

## The Ethical Hit Man

Doug Walker

Copyright 2015 by Doug Walker

Smashwords Edition

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### Foreword

Penny Troy, one bad marriage at 18, entered her current profession at 24.

I grew up with guns, but I'm not a nutcase. Not about guns anyway. My Dad, rest his soul, was a middle management mobster. Some Sunday afternoons he and I would spend a couple or three hours at the range, trying out an assortment of handguns. Never long guns – Dad considered these either for amateurs or for entry level mob types sent on special jobs.

I am not now and never have been an actual mob member despite family ties. I do however have mob connections and am known to other types that some might class as the underworld which covers some characters you might want to have nothing to do with and might be better off for all of us on some distant planet. Although I wish them and anyone else who might come down the pike no ill will.

As you might guess from my stringing words together into reasonable thoughts that I tend to fancy the writing world. Matter of fact, sandwiched in the middle one might say of other creative enterprise, I have pieced together two years of two-year college, dedicate to literature and writing. Although this was not for genuine academic credit because I fell somewhat short of receiving a high school diploma although my old Dad said he could obtain one for me if that was my wish.

But this here, what you are reading now, marks my first plunge so to speak into the shallow lake of autobiography. One might think I haven't walked the earth face sufficient for such an occasion, but truth to tell the intent is to be more in the nature of a journal – that is an ongoing tale of epic measurements.

Then again, one might think the word "epic" is ill used in this context. I have always meant to look it up in Webster, but have not seemed to find the time. But we, the lot of us, are dreamers and the word epic means something large with the possibility of excitement. Always in the back of my head has lurked the image of the hit man, a lonely figure on the horizon, Napoleon like, the romantic outcast, the solitary rider, quick with mercy, or quicker with a six-gun, possibly misunderstood.

You can see I had to transform this figure into my life and into my time. It's a stone cold fact that we all must live in our time and survive the best we can. Your everyday, run of mine hit man would simply take a job, shoot someone and take the payoff. With a big score that individual might blow the cash on a vacation, fritter it away in gaming houses, or stick a share in the stock market for retirement purposes. Retirement for a mug like that might be three shots in the back in a rat infested alley. No bedside tears, no fawning family. You get my drift.

My twist to this profession, as I perceived it, is and was, should the hit be hit. Is there another way where everyone might come out on top? It might be a make love not war situation, although that is not the best example. More to the point is talk and negotiate. Using this approach might cause me to lose jobs on entering this profession. But I possessed something others did not. That is mob credentials. I was respected and it was assumed that I would complete any job I set out to do.

Here I would stress that I am not a cruel person. The sight or thought of blood is not something that would cause me to flinch or feel faint. But I've never understood those flesh eating animals such as lions, tigers, jackals, wolves and so forth killing and devouring another animal, possibly a vegetarian type, on the spot. Ripping through tough skin, cracking bones, unable to avoid intestines and disgusting areas, seemingly enjoying themselves after the thrill of the kill. I like a good steak as well as the next person, but for heaven's sake! The thought of those carnivores feasting on vegetarians is unpleasant.

Now let us turn our attention to my first job which very likely might be better left unsaid, or unwritten. But this is a journal and I am going step by step. The name of the out of favor individual is Jarvis Craig who sits in a high quality office with the sign Craig Investments on the door. It is known to those employing me for this particular task that Craig resides in a substantial house, is driven to work each morning by his gardener, handyman, cook and has substantial funds tucked away possibly offshore, but also in various global stock and bond markets.

So I launch my career wearing a turban, not the type worn by those foreign ragheads, but a woman's style that was popular some years ago. It hides my hair and part of my forehead. Not that I have anything to be ashamed of. I am a natural blond, somewhere between five six and five eight and have been careful about my weight since childhood. But I thought somewhat of a disguise might be in order. I had also smeared a little rouge on my cheeks, an adornment I had purchased for the occasion.

Craig's office was on the eleventh floor of a midtown building. His secretary, who had the appearance of a hooker with her odd red dyed hair and peasant blouse, was doing her nails when I entered. She gave me a look and said she's see if Mr. Craig was busy. He wasn't.

I had told the secretary I was looking for an investment and Craig was all smiles at the prospect, standing and ushering me to a comfortable chair. After introducing myself as Rita, the two of us sat facing one another and he said cheerfully, "Well, Rita, what can I do for you?"

"Quite a bit," I replied, explaining briefly who my employers were and my mission. His smile vanished.

"I'm a businessman, Rita. And business is business," he said.

"Just to set matters straight, Mr. Craig," I began, "one of my employers gave you three hundred thousand dollars, the other shelled out a hundred thousand. They would like their money back with interest."

"Of course they would, Rita. But we've been all through that. It was an investment. The money was to guarantee access to certain high value properties in the heart of the city prior to a building project which would have produced millions. Unfortunately, the city disapproved of the project. The option money was unrefundable. It's as simple as that."

"A deal gone bad?"

"You've got it. Your people have a right to be disappointed. But when you gamble on big bucks, you might lose. Life itself can be a crapshoot. They've asked for a refund more than once, but there's nothing I can do. I'm a bit surprised that they're still not satisfied."

"Do you know who you've been dealing with, Mr. Craig?"

He shrugged and glanced out the window, a single white cloud in the sky. "Businessmen, investors, gamblers, folks like me. Everyone chases the buck."

"But not everyone passes the buck if you know what I mean. I'm here with a message that this is your final notice to pay back the money with interest. My clients would like half a million in cash."

Craig smiled again. "That is quite absurd. Where would I get the money? That's water over the dam."

"They think you have money. They know four hundred thousand went somewhere. It's this disappearing cash that interests them. Who got it, where did it go?"

"I really don't have time to discuss the details of high finance, Rita. You understand that."

"My understanding, Jarvis, you don't mind if I call you Jarvis do you, is you don't have time to do much else but give my clients what they are asking. I consider myself a negotiator. Maybe we could reach some compromise. If you would come clean, admit your mistake, offer a considerable sum, maybe I could get my clients to agree. How about it?"

"Preposterous," Craig smiled broadly, almost broke into a laugh.

"Jarvis, you don't grasp the seriousness of the situation." I had a small pistol in my purse, a large caliber two-shot. I was tempted to flash it, but then, a person like Jarvis, he didn't know my background, might think I was playacting.

"Money is money and business is business," he replied, using a stern voice.

Who's playacting now, I wondered. "Jarvis, I may be the best friend you ever had, or I may be your last friend. I'm willing to negotiate your case. My clients are fed up. Something has to give."

"Your friends lost their money and that's that," he said rising and with a final tone.

I too stood. "You know who they are and how they can be reached. If you have a change of heart, please call one of them. You can negotiate directly, or I'll return. The ball's in your court, Jarvis. Try to have a good day."

For the next two days, I huddled in a doorway across from his building and watched him be possibly the first to arrive. He stepped from the car, slammed the door and the car pulled away before he reached the building. He was an early riser. But would knock off early from his office, often meeting clients for drinks. I was told by my clients, who had place him under scrutiny, that many of his dealing were legitimate, some were borderline legit and they felt they had been scammed. He definitely picked the wrong cowboys to scam.

The afternoon of that second day I was tempted to call and ask if he might still change his mind. But I asked myself, what would he say and came up with, business is business. So why make a possibly fatal mistake.

The next morning I was in his doorway when his car arrived. He stepped out, slammed the door, the car pulled away, no one else in sight. As he approached the door, he saw me and smiled. "Rita, we meet again..."

Famous last words. As he spoke I lifted a .38 revolver from my purse, put a pair of shots in the vicinity of his heart, was around the corner in a flash before he was fully on the pavement, in my car and moving, careful not to violate the law. Early morning, a great time to be out and about, plenty of parking, no need to feed the meter.

Back to my building within minutes, car in the garage, a few steps to my favorite breakfast spot. "You're up early, Penny. What'll it be?"

"Bagel and marmalade, keep the coffee coming." A troubling question in the back portion of my brain, what had gone wrong, what hadn't I said to Craig? There must be room for improvement. As a hit it had come off without a hitch, but I wanted more than that. Then it came to me. I was just starting out, baby steps. A person must crawl before they can walk. I grabbed a newspaper and buried myself in the comics. Bagels, marmalade, coffee, a clean hit, Dad would be proud.

### Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

# Chapter One

Always, I am philosophic. My Dad used to say I had my head in the clouds, that is when he wasn't saying reach up and pull your head out of your ass. That's why little things creep under my skin. Like this crime family garbage. Like I'm a member of a crime family, like I'm not embedded in the upper crust, whatever that might be. Well, it has been known since the days of old that cream rises to the top. That's what one might call food for thought.

Maybe in those days of old there was some crime. But if someone needs protection and others provide that protection that is what would generally be known as a service, well worth a fee of sorts to be paid on a regular basis. And that is solid business, not crime. There might be other situations family members and this embraces extended families, might involve themselves.

This is the sort of situation that it might have been best to stay shy of, but that was my next job, or what some call a contract. My first task completed and I had tucked away a small bundle. So this next situation presented a problem that would tax my negotiating skills. Once I lay this one out the casual reader would say Penny you are one stupid broad, do not go there.

It seemed a couple of years back four male subjects – it is difficult to know how to describe these individuals because they have always moved in my circle and are therefore considered colleagues. What they did was plan a bank job. The plan called for extracting a large amount of cash from a bank with a minimum of force and no one becoming injured. Unfortunately a bank teller received a fatal wound and it all came down so to speak.

The youngest of the four was an acquaintance of mine, close to my age, a person I had danced with at social gatherings, namely one Alfred Blair. All four were apprehended, what you might say caught red handed, or hands in till, or any term you like. But there were missing details.

As it happened my acquaintance, Alfred, did the bad thing. Whether under pressure, offered a cushy deal, or what. Who can say? Certainly not unreliable Alfred. What he did was to rat out the three others and was rewarded with a two year stretch while the others were handed twenty to forty. The longer term is often tossed in hoping it will make you behave for an earlier release. If he had gone a bit farther, possibly embossed his tale, he might have held out for a witness protection deal, but as the man says, them's the breaks.

Of course there were those near and dear to Alfred who wanted to send him on a permanent vacation to silent land. Coming off my first clean hit, I was offered the contract. I took it for a couple of reasons. Three if you count the money. But in the main it would be a negotiating challenge. What shred of anything did a rat like Alfred have that would stand up to a mutual confab? But also because the two of us had been chums in the past, it seemed to me that Alfred would rather be taken out by a friend than accosted by a rank stranger. Does this make any sense?

The day came when I caught a bus to the grey hotel and asked to visit one Alfred Blair. Checking over his records, it seemed I was his first visitor in almost two years. No questions were asked about our relationship. The receptionist shrugged and said, "Why not."

We were seated at tables rather than behind heavy glass, or bars, which was very nice. I had been waiting perhaps fifteen minutes when Alfred the con was led in looking extremely pale and pasty.

"Hey, Al," I said, forcing good cheer. "Not much sunshine on your cell block."

"Penny, I'll be damned. Don't give me that cell block, shit. I've been in solitaire since my arrival. One hour a day I get to walk around in a big room."

"You've been a bad boy?"

"Everyone hates me. The guards hate me, even the warden hates me. I think they fuck up my food. I'm damn lucky to be alive."

"You'll be out soon," I countered.

"To what? There's probably already an open contract on me."

"Not true," I said

Alfred gave me a sharp look. "You know something?"

I leaned close. "I have the hit."

He didn't speak for a long moment, then said, "You kidding me?"

"No. My ambition is to take the job, but do the dirt only as a last resort. I want to be a negotiator, a new kind of you-know-what" I looked around, then asked, "Are these tables bugged?"

"I doubt it. There are guards who do talk to me. With the budget they're dealing with they do without necessities. They would welcome a mass escape, or a deadly epidemic among inmates. Until then they hope to inspire us to suicide with their unkind manners."

"I'm trusting you to keep mum about our topic. Couldn't help you anyway."

Alfred shook his head and grinned. "You going to negotiate me out of being knocked off when I stroll out that big door?"

"I'm trying to think up some good thoughts that might contribute to your continued health after you depart this establishment."

"If not, you take care of my future?"

"Don't jump at premature conclusions. Sit tight. But look at it my way – you'd rather be done in by an old bud than a total stranger." I signaled the guard that our confab had ended.

In the days ahead, I asked around, always putting on my best discretion. My finding was it was unanimous, one and all believed Alfred the rat should be punished through elimination from the human race.

I return to grand slam a few days before Alfred's scheduled departure and again am admitted to the depressing visitor's room. This time there is only a pregnant woman who appears to be a teen-ager quietly chatting with the presumed Dad.

Again, Alfred the rat appears in fifteen to twenty minutes, not a bundle of good cheer.

"You have gone to bat for me," are his first words.

"Many more than three strikes, Alfred. The community, yours and mine, speaks as one – you should be punished."

"Punished!" His voice rose. "Isn't two years in solitaire, two fucking years in a black hole, is that not punishment enough?"

"What you say has merit, but the outside world turns thumbs down."

"And it is you who will do the job, a woman who might someday be a mother."

"Again, you hop conclusions. After some reflection, I find it to be in poor taste to do this to an old pal. It might do something to my conscience."

"Of which you have none."

"Everyone should have a conscience. Some are different from others. I'll not bore you with my inner thoughts. But what I have done is reject the hit."

"After you accepted it?" Alfred seemed sincerely awestruck.

"Yes. I know it is a bit off the path, but I am not your average practitioner if you know what I mean."

He frowned and almost seemed thoughtful. "It is against the rules to turn in such a thing once you have accepted it. You are no better than me and possibly you have shortened your life span."

"The contrary is true. I explained to the powers that I have no wish to compete with the crowd and they agreed."

"There is a competition?"

"Yes, Alfred, everyone in our crowd wishes to send you on that long final trip, your eternal rest so to speak. No more hassle, no more solitaire. That's it. Finis."

"I have no friends?"

"Not true. I would not be sitting at this table if I had no feelings for you."

"We are in love?"

"Not at all. Just a pair of human types chatting together about the future."

"Whatever that might be."

"You do have a mother?"

"Correct."

"And she will arrange to either pick you up at the gate, or have you picked up by a reliable person."

"I suppose."

"I too suppose that you will be able to get from the gate to the car without mishap."

"Let us suppose I can walk that walk."

"Ok. So here is your long shot chance. And this is up to you. I will walk out that door and you will see me no more. If I do see you again you will not enjoy our meeting. You somehow fake your own death. Possibly have someone fire blanks into your body, cut your throat, or drown you, then you go far away, change your name, maybe by reading the death notices and pretending to be whoever, whatever, identity theft. A dead guy would have few objections.. That is the only plan that entered my mind."

Alfred thought for only a moment, then said, "It is not a bad plan. Even a bad plan would be better than no plan at all."

"In the silence of your cell, you can plot details. Goodbye Alfred." He said nothing as I walked away.

# Chapter Two

As it came to pass, Alfred was released and his Mom did pick him up at the gate. Although some have dissed my crowd as the criminal element, we do cling to certain standards. That is no one would shoot a person in the presence of his or her mom. An activity such as that would be considered in the lowest of taste, performed by what might be called a scuzzball, a character to be avoided at all future occasions.

As it happened, or in flowery terms, came to pass, Alfred dropped from sight, that is no one knew where he was unless he was keeping to himself in his Mom's house. These two had not actively visited while he was in slam, but apparently had been in frequent telephone communication, whatever is allowed by the good warden.

Days, perhaps weeks later, Alfred's Mom, called a local radio station and said she had a note addressed to her from Alfred which she would like to make public. At that time she said she was getting fed up with unsavory characters continually watching her house at all hours of the day and night.

She would not give up the note, which she said was dear to her heart, but she permitted an announcer to read it on the air from her front porch. The exact words escape me, but the meaning is clear. Alfred apologized for making off with her car and said he was completely in the dumps for his bad behavior and that he would seek out a deep, swift flowing stream and drown himself. I will pause here to say this part of the note seemed to satisfy many of his detractors.

What struck me as odd was the last part of the note, just before his genuine signature. It said he would try to make it up to her. Anyway, the Mom, a handsome older woman, stood there next the announcer in front of TV cameras as he read the note. Dressed totally in black, she seemed to smile slightly, that type of Mona Lisa look.

The entire experience set me to thinking. You know, the world view type of thoughts. About the Pope who lived in a tiny space carved out of Italy, but his own kingdom. And about our president, who lived in a small space someone said had once been part of the state of Maryland, again his sacred place along with what some consider a gathering of nut jobs. But still looked up to.

And all the states in this country that hardly anybody thinks about. Take Hawaii for example, a tiny dot in a large ocean where I'm told folks like you and me enjoy a life of ease. Although I'm certain they must work and fall in and out of love for purposes of reproduction and so forth. Then royalty, kings and queens, still exist in the world. And where did they come from? Darwin said we sprang from the apes. Did they have kings and queens? Probably kings, but no queens.

Anyway, sometimes my head is definitely in the clouds. And then sometime I must pull myself back to reality as Dad said. I felt I was on track for a fairly good career of righting wrongs and helping people, but I had to keep my hand on the throttle and my eye on the rail as the man said.

Word is passed to me that a Wall Street type, one W.B. Blake would like to talk deal – and the deal might involve a group of big bucks.

We meet at this out of the way Italian eatery. My thought is that this Blake probably figured that everyone in the business is either Italian, or Sicilian, or somehow connected to that ethnic establishment.

A glass of probably Chianti is on his table when I enter and he has a blue cornflower stuck in his lapel, no tie, although I figure from his attire that he has just removed it and jammed it in his pocket. I slip into the seat next to him in order to carry on a quiet conversation.

"You are Penny," he says.

I nod in agreement and we are approached by a waiter wearing a dark suit, white towel and cummerbund.

"I'll have what he's having," I say.

"You come highly recommended," he says,

"I have some experience," I reply. Not willing to dip into my shallow background. The waiter brings my red wine and departs.

"I understand you are persuasive and discreet. I like a person who can be persuasive without resorting to unpleasant measures."

"That is my MO if possible. But sometimes mush may come to shove."

Blake fingered his drink briefly. I wondered if he had ever tasted Chianti, if it was Chianti. I had no interest in sampling the drink. Then, he inquired, "Have you ever heard of spoofing?"

"I am familiar with the word spoof," I replied.

"Spoofing, Penny, is a stock market scam that can cost honest citizens a great deal of money."

