. "And here's problem two: Raul believes Regina tipped the authorities. If Glen's sitting in a cell, who do you think collects on his property?"

"I don't think it works that way."

"You have a law degree, pal?" Jim asked.

"No, but-"

"Then don't tell us how it works."

"I don't want to get involved," Tom said, raising hands. "I'm through with Regina, too. I haven't seen her in a month and I won't be seeing her again. Whatever trouble she's causing, you can't put it on me."

"Shiiit, Chief," Jim drawled. "Maaaybee it's like Raul says. Maaaybee Tom encouraged Dumbo."

"What are you talking about?" Tom cried. "I didn't encourage her to do anything!"

"You wanna take a trip to Raul's castle and explain?" Butch asked. "Or do you want to make a simple phone call and wash your hands of this mess?"

"Guys...I-I..." Tom sighed, rubbed his creased forehead and continued, "Hell, Butch, what am I supposed to tell Cumberland?"

"Oh, you aren't telling Glen anything."

"Huh?"

"You're phoning Regina, and you're gonna tell her I'm coming to collect everything Glen has stockpiled on his computer and whatnot."

Tom's forehead crinkled, and his eyes pinballed from the floor to Butch's impassive face. "Uh...wait, I'm confused. Doesn't she want-"

"Glen hauled before the man?" Jim finished.

"If what you're saying is true then...yeah," Tom said.

"Beats me," Butch said. "In cases like these, I've learned not to question Mister Boja's orders."

Tom Carter was a tad smarter than Chester Pollop; therefore, he spent more than a couple seconds mulling the information. Something wasn't adding up, but the wonky math didn't matter so much as the total. Not for the first time, he castigated his insatiable appetite for a piece of ass. Look where the pecker led: a hotbox of foolishness.

Butch watched Tom twist fingers for a tick and then said, "I'm asking you to do one _itsy_ thing. Give Regina a jingle and tell her my loose tongue flapped about a warrant and Glen's imminent arrest for malfeasance and...and whatnot. You know, I got smashed to the gills and we're good friends and I kinda sorta blabbed 'cause I'm a big dumdum and what-"

"Enough," Tom interrupted. "I understand."

"See, Tom is a sharp cat," Butch said, kicking Jim in the shin.

"A regular Alberto Einstein," Jim said.

Chuckling, Butch dug into his pockets and tossed a couple quarters on the table. "Use the payphone by the door," he said, sliding his chair backwards and then standing. "You'll have to, um, ignore my presence over your shoulder. Quality control and whatnot. But when you're done, I'll buy you a beer or two. Fair deal, wouldn't you say?"

Our friend Tom scooped the coins into his hand without comment. Then he meandered to the phone as if buffeted...
Monday Evening, 7 April 2008

...by winds and piloted by a pervert.

"... _buga...tied up...uga...simultaneous possession..."_

Glen Cumberland's pickup weaved left to right and the opposite. The Ford maintained a sensible twenty miles-per; Jim pushed the Vic to an imprudent thirty and closed the gap. Spliced between static, the radio narrated the drama taking place in San Antonio:

"... _with Memphis hanging on to the four point lead. Kansas will get possession of the jump ball underneath their basket...uga wuga buga..."_

The wipers thumped; snow billowed; headlights painted the abundant snowflakes in a buttery luster.

Jim ground teeth, honed on the Ford's bumper...

He'd get one shot, and it couldn't be hard. Cosmetic damage to the truck (or Jim's cruiser) beyond the obvious...

"... _what a shot by Chalmers and Kansas is down by two. Five thirty-two left in the second half...Tigers pushing the ball...uga...Rose in the corner...feeds it inside to Trask...he picks up his dribble and...buga...throws it out-of-bounds! Wow, he had Taggert open on the outside and airmailed the pass..."_

"Attaboy," Jim grunted.

Buoyed by the booboo, he closed the distance until less than a couple feet separated the vehicles. Jimmy clasped the steering wheel with clammy hands; the Vic's headlights reflected on the burnished tailgate of the pickup.

"... _with the rebound, trailing by a bucket. Calipari wants a timeout to regroup, Memphis up by two with four and half left..."_

"One small tap," he chanted. "One small tap, one small tap."

"... _and if you drink and drive, remember to always have a..."_

"Here we go," he whispered, guiding the Vic towards the left corner of the fender.

" _Uga..."_

He felt the car shudder...

" _Wuga..."_

...lurch left, start to skid...