So this character Blake, spent ten or fifteen minutes explaining spoofing which boiled down to a trader in stocks feeding the market fake buy and sell orders, perhaps flooding the market with fake sell orders and never intending to fill those orders. Much of the market is controlled by electronic robots that can make decisions in split second timing impossible for humans.

The spoofer in fact creates his own market, buys low, then sells high. This might lead to a market crash when the robots panic in a flurry of conflicting orders. In a nutshell, that is spoofing.

We go back and forth and I get a fair grip on what he is talking about and why a certain spoofer needs to be either disabused of what he's been up to, or taken out of the picture.

I tell him it is a task I would relish as I have never poked my nose into high finance and one of my mottos is live and learn.

Someone has fast talked him about my credentials and he says he is pleased to make my acquaintance and even more pleased to do business with me. At that point he passed me an envelope which he said contained details of the job plus a token down payment with much more to come upon completion.

One thing more that I failed to mention – this spoofing is illegal, but to run the paper through the courts would take forever and even then bring little satisfaction to Blake and his buds who were in a position to lose even more cash as were other honest citizens. So, in taking the job I was aiding the multitudes which gave me a feeling of nobility, enhanced later as I fingered the ten century notes the envelope contained.

Rambling on foot through my old neighborhood I happened on a character named Hi Card Chet who always seemed to be informed about the whereabouts and goings on of almost everyone.

"I hear you have hooked up with a Wall Street type." Hi Card opened the conversation.

"Word travels like bed bugs," I replied.

"Perhaps it has escaped your notice that it was me and others in the know who recommended you to said head hunters."

"Head hunters," I quipped. "Sounds fancy-smancy."

"You have that youthful blossom plus a good track record. In your line of work it brings rewards if an operator is on one's toes. If not, evil consequences may not be far behind."

"Your point is well taken, Hi Card. Might you give me the low down on the Wall Street crowd?"

Hi Card was thoughtful before replying. "First, most know there is money there. Secondly, where there is money there are those who connive to secure a portion of that wealth without the usual Wall Street game."

"They have a game?" It seemed to me his use of the term game had an unwholesome ring.

"Of course. Over the years they have fine-tuned their skills of removing cash from the pockets of honest strugglers such as you and me. Now when someone attempts to horn in on this seemingly honest chicanery they are extremely resentful. And that horning in is not infrequent. So you have been in touch with a very large horde of greedy Wall Streeters which means if you carry off the initial assignment with grace, alacrity and not a trace, your service might be in constant demand."

I questioned if there might be a downside to such a career.

Hi Card shrugged. "Not if things run smoothly. We all know there is a downside to life itself."

"As you might have heard, my approach is to negotiate before moving to the end game."

"This I am aware of. An admirable feature, but I must caution, a path bristling with snares and pitfalls."

"Of this I am aware. But it is my path. And I will attempt to err, if I err, on the side of caution. That is protecting my backside."

"Your diligence and verve continues to amaze the community, Penny. May your life be long and robust and filled with a sustainable joy."

As I sauntered off I considered Hi Card's philosophical words and became aware that the entire lowlife community knew of my fresh start career. I was also aware that snitches were thing on the ground and might contemplate short life spans. But without evidence, who's to know? With hope in my heart, I looked to a rosy future."

# Chapter Three

Given ample information on the mark, a gentleman of youthful years, mid-twenties, who resides with a person of about the same age in what might be called a distant suburb, I manage to hop a bus to within a few blocks of the address.

The gent's name is Jesse Aldrich and my understanding is his partner has a day job.

After a few minutes the door is opened by a sure enough geek-looking individual, complete with dark rimmed odd glasses, unhealthy skin, having a bad hair day.

"Jesse Aldrich?" I inquire.

'Yes, what is it?"

"I have a message for you."

"OK."

We both stand there looking at one another. Finally, I say, "It is a long message. Perhaps I'd better come in."

He hesitates, but ultimately says, "I am alone here. It wouldn't look right for me to be entertaining a young woman."

"I am not that young and I don't bight. So let's go inside." It crossed my mind to off him on the spot.

Once in what appeared to be a haphazard living room, we were seated, me on a threadbare couch, him on an ill-used lazy boy. This type of furniture can be picked up curbside if one drives around looking.

"Are you familiar with the word spoofing," I inquire.

A look of anxiety crosses his pallid face and he asks, "Are you in law enforcement?"

"I am merely a person with a message to first determine if we are on the same page. Spoofing."

Jesse sighs. "Yes, I am familiar with the term."

"There are those in the stock market game, a seemingly legitimate way to earn one's keep, who believe your spoofing activity takes bread from their mouths."

Again, Jesse sighs. "Those Wall Street types are up to their eyeballs in cash. The money must come from somewhere to make its way into their off-shore accounts."

"That is a possibility, Jesse. But I didn't come here to split hairs. I've come here to get your absolute assurance guarantee that you will give up spoofing forever with no second thoughts about resumption."

Jesse placed a hand on his forehead as if in deep despair and replied, "I make a living on the web and to ask me to do such a thing is not only impolite, but also outrageous." I saw the briefest flash of temper.

Looking my most sincere, I continued, "Not to heed my message will lead to consequences most dire and very personal."

"You simply want my word?"

Obviously, Jesse was looking for a quick way out. Then he might conspire with his partner to develop a plan, or possibly simply flee and set up shop anywhere on the globe where computers operate.

"I have thought the question over, Jesse. I pride myself on being a merciful negotiator. What I require is a detailed and signed confession about your spoofing activities and a pledge never to do it again. If after reading said document, I am satisfied, you will be off the hook unless you once more turn to sin. In that case there would be no redemption."

Again, Jesse was thoughtful, his brain cells jumping with activity. He had found a cash-cow loophole and was reluctant to let it slip through his fingers.

"It would take me some time to produce such a document. I could do the task and call you in a few days."

"I am familiar with much of your work. The disappointed stock market types have given me chapter and verse. So I cannot be easily fooled even though you might consider yourself a superior being."

Jesse blinked a couple of times, screwed up his resolve as Shakespeare wrote, then said, "I absolutely refuse your offer and that of your employers. I'll ask you to leave!" He rose, either in genuine, or feigned anger.

I remained seated and asked, "Jesse do you have a mother, or anyone you hold dear?"

He eyed me with growing suspicion. "If I did, I wouldn't tell you."

"Very well. My intention was to permit you to write a note prior to your suicide." I produced my dandy two shot pistol, rose and ordered Jesse to be seated. Protesting, he obeyed my instructions.

"Perhaps we can make a deal," he said, badly shaken.

"Perhaps we could," said I, placing the weapon near his right temple. He had struck me as totally right handed.

The large caliber ball ended his life instantly as it pierced his brain. There was no spray of blood. After wiping the weapon and the spent casing clean, plus the remaining round, I was careful to mark both with his fingerprints, the same with the small piece, deposited on the floor next to his sprawled arm.

One thing about this line of work – one hit, one weapon acquired by untraceable means. Never ever try to use one twice. A possibly fatal false economy. If anyone saw me leave his house, I wasn't aware of it.

I would wait at least three days before reaching out to W.B. Blake. One nice point about my work is that clients never, ever try to welch on you.

On the fourth day I called Blake's office only to be told by his secretary that he was busy. Later the same day I received the identical message. After the second try the following day I informed the secretary that 9it was an urgent matter involving life or death. Blake spoke to me in a brusque manner but agreed to meet me on a street corner a few blocks away in one hour.

The hour came and departed and I was beginning to wonder what was coming down when he finally showed up.

"Well, Penny," he asked, "What is it?"

"You should have something for me."

"My associates and I agree, you can keep the initial payment."

"One grand! For a job well done?" I demanded, a bit testy.

"Credit where credit is due," Blake said. "Our friend did the Dutch act."

"So I made it appear."

"Don't put me on. His girlfriend said he was serenely depressed. Probably remorseful for his criminal behavior."

"You're stiffing me," I declared. "Just the other day I was thinking my game is one where no one welches on you. But here you are, my first client to welch."

"We pay for results," Blake insisted.

"Results you will get, but they won't be to your liking, W.B. No negotiations and no quarter." I was thoroughly upset and turned and stamped away.

A couple of days drifted by and I kept my eye out for Hi Card, feeling I must download my tale of woe to someone before taking drastic action.

We almost bumped into one another as he emerged from an illegal gaming parlor. His face brightened when he recognized me. "Congratulations are in order," were his first words.

Leaning close, I responded, "My clients stiffed me."

Giving me an incredulous look, he said, "We must talk."

Adjourning to a park bench, I spilled my guts.

"There must be a remedy to this disastrous situation," he finally remarked.

"I have a remedy. I went to considerable trouble and one more hit will clear my conscience."

"Do not be impetuous, Penny."

"Believe me, Hi Card, I will do nothing without careful planning. My future is unrolling before me and does not include distress or incarceration."

"Penny, you are one in a million. I only wish we could have been together in the old days."

With that, we parted, but he asked me to meet him at the same place in two day's time.

Hi Card's story went something like this:

W.B. Blake's secretary buzzed him to say, "There is a man named Hi Card out here who insists on seeing you."

"I do not know a Hi Card. Must be some sort of prank."

"He says his visit will be of great benefit to your health."

"Another salesman. Get rid of him."

The next thing W.B. knew, Hi Card had burst into his office.

"Good morning W.B., you can call me H.C. I represent a woman named Penny."

W.B. gave him a hard look and said, "My dealings with Penny are over. Ancient history."

"You may think so, but Penny doesn't. You have stiffed her W.B. and to stiff a person in her profession is like signing your own death warrant. I have come to make a final attempt to set things right."

"She knows and I know that the person involved voluntarily did himself in after a period of deep depression."

Hi Card chuckled. "Depression over the amount of cash he was dragging in?"

"Depressed because reality broke in and he regretted his criminal activities."

"You seem to be in the same game, W.B., do you regret your criminal activities?"

"You have a lot of gall Hi Card or whatever your name is."

H.C. smiled and asked, "Might you give me a few minutes that might save your worthless hide?"

W.B. frowned and took a deep breath, but said, "Go ahead."

"Penny confronted your man, describing him as a geek with bad skin, bad hair, totally devoid of any characteristic that might attract the opposite sex. Granted, even a blind pig finds an acorn. But he was not lacking one vital element – the ability to make big bucks.

"So, let us assume he and his lady were stashing it away somewhere – offshore, in boxes in the attic, anywhere where no taxes and no explanation was required. So the lady comes home and finds what looks like a suicide scenario. At first she panics. Then reason takes over. If it is not a suicide ten she will be the number one suspect. It is always such with partners. So she dials 911 while making up the deep depression story, probably realizing that the curtain has been drawn on their fraudulent spoofing scam.

"And what is she left with? A deceased nerdish geek and enough dough to carry her into a glorious sunset. So Penny pulled off the perfect job and you stiffed her. She is one clever cowboy and you're as good as yesterday's lettuce."

After a moment's thought, W.B. said, "Perhaps you're right."

"Perhaps? You're damned right I'm right. I'm the only thing standing between you and cremation."

"Did she send you here?"

"No. She is one angry individual. But level headed. You will not know where the hit came from."

"Perhaps she should be paid."

"I doubt if the original sum would calm her free spirit. She is a sensitive human being, much like you and me."

"I will not pay a cent more."

"Goodbye and good luck." Hi Card went for the door.

"One moment," W.B. called. "How much are we talking about?"

"I understand you were given a bargain rate, so fifty thousand might save your tacky skin."

"You don't have to be insulting."

"You don't seem to know who you're dealing with. You're in way over your head. I'm merely trying to get a pay day for Penny. Your life means nothing to me." Then he was gone.

Two days later I answered my cell phone and a voice said, "This is your Wall Street friend."

Recognizing Blake's voice, suspicion mounted. The double twist. A little something incriminating on tape.

"Hey, Blake, making lots of money?"

"I'm moderately successful. Do you wish to negotiate?"

"I'm not in the mood."

"What might please you?"

"I like a hot toddy at Christmas and a ham at Easter. Rob any widows lately?"

"I'm attempting to be friendly. Come to terms."

"You're in your line of work. I'm in mine. Quid pro quo and down you go."

"What might you mean by that?" Blake was struggling to hold his temper. He realized he had stumbled into a fearsome situation.

"My poetic side is showing. What say I set up a meeting between you and H.C. at a place to be designated by H.C. A last hurrah."

"I'm game, Penny. I'll wait his call."

"You sound almost reasonable. Catch you on the flip side." I clicked off. Victory at last. But what a struggle. Plus, don't let down the guard.

It was Hi Card who named a sum I thought bordered on the extravagant. He also handled the transfer of the cash and the salting of it away, far from the prying eyes of the IRS. All for the paltry sum of only ten percent. What a man. Storm tossed together we had clicked as a team.

Like pepper and salt, like scotch and soda – Hi Card in his age, me trying my wings from that moment on if any devious dude or doll required my services, they went through Hi Card who served as my front office. He was wise enough to leave the trivial details up to yours truly.

# Chapter Four

The next six month breezed by. Six months and six contracts. One successful negotiation to my credit – saving one soul out of six is not bad. I might add that the other five for one reason or another richly deserved the hit and therefore received their just reward or award. I consider myself a legitimate cog in the community mechanism, keeping things running smoothly and glitch free.

With Hi Card as my manager, I even contributed to social security, also paying a trifle to IRs, billing myself as a sidewalk busker. Me and my guitar and an off-key whiskey tenor.

One other item that might be not of major interest to the reader, IU had become tight with W.B. Blake. That Wall Street type has the devious heart of a criminal, a characteristic totally familiar to me since I had grown up in a sea of such individuals.

We recognized one another as a type of soul mate and he had offered his services in compiling a reasonable stock portfolio in my behalf and it was soon gathering benefits that would guarantee a pleasant retirement for numero uno if I continued on that track.

Also, because of our previous encounter I was one hundred percent certain that W.B. would keep his hand out of the til. The relationship profited him to large measure because his friends, associates and perhaps the occasional enemy became aware that he had certain connections, insurance against someone tampering with his generally cheerful nature.

At about this crossroad in my life, with me in the pink, I ran into an old school chum, one Eli Griffin, a truly hunky stud muffin, After a few minutes conversation in a neighborhood Starbucks, I could hardly believe that such a dreamboat was unattached.

Eli is maybe 5-10, brown curly hair to die for, slim hips, broad shoulders, what is known as a ready smile and non-descript hazel eyes that seem to change colors with the light. They seem to sparkle, or is that my imagination?

We chatted away about the old days, mostly his, and he walked me to my digs. Before parting he asked me if I was interested in attending church with him. Of course I agreed. That night I could think of nothing else. The TV was on as usual, I poured boiling water over a noodle bowl, opened a fresh bottle of Pinot Grigio, glanced at a crime novel, but could not get Eli off my mind. As far as I knew we are the same age.

The church day came and to my surprise he arrived in a cab with his Mom. She eyed me carefully, but gave me a big hello as if I was a mislayed family member.

The three of us continued to an out of the way church in a part of the city unfamiliar to me, despite my living in the area since childhood. The church itself bore the name Pentecostal, another puzzler. I am familiar with the Pentagon that houses the leaders of our military establishment. Also that its name derives from the fact that it is a five-sided structure. So, I deducted that Pentecostal has something to do with the figure five.

Here I wish to say that I have been in church now and then throughout my life, but usually it is a quiet affair with muted lights light and perhaps an occasional song.

During this service there were considerable outcries, perhaps of despair or religious fervor. At one point some of us were urged to come forward and Eli suggested I join the crowd. It was only after the service that both Eli and his Mom said that I had been saved. They seemed quite pleased with this outcome, but I wondered what I had been saved from, or why.

The cab paused at my apartment and Eli walked me to the door and said I had been embraced by Jesus. He also said he would call and we might get together for lunch in a day or two. This left me feeling fine. The Jesus part I failed to totally comprehend, but I figured these Pentecostals had their own system. It occurred to me to Google the point, but I never did.

Two days later Eli and I meet in a Greek restaurant, not fancy, but not bad. We both order lamb gyros and ice tea. This seems to me to be a compatible sign. I secretly admire his physic, his bright smile and his brown curly hair.

He then confesses that he is recently out of slam.

This is not surprising as a majority of my school chums, acquaintances and general riff-raff have been subject to detention for one reason or another. I inquire after the charges.

"Grand theft auto," he replies, in the best of humor. "I was drunk and some inconsiderate swell had left the keys in this totally irresistible sports car. So I get maybe four blocks before I ram a utility pole."

To me, it seems an innocent enough act of boys will be boys, so we said no more about it. We parted on the best of terms and he promised to call in a day or two.

Once again, my head is in the clouds, until my world came crashing down a day later.

This time Hi Card calls with the news that he has set up a hit.

As usual, I have a keen mind for business and ask who the mark might be.

"Some fag named Eli Griffin."

You might say I became stunned, but that would be an understatement. Paralysis would be more to the point. Answer Hi Card's statement, I could not. I simply clicked off. Of course he called back and I had regained some control of my emotions.

"Hi Car," I said, "you have named an old chum of my youth, a person who he and I have recently renewed our former acquaintance. That he is or was in a gay state, I had no notion. You might say I believed the opposite to be true."

"A hit is a hit," Hi Card reminded.

"And business is business," I echoed, "but one must realize my compassionate nature, my feminine side emerges from time to time."

"You have negotiated in the past and perhaps at this stage negotiations are not out of the realm of the possible. But we must proceed in a business-like manner. Otherwise we, the two of us, are in danger of losing our thus far sterling standing in the community."

"As usual, Hi Card, you are correct. I will speak to this mark directly in an effort to determine if there is wiggle room."

After signing off it came to me that Eli might have intentionally courted my attention knowing that in our small world I was at the top of my game in a very artistic sense. Hi Card and I had discussed this from time to time and we both believed this fact might have come to the attention of the powers that be, thus entrusted to enforce the laws of the land.

These individuals might ignore our operation for a pair of reasons: First, because we were ridding the community of undesirables, and second because we took care to leave no evidence.

As to Eli's attentions toward me, they provided food for thought. First, being aware of his charms, he might think that I would reverse the hit. That is hit the hitter, or hit the man responsible for issuing the contract.

And why would I do this for a gay man? Well, there are women who walk among us so confident of their charms they believe they can twist a gay man straight. Myself, I am not a member of this class of dreamers.

So, with my nerves and emotions fully under control, I called Eli and arranged to meet him in a nearby pocket park.

When I arrived at said park he was already seated and looking properly forlorn. It crossed my mind to hit him on the spot except I had failed to bring a piece and my usual head shot would have spoiled his gorgeous looks.

Seated next to him, I remarked, "You are aware why we are both here."

"I surmise, Penny, that you have come into information about my past activity."

"We are here to discuss that activity. Whether it rises to the level of your demise. If that make sense. First, who is it who wants you out of the way? I am often ignorant of that knowledge."

"It is a hefty slob, one highly placed in a local family, one Fatboy Teddy."

"I am familiar with Fatboy. He has carried that moniker since he was a youth. You have somehow offended a person of some substance among the local crime hierarchy."

"He is a living, breathing mound of blubber and should not be permitted to walk the face of this planet."

"I suspect he feels the same about you, Eli. Clue me in on your sad story."

"I told you I was in slam and it is broadly known that I am gay. You may be an exception."

"I am, or I was."

"So Fatboy Teddy has some clout even behind bars so he arranges to have me share his cell as you might say a toy boy."

"One might say that," I agreed.

"So I am to cater to his every need which went on in the manner that I am accustomed for some time."

"An unnatural manner, or some prudes might say a crime against nature," I tossed in.

"One might say, that is those outside of the gay community. But then as time passed he began making disgusting and obnoxious demands."

"I can't imagine, but if they were disgusting to you they would be horrendous or beyond words to me."

"You've got that right, Penny. So he is just a ball of blubber. So I turned on him and beat the living shit out of him. Before the guards could stop me Fatboy was a candidate for the infirmary. And I spent the remainder of my stint in solitaire."

"I see," I observed. "So, you knew Fatboy was being released so you buddied up with me."

"I did. It is generally known that you and Hi Card make the smoothest hit team in the community. Others do sloppy work and have a tendency to screw up in one way or another which shortens their careers considerably. So I appeal to you to save my undeserving ass. I would have blown town were it not for my aged Mom who seems to have successfully ignored my condition."

So, Eli seems to be pretending I am something of a surrogate mother and should stand guard over the peculiar, or you might say queer, situation.

"I have given your predicament some serious thought and I must ask if you have any ready cash?"

"You want me to bribe you not to make the hit?"

"Not on your worthless life. We hit men have a code of our own. Our honor is at stake every day of our lives. Only a lowlife scumbag hit man, not worthy of the name, would accept such a bribe. At that the client would simply seek another hit man." With that speech out of the way, I paused and looked nobly into middle space. Somewhere a bird song could be heard. A bus rumbled by.

"What might I do with this cash you speak of?"

"Seek out Hi Card and purchase a hit on Fatboy."

"Penny, that is amazing. Your devious plan might be called a Mexican standoff."

"But you must act with alacrity, which translates to cheerful promptness. Then Hi Card will be left to the negotiations."

Eli was thoughtful, then rose. "I go to do your bidding. How much must I pay? "Whatever Hi Card says. Whatever it costs to save your totally useless life You are like a mirage, an insubstantial dream with no substance and no compensating value. A pox upon you."

Eli sauntered off and I was happy to get those last words off my chest. A sense of sorrow descended on me, I felt much like a modern day Joan of Arc.

So it came to pass that Hi Card confronted Fatboy with the facts of life. Fatboy of course protested and said he had purchased the first contract which would automatically cancel the second.

Hi Card of course insisted that in our community a hit is a hit. He did offer to carry out the initial contract first and delay the second for an unspecified time thus giving Fatboy an opportunity to get his affairs in order and perhaps joining a weight loss program.

The result was all parties agreed to cancel their contracts and leave well enough alone. As far as I know there were no handshakes and what financial settlements were agreed upon I did not inquire after, or after which I did not inquire.

At this point in my life my preference was to abandon my financial assets to be fretted over by W.B. Blake and Hi Card who kept a watchful eye on one another.

# Chapter Five

Life itself brings many oddities and confronts one with situations ranging from the mundane to the bizarre. Considering myself something of the dreamy philosopher, my psyche, if that is the term for my innermost being, is always eager to confront said situations.

What I am preluding is the strange case of Bruce Ledford who contracted for a hit on himself. As a creature of curiosity, similar to the well-known cat, but not wishing for a similar demise, I determined to look into this contract. On the surface it would seem a suicidal desire by perhaps a cowardly individual unable to do the job oneself. But facing facts, how much courage does it take to toss your own precious body off a bridge, or in front of a speeding locomotive, or Greyhound? And many other methods are just there for the picking – pills, knives, shotguns and so forth.

But with a flair for the theatrical and dramatic, one might wish for a sudden surprise, a flash of light, then the deep, endless sleep. Or is it?

So I checked with Hi Card and learned the hit's phone number and eventually made it through to that individual known as Bruce Ledford, identified myself as the hitter and inquired why he would enjoy me terminating his career on our lovely planet.

"You may be aware of clinical depression," he replied.

"I've heard the term, but I also recall there are remedies other than a shot to the head."

"That is true, but I think I've run the gamut through hospitals, various doctors, numerous psychiatric meds and as a last resort electroconvulsive therapy. Believe me, these are unpleasant experiences, except perhaps for a few of the medications which seem to prey on a person in a habitual manner. So, I surrender dear."

"Very well," I replied. I named a park, the location which he knew, and said I would put in an appearance at dusk the following evening.

"And what hour might dusk be?" Ledford inquired.

"The French have a saying which I do not know in their language, but it translates as – neither a wolf or a dog – or vice versa – which means a time between daylight and dark when one cannot distinguish between a wolf and a dog." That seemed to satisfy him and we signed off.

There was something in his casual manner that troubled me and I called Hi Card to ask if he had paid cash.

"Yes, and top dollar."

"I would examine that stash and possibly arrange to exchange it post haste. I am meeting the hit tomorrow evening." With that word to the wise, I was certain Top Card would adhere to my message.

The following morning I had my usual breakfast of cold cereal, a special blend of morning delight and oats cut in a special way which I did not understand, all of it topped with a single container of yogurt, this time blueberry, but fruit or plain, depending on what I scooped up from the super shelf.

And then coffee, multiple cups. On occasion I would forego cereal for a buttered and toasted bagel with the cream cheese and lox treatment, or simply a flavored cream cheese, such as walnut.

During the day when I was out and about performing minor errands or chatting with the random acquaintance, I had the feeling I was being followed or watched, perhaps both, watched and followed.

I was not bothered by this sense of apprehension, in fact I enjoyed it. I could be a lonely citizen in need of attention.

After a hardy lunch of fish and chips, I took an adequate nap then flipped on the TV for the news and markets. The Dow was down slightly, but still in healthy territory. W.B. was diligent in watching over my portfolio. He had the power to buy and sell on his own and often did. With W.B., Hi Card and most of the community at my back my feeling was being in the soft grasp of a warm and pleasant family.

At dusk I approached the pocket park in question and found what I thought to be my mark seated on a bench. He wore the attire he had described during our telephone conversation.

Approaching him, I said, "Bruce Ledford," which you may remember was the mark's name.

The response was a smile and a nod accompanied by a pair of plain clothes cops grabbing me from behind.

"Penny Troy," one of them announced, "You are under arrest."

Looking around, I saw it was a detective I knew slightly, another childhood chum.

"What's the charge, Larry," I asked calmly.

"That question is not appropriate at this time, Penny. We have a new inspector at the precinct, a gentleman named Lee Morgan, transferred from downtown He ordered your apprehension and will deal with you in the fullness of time. Until then I will insure that you are well treated, not incarcerated with common criminals."

In the meantime the other cop, who I did not recognize had seized my purse and was rifling through it. "I see you have a weapon, a .38 revolver," he remarked.

"You may also see that I have a receipt for said weapon and a permit to carry it in defense of my person. You might know that criminals sometimes frequent these parts."

"Yes, Penny, I am aware of that." I could tell he was being super cautious in deference to my friendship with Larry, who was known to have a sometimes violent temper, a flaw that had caused his incarceration more than once as a juvenile person.

With the utmost courtesy, I was duly rolled into custody and shown to a private cell. Larry saw to it that I was fed dinner, pepperoni pizza and one of those miniature bottles of red wine from a nearby pizzeria.

Not being the fussy type, I enjoyed a good night's sleep until being awakened just after seven a.m. by a kindly matron, who I recognized as the daughter of the brother of one of Mom's friends.

After breakfast, I was led into a conference room where I met the new Inspector Morgan plus three others in civilian clothing, two men and a woman, rank strangers to me, although I believe the woman was an elected official. Hi Card was present, seated on a folding chair in the corner. I nodded to him and he smiled and greeted me in a cordial manner.

Inspector Morgan was the first to speak. "We are here at this early hour hoping that the two prisoners, the man known as Hi Card and Penny Troy will realize we can give them a better deal if they come clean and confess they are in cahoots."

After attempting to stifle a laugh, I said, "I have traveled very little and as far as I know I have never been to cahoots."

"Very funny," Morgan shot back. "We are waiting evidence on two fronts. First, we know that you, Miss Troy, would never take your own piece on a job. That is simply laughable for a professional. Secondly, the cash paid to Hi Card for the hit was recorded. So, in a matter of minutes," he checked his watch, "we will have the evidence to prove your clever permit and receipt are fake and to link Hi Card to receiving marked cash for illicit purposes. It would behoove you both to make a clean breast of crimes against humanity."

He eyed me sternly. He was obviously playing a role for the benefit of the three spectators who had been called in simply as an audience for his theatrical antics.

"I wait the damning evidence," I said.

"I too wait with trembling intrepidity," Hi Card remarked calmly.

Just after eight my detective friend entered the room and announced, "Penny's permit and receipt for her weapon are one hundred percent legitimate. She was bothered by a stalker some years ago and made such application which was duly granted."

"How can that be?" Morgan questioned. "She visited that park to dispose of our plant."

"Your plant? Hi Card inquired. "Do I smell entrapment, dishonesty?"

"Legitimate police tactics," Morgan said, turning to the detective, "Are you certain of your facts?"

"No question, Inspector."

At that point a second detective entered the room and announced, "The cash was not recorded. That is it is not the same marked currency that was passed to Mr. Hi Card."

"How can that be?" Morgan asked, totally confused.

"It is the case. We checked and rechecked."

"The money is my nest egg," Hi Card threw in. "I do not have complete trust in banks. Brigands, criminal types abound, even in high places."

Morgan scowled. "Someone must have seen the cash being passed to Hi Card."

"We checked and the pass was made while he and the mark were hustling through a crowded subway car with the train rattling along at top speed."

"Do I sniff a failed attempt at entrapment, plus a lawsuit for false arrest?" Hi Card suggested.

Morgan appeared chagrined. The three who seemed present for the show remained mute. The inspector then offered his profound and heartfelt apologies and said we were free to go.

"Inspector Morgan," I commented, "because you are new to this station there may be a morsel of leg pulling going on. Relax and settle into the job. Slow and steady often times trumps instant heroics."

Morgan simply stared at me. Was it dumbfounded, or was he in awe, or was he silently burning and churning inwardly and hiding his torment. No matter, he would soon get used to his surroundings and might even treasure my activities after I knocked off a couple or three scumbags.

# Chapter Six

During the next three months I had only one hit and a negotiated settlement, what I preferred to call an ethical agreement. Of course the money had flowed in in adequate or adequate plus quantity and my stock portfolio was not only increasing in value but also paying dividends.

Also, I was enjoying now and then dates occasional male friends, none of them serious, although I enjoyed particularly a certain police lieutenant. One might consider it out of character for a person such as myself to interact with a member of professional law enforcement. But I do not. In fact I consider myself a member of a certain casual but vital law enforcement. Plus the two of us seldom talked shop.

Nevertheless, the lack of fee bearing tasks on my part resulted in a pinch of boredom. At this time Hi Card suggested we expand our trade into the bounty hunting game.

I agreed and even purchased a pair of handcuffs for the purpose. It was my understanding that the professional bounty hunter makes an apprehension then delivers the goods to the client – generally a gambler of the bail bond type who has risked a large sum of cash on a suspected criminals' court appearance.

One basis for this presumption, even the vilest type of wrongdoer is innocent until proven guilty, judged by a jury of his peers, which would seem to me to be hardened criminals, or by some other method which may or may not involve chicanery.

So it was that Hi Card rounded up our first assignment for a satisfactory fee. A perpetrator of a capital crime who Hi Card also believed had fled to a suburb of Boston. This small community in an area known as Cape Cod.

Hi Card had a photo of the alleged perpetrator. That the perp could be using his correct name seemed highly unlikely. He suggested that I rent a car and buy a roadmap of the Eastern United States. Having driven from time to time during my lifetime, but not on a regular basis, I felt up to the task.

The Cape Cod that Hi Card referred to was what one might call a far dry from the city of Boston, although it seemed to be in the same state. The rental car I obtained had a feature if set properly would more or less lead one to one's destination, that is if one does not object to a nagging female voice screaming at you from time to time. I found it quite something, a homey touch.

The aforementioned community is not large, but it is touristy. Apparently there is a body of water nearby, always a calming attraction and a source of sea food.

At any rate there were few hotels and I hit pay dirt on the third. A sleepy eyed female who may or may not have been addled by drugs, glanced at the photo and said, "Yes, he's in 212." She then went back to doing some sort of puzzle on a small electronic instrument.

Knocking quite daintily on 212, a male voice within called, "Who's there," but more or less as one word. You can imagine. One more dainty knock and the door cracked open, held by a chain.

Prepared for just such a situation, I had positioned myself to strike a hard blow to the door with my foot – not a kick, but more of a swift push with my entire weight behind it.

The door gave way, I entered revolver in hand. "You are wanted by a certain bail bond man," I announced, closing the door behind me. The photo matched. He was the perp.

"I am innocent until proven guilty," he asserted.

"In that case I will escort you to the proper jurisdiction and the attorneys can have at you."

"I do not wish to leave this jurisdiction," he announced.

"That is understandable, but as you stand, in the flesh and all, there is a certain fee attached to you that is only collectable upon delivery."

"I am a large person and you are but a standard sized female," he observed.

"But I hold a deadly weapon and I also intend to handcuff you in the usual style." Momentarily, I diverted my attention to pull the handcuffs from my open bag, the same one that usually held my .38. He made the mistake of shouting, "I too have a gun," as he dove for his open suitcase.

He had the gun in hand, an automatic, and was turning to level it in my direction when I shot him in the middle chest. Apparently, I missed the heart. But the wound was quite grievous. He more or less discarded the weapon which pleased me, so I returned the .38 to my purse. This was an area of my expertise.

"Dial 911," he gasped.

"I don't think so," replied I. "You are obviously dying. To have public servants scurrying this way and that, unrolling yellow tape, snapping photos, would be confusing and not lead to a peaceful death, the type of thing we all deserve regardless of our past deeds."

"For God's sake," he muttered," apparently dissatisfied with my explanation.

"You may or may not be Catholic, but I've heard one can place themselves in a state of grace at a moment like this by calling out, 'Father, forgive me.'"

He looked at me with glassy eyes and said, "Father forgive me."

I was quite pleased and went on to say, "It's called an act of perfect contrition. Something you might say if you fell out of an airplane, or more to the point shot by a bounty hunter."

He nodded and then seemed to pass on to the next place, wherever that might be.

Fortunately, there was an exit wound. I found the spent round embedded in the carpet and dropped it in my pocket. Several blocks from the hotel I stopped and called Hi Card on my cell phone.

"I found the perp," I announced rather proudly, once he answered.

"Good girl, did you make an apprehension?"

"More or less."

"That is a puzzling answer," he responded.

"He is in Room 212 at a Red Roof Inn."

"You called to say you are on your way to make the apprehension?"

"No. I have been there. He is deceased."

"A suicide?"

"No. I discharged my revolver into his body. A single shot."

"You used your own piece? Fraught with peril."

"Exit wound. I recovered the slug."

"That's good. But Penny, I must counsel you. This bounty hunting game we are in is slightly different from hit contracts. The idea is to bring the perp back alive, say in the trunk of one's car."

"Believe me, Hi Card, that was my original intention, but he went for his piece and I had no choice. Now he is sprawled on the floor of 212 dead. Follow your conscience. Tell the client, or don't tell him. Wait at least a half hour and I will be far away, carefully observing the speed limit and other pertinent traffic regulations. Later, over a cup of coffee, I will relate to you how I may have saved this gent's immortal soul in the final seconds of his life. What might be a beautiful tale of redemption, a sordid life style plucked from ashes and carried aloft."

A short silence, then Hi Card remarked, "That will be a story that I long to hear, Penny. Do drive carefully."

# Chapter Seven

This locating perps and bringing them back alive had little appeal for me. The hit game is fine and I am skilled at it. Obviously, I am walking free in this land of the free.

But there did come to my attention an interesting case that few others might attempt. I had heard by word of mouth the case of a small boy, you might say in his infancy, who was raised in West Africa by cheerful monkeys.

It seemed that a plane crashed in what is called upcountry Liberia, a country bordering the Atlantic Ocean with the capital city of Monrovia. The modern founders were ex-American slaves – part of a grand experiment that worked out to one extend, but failed to work out to another.

In my research I learned that the official language is a type of English, not understood by many English speakers, although some natives speak excellent English. There are also maybe seven tribes, each with their own language or dialect. Oddly enough, and despite civil war and a plague of Ebola, the country seems to be getting along as well or better than many of its fifty or so African neighbors. So much for research.

Anyway, the plane in question, apparently returning from South Africa and headed for a stop in Dakar, went down during a fierce storm. On board I am told were Mom and Pop Blackstone, a teenage daughter, the infant son, Ray, plus the pilot.

Even though the crash site was isolated in deep bush, it was eventually found by a determined search party that found the skeletal remains of all passengers save for the toddler, Roy. Because he was a small person who could have been carried off by a wild beast as opposed to being devoured on the spot, this was no big deal.

So it was goodbye Blackstone's and their powerful cosmetic, drug and financial empire which kept rolling along in the hands of the CEO on down.

But it came to pass that according to certain tribesmen, a small white child was seen now and then in the treetops accompanied by cheerful monkeys.

The story was written off by one and most as jungle legend, save for one. That person is Thelma Chabot, the adopted sister of Roy's mother's dead aunt. Now, Thelma had no claim to the family fortune, nor did she want such a thing. She also held a responsible job in the family empire, if one might call it that, though she was getting up in years.