" _Buga..."_

"Easy," he grunted, easing off the gas.

"... _the Hudson Valley's number one sports..."_

The Ford slid right, but Brown overcorrected and the brake lights turned a steady red. Seconds later, its headlights disappeared and a swirl of white flew into the air.

"... _we'll see if the timeout helped calm the Tigers..."_

Exhaling, Jim nursed the cruiser to a bumpy stop; after executing a sloppy k-turn, he rolled the Vic at a walking pace and used the lamp to scour the shoulder. At last, he located the Ford: snout buried in a snowbank, ass end pointing at CR21, back wheels spinning.

Our hero donned gloves, stepped outside and shuffled forward with the heavy Maglite guiding the way. When he reached the driver's side, he pulled open the door and jammed the torch in Brown's face.

"Ohhhh," the perv moaned. "Oh, my head. I'm bleeding."

The sight of _Him_ , hearing _His_ scratchy voice...Jim gripped the Maglite and saw red. He stroked a burning desire to bash _Him_ in the nose...

Bash _Him_ in the mouth...

Bash _Him_ until _His_ face be turned inside out...

"Get your foot off the gas, turn off the engine, leave the keys in the ignition and get out," Jim ordered.

"I'm hurt," Brown whimpered. "I hit my head on the steering wheel."

"Mister, I'm a cop," Jim said, gesturing at his cruiser. "And I'm telling you to get out."

Brown appraised the idling car through red, squinty eyes and then slid his wide ass from the cab. "Thank God you're here," he wheezed as his tennis shoes sunk into ankle high snow. "I must've hit an icy patch. All a sudden, I lost control."

_Bash him, faggot,_ Dad urged. _Bash him good._

"Fuck you," Jim said, both to John Reilly and _Him_.

"Ex...excuse me?"

"I said, fuck-"

From behind, Richard greeted, "Hiya, Jim," in a hoarse voice.

With all the commotion and thoughts of skull bashing, he'd forgotten about Richard. Jim swung 'round, highlighted his brother in the Maglite's ring...

Even amidst the storm and rippling iridescent light, Richard looked terrible: thin, stooped, face contorted...

"Jesus, are you hurt?" Jim asked.

" _Bueno como caramelobro._ Not a scratch, bro."

Isaac Brown cocked his head and asked his travelling companion of the past 2,385.5 miles: "You know him?"

"Yeah, he knows me," Jim said, returning attention to _Him_. "You know me, too, shithead."

Brown took a step back, rubbed his bare arms and stammered: "I-I...no, pardner. I haven't been here before."

Now be the moment for the Big Reveal: _I'm Jimmy Reilly, pardner. Remember me? Remember my sister? Well, here I am, all grown up, and you, pardner, are gonna reap what you sowed._

But staring at _Him_ , he had a revelation and swallowed his tongue. Satisfaction wasn't gained from trite monologuing; satisfaction came from doing. Better to let _Him_ wonder before he could wonder no more.

Besides, time was a-wasting and it be goddamn, motherfucking frigid.

Jim maneuvered around the slack-jawed pervert, locked the truck door and then pushed it closed with his shoulder. A moment later, Richard edged next to his brother and rattled a flurry of dry coughs.

"Honest, officer," Brown said. "I've never been-"

"Town's three miles the way you came," Jim said, turning off the Maglite. "Start walking."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Hold...hold on a sec. You can't-"

"You get what you get," Jim interrupted through a scowl. Then he grabbed his brother's scrawny arm and guided him to the cruiser.

Brown followed...stammered nonsense...most of it unintelligible over the wind...not like it mattered.

When the Brothers Reilly reached the Vic, _He_ ran at them, slipped, fell on his rump and yelped in pain.

"You better start walking," Jim hollered before ducking inside the humid car. "Get some body heat working, _pardner_. It's freezing _._ "

_He_ didn't start walking, though. No, _He_ sat in the middle of CR21 collecting precip while Jim and Richard held their hands over the vents. _He_ plied with pleading eyes, worked the hole in _His_ face, flapped both arms...

The radio jabbered: _"...possession arrow to Kansas..."_ before fading out.

Jim twisted his neck and studied Richard under the dome light. His pallor hovered in the yellow spectrum and both hands shook...which coulda been from the cold, but Jimmy knew better...

"... _going to see..."_

...because Rich's cheekbones be pronounced and rigid; sunken eyes ringed with dark circles stared back at him. After another round of hacking, Richard's tiny head flopped against the headrest.