But she had kept careful tabs on the early rumors concerning the tribe of cheerful monkeys. Then there popped up a later story – that a white boy, maybe about seven years of age, had been adopted by a tribe in deep bush, that is away from the trails and primitive roads that led to civilization. This would be mud hut life such as one might find in National Geographic.

Thelma reckoned the child might be twelve of thirteen in the present age and she had inquired around for some Buck Rogers to enter the jungle and bring him back alive. Because of the recent bloody political upheaval and recurring Ebola scare, she had found none.

But at this time, my friend and mentor, Hi Card, stepped in and cut a deal. The deal would see him remaining at home with his normal cronies and riff raff, making the rounds of drinking and gambling emporiums, while I prowled the hazardous bush county of Liberia. Needless to say, he talked me into it.

This inquisitive Thelma had access to quite a large stash of cash and managed to guarantee a payoff of $100,000 to each of us, plus expenses, the expenses being mine alone and Hi Card merely in a relaxed mode awaiting the payoff. The payoff would be made whether or not Roy was located if the investigation had been to Thelma's satisfaction. A lesser amount would be bickered over if there were problems.

With a very small amount of knowledge, passport in hand, I flew off to Dakar and then to Monrovia, which seemed to be the capital of a now functioning country.

After two days at a Holiday Inn spent studying a map of the country, watching TV, and eating much the same sort of food one finds in the States, I ventured out for a walk around the city only to be greeted by a man who said, "Welcome to Liberia, give me five dollars."

"Is my appearance that of a tourist? I inquired.

"Hardly a tourist, but a do-gooder of some stripe. We are a poor country and attract those seeking to help humanity."

The man spoke excellent English and I inquired after his name.

"Gilbert, a simple cab driver, at your service."

"Perhaps you can be of service, Gilbert. I intend to travel into the country and as a woman alone, would like simply a gun for protection." I was struck by Gilbert's light skin and lack of African features, but thought it best not to ask.

"This country was awash with guns during the fighting and if you will enjoy my cab I'll take you to a place where such can be found."

We seemed to drive further than I thought necessary, passing any number of small second hand shops that might carry weapons. But at last, Gilbert pulled his cab to a halt outside a seedy looking establishment and asked me to wait, emerging minutes later carrying a paper bag. Inside, I found an ancient .38 revolver and several rounds of ammunition."

A smiling Gilbert announced, "Fifty dollars."

It was hardly worth ten, but I handed over fifty. Beggars can't be choosers. The Liberians use American currency, wearing the bills thin with use. They have a coin, about the size of a large U.S. silver dollar which they call The Unknown Soldier – value, one American dollar, no fluctuation.

Back at the hotel, after I had paid dearly for the cab ride, I told Gilbert I needed to go to a place beyond the village of Totata.

He responded, "up country," and offered to deliver me.

Taking my money through outrageous rates would not be tolerated, I suggested.

He said we could work something out and asked when we might start.

After a moment's thought, I named the day after tomorrow, fairly early. I needed to do research which involved asking around. Also, I asked him about his light coloring although it didn't seem all that unusual in Monrovia.

"I am a Congo," he replied, meaning he was descended from African slaves returned from America. Also that he had a Lebanese grandfather, "out of wedlock, of course," he responded.

The remainder of that day and all of the next I was busy preparing for the trip, asking about cab fares and gathering snacks – attempting to prepare for what lay ahead. No one I asked knew about the white child. But Thelma had provided me with the information she had gathered through the years.

Gilbert arrived just after dawn and we set out for Totata, less than three hours away. Like many other African countries, Liberia is not large, the population less than most American states, but because of the grand experiment of returned slaves, it feels it has a special relationship with the U.S. and longs for statehood.

We had been traveling for the better part of two hours when Gilbert pulled into a short, dead end lane and stopped.

"What are we doing here?" I questioned.

"Get out and I'll show you." He came around the car and made to embrace me, but I backed off.

"What are you up to, Gilbert," I demanded

"I thought we might have a little romantic interlude, Miss Penny. We are quite alone, I assure you."

"And very little law enforcement."

"Correct." He was smiling like a jackal.

In truth, I did not want to shoot him, but I wasn't off on a romantic holiday either. I think he thought I would say OK and get it over with. The pistol was in the waistband at the small of my back. I drew it and aimed it at his midsection.

Still smiling, he proclaimed, "That gun doesn't work." He reached for it and I backed off a bit farther.

"The gun you sold me did not work. No firing pin. So you planned this escapade? God has given you a good body and a few brains, yet you attempt a low down trick like this."

"No harm done, Miss Penny, just a little sex. You'll still get to Totata, search for the missing brat. Go home empty handed."

"Gilbert, I traded the pistol yesterday for one that does work. Step forward and be shot dead. I don't shoot to wound."

His smile faded, but only slightly. "I am a man and you are a woman. Maybe you did trade the gun, maybe not. But you would never shoot me." With that he lurched forward in a quick grab for the revolver. Needless to say, I dropped him in his tracks so to speak, if one can be dropped in one's tracks. I've never understood that saying. I dislike thievery, but I did take his wallet. He made money on the worthless pistol two days ago and overcharged me for the cab ride. And during this trip he planned not only to strip me of my money, but also my clothing. Perhaps with that in mind, he died happy.

After dragging him by his feet far enough into the bush where he was unlikely to be found quickly, except by animals in need of a snack, I set off for Totata and was in the village before noon. The road wasn't all that bad and I passed only one vehicle from the other direction, a fairly large van painted with odd colors. I had been told this was a pay to ride transport called a money-bus.

In the town, or village, I passed what was obviously a hostel, there was a hostel sign out front. Parking the cab some distance away, placing the keys in the glove box, I walked back and secured a room.

No one paid much attention to me. There seemed to be a scattering of Europeans across Liberia, some still manning Ebola clinics, others do-gooders of one type or another. Years ago, the U.S. Peace Corps had filtered into all parts of the small nation.

One sometimes wonders with all the many folks in the U.S. and Europe in dire straits, poverty, hungry day in, day out, many hopelessly diseased, why the great rush to Africa to engage in fruitless attempts to solve similar problems. Once upon a time I asked my old Dad a similar question. He nodded and sagely said, "This old Earth will keep spinning."

Much later, someone told me: We are the ones we have waited for.

Philosophy has always filled my life with wonder and joy.

With my tucker bag over my shoulder I had no problem engaging a room at a reasonable price, although I could have had a cot in a common room for half the price. The weather was mild. My guess was it would remain from mild to hot most of the year round being located about two hundred miles from the Equator.

My evening meal was a large bowl of rice with something called soup poured over it. I came to find out this is the common dish that sustains the nation. Totally relaxed for the first time since touching down at the airport, I slept the dreamless sleep of a babe.

There was cereal for breakfast, plus coffee. They use a milk that comes in boxes, different from ours, and has no need for refrigeration. I lounged around the day room for a couple of hours, reading battered publications and chatting with a couple of Kansans who said they were missionaries heading upcountry. Apparently the land rises after one gets past Totata.

An older man who identified himself as Ralph came in and said he was what law there was in Totata.

Introducing myself, I said I felt better already knowing the area didn't fall under a lawless situation.

Ralph then said there was a cab not far away that was unlocked and appeared to be abandoned. Did I know anything about it?

"I arrived here by cab from Monrovia," I asserted. "The driver seemed somewhat disturbed, saying that an individual in these parts owed him a sum of money for some time and he intended to collect." I had contrived such a story the night before. It struck me as plausible.

"Do you know that driver's name?"

"Gilbert."

"And was he a light skinned black?"

"He was. He mentioned that he was, or is, a Congo."

"With a bit of Lebanese tossed in for good measure," Ralph said "Liberia is a small country and Gilbert is well known here, particularly by the women. Some of whom say one day Gilbert will run across the wrong woman." This short speech seemed to amuse Ralph, who was smiling broadly.

Ignoring whatever point he was attempting to make I said that my mission is to locate a white child in a native village.

"Do you come in peace?"

"I suppose. A woman in the States is curious. She seems to be a shirttail relative of said white child, or may be. At any rate she had a little extra cash and engaged me for this highly interesting task. I being between jobs."

"What means this 'shirttail,'" Ralph inquired.

"Distant, maybe a relative of a relative, but possibly the only surviving relative, if she is a relative at all."

"That is sufficiently confusing," Ralph replied. "If found, do you intend to take the boy away, because it is a boy?"

"I pride myself on being an ethical person, adhering to the path of righteousness. I intend to do whatever is best for the child, guided of course by his present protectors."

"Hooray for you. The only way to get to that village is either on foot or by motorcycle, down a jungle path. I can send you a trustworthy motorcyclist who will deliver you in good shape for a small fee."

"Sounds good to me, Ralph. When do I leave?"

"Soon. Say by noon. You might know, free from other niceties, conversation looms large. In fact we have palava huts for that purpose. My point is, take all your belongings and be prepared to stay in the village for a matter of days. I can assure you, it is quite safe." Ralph grinned and said, "Even safer than when you were with your old driver, Gilbert."

This Ralph was quite the card and playing it cozy for my benefit, but it was hard to believe my stroke of luck.

The motorcyclist who identified himself as Harvey, arrived maybe forty-five minutes later. Waiting in the lounge, or day room, I had my few possessions in a canvas bag which I could sling over my shoulder or use as a backpack.

Harvey was a cheerful black man, probably not a Congo, although he spoke good English. Every now and then after we left the motorway and took to the jungle trail he would shout something over his shoulder, generally unintelligible to me. I clung to the heavy chain he wore around his waist and hoped for the best.

Deposited at the tribal chief's hut, a cheerful older man who identified himself as William, I handed Harvey a ten dollar bill and he buzzed off, back through the bush.

William and I sat in rustic chairs on the porch of his hut and chatted to get acquainted.

Mentioning that everyone seemed to have an American name, William said that Totata years ago had a U,.S. Peace Corps bush training camp and one member had been left behind to establish a school.

"As a young man it was at that school that I learned standard English and I have tried to teach it to our village ever since. With some success, I might add. Through the years we have felt a link with America and we often take English names, at least for certain social purposes. Of course we have tribal names."

After possibly a half hour of chit chat, I told him my quest.

"I know your purpose," he said seriously. "You are the child's mother and you have come to claim him and return him to his native country. That is as it should be."

His statement struck me as unusual, yet the forcefulness of his tone seemed grounded in conviction. I hesitated for a moment and he waited for an answer.

Finally, I replied. "You speak with authority. You are a village elder and chief. It is true I have come with the hope of returning the boy to his fellows."

"Your boy," William said.

"My boy," I replied, finally sure of my ground. "Does he not have a village family?"

"William smiled. "You may have heard, it takes a village to raise a child. We are not out of touch with the outside world. The boy, who we call Roy. Has lived with several families, has several country mothers. I might add, male Peace Corps members had country wives during their two or more years here, some left us reminders after their departure. I had a country wife, a black woman from Philadelphia. When she departed she appeared to be with child. Perhaps you can let me know if I have a son or a daughter in the state of Pennsylvania."

My turn to chuckle. "Glad to oblige. Just give me her name."

"Of course in the meantime we will set up you and your son in a now empty hut. He can acquaint you with the village and you can acquaint him with yourself, including family details."

"Alas," I responded, "he like your U.S. child was conceived out of wedlock. And his Dad, oddly enough also named Roy, was killed in the plane crash that left my son in the loving care of cheerful monkeys."

"May God bless the cheerful monkeys," William exclaimed, "and may a loving God grant eternal rest to the soul of your loved one, Roy senior."

"So be it," I replied.

In the days ahead, Roy and I bonded. We toured the village, chatting with one and all and generally having the time of our lives. For me, the experience of having a possibly twelve-year-old son was gratifying and also lots of fun.

At times, when Roy was off playing with his chums, both male and female, William and I plotted our return to the States.

He thought it best that we not go through Monrovia, there were bush routes into Guinea and I could appeal to the U.S. Embassy there. Truth be known, Roy had no birth certificate, no credentials, just a mother's word. If DNA was ever brought into the picture, I was a dead duck, that is my goose would be fully cooked.

But Guinea would not be our true destination, its capital, Conakry, where an embassy might be found, was distant. The adjacent country, Sierra Leon, is nearby even though easy bush trails might lead to Guinea.

With a trusty motorcyclist, the three of us could make it to Sierra Leon's capital, Freetown. And thus to freedom, with a bit of luck.

So, once again, William sent for Harvey. We were in the bush and modern communication was not visible, but somehow getting the word from person to person was less than difficult. I had heard that Liberia was the home of the talking drum, yet as far as I knew, I heard no drum.

Arrangements were made with Harvey. Part of his payment, I left with William, who was absolutely respected. Upcountry in Liberia, there were villages and even small cities where gasoline was available. There were what remained of coffee plantations. It was a source of amazement that there had once been considerable agriculture endeavors in this small country, coffee and rubber plantations. I had heard there remained iron ore, but little else.

The three of us, our shabby gear, and a single gallon can for spare fuel, could crowd aboard Harvey's motorcycle. It was no luxury trip, bone jarring and tedious with frequent rest stops.

Yet, we were a jolly trio and parting with Harvey near a body of water called Aberdeen Creek in Sierra Leon was like tearing away from an old friend. It was the afternoon of the fourth day and we had shared food and sheltered where we could.

The three of us were like family. Harvey's eyes teared when he said, "You will visit us again."

Choked with emotion was I, when I clutched Roy to my side and said, "That is my hope." My words were sincere, but my thoughts constantly fell on Roy and I together, the journey ahead, both emotionally and physically. So, with hugs and kisses, we said goodbye to Harvey and watched as his motorcycle disappeared on a Freetown street.

We obtained lodging at a typical hotel-hostel in a bustling African coastal city, a white mother and child among blacks and people of all races – we fit right in. I soon learned that Roy was capable of talking to anyone who came down the pike, be it man, woman, child or cheerful monkey. He was the all-African boy.

After a couple of days rest, I approached the American embassy and was passed off to the charge d affairs, a youthful State Department employee, Earnest Sharp. He listened to my story, then had me repeat it and finally asked me to return tomorrow.

Sharp was about six feet with reddish hair, cut square at the back of his head. He had a flirtatious manner and seemed full of himself.

"I'll do some checking and see what I can come up with," he told me in a self-important manner. He had spent almost too much time examining my passport. The obvious problem – Roy had no birth certificate and no papers of any kind. Yet he was obvious not African and my claim to being his mother was difficult to dispute. There were no conflicting claims.

Roy and I toured the shops and coffee spots of Freetown. It was an awesome new world to him, brought up in a jungle village with only the occasional trip to the small settlement of Totata. Walking to and from he had seen the occasional car and money-bus traveling the rotted road to and from upcountry, a road sometimes impossible to travel during the rainy season. And he was not unfamiliar with the now and then missionary seen in Totata and sometimes in his own village.

From my short experience in seemed a large number of Liberians and I suppose other Africans had come to the cross, that is call themselves Christians of one sort or another. The missionaries I met or were pointed out to me seemed decent enough people and I wasn't told whether they were members of any particular church, just missionaries.

Of course you could always spot a Catholic priest or nun by their odd clothing. It struck me as funny that they would wear such things, but I suppose they want the general public to know that they are children of God and do not take that fact lightly. In fact it seems to be their entire life rolled up there.

But as I said before, Roy and I made the most of our stay in Freetown, chattering almost constantly, learning from one another. He said William had different books and would gather village children of a certain age and be a regular school teacher.

He told me about the Equator, but I already knew that and fed him the story about an imaginary Lion running around the face of the earth. That took some explaining. But he did say there was only one country in the world named after the Equator and that is Ecuador in South America and there are more than fifty countries in Africa. "See there," I told him, "we can learn from one another."

Roy thought that was great stuff. I explained that growing up I had attended school for a certain time and had learned to read and write pretty well and about mathematics and some history. But being a member of a certain family I wasn't required to attend high school and, believe me, no one could make me.

Sometimes these things that you think are pretty good at the time come back to bight you in the ass so to speak. I told Roy we could read different things and even hire teachers and learn together, he and me as a pair. Both of us enjoyed that. We were getting along like a wink and a smile.

There were ATMs in Freetown and we had all the money we needed. But this was Africa and a person had to watch one's back.

Returning to the embassy, the not so charming Earnest told me my problem was a knotty one. I got his drift and suggested I could have money wired to an account, naming ten grand. Thelma Chabot was standing by in the States with extremely deep pockets.

Earnest suggested I might be attempting to bribe him, a decent employee of the U.S. Department of State.

Taking exception to his remark, I responded that I merely thought there might be government fees involved such as might come from the IRS or some similar agency.

Taking on a helpful attitude, he said we might clear the matter up if I met him not long after sunset at a vacation shack near the water.

His intentions were immediately clear, he must come from money as they say, and have a more earthy encounter in mind.

Attempting to be agreeable, I told him that Roy and I were staying at a place not far from a body of water called Aberdeen Creek, which was more than a creek, had a beach that might be deserted at that time of night. I'd prefer to meet him there, out in the open, and we might set everything straight. He nodded, smiled, set a time and said he was happy our minds had come together.

Roy and I had supper that night just before sundown. I enjoyed letting him choose the restaurant and pick the food. He had a way about him I admired. Liberia, Sierra Leon, maybe most African countries, he could shoot the breeze.

Back at our hotel, I told him I had a meeting with Earnest Sharp, the charge de, and should be able to get the entire passport matter straightened out. He seemed to react well and said we could then get a good night's rest and start a new venture in the morning. Roy was very much like a small adult, already having dealt with many of life's problems.

It was dusk when I arrived at the beach and Earnest was waiting at the water's edge. There is no long gloaming in the tropics, the sun goes down, the day slams shut, darkness.

But there are harbor lights, that is some illumination, perhaps stars and that night a partial moon, broken in its reflection in the ripples.

Earnest had been gazing across the expanse of water and turned to greet me when I spoke, both our faces in shadows, but I'm certain he could see the glint of the weapon in my hand. We seemed totally alone.

"You should have taken the cash, Earnest," I said.

A short silence, then, "You wouldn't shoot me. We can come to terms."

"Sorry, Earnest, your type can't be trusted. You're a cut above. Or think you are. This is serious business. I have a son to look after and I'm not playing games with you."

"We made what amounts to a deal."

"A deal you can easily go back on," I suggested. "Today you were in your world. Tonight you're in mine."

"You wouldn't simply shoot me down?" I could smell fear.

"I don't want to. I pride myself on certain standards. If you will turn, I'll let you make a run and swim for it. I'll count to a certain number before firing. Hand guns are only accurate within a few feet."

"Holy Christ," Earnest whispered.

"Go on, or I'll shoot you where you stand," raising the weapon.

He splashed into the shallow water. I let him get just above his knees, then dropped him with a single shot, probably to the heart. He fell face down and didn't move. I was watchful, but detected no one in sight. Shoving the piece in my waistband, I trudged up the beach in the direction of the hotel, only to be met by Roy who had watched the entire incident.

"You shot that man, Mom," were the first words out of his mouth.

"Had to," I replied. "Don't know what sort of people might be out at this hour. I'll explain the whole thing back at the room."

When we were safe in the room, Roy sat on the bed and I took a chair. "I'm a woman alone in Africa, a country not familiar to me. So I need protection. This man, Earnest, runs the embassy. The ambassador is in charge, but doesn't lift a hand in the day to day operation, at least that's what I've been told. You understand?"

"Sure, you shot the man who runs the embassy, dropped him with a single shot."

I had to smile at how bright Roy is. He noticed that I only fired once. "That is true. There are stories about men being pumped full of lead, or someone emptying a gun into them, but that's crap, Roy. One shot, then move on."

"He was the one who was going to give me a passport?"

It dawned on me what Roy was getting at. That I had killed the goose that might lay the golden egg. "So it appears. You see he blocked me on that count. I offered him money, which is technically a crime. He might have tried to hold that over my head, you know throw that up in my face on a he said, she said basis. But what he went after was a romantic meeting, here by the water. Moonlight and all."

"Sex," Roy questioned.

"You hit it, my boy. You're twelve or thirteen, whatever, and you've lived in that village and seen life as it really is, right?"

"I have, Mom."

'"And you wouldn't want your Mom trading sex for a passport. Of course if he had his way that might have been just the beginning."

"I agree, but shooting him seems a bit, well I don't know. Where do we go from here?"

"First, I want you to understand that I love you, but you're not involved in this shooting. But I'm glad you saw it because when you see something like that it sticks with you."

"That's true, Mom. That scene is going to stick with me. William called things like that object lessons, although usually they didn't involve a killing."

That Roy was so understanding made my spirit soar so to speak. "It was something that had to be done for more reasons than one. First, he tried to take advantage of a woman with a minor child, you might say a helpless individual. Then he was attempting to pull off an evil and sinful caper. Shooting deters him from doing such things in the future. You see no one can say how many innocent women I have protected with that single shot."

"I am totally convinced, Mom. But it seems to me we do have a dead man more or less on our hands."

"He is in the water. He might even sink or drift off with the tide. No matter. We are not involved in that. I acquired this gun in Monrovia for just such a purpose. One cannot carry them on airplanes. Now I will take it apart and we will go outside and bury the pieces in different locations. Guns can be dangerous in the hands of certain individuals. This will insure no one finds it and uses it unwisely."

"Sounds great," Roy said, "but what about the passport?"

"No worries there. Tomorrow, after breakfast we enter the embassy when it opens, announce we have a plane to catch and say that Earnest said we could pick up a passport, or something like it, on the way to the airport."

"Good plan, Mom, but what if it doesn't work?"

"Then we go to Plan B."

"There is a Plan B?"

"There is always a Plan B."

# Chapter Eight

After a brief touchdown in Dakar, Senegal, our plane flew on to London. You can't imagine how the two of us enjoyed the train ride from Heathrow into the heart of London town.

We were free, we were together, we had shaken the dust of Africa off our heels – or would soon after a cleansing shower. Not that Africa is not a first-rate continent with a large number of upstanding citizens. Don't misinterpret my intentions. But I was there long enough and Roy was there entirely too long.

We checked in at not the best hotel. Me, not wanting to broadcast our wealth and draw attention to what might be viewed as not your everyday situation. But we were relaxed and could enjoy a little down time, needed in particular to restock our shabby wardrobes and scarcity of what one might consider average luggage. Generous tipping seemed to quiet the early fears of what might have seemed hostile hotel staffers.

Following a couple of days of rest and shopping, we acquired a tour map and set off to make the rounds like standard everyday tourists. Here we were, mother and son, hopping on and off tour buses, standing in awe of noble buildings, keeping an eye on Buckingham Palace, tourist boats on the Thames. A happier pair would have been difficult to locate.

Seated on a park bench not far from a phallic symbol the Brits had stolen from Egypt during their imperial period a serious conversation occurred.

"I've thought a lot about our future, Mom," Roy began.

"That's exactly what I've been thinking, Roy. You know, our poem rhymes. That is we're in close harmony. One thing I was thinking, but it simply flashed through my mind and I tossed it aside is that maybe the two of us would have been happy to remain in the bush camp and grow old together. You might have even become a chief, like William, when he passed on."

Roy grinned broadly. "I thought of the same thing. But I love you for getting me out of there, getting me here, seeing all this stuff I never imagined. Even shooting that guy to make it come true. But it's not just that, Mom. I would love you just as much if we'd stayed in the bush camp. To me, you were a dream come true. And not just anybody, like it had to be you."

"Thanks, Roy." I reached out and touched his hand, feeling close to sentimental. "I love this mom business and I want to be your Mom forever, but I don't want to be all over you like some moms. At your age, you're probably beginning to think about girls. Were there any special girls in the village and did any of them make eyes at you?"

Roy laughed and actually looked shy. Unusual for this straight up boy. "There were. More than one. There was a lot of gossip. But in a village like that there always is."

"That's life, Roy. At a certain age it's like a dance, some call it a gavotte."

"A gavotte?"

"That's a ten dollar word, isn't it. Do you like words?"

"I do. William had a dictionary. He called it Webster's book and he got it through his country wife years ago. He and I used to look up things together." Roy paused and seemed thoughtful. "William was like my father. I think he hated to see me go. But he knew it was best. Something like caging an animal, then releasing it to be with its own kind."

"That's beautiful, Roy. There's a gift for one to express themselves in a certain way and you seem to have come across it. Soon, you know, we must go to the embassy and get you a real passport."

The thought seemed to frighten Roy. Perhaps he thought I would have to shoot someone else. I suspected William and others, perhaps even Roy, had guessed I put the hit on Gilbert, the cab driver.

"We could stay here in England."

"That is true. I have sufficient funds for the two of us to live a quiet life plus seeing to your education. But as I once suggested, for a time we can learn together, like a pair of scholars who are being home schooled. We can read books and actually hire teachers."

"Your education was limited," Roy said.

"As I mentioned, I advanced far enough to read, write, do some mathematics and so forth. Also I have taken certain classes at what we call junior college. I regret the gaps in my learning, but I have always been aware of them and attempted to make amends."

"Yet, you are very wise, Mom."

"Thanks, coming from you, that means a large amount to me. Now about that embassy."

"You are not really my mother, are you?"

His statement did not shock me because we had grown so close I could almost read his mind.

"Of course I am not, but I feel I am your mom twice over and anyone trying to separate us would not live to regret it, they would have little opportunity to regret it."

"I feel the same way, Mom. What I'm wondering is, before we hit the embassy, might there be a way in this very civilized country for you to adopt me?"

"That, Roy, is possibly the most wonderful thing any individual has ever spoken to me, but with that wish, and I'm certain it is heartfelt, you have opened a can of worms."

"A can of worms?" he questioned.

"That is a difficult and complicated situation on which we have scarcely touched. I did mention that you are likely the only living heir to a very large fortune. Maybe enough money to purchase a small African kingdom."

"But you and I have sufficient money."

"Truly. But what is sufficient for one cowboy may be just a snack for another. Humans, many of them are greed heads. That is they may be sitting on a fortune, but they want a vast fortune, maybe more. This brings us to the case of adoption. If I adopted you I would stand accused of doing it for your money."

"But you wouldn't."

"Not even if I didn't have a brass farthing as they say on this island. But there would be accusers."

"And we would not listen to them."

"I'm Ok with that. But you can think of it overnight. In the meantime I must touch base with the woman who sent me on this excursion to find you."

"You once mentioned that person, but she is not a relative."

"Truly. Her name is Thelma Chabot and she is the adopted sister of your deceased aunt who was possibly your final living blood relative. One never knows, with money involved a few others might come crawling out of the woodwork or emerging from under flat rocks."

"And they will know who I am, how?"

"The DNA I mentioned. I will now take a clip of your hair, a bit of your fingernail and permit you to slobber on a crumpet. On this trio of items will be your DNA to be compared with long gone family members through brush hairs and so forth, maybe then a certified DNA report."

"We must deliver these items to America?"

"No. No. I'll mail them to Thelma. As long as we stay here we are untouchable, can begin our schooling, learn partly from one another."

Roy was all smiles, anticipating a long stay, possibly forever if he had his way. "I've read Pilgrim's Progress three times, cover to cover, and can explain it to you."

"I'd love that, Roy. It is a volume that has been mentioned from time to time, but I have never in truth seen a copy. The Pilgrims were good people and dressed plainly without embellishment. We often see a picture of a Pilgrim man at Thanksgiving with a large dead bird slung over his shoulder."

With that, I had to explain to Roy about Thanksgiving and touched on other holidays such as St. Patrick's Day and Halloween. As usual we had a high old time through dinner and until bedtime.

There was one prickly problem, but resolved through lengthy conversation. One might say Roy was like a creature from Mars dropped on this planet with no forethought from either party, if indeed two parties were involved. So explaining Halloween and St. Patrick's Day as ersatz national holidays was almost beyond the call. For starters there was a mention of wearing green on Paddy's day which led to the question of why do such a thing. Ditto for the odd attire at Halloween.

Combining them both, I told the lad there was too large a measure of alcohol involved in both days and certain parties committed acts or said things in a positive manner that they would regret, but had to live with for the remainder of their slipshod lives. That is getting shitfaced often does not pay dividends, or the moving finger writes and then moves on – not subject to cancellation.

Anyway, we both enjoyed a great night's sleep and came to life the following day ready to take on our part of the known world. We enjoyed a great breakfast in a top of the line restaurant. Both of us were into coffee and both doused it with cream.

I steered him away from steamed eggs with duck prosciutto and truffles. It just seemed to fancy-pancy, plus the price. We both ordered eggs Benedict, me one, him two. One of his eggs was part hard cooked and both had little sauce, but I told him if the food was edible it was my habit not to complain. There are plenty of other things in this world to complain about, if one so chooses. As his mother I felt the burden on my head to steer him in the proper direction so as to achieve a wholesome adulthood, if that makes sense.

As we loitered over coffee, Roy unveiled a plan he had cooked up which I felt obliged to put the kybosh on.

"Mom," he said, "this DNA thing you have mentioned, such a sample from me would be native to my family and thus prove that I am a surviving member of a wealthy family and thus be entitled to certain benefits."

"That is exactly what it means. That is Thelma Chabot's wish, the lady who sent me on this mission." I had and continued to try to make the facts crystal clear. And as it turned out, Roy had a firm grasp of the situation.

"What I am thinking, Mom, is that we send this Thelma someone else's DNA. She would then believe that some other toddler had fallen into the hands of cheerful monkeys and that I had perished in the plane crash. All bets would be off."

I hesitated to answer such a deceitful plan. It did have its good points. Roy and I could remain together, perhaps in Europe, or seek another English speaking country such as Australia. But much as I would have liked to continue our relations as they existed, an evil, lying foundation was not thought of as a healthy child-rearing practice.

"Your thought is marvelous, Roy. I applaud it. There is nothing that would please me more than the two of us setting out for a lifetime together. But it would be dishonorable. And the act would haunt our relationship and also distort our life compass. By that I mean one dishonorable act might make one believe that a second and a third are perfectly legitimate. It seems to me that is the way a person of young years is launched on a life of crime."

"I see what you mean, Mom. Of course you are right."

"Your objective is wholesome and pleases me to no end, Roy. I believe your African father, William, was and is a man of great honor and I pick up the torch so to speak and follow the righteous path."

"Mom, I love you. You are the finest thing that has ever happened to me and I believe we will stick together."

That said, I gathered his DNA and we went to the Post Office together and sent it off to Thelma. After that, we sought out an attorney and began adoption proceedings. There is a fine line here between honor and foul play, or fair play, in the eye or brain of the beholder.

I also sent a note off to Hi Card Chet asking him to locate a black woman named Emma Watson who lived in Philadelphia prior to entering the Peace Corps in the mid-eighties. Returning from Liberia she may have had an out-of-wedlock child fathered by a village chief named William. William desires to know if he fathered a boy or a girl and any other details.

Roy and I decided to wait for the adoption to come through before seeking a permanent passport. In the meantime we set off to tour U.K. from Land's End to Inverness, a type of early victory lap.

We clunked around on trains and buses and even rented a car to look for the water monster on the famed Loch Ness. Also looked in on Cairngorms National Park, settled down in the lodge for a couple or three days and looked for odd birds among the low mountains. And there are some supersized ones there – osprey and golden eagles, maybe a grebe or two, but never a robin on the wing. At the southern end of the U.K., we found the location where G&S's famed Pirates of Penzance came ashore.

At one time we encountered a stable where horses were available for hire. Roy was all for riding one. He said if one had come along in Liberia there would have been a feast. It seems the folks there are always on the looking for something edible in the meat category. I told him that I wasn't comfortable with horses, that they were too large and might either bight or step on a person who meant them no ill will.

The person who seemed to be in charge of stable operations, in this case an attractive young lady, said a trail ride would soon depart and Roy might join. This was an assortment of sexes, young and old, led by another young lady, who would spend maybe forty-five minutes rambling through trails in a nearby woods. This was just Roy's meat and I had tea and sweets at a picnic table with others who were not keen on getting up close to a horse.

We returned to London, checked into the same hotel, and found a pair of letters waiting. Of course I could have used e-mail, but had no desire to hurry things along, our world, Roy's and mine, was already spinning a little too fast as far as I was concerned. I sometimes thought what a champion thing it would have been if I could have gotten hold of him fresh out of the trees and raised him as my own. But that's life and the sweet comes with the bitter.

I was almost afraid to open the letter from Thelma. The desk clerk said she had called more than once, each time receiving assurance that the two of us would soon be back. Putting that one aside and opening the one from Hi Card, I learned that William's daughter was one Molly Moon and apparently a super person. She had been both a soccer standout and an academic whiz in high school and college, served in the Pennsylvania legislature, then a House Member in Washington and now a U.S. Senator.

You could have knocked me down with a toothpick. Roy and I were happy as clams at high tide, but decided not to inform William until we had spoken with his daughter. One might think it difficult to get a message through to someone in a fairly remote bush village, but Roy assured me it would be quite simple. Apparently a large portion of the population in certain areas is jobless and delighted both in gossip and moving messages along. Speak of your talking drums.

Thelma's letter was a different matter. The DNA had proven beyond doubt's shadow that Roy was the sole survivor of the Blackstone clan. All things being equal, he would fall heir to a large fortune. She urged us both to return to the states with all deliberate speed to set matters right. It was my guess she didn't have a great number of years left in her life and she was anxious to nail down this accomplishment. In my book, she was a good and righteous woman.

I know I should have called, but instead I jotted off a note and said we would follow her wishes. We did have our own agenda and started on that the following day. Contacting our lawyer, we found there was no prohibition to the adoption and we had to simply drop by and sign the papers. The act would be accomplished the same day.

Of course that's what we did. I almost yearned for champagne with dinner to celebrate the event, but then thought of myself as a new mother stepping off on the first day with her minor child. We had hot chocolate, strip streak and twice baked potato, along with a wholesome salad and ice cream for dessert.

The following day, after getting needed photos, we hit the embassy to get Roy fitted out with a passport. It is a very large embassy, but because of Roy's quandary, we ended up in the charge d affairs office. Again, he was a fairly handsome younger man with a ready smile.

"I see from these papers that you came in from Freeport some time ago."

"Yes," I replied. "We tried for a passport, but I suppose they thought it best if we got it here."

"Or in the States. With these papers you could have flown directly to the States."

"Possibly, but the two of us wanted to make the most of our trip abroad. We've been touring."

"My counterpart in Freeport was killed recently."

"I'm sorry to hear that. It's my guess foreign service, you know state department work, can be hazardous. We live in a troubled world."

"Did you talk with him?"

"I don't know. I talked with several people." Roy seemed a bit edgy with this twist in the conversation.

"His name was Earnest Sharp."

"Sounds familiar. Youngish man. Nice looker?"

"I suppose you would consider him such. I'll have to look into your situation. Can you come back in a day or two. Call first."

"Is there something wrong? We both seem to be Americans, mother and son?"

He hesitated for a moment, then said, "Passports are valuable documents. We don't give them lightly."

"It seems to me it's part of your job. Unless you consider them personal property."

"Of course not. But I do have a job to do."

"We'll be back, or you can call us at our hotel." I gave him the number.

Back on the street, Roy asked, "This isn't another man who deserves to be shot, is he?"

"No, Roy. I don't have a gun. I'll have to make do with a steak knife." Roy got a kick out of that. He's got a keen mind and a quick wit.

"This time I did call Thelma and tell her we are poised to come home, but the charge d is stalling on issuing a passport for Roy."

Thelma was at a loss for words she was so upset. She finally told me she would handle it.

Late that afternoon the embassy's visa office called and asked that the two of us come in first thing in the morning so Roy could have a passport. We would need photos and there would be a fee. I decided to wait before booking our flight to Dulles International. We would go directly to Washington to deliver our news to Senator Moon.

At the embassy, we were met by the charge d affairs, who apologized for the initial delay. Thelma had given him a birthdate and informed him that Roy was the sole heir to the Blackstone empire and fortune. She had had an extended conversation with the secretary of state about the matter.

The apologies were profuse, but there was a slight mix-up of names. They had assumed the name would be Roy Blackstone, forgetting the recent adoption, now the name changed to Roy Troy, which sounded a bit odd. I suggested to Roy that he might want to keep his old name, but he insisted on Troy.

It occurred to me that this was level headed. The name Blackstone might complicate things during his entire life span. People being overly nice, maybe looking for a handout. The name Troy, which incidentally was not the totally original name of my family, would give him some cover. It had a certain nondescript-ness about it as the French might say. Although that Roy Troy combo sounds like something straight out of Hollywood.

Anyway, both passports in hand, we successfully made the trip to Dulles, caught the bus into Washington and found a room at a small hotel near DuPont Circle. Roy was keen to see the sights, so after dinner and a fair night's sleep, we set out to do just that. One can walk or one can tour bus. Following a tip from the hotel clerk, we took a cab to the Lincoln Memorial, gave it the once over, then plodded up the Mall, viewing things like the reflecting pool, the Washington Monument, a sculpture gallery, the Smithsonian and so on.