"The fuck's wrong with you, Richard?" Jim asked.

"Oh, I caught a nasty bug a few weeks back," Rich croaked. "Can't seem to shake it...tho-"

"... _Tigers holding a three-point lead, two minutes to play and...and now...we have a stop in action while the Memphis trainers look at the right ankle of..."_

"-full confession, I'm never going to shake it."

"Shake what?"

Richard licked his chapped lips and then said, "I have abdominal cancer, Jimmy. It's something called pseudomyxoma peritonei. I'm told it's rare so...lucky me, huh?"

"... _as Kansas has turned to fouling Memphis..."_

Lightheaded, mouth agape, Jim took a few seconds to digest the information...

...which allowed Rich to add: "Needless to say, it's not lookin' good."

"Are...are you sure?"

"Bro, look at me. I'm not the picture of health."

"Why aren't you in a hospital?"

"It's not the type you sock into remission."

Jim gazed through the foggy windshield as Brown struggled to his feet, staggered towards the pickup...

"Yep, the Big C," Richard mused. "On the bright side, I'll be joining some of the greats on the list: Audrey Hepburn, U.S. Grant, Madame Curie, Frank Zappa...Dick Howser, for you sports fans. Oh, yeah, I can't forget-"

"... _Taggert hits one of two..."_

"-Valvano...um...gee...the singer from The Waitresses, whatever her name-"

"Stop," Jim spat. "I don't need a rollcall. How long do you have?"

"Beats me. Six months, less, more...the doctor couldn't say. Based on how I feel, I'd guess less than six."

...tried the driver's side door, banged on the window, yanked at the door again...

"... _Rush with the uncontested drive and layup cutting the Memphis lead to four..."_

Richard squeezed Jim's thigh with a bony hand and said, "I know the news is blue, but it's a blessing, too."

"How?"

"Cancer gave me the kick I needed to take care of _Him._ "

"... _missed and rebounded by Dorsey. The Tigers, up one, a minute ten remaining..."_

... _He_ gave up on the door, shook snow from _His_ head, looked at the cruiser...

"You shouldn't have come," Jim mumbled.

"What's done is done. I just hope nobody comes along. I don't want to spend my last days sitting in jail."

...and then _He_ began walking, head down into the wind, towards Pumpkin Slope.

"... _the miss and another rebound by Rose who lays it up and in! A clutch offensive board and Memphis is up by three with forty seconds..."_

_What the fuck,_ Jim thought. He pictured a frantic Brooksy pacing in front of the idiot box; he heard the fool's stupid _'Trust me'_ declaration echo over the wind; he envisioned Raul Boja standing behind the picture window overlooking Canesoanke Lake...

Jim ground teeth and decided, should Memphis win, he'd turn the Vic into a torpedo and bowl _Him_ over like a pin.

"... _Jayhawks using a lot of clock...working the perimeter..."_

"How far did you say _He_ has to walk?" Richard asked.

"Three miles, give or take."

"What if _He_ -"

" _He's_ not."

"... _a wild three and the rebound...to Trask, who is fouled with five seconds..."_

Moving slow, _He_ rubbed bare arms...

"Most of Brown's junk is in the truck," said Richard. "He left a few items in the motel room-"

"... _comes to the charity stripe to shoot one-and one..."_

"-his camera and a-"

...stopped, bent at the waist...

"... _can ice the game though Memphis is one of the worst free throw shooting teams in the nation at just above sixty percent on the season..."_

Jim's foot hovered above the gas pedal.

"-wasn't hard to convince him to take the-"

"... _on his shoulders, Trask bounces the ball, takes a breath...here comes the shot..."_

...fell to his knees...

"-hard to motivate a sick fuck like-"

"Shut up," Jim snapped, leaning forward.

"... _oh, he misses...Jayhawks grab the rebound...they have to hurry...outlet pass to Chalmers who throws up a three..."_

...tried to stand...

"... _it's good! It's good! Game tied! 2.8 seconds remain! Memphis inbounds...and Taggert's half-court shot is...no good! No good! Folks, we're headed to overtime in San Antonio! An unbelievable..._ "

...and then collapsed.

"Fuck," Jim sighed, lowering his right foot to the slushy floorboard.

_He_ rolled to _His_ back...

Arms relaxed...

Richard drew a smiley face on the passenger window with a trembling finger and droned: _"We'll sit close to one another, up our street and down the other. Tonight we'll have a ball oh brother, settin' the woods on fire."_

The snow...