We did stop for hot dogs and fries, then had a long look at the National Art Gallery, before the long trek back to our hotel, almost too exhausted for dinner, but not quite. Roy thought it a very successful first day, but I was frankly worn out. I begin to feel our obligations closing in and decided to try to see Senator Moon the next day. I could almost feel Thelma's hot breath, keeping Roy from her for such a long time.

Another morning, another cab, this time to the senate side of the capitol. We had both looked over the Washington Post during breakfast and Roy remarked that our quarry, Senator Moon, had been mentioned, along with several others, as a possible presidential candidate. I had a look at that article and was quite impressed. "I hope we can get in to see her," I remarked to Roy. We had chatted quite a bit about America and the political system. I had told him that no one seems to really have a good grip on it.

There was quite a stream of foot traffic in the senator's office building. It was hard to tell the tourists from the elected officials and their staff members. But that really made no difference unless one was a lobbyist or a member of the press. Apparently, we were the first into the senator's office that morning. We told the receptionist that we had a message for the senator.

"Doesn't everyone," she replied, smiling, and urged us to take seats. She also offered us biographies of Mrs. Moon, said they had had them printed recently since the furor over her being mentioned as a presidential candidate. "Saves time, explaining every little thing."

Roy and I were both reading her life story when we came upon her family background at about the same time. It said her mother, Emma Watson, had died of cancer at fifty-one years of age, but her father, Brady Moon, much older than his wife, was still alive, but in a rest home.

Roy and I both looked at one another in amazement. I finally said, "It would not be unusual for the spouse to claim parentage."

"What do you mean?" Roy questioned.

"Well, the biography says that Molly is the oldest child. What if she was only slightly pregnant when she left Africa and she married this Moon gentleman right away. A short term baby could have been his child."

By that time quite a few others had come into the large outer office and were waiting to see the senator, probably not an unusual situation, in light of the recent speculation.

The senator herself, a trim and attractive black woman, then emerged from her office and began to greet the office crowd, many of those familiar to her. She said she had some early appointments away from her office, particularly a meeting with the press, and couldn't spend more time with us.

Apparently, the secretary had told her that a woman with a minor child had some sort of message for her because when she got to the two of us she smiled profusely, shook both of our hands and asked, "What is the message?"

Roy looked round at the crowded office, many of them within earshot, and said, "It's private."

"I'm all for transparency," she laughed. "Feel free to talk."

"It's personal," I said. "Perhaps we can see you some other time. It's of some interest to all three of us."

"Well, a great mystery," she said in good humor. "Talk to my receptionist. I'm certain I can work you in in the next day or two."

I thanked her and we beat what they call a hasty retreat. We had a cup of coffee nearby, then returned to make an appointment.

"Her schedule is quite jammed," she said. "Tell me, are you constituents."

"You mean from Pennsylvania? No. But our message concerns her family matters and I'm certain it would interest her."

The receptionist rolled her eyes and said, "You're being quite mysterious. How about a brief meeting at ten o'clock tomorrow?"

"Totally good," I said. Roy was all smiles. She would soon learn about William. Probably not the most pleasant of surprises.

We were on Capitol Hill, so we walked over to that great domed building, managed to hook up with a tour and then sat for a time in the House gallery. Nothing was going on, maybe two or three members on the floor, one apparently sleeping with his head on his desk.

"Democracy in action," I remarked to Roy as we exited the building into bright sunshine.

"Much like Africa," he replied.

We spent the remainder of the day exploring the Smithsonian and it was well worth it. We actually walked past the White House, then back to our hotel, I reaching it in an exhausted state, Roy still packed with energy.

After a light dinner, I slept the sleep of a hibernating bear and he watched TV which did not bother me one iota.

The following morning we killed time with news and coffee in our room, then had a late breakfast of waffles plus more coffee. I noticed one elderly woman at a nearby table looking askance at all the coffee Roy was putting away. The benefits, or lack thereof, of that drink had always puzzled me.

We trudged to Capitol Hill and arrived at the senator's office just before ten. We waited only briefly, apparently appointments were kept and also kept brief, with clocklike precision.

Molly Moon rose from behind her desk and greeted us profusely with handshakes. "Now what can I do for you?" she inquired.

At that time there were two staffers in the office, one busy at a small filing cabinet, the other shuffling papers at her credenza.

"Our message is strictly confidential," I asserted.

She lifted her hands in an openness gesture and said, "Everything thrives in sunshine."

I was prepared for just such a situation and handed her a note.

She looked at it and knotted her forehead, then read it again.

It read: Your father is an African village chief.

She gave me a hard look and said. "This is some kind of racist joke?"

I handed her the second note which asked: Were you a short term infant?

Again, she read it twice, then replied, "Yes, I was. How did you know?"

"No, you were not," I said seriously.

She pursed her lips and said, "We'd better continue this conversation in private."

Roy and I looked at one another and shrugged.

After the staffers had left the room, I asked if someone in the outer office might be able to hear our conversation. She went to the door and opened it, apparently found her staff gathered around the office communication system.

"What's doing out here?" she asked.

Apparently, no one replied because her next statement was, "If I catch anyone listening in on my private conversation they can pick up their check and be gone. No questions asked." She then disabled the communication equipment by unplugging it. Turning to us, she asked, "What is this all about?"

"Simply a message from your father," I said. He asks what sex you are and how you're getting along in life. He'll be quite pleased by the answer."

"My father is in a rest home in Pennsylvania. He has what you might call early senility. He was quite a bit older than my Mother, who died of cancer."

"We both read your biography yesterday. That's why we wanted this private conversation. Your Mom was pregnant when she finished her Peace Corps stint and returned home. She must have married very quickly."

"Do you have any proof of this?"

"We don't. We have no axe to grind. We are merely delivering a message. It's from your Dad who wishes you well. That's it. Our job done, we will depart."

"Just a minute. You can't just walk out on me. And what's this boy got to do with it?" She had risen and was speaking excitedly.

"You're Dad, his name is William, was a surrogate father to this boy, my boy, Roy Troy. It's a fairly long complicated story, but by the looks of your office, all the hustle and bustles, I'd say you have other fish to fry. Someday, when things settle down, the three of us can find time to talk."

"You can tell me right now," she exclaimed, excitedly, "this could change my life. Imagine me, the daughter of some kind of African chief. Was my Mom a captive in the jungle? She never mentioned it."

Roy finally spoke. "It's a love story."

"A love story? Between a Peace Corps volunteer and an African chief. Ridicules."

"He was simply a young man then. A very bright young man from a village not too far from a Peace Corps bush camp. Like Roy said, a love story. Peace Corps men have country wives. Your Mom had a country husband. You must have been young once." I was attempting to simply lay out the facts.

"So I was a mistake between star crossed lovers? Is that it? Now I'm mentioned as a candidate for president. You two are screwing up my entire life."

"Ok, kill the messenger. Isn't that the old story. So before the death blows fall, Roy and me, we'll gracefully depart and never mention this again."

"After sticking a knife in my guts, you two will simply walk away. I assume you'll let this man who claims to be my father in on the ribald story."

Roy again spoke up. "Yes, we must inform William that we met you face to face. That you are female, doing well as an American office holder, have been mentioned as a presidential candidate, and are doing quite well. We will inform him of everything on your biography except for the false information about your Dad, a good man we can be certain who has raised you from a small infant."

I was quite proud of Roy's long statement and gave him a hug as we rose to leave the office.

"Just a minute, I have no idea who you are?"

"Your receptionist has our names. Roy is my son and he is also sole heir to the Blackstone empire and fortune. I'm guessing you will read of him soon." We quickly left the office, leaving Molly Moon either dumfounded, or nonplussed, of which I cannot be certain.

When we were well away and walking down from the Hill, Roy asked me why would the senator be reading about me soon.

"Such a story is bound to get to the press, Roy. It is an incredible tale to be gobbled up by the sensational press of both print and TV to be fed in massive portions to the so called American public, plus those far afield. We will touch bases with Thelma next, then contrive to seek cover."

Roy grinned and said, "How about deep in the African bush. I'm getting a little fed up with civilization."

"A distinct possibility," I replied. His thought, even though it was in jest, did resound to my delight. There would be rough sledding ahead and I didn't know if this adoption thing would work out. But we were in the soup and had the choice to swim, sink or drink deeply. Confusion.

# Chapter Nine

It is my belief that Senator Moon would have liked to have further discussions with the two of us, her life being dumped into disarray, but the following day we boarded the Eastern corridor Amtrak heading north. I knew generally where Thelma's office was located and we booked a hotel room not far away.

Arriving in mid- afternoon, we followed out usual custom to shower, relax, followed by the best possible meal – this time hake on a bed of kale with steamed vegetables and ice tea, followed by peach pie with ice cream. Frankly, we had become a couple of gourmets. Of course we topped it off with coffee, then a session with CNN and the sleep of teddy bears.

Not long after breakfast the following day I called Thelma's office to let her know we had hit town. Her secretary said she was busy, but took the message. Not long after that Thelma herself called in a highly excited state of mind.

"Where in the hell have you two been," was one of her first statements, if that could be considered a statement. I assured her I had been more of less preparing Roy for the modern world of Europe and now America, mentioning we had a vital errand in Washington requested by Roy's African dad.

She suggested we show up at her office post haste, that my mission would be at an end and I would receive a check for services rendered. I suggested it wasn't quite that easy and that it might be better if she came to our hotel where we could discuss matters quietly.

I could tell this did not please her and she toyed with the notion that I might be holding Roy hostage, hoping for a larger payoff. I was not insulted, because the two of us had been through a lot, including a couple of unexpected hits, and negotiating situations such as she might be thinking of did crop up now and again. She also might be able to deal with such a situation because the Blackstone cash was in abundance, but the news of the adoption might toss her into what some call a tizzy. There was no easy way out of that one from any angle by which it might be approached.

She did agree to show up at our hotel in a few minutes and I ordered a pot of coffee and both of us watched MSNBC while we lay in wait. In truth we were sitting up. It always dazzled me that Roy had grown up with close human contact day in day out in that village and was skillful at dealing with any interpersonal situation.

The coffee arrived just before Thelma and I had seen to it that there was ample cream and sugar, plus a bowl of warm croissants.

Thelma entered, nodded to me, went directly to Roy, held him by the shoulders, remarked that he was every inch a Blackstone then gave him a lengthy hug. I suggested we all sit down.

"I have your check," she said, opening her purse.

"Not necessary," I replied.

This seemed to stun her, but only for the moment. She was quite the mature business woman. Roy handed her his passport. She examined his picture, his date of birth and finally noticed his name – Roy Troy. She looked up at me in both astonishment and dismay.

"What might this be all about?"

"Roy is my legally adopted child."

"This is a type of blackmail," she declared, rising.

"I warned Roy this would happen. I want neither his money, nor your gratitude. I have money of my own. Roy and I love one another like mother and son. If he ever wants out of the relationship, he is free to go. Till then, we stick together like ham on rye."

"This is an amazing turn of events."

"When I approached the chief in the native village that had raised Roy from toddlerhood, he said you are his mother and you have come for your son. I knew this day would come."

"But that simply wasn't true," Thelma declared.

"I suppose he knew it and I suppose I knew it, but he spoke with such authority. Then when I met Roy and was introduced as his long gone mother, it seemed true to me and he also embraced that notion. We had many adventures after that and when we tarried in England, it was by mutual agreement that we what you might say tied the knot."

"Everything she says is true, Thelma," Roy tossed in. "She is my Mom and I am her son."

Thelma paused to digest the situation, then said, "The important thing, Roy is home out of the clutches of those cheerful monkeys." She actually smiled.

Through staff members at Blackstone Inc., the press had already learned that the so-called monkey boy had been retrieved from a primitive jungle. Several were lying in wait for Thelma when she returned to her office

The shouts boiled down to: Where is the monkey boy?

Thelma, who had already been through the worst of it, laughed out loud, then asked, "What might a monkey boy be?"

"A boy who was brought up in an African jungle by cheerful monkeys," a reporter shot back.

"The boy you refer to, Roy Troy, was briefly with cheerful monkeys as a toddler, then rescued and reared up to his present age in quite a civilized African village. He is in no way a monkey boy. In fact he is an intelligent young man and seems to be the only heir to the Blackstone conglomerate."

This seemed to puzzle the press in a couple of ways. First they were expecting a child who would swing from the light fixtures and secondly, the name – Roy Troy."

There was a yammering among the gathered press which ended when one shouted, "What's with the name, Roy Troy? Isn't he a Blackstone?"

"He was a Blackstone," Thelma replied. "But the woman who retrieved him from the village, Penny Troy, adopted him while they were in the U.K."

Another short period of yammering, followed by the question – "Since he is a minor child and she his mother, is she the heiress?"

"She wants nothing to do with the Blackstone money. She and Roy share a mother-son love for one another. Her goal is to be a good mother, as his is to be a good son."

More yammering, then, "When can we see them?"

"Is there really any reason for you to see them?" Thelma inquired.

The yammering reached explosive proportions, then a spokesman exclaimed, "They are big news. Page one in the Times and Breaking News on CNN if you get my drift."

"I'm not a journalist, but I think you have your first story. Say they are in seclusion and say that they will meet with a pool reporter at a later date. They really don't want to be shouted at by a crowd of yammering members of the fourth estate."

"That's un-American," a TV type shot back.

"Possibly. Send me a pool reporter and we'll talk." They had gathered in the hall outside Thelma's office. She now entered her office and shut the door firmly. Her first act was to instruct her secretary to call security to keep the press at bay.

As it came to pass, only the tabloids and Fox News referred to Roy as the monkey boy, but the news of their hotel did leak out. They were registered under Penny's name. Anticipating this, Penny had called Hi Card and they rented a suite, Hi Card installed as the doorman. It was a jovial reunion between Hi Card and penny, with Hi Card looking for his share of the payoff from Thelma even if Penny rejected hers. Thelma saw to it that Blackstone would take care of all expenses.

Cleverly, the expanding press corps, had chosen a veteran TV reporter as a pool person. His cameraman would have an external feed so the entire set of assembled newshounds might watch, listen and learn.

Hi Card handled arrangements and made Penny and Roy aware of the feed situation. They were delighted and extremely relieved because they looked forward to going through the initial barrage of questions only once. They had nothing to hide concerning Roy's survival, childhood and Penny's eventually coming for him, the two bonding, and returning to the States. Of course there was no mention of the two hits, plus there was some suspicion on the part of the press that both Penny and Hi Card might be related in some way to an area crime family.

But even the reporters were aware that it was better to not gloss over, but completely ignore such suspicions. And neither party in truth had a criminal record.

"I frankly enjoyed the back and forth banter with the TV reporter. She was a woman of mature years who I had often viewed on the tube and it was a pleasure to see her in the flesh and have the opportunity for such a chat. Roy also, was perfectly at ease before the camera. He had grown up in an atmosphere of conversation which sometimes boiled down to give and take situations, which is always superior to resorting to violence.

"Hi Card had sat off to one side during the interview, well out of camera range. This benefited him in the days to come when a string of reporters requested interviews and he as the phone and door answerer, was called upon to respond. It enabled him to ask what specifics they were seeking and point out that such questions had been adequately answered during the first press conference.

"He was aware that he had to permit a certain number of interviews, but we could not be put on the spot day and night while the press frenzy continued. He was also aware that it would subside as soon as it was overshadowed by another event, possibly mudslides, tornadoes, celebrity murders, sex affairs among anyone in power and innocent 20-year-old interns and so forth. To be fair he set up a lottery, placing the newsy's name in a hat and having another news hound pick one name a day. It wasn't just a lottery, but the press seemed to enjoy it as a game and it became part of the story which is fairly revealing about the press corps."

As the telephone answerer, Hi Card received what he considered an unusual call one mid-morning. A voice over the phone pointed out that Roy might someday be top dog in a multibillion dollar operation. Hi Card agreed that could be true. In that case, the voice continued, the boy would be a prime target for certain subjects seeking quick cash, say kidnapers.

Hi Card said he couldn't help but agree, but pointed out that we all face certain hazards along life's smooth or rocky trail. The voice said he represented certain parties who might calm those fears of criminal activities, that is for a small monthly fee, small in terms of the big bucks represented by Blackstone, he and his associates might offer guaranteed protection.

Hi Card pointed out that he merely answers the telephone because it is a job others dislike. If he could have a name and a phone number he would get a major party to meet at some suitable location and talk the entire thing out. This seemed to impress the voice on the phone and he received both a name and a number and would wait for a call within forty-eight hours.

The few hours respite, gave Hi Card an opportunity to check out the phone number and look into the background of this businessman who called himself Luigi. The following day, punching in the number, there was an almost immediate response from this same Luigi. Hi Card said he himself and a major party would meet with Luigi at a convenient location. Luigi named an out of the way Italian restaurant, the meeting to take place at 3 p.m. the following day. So the date was set.

The following after noon, Hi Card and Penny left Roy in the hands of Thelma and Blackstone security. They would give him a complete tour of the Blackstone headquarters, make explanations where possible and the four of them would then have dinner at the Four Seasons.

For Hi Card and Penny, the trip to the Italian restaurant was like a sentimental journey into nostalgia land. Hi Card had made appropriate preparations.

When they entered the restaurant at this low ebb of the eating tide, a man seated at a table for four at the rear of the room waved his hand. There were a few others, all men, scattered here and there around the room. The two of them walked to the table and the man rose and said, "I am Luigi." They shook hands and were seated.

Hi Card was the first to speak. "My name is Hi Card and this here is Penny Troy, the boy's mother. We have discussed your offer."

Luigi seemed thoughtful at the sound of the two names. "Have we met before?" he questioned.

"Probably only by reputation," Penny said, smiling.

"And what sort of reputation would that be?" Luigi asked, plainly puzzled.

Hi Card had scoped out the place and then said, "I see you have what you might call soldiers, possibly those two mean seated against the wall to your right. Am I correct?"

Luigi gave him a hard look and replied, "Those are the security men we spoke of on the telephone. Odd that you would be able to pick them out."

"Not really, Luigi. You see the other men in the room are members of my family. Because we are in your territory I thought it best to appear in strength. There are others outside in case of trouble."

"You are correct, Hi Card, you are in our territory. But our task here is to stop trouble, not to start anything. And your name does ring a bell and if this woman is the Penny I am thinking of, she too is familiar to me." Turning to me, he said, "It is an honor to meet you. You are indeed an artist and miles above your everyday cheap thug who might attempt, but bungle your profession."

"Thank you Luigi," I replied, grasping his hand. "This is high praise coming from you. I am the one who is honored to make your acquaintance and sometime in the future if the going gets tough, our families might work together."

"That is the sincere form of enterprise," Luigi said, then added, "Well, you two cannot fault me for trying. It seemed such an easy target. How about we all have a drink together and talk over old crimes?"

To me, it seemed the perfect ending to a perfect day, invading another family's territory for a love feast. And besides, there were no hard feelings. To me, the protection game was a legitimate business and one could call on the protectors at any time one felt even the least bit threatened. Their job would be to set things right. And an honest protector would do just that."

Hi Card and I laughed about the entire event all the way home. Of course we were slightly intoxicated. I decided it was best that Roy not be told and Hi Card agreed. Not being brought up in such a family, he might feel a certain threat.

But it was a wakeup call and I would talk to Roy in a nice way and let him know he might be of value to certain ruthless individual and urge him to watch his step. I would also assure him that I was nearby and would always be nearby. Hi Card had acquired for me a couple of untraceable pieces and during our meeting with Luigi I had one stuck in the back of my waistband and the other in my purse. I could have easily wasted Luigi and his two thugs before they realized what had hit them. One never knows what might be coming down. From then on, I would always carry my registered piece in my purse.

At any rate, we had acquired new friends and gotten reacquainted with several of our soldiers over drinks that Luigi said were on the house. I'm guessing that Luigi and his family had a protection contract with that particular restaurant, which was a good thing and would insure its future prosperity.

# Chapter Ten

You might say I was almost floating on air. We had confronted Thelma and settled things. Hi Card has accepted payment for his part in the deal. I felt Luigi's family was now at our back and could be called upon in an hour of need. They did have power over certain judges and police officials.

Anyway, things seemed to be on track. At this time I received a call from Senator Molly Moon who seemed nearly frantic.

"I've read about you in the paper, monkey boy and all, but I've waited to call you. This thing about my real father has been going round and round in my head. You know I've been mentioned as a presidential candidate. What if the press should stumble on the fact that my father is an African chief, wouldn't that be a media circus."

"It seems to me, Molly, it took you your entire life up to now to discover that fact, and it is a fact. Now only me and Roy know about this accidental pregnancy which resulted in your birth. But, let me add, I can understand your frustration with this hanging over your head. I'll assure you here and now that Roy and I won't divulge that information. And to assure that, I'll have a talk with him."

"It's not just that, Penny. It's the fact that I do have a father in Africa. Now my father, our father, the father to me and my two sisters was a fabulous father. But since you've sprung this thing on me, I have to admit I never could see eye to eye with my two sisters. They weren't like me. They were all clothing and boys if you get my meaning. Still are to a certain extent. My father would chide me by saying my sisters were real women. I'm maybe chopped liver? So, you're the only one I can talk to about this. Please, this is a cry for help."

"And I do hear you, Molly. I suggest we, you me and Roy, confront the situation. You see William is an outstanding man and he is also Roy's father and Roy sees him in that light. Give me a day or two and I'll figure out something. Just hold the thought, we're on your side."

"Thanks, Penny. Now I hear bells and I'm off to vote."

Later that day I called Thelma and said Roy and I were still attempting to unravel the meaning of life, our lives in particular.

She said, "I've got a couple of ideas for the two of you, but incidentally, while you were gone, I did some checking on your buddy Hi Card and found he may have some unsavory associates."

"Hi Card and I, Thelma, grew up in what might be classified as an unsavory section of the city, possibly the tenderloin, or bordering thereof, but what one person may call unsavory is another person's savory. It depends on your point of outlook."

"I get you, Penny, my bona fides are not precisely true blue. Tell, me what conclusions have you and Roy reached?"

"We are curious to learn if Blackstone owns an airplane?"

"An odd question, but yes, three of them."

"We would enjoy a sentimental journey to Africa. Roy would like the chance to meet with his many chums and bid goodbye to the many villagers who were key players in his bringing up, or to phrase it more appropriately, upbringing."

"That is a brilliant thought, Penny. I believe the press would find that to its fascination as well as the hierarchy here at Blackstone. We could provide them with a well, or a school, or something of their choice that they might need. Serve your purposes and ours."

"Those identical thoughts have crossed my mind, Thelma. And this trip would lay the groundwork for the exploitation you speak of. But I envision just three of us on this African junket."

"You, Roy and Hi Card?" She seemed shocked.

"No, Hi Card is a homeboy. Seldom strays. Roy and I have made the acquaintance of a U.S. Senator Moon, Molly Moon, you may have heard of her."

"Heard of her. She's been in the news recently as a possible candidate for president. I might say along with a large handful of others from both parties. How in the world did you two meet her and why would she want to accompany you on such a trip, particularly at this time?"

"How we stumbled across her is of little interest. The point of interest is the president of Liberia happens to be a woman. As a black woman and a possible presidential candidate, it might behoove the good senator to meet with an actual black woman who is an authentic president of a democratic nation that happens to be a part of the continent of Africa."

"Oddly enough, Thelma, what you say makes a lot of sense. Have you discussed this with Senator Moon?"

"I wanted to nail down the plane first. As Roy's stature or lack of it, he being a minor child, but the only heir apparent to Blackstone, I thought it might be a friendly gesture to fly him and party to Monrovia and return."

"Believe me, Penny, Roy's return has shaken the Blackstone hierarchy to the foundation. In a very few years he will be the absolute boss of the total widespread enterprise. Money, perks and breakroom coffee are all at his beck and call. I'm certain our largest aircraft can make it to Monrovia or anyplace else you might name on the face of the earth. You can return via Moscow and Hong Kong if you like. I'll nail this down today and make it known that it will be a party of three, but perhaps more to come later on."

"Thelma, you are a gem. You have my deepest. I'll call you later." It was obvious that even though Thelma had always had a responsible job with Blackstone, she was really feeling her oats now that she was the one responsible for ferreting out and returning Roy, the absolute DNA heir, and that she was the one dealing with me on a very personal basis. And here I was seated on top of all this, something like taking a noble stance on a volcano about to erupt.

I put through a call to Molly Moon's office, but it must have gotten lost in the shuffle. A second call the following morning was promptly returned. I told the good senator that her best bet would be to go to the bush village and meet her genetic dad. That I had arranged for an airplane and that the pretext was a meeting with the female president of Liberia, an ideal cover for what might come of the situation.

"What about William? He might blow this all out of proportion?"

"First, Molly, you would just be riding along with Roy and me to see the countryside. Second, William is your father and a very wise man. He and your mom were in love and they were lovers, but he and she both knew that she must return to the States when the time came. As it happened, she was pregnant and he was aware of that condition. He asked me to look in on your mom and find if his child is male or female. He expects nothing more."

"I thought I had it all together, Penny. But this throws a monkey wrench into the works. Excuse my use of the term monkey. You're the only one I can talk to about this. I'm on my personal cell phone now and maybe the CIA, FBI, NSA or God knows who is listening in. We are all victims of something or other in this the greatest country on earth. Maybe I should just cut ties and go live with William."

"Odd you should say such a thing, Molly. Ray and I have considered the same step. An out of the way African bush village where life goes on in foreseeable and pleasant cycles, sounds like heaven. I'm sure there are small towns in Iowa or Kansas or somewhere, like that in the States, where a person can live and of course die, while pursuing the four freedoms. I'm not just certain what they are, but I understand there are four of them."

"You and I are in sync, Penny. Give me a day to think this over. It would have to be done partially in stealth to keep the press and other nosy parkers out of the picture. But you could arrange that. We could simply meet somewhere, say the commercial area of Dulles and whoosh, we are gone."

"Sounds simple and foolproof. I'll stress the stealth part to Blackstone. Then we show up in Liberia, seek an audience with the president, then arrange for the trip not too far past Totata, the small town where your Mom apparently spent two early years of her life."

Molly promised to call me the following day. I signed off and wondered what might go wrong. The word "everything" kept bobbing up on the rear thoroughfares of my brain. I had researched the Liberian president and found the woman's name was Ellen Jackson Leafer, which would seem to be one of those they call Congo, descended from freed American slaves. Her photo bore this out.

Tuesday morning and Molly called before breakfast, she was excited and eager for the trip. "I can leave Friday afternoon if you can arrange it. It's common knowledge that the Senate has a sluggish schedule. We quit by noon Thursday and come straggling back, most of us, sometime Tuesday. It could be that no one would actually know I was gone, but it doesn't really matter if I can chat with the Liberian president."

"Or maybe make a clean breast of it," I tossed in.

"Believe me, I've thought of that. It's foremost on my mind, but first we must make the trip and get the lay of the land. Are you OK with that?"

"Of course. I'll arrange for the plane. I'm told we'll land in Dakar, then go on to Monrovia, or maybe not. That's up to the pilot. Anyway, I'll call you."

A small Blackstone private plane flew Roy and me to Dulles where we met Molly and boarded the large Blackstone plane. It was our first taste of Blackstone luxury, and boy was it ever luxurious. I'm guessing Air Force One might come close, but the appointments in that plane are something out of the Arabian Nights.

"I could get used to this," I remarked to Roy after a female attendant gave us the full tour.

Roy simply nodded at first, then said, "My parents owned all this stuff?"

"So I'm told," I said. "What do you think, Molly?" The senator had toured with us.

"I'm thinking I might hit Roy up for a campaign contribution." She gave him a sweet look. He more or less grimaced. "Of course I'm joking."

"Might not be such a bad idea," I said. "There'll come a time when Roy can do a lot of good things with all the money at his disposal."

"And I'm the monkey boy," he responded.

"Monkey boy makes good," the attendant said, with a large grin. "Let me know when monkey boy is looking for a good wife."

"Holy Christ, will he be pursued," Molly exclaimed.

Roy seemed properly confused, although I could see his brain was clicking a mile a minute. Talking about great wealth is something, seeing it, living among it, that's something else. I knew Roy and I didn't think it would go to his head. But I was the mom from the other side of the tracks and I was prepared to bow out if need be. And no hard feelings.

We were introduced to the entire crew and just about sunset, we had been airborne for some time, we had a great dinner followed by coffee. Molly and me, we had a good grade of brandy, then the three of us turned in for the night, each to our separate cabin. Needless to say, Roy had the best one, although they were all top drawer.

We flew directly to Monrovia and landed before dawn. Molly's staff had alerted the Liberian president that we were on the way and that she would like a meeting if it were at all feasible. Our pilot had kept the Liberian control tower aware of our progress.

The three of us were surprised that in the predawn darkness, a small party was on hand to greet us. Spotlights illuminated the area, and we walked off the plane into the midst of a military salute. A high ranking military officer and several officials lined up to greet Molly. You can imagine, a black female U.S. Senator and a possible presidential candidate. Roy and I were given a friendly nod, but more or less confined to the background, although a girl about his age presented him with a small bunch of flowers.

We were told rooms had been reserved at a downtown Holiday Inn and that Molly would be escorted to the Presidential Palace at ten to meet with President Leafer.

This was another shock for Roy's system. He had grown up in a bush village. There had been turmoil during his early years, then finally stability. The village was generally untouched by good or bad times, life continued in what most considered a pleasant manner. Babies were born, old folks died. Plus an occasional tragedy. There was often talk of Totata or Monrovia, sometimes even of international goings on, but these things did not intrude on village life. Now here he was in Monrovia, flown in on a luxury aircraft he might someday own, or perhaps did already. And his small party the center of attention.

We had rested on the plane and the three of us enjoyed a good breakfast at the hotel. Nothing African particularly, just scrambled eggs, biscuits, grits and coffee. It was Molly's first opportunity to pepper Roy with questions about village life and William in particular. Time passed quickly and then a formal escort came to carry her off for the meeting.

Roy and I grabbed a reliable cab for a tour of the city, the shabby water front area with its sleazy bars and obvious prostitutes, working class neighborhoods and the better housing near the embassies. We were tempted to stop in at the U.S. Embassy, but managed to overcome the feeling. There were many shanties and depressing makeshift dwellings scattered here and there, but on balance Monrovia seemed a community of the go. We returned to the hotel for a late lunch and a nap.

It was almost dinner time when Molly put in an appearance. She said the meeting went well. "To meet an African woman in a position of power, a woman elected by the people, it was simply a remarkable experience. We even had our picture taken. I'm certain to give it a place of honor in my office. You know thoughts of a run for president seem almost unimportant now that I've almost come face to face with my African heritage."

"How so?" I questioned.

"Talking with President Leafer was simply like talking to a sister. We had experienced common problems, overcome almost identical obstacles, shared the same hopes and aspirations. What this country has gone through! Terrifying. You might equate it with the American revolution or the Civil War, bone wrenching, bestiality, savagery. No one really knows how many died are were badly scarred or mutilated. And to come out of it lead by a courageous woman like President Leafer. My troubles are small."

"You know I was here during most of that fighting," Roy said. "But our village was extremely lucky and was just out of the way enough to remained almost untouched. There were a couple of times when we were threatened, but William went out and met the nasty element and warded them off. We had really nothing to steal. Just feeding ourselves on a daily basis was a struggle. William held the village together and kept those men who were able bodied from joining the conflict."

"That makes me very proud," Molly said.

"Tomorrow we may meet the gentleman. Did you talk to the President about a vehicle."

"I did," Molly replied. "I told her your theory that a Land Rover should be able to negotiate the bush trails and carry us all the way to the village. She promised the vehicle and a driver at eight a.m. tomorrow."

That was music to my ears. No troublesome cabbies, no motorcycles to the village. My plan was to pick up Harvey, or someone like him in Totota, Ralph would help us if need be, and use the cycle as a guide to the village. The trail might be treacherous, but I believed a rugged four wheel drive might get us through. The thought of picking up a piece in Monrovia for protection never entered my mind.

We had ample time to talk before Totata and Molly was eager to talk about her experience with President Leafer. "I told her I would do what I could to help Liberia and Africa, but as a black woman, I didn't want to be known as the African senator. There are and have been quite a few blacks in congress, but everyone's eyes have been on Africa of late.

I also said that I didn't like the idea of America being known as the 'World Policeman' and thought that era is behind us. The globe should be able to pull together. But those were a few of my thoughts. Her thoughts for Liberia helping itself and its neighbors are quite ambitious. It's good to aim high and be a cheerful warrior. I came away feeling really good about Liberia and Africa in general."

Molly indicated more than once during our road trip to Totota that she and President Leafer had become good friends and vowed to stay in touch. "She even offered me a job in her administration if things went south for me in the States. You can imagine me, my husband and our son relocating to Liberia. Although I'm sure Henry would fit right in, they likely need pediatricians here. And there has been more than one gifted black, fed up with racial tensions in the States who has moved to Africa and joined the solid majority."

Our driver was a husky, jolly man who regaled us with his stories now and again. Roy sat with him in the front seat and the two chatted as if they were long lost brothers. Roy was certainly mature for his years. I could see a Blackstone executive in the making. We made only one rest stop during the trip. Three of us had coffee and the driver downed a large bottle of Club beer, which seemed to be brewed and sold only in Liberia.

The road trip was without incident and once in Totata we agreed to spend the night at the same hostel I had used before. After checking in, the driver and I set off on foot to find Ralph, the man who had told me he was the law hereabouts. He was fairly easy to locate at one of the few local eateries.

After a lengthy conversation between the two men about the location of the bush village, Ralph drew a simple mad and our driver assured me he could find the spot without a guide. Ralph then informed me that a hunter had stumbled over the body of my cab driver, Gilbert, partially hidden in the bush.

"Foul play?" I inquired.

"Definitely not suicide," Ralph said. "How he got out there is a puzzle since his cab was parked in town with its keys in the glove box."

"Sounds like a good case for you to work on," I said.

"Definitely falls under the police work category, thus far an unsolved mystery. Who could solve such a crime?"

"As the only law in Totata, it would seem to be in your jurisdiction. Was he poisoned, or strangled?"

"Gunshot."

"That rules out criminals who have no guns. Narrows it down. Do you have a list?"

"No list."

"Too bad, If you did you could get them all together and question them sharply. The guilty party would surely break down and confess."

"Sounds simple. I'll start compiling a list by asking around. In the meantime, it's good to have an open case on the books, food for thought and barroom conversation."

"Ralph, it's good to see you again, Good to know the citizens of Totata are in competent hands. We must get back to our hostel and palava over plans for tomorrow. Hope to drop by on our way back to Monrovia."

"Do that. I may have a break in the case by that time."

We said farewell. The next morning the four of us boarded the Land Rover and set out for the bush village. As far as I knew it didn't have a name. I had always meant to ask Roy, but never did.

# Chapter Eleven

The going was rough once we got off the main road, but our driver remained calm and cheerful as we lurched this way and that, avoiding trees, shrubs, rocks and accumulated debris, splashing through a small stream, then entering the opening that was the village. All that bush between them and what passed for civilization had protected them during the senseless marauding and desperate pitch battles.

The village was built around a fair sized open space, like a village green, except it wasn't green, it was bare earth flattened by many feet over the years. There were a couple of large mortars and pestles, used for battering cassava leaves, plus the curious alerted by the sound of our four wheeler were already gathering.

Roy was gleeful as he pointed out the chief's dwelling and the driver came to a dusty halt almost at its door as William emerged, dressed in his normal suntan trousers and T-shirt.

The three of us piled out of the Land Rover and approached the chief who was serious, but smiling slightly. He seemed to know what was coming down. As it turned out, Ralph hat sent a runner the night before to herald our coming.

"So this is my daughter," William said, approaching Molly with open arms. The two of them embraced for a long moment, tears in their eyes. After parting, William said, "I would have known you anywhere. I could have picked you out of a crowd in Monrovia. You are much like Emma, my beloved."

There was quite a long silence. Molly seemed at a loss for words. William gave me a warm hug and shook hands with Roy. "I'm delighted to see you both back here, but mostly my daughter. You are welcome to stay forever.'

"Then, you are my father?" Molly said.

"Of course I am. Of course I have been curious about you for many years, but wise enough to keep quiet about it. That you have come for a visit is, is," he stammered shaking his head, "possibly a great gift for an old man. At last to see and have a chance to get to know his daughter. An only child, I might add."

"I am one of three," Molly said. "Mother never told me about you. She married almost immediately after returning from Africa and her husband simply thought of me as a short term baby. Mom passed away. Cancer. She was fifty-one."

Again, William nodded in agreement and sympathy. Wiping a tear from his eyes, he seemed deeply moved.

Roy had been approached by a group of children about his own age and soon they were all chattering away and moved off out of sight. He had returned in something akin to triumph and could and would tell tall tales of the outer world, a world many of them hungered for, not knowing when they might be well off.

"Is our old hut still vacant?" I inquired.

"Of course. We've kept it for you." He beckoned to a village woman whom I knew, standing nearby, "Mary, take care of Penny and Roy, will you. I want to talk with my daughter." There was no secret in the village that William had a daughter and that she had come for a visit. But her particulars would be of great interest.

I checked with our driver, now standing by the Land Rover, chatting with a mixed group of villagers. He waived me off and said he could take care of himself. Mary and I walked to our old hut which seemed unchanged. She said she would round up Roy after a bit. We sat on the same old rustic chairs and had a good social time catching up on village affairs and me telling her what I dared to about our adventures. I shied away from talk about Molly, leaving that to father and daughter.

We remained at the village for three entire days. For me and Roy it was like old home week, renewing acquaintances, enjoying the good weather, living off the land so to speak. Of course there was rice, but a lot of food could simply be picked off trees or bushes. Then there was the occasional pineapple. Roy objected with great vigor to the practice of eating monkeys. Dogs were OK and there were always chickens wandering here and there, often leading a flock of chicks. It was a good life and like the old days we were tempted to stay.

More than once I thought, how mundane our lives were in the States. Television, films, the internet, other electronic gadgets. Here in the village everyone interacted with a host of folks on a daily basis. Exchanging gossip, recipes, hunting, kitchen gardens, Roy had the friends he had grown up with, they fell in and out of favor with one another. Loving, blaming, joking and so on. But it was their life, not our life and we would have to return and face what music there might be.

Early on the fourth day, Molly came to our hut. We had brewed coffee and were having the common type of porridge that passed as breakfast food. We had exchanged greetings with neighbors in nearby huts and all of Africa was very likely waking up.

"We will return to Monrovia later today," Molly announced. She was the architect of the mission and had a right to call the shots. Roy and I were ready. Deep down we would soon be bored if we decided to remain. But her next statement was startling. "William will accompany us."

"To Totata or Monrovia?" Roy asked.

"To the States. I have talked him into it. I am his daughter and I intend to introduce him to the world."

"He will remain in the America with your family?" I questioned. She was already a well-known public figure and as a possible presidential candidate it simply sounded complicated.

She shrugged and said, "Whatever. He is my Dad and he can do as he pleases. He can stay and he can return. I simply want to acknowledge him as my father and would like to introduce him to my friends and colleagues, or anyone else who cares to meet him."

"That would include the press," I suggested.

Molly laughed. "Definitely, the press. Throw him to the wolves and see what happens. Will they devour him, or will he devour the wolves?"

"William will win," Roy said flatly. "But who will serve as chief when he is gone?"

"Goodtime Joe," Molly replied.

"He's Ok," Roy said.

"Goodtime Joe?" I questioned.

"Why not," Roy said. "There was an African leader named Goodluck something or other. And Joe has been part of the council ever since I can remember."

"There's a council?" I questioned.

"Definitely," Molly said. "A four member council. If they deadlock, the chief serves as tie breaker. It's a good system, slightly better than the U.S. Senate. They get things done if the need arises. They deal with domestic matters, petty and major crime, civic improvement, schooling and whatever."

"Shall we pack," I chuckled.

"Pack what," Molly said. "We came with next to nothing and we'll leave with a little less. Anything we can spare the villagers can have. Our driver would like to stay on. He prefers it here to Monrovia. These are the folks he and his friends joke about. Now he admires their lifestyle. No rowdiness, no excessive drinking, living from dawn to dusk. Hard to beat."

Perhaps our driver would return, perhaps not. Moving around in Liberia is fairly easy with all the taxis and money buses. But he did carry us back to Monrovia in record time. There was plenty of room in the Land Rover for an extra passenger and William was the finest company one might want. For a man confined to a small village most of his life, his wisdom and world view were fine tuned. I remembered something about Walden pool or pond and it struck a chord. The simple life of a philosopher. It was a good thing, I thought, for someone other than myself.

It seemed that William did have a last name, Harper. Roy said it was also the name of a small coastal town in the south of the country. In Monrovia, we said goodbye to our jolly driver and touched bases with the Blackstone flight crew who seemed to be enjoying an all-expense paid holiday. Molly managed to get a call through to her now good friend President Leafer, seemingly talking interminably about William Harper and our return to the states.

We had a good old time that evening, dining with the crew at the hotel restaurant. President Leafer dropped in to say hello, shook hands all around and pulled William away for a private conversation. The two of them returned later and seemed thick as thieves. Of course William, who had about as many papers vouching for his identity as a cheerful monkey, needed both a Liberian passport and a visa to enter the States. Ellen Jackson Leafer would see that he got both and we would be set for departure the morning after the following day, if that's how the time should be expressed.

Later in our room, I asked Roy how he was holding up with all the excitement, William coming with us and all.

He said, "My life is like a dream, William, Blackstone and Leafer are dreams within a dream."

I hugged him and gave him a kiss on the forehead and said, "Sleep well." Flipping on TV, I found the same as in the States, nothing on. When I climbed into my bed, not more than a yard from his, I could hear his steady, sleeping breathing. That boy had brought something missing into my life. Hard to place your finger on it though, like a will-o'-the-wisp.

# Chapter Twelve

Of course William had seen airplanes, but only from the ground, a very occasional glimpse. And as a younger man, he had been in Monrovia, shared experiences with men and women from other tribes and also Congos.

Certainly, President Ellen Jackson Leafer is a Congo. William met with her with great dignity, as an equal, the chief of his village for many years.

It was a joy and a pleasure to see him move around in all social circles as if he were running for some higher office. I'm certain his daughter and also Ray, were proud of him as I was. Very soon it became obvious he was not some native we had plucked out of the bush, but the patriarchal head of our small party.

We had met and broken bread with the crew at the hotel. It wasn't until the morning of the third day that President Leafer came to our hotel with an entourage and escorted us to the airport.

If the large Blackstone pane with its lavish appointments impressed William, he didn't show it. He was all about chatting with Ellen Leafer about Liberian affairs and she seeming to hang on his words, rather than the other way around.

But we were soon airborne with all of us in the main cabin enjoying coffee and something like croissants with William not even rubbernecking out the window as you'd expect someone on his first flight to do.

Roy was full of life, bantering with the staff, William was steady and fatherly, Molly and I were worn from the trip, enjoying the experience, but sometimes wondering what would come next. I learned that your genuine U.S. senator isn't much different from your run of mill individual.

At any rate both of us sought the seclusion that a cabin grants as the song goes, and when we emerged, about the same time, we were making our approach to Dulles International.

One would expect that landing in America, a foreign country and virtually at the capitol, William would have been keyed up, but he was as calm as a cucumber and rock solid.

Now in my profession I have studied individual behavior as a necessary tool of survival and he is quite an interesting character, you might say possessing the qualities of a cut above your usual leader and our average office holder would drag in as a distant second or third.

Molly had a one-bedroom condo in Washington, not nearly large enough to cram in all four. She had called ahead to make reservations for Roy and me at the Willard. Crowded or not, a call from a senator carried some weight.

We said goodbye to the captain and crew of our sleek flying flagship and climbed aboard transportation to Washington.

She said her newfound Dad would stay in her condo and announced her first priority would be to call her husband and son in Pennsylvania. Her husband, a pediatrician with a busy practice. They had one son, Brady Jobs, 9. For political reasons she had kept her maiden name.

She intended to ask her husband to hurry down to Washington to help her deal with the press.

Molly's second priority was on the distasteful side, particularly because the father who raised her resided in a home and seemed to be sinking into a type of dementia.

Brady Moon, she explained to me, had been much older than her Mom at the time of their marriage. He was now well into his eighties.

A day or so later she said their conversation went something like this.

"Sorry to bother you, Dad. I know it's some trouble for you to get to a phone."

"Not at all, Molly. How can I complain about a senator giving me a ring?"

"I'm afraid I don't do it enough, Dad. Henry and I and little Brady will visit you soon."

"If your schedule permits. I'm well situated here and have a great many friends in the elderly bracket. In fact a couple of the old girls are making eyes at me."

"I've just come from Liberia, Dad."

"Your Mom was there in the Peace Corps."

"I know. There's something I must tell you."

"I could take a wild guess, but I think I know what it is."

"Mom was pregnant when she returned."

"I guessed that. You were too short term and you were never like your sisters. I used to kid you about that."

"I remember, Dad. I love you."

"We can love many people. Your Mom and I had a good life. Is your genetic Dad still with us?"

"Long story. He's the chief of a small village. A thoroughly good man. He's here in Washington with me."

"Washington?"

"Well, Northern Virginia. I can't keep this under my hat. I'm coming out with the story. You might find a reporter or two camped on your doorstep."

"I can handle that, Molly. But what about the Presidential candidate rumor?"

"I've devoted my career to transparency and honesty. I'm not about to change that."

"I'm proud of you, Molly. Now it's medication time."

"Love you, Dad."

"Love you."

# Chapter Thirteen

About this time, Mallon Wolf, Blackstone CEO, was having a closeted conversation with his top vice president and confidante, Josh Bentley. The two had been like brothers since their days at Brown.

"Josh," Wolf was saying, "what was our take last year?"

"Obviously, your salary is $3.5 million, plus a $2 million bonus package, plus quite a bundle of perks. Why do you ask something you already know?"

"Because this can't go on forever unless we take drastic action and the sooner the better."

"I don't understand this 'we' business, Mal. I get about half what you get. But you always cut me in on the lion's share of the underhanded projects. What now?"

"Josh, you are the highest paid VP and half of what I get ain't bad!"

"Granted. Now cut me in on the drastic action and why?"

"Our only road block, of course. The boy Roy. I figure he's going on fourteen. So in four years or so he will not only have learned a lot but will also come into his majority and be in full control of the company. Where do you suppose that leaves us?"

"On easy street. By that time we will have banked enough legitimately, plus what we skim off and salt away, to last two or three luxurious lifetimes."

"But retirees, Josh, even young retirees. No more power! Money alone cannot buy the power we have now. Secretaries and flunkies bowing and scraping, restaurants and hotels begging for our patronage, the red carpet everywhere we go, like that lovely airhead in the outer office I pay a grand a week to chew gum and play video games all day.

"I know retirees. One day you're on top of the world, the next you're sitting in a coffee shop waiting for service. I'd be stuck living with my wife. You'd be the same"

"We could start second careers."

"At our age? Josh, we really don't know how to do anything. We couldn't even run one of our divisions. We'd be driving forklifts. We got here in one of those how to succeed in business without even trying scenarios. There's no need for talent at the top. It's just getting here."

"You got that right. Clawing, scheming, cheating, backstabbing. You the evil wizard and me carrying your coat. Did I miss anything? How about blackmail, backbiting and high crimes and misdemeanors?"

"You're better than that, Josh. But we are here and for us there's no retirement age. So, let's hang in here."

Josh took half a handful of cashews from a silver bowl, flipped some into his mouth followed by a sip of scotch and water. "You always were power hungry, Mal. I'm an easy come, easy go type. Screw the world. I've got mine."

"You've got yours, Josh, because of me. So now, I'm still thinking of us, not just me. And I need your help, just like always."

"Ok, Mal, what's your plan this time? Steal more cash from our foundation?"

Mallon Wolf grinned like his wolf namesake and said, "Nothing so petty. In our position we're untouchable, above suspicion." He looked around as if someone might be listening. The time was late Friday afternoon and most employees had left the building, only the youthful secretary in the outer office who was always at his beck and call remained. "I'll send Beth out for a couple of Cuban sandwiches, then lay out the plan."

"You think she's capable of that? I know she can't type, she can hardly answer the phone, keeps forgetting the word Blackstone."

"She has other virtues, plus there are other secretaries out there, gone for the day, home like nesting birds."

"Very poetic. Ok, I'll call home and tell Maud I'll be late."

Later, with the sandwiches half gone, Wolf laid out his plan. "The first thing we must do is separate Roy from that woman, Penny."

"That woman happens to be his mother."

"Adopted," Wolf replied evenly, "adopted in England. Totally illegal. We have judges. We declare the adoption null and void and get a restraining order. She can't come near that child for fear of arrest. We clamp tight security on the boy."

"Sounds plausible," Josh agreed. "What next?"

# Chapter Fourteen

Senator Moon's husband, Henry, had come down in haste from Pennsylvania at her request.

He was surprised to have the door to her apartment opened by William, who introduced himself, "Dr. Jobs, I'm William Harper, Molly's father."

Jobs blinked a couple of times, tried to shake the cobwebs out of his head, then asked, "Where's Molly?"

Fortunately, she was just emerging from the kitchen. "Henry," she almost shouted, "give me a kiss."

William looked on, smiling, as the two embraced. So this is my American family, he thought, complete, except for their son, Brady.

Henry finally broke away and confronted William. "I'm told this is your father." He addressed Molly in a deadly serious manner.

"Let's have a seat," Molly said.

The better part of an hour elapsed before Henry was satisfied the two weren't blowing smoke in his ear.

Finally, he turned to William, offered his hand, and said, "Welcome to the family. Or should you be welcoming me." He grinned and added, "I could do with a good drink, then something to eat."

Later, Molly called Hagen, who acted as her press secretary among other things, and said, "I'll be in the office at eight tomorrow, please let the press know I might have something interesting to say."

"Local, state, or national?" she inquired.

"You didn't mention international, Hagen. Send out a general alarm. If a story has an interesting twist, this is it."

"Please, tell me more."

"It's best you remain in the dark like the rest of them."

"Does it involve you running for president?"

"What doesn't? Now, no twenty questions. See you at eight in the a.m."

***

At Blackstone, Mallon Wolf moved with great speed. Knowing Penny and Roy remained in Washington, he sent Thelma Chabot down to Washington on the pretext that Roy needed to be examined by experts to determine what type of tutors he might need and then at what grade level he might be placed at either public or private school.

Of course there was no reason for Penny not to trust Thelma who had hired her to find the boy. Reluctantly, she agreed to board the small pane and return to Blackstone headquarters. Landing, crew members delayed Penny long enough that when she deplaned, Roy was already being rushed away in a limousine. Thelma was also gone.

But a lawyer and a private detective were at planeside and quickly buttonholed Penny.

"Penny Troy," the attorney said, then identified himself. "I have a restraining order for you. You are not to go near the boy you call your son. If you do the penalty is arrest and possible incarceration."

"You're out of your mind," Penny replied, obviously stunned. "Roy's my son."

"I'm sorry to tell you that's not true. The British adoption has been ruled illegal by the court, thus null and void in America."

"That's not possible," Penny protested, beginning to smell a rat.

"Not so." He handed her a packet of documents. "It's all in there, all perfectly legal. I've been sent to inform you that Roy and his name is Roy Blackstone, will be treated with great care and his education will be looked after by professionals."

"This can't be true," Penny said, then added, "You know something is fishy, don't you?"

"Miss Troy, I'm a lawyer. I'm paid to carry out certain assignments without fear or prejudice. I'm simply doing my job."

"Where have I heard that before? Well, your job is going to get you into deep shit." She was on the verge of boiling over.

"I was told you might be angry. This man next to me is a private detective. So your best bet is to remain calm and carry on. I've been authorized to see you transported to anywhere you might like to go."

"I'd like to go see Roy."

"That, Miss Troy, is the path to the jailhouse. The documents I've given you have the force of law behind them. But anywhere else."

"No thanks. I can take care of myself." She gave the detective a hard look. "And I can take care of you." Then she stalked off.

The lawyer shrugged. "Tough talk for a woman."

The detective gave him a puzzled look. "I happen to know her family. I think she recognized me. You can deal me out."

***

Molly, Henry and William were up early the next day and lingered over scrambled eggs, biscuits and coffee. They discussed the weather and their health and the news they had seen on television, plus the Washington Post, but avoided the elephant in the room. At seven fifteen they set out for Capitol Hill.

Exactly at Eight they exited Molly's office, stepped outside into a bright sunshiny day and walked down a few steps to confront the press, or have the press confront them. Hagen had done her work well. It was a larger turnout than Molly had expected, possibly the beginning of a slow news day. Anyway, too early to tell.

Molly spoke first, thanking everyone for coming out so early. "I do want to make one announcement before we get into the guts of this meeting. I'm just back from the West African country of Liberia where I met for some time with President Ellen Jackson Leafer. She has done an amazing job of stabilizing the country after all the grief it's been through in recent years. We discussed our two nations, also the vitality of Africa and of North America. We live in countries, but we also live in the world. And now to the reason for this meeting.

"To my left is Dr. Henry Jobs, my husband for many years, to my right is William Harper, who I recently discovered is my genetic father. He had spent the bulk of his life in a bush village, well away from the coast in Liberia, for quite a few years he has served as tribal chief. I am quite proud of him and I am also proud of the father who raised me. I love them both."

What one might call a pregnant silence, then a flurry of shouted questions.

After restoring order and answering questions for quite a few minutes, there were questions directed at William who answered them in a quiet fashion like the seasoned office holder he was. Then someone asked if he thought his daughter would make a good president.

"I think she would do a good solid job. It would be an administration of fairness and transparency. She would be like a good mother to her country, much like our President Leafer who has transformed our small nation."

"What outstanding attributes would she bring to the table?" the CNN questioned.

"You probably know here better than I do. We met only a few days ago. One thing I will say, she seems serenely mentally stable. I'm not saying a great leader should have a few mental quirks, but in many cases it has seemed to help."

"For a tribal chief, living off the grid, you seem to have a good grasp of the English language and also international affairs. Are you for real?"

This question posed by a Baltimore Sun reporter.

"You're right about my background and off the grid, but you should know I spent a wonderful year with Molly's Mom, a Peace Corps volunteer and an English teacher. Although that was long ago, the two of us had access to tapes sent from the States as well as a wide assortment of literature. Since that time my village has had many visitors and I've spent hours chatting with a wonderful array of good folks. Talk is cheap in Africa and it is a favorite commodity. Also different books and periodicals were available in the town of Totata and I even ventured into Monrovia. So you see I have not been locked up in darkest Africa. As a surrogate father to the boy Roy, I tried to give him a bit of an extra push, although it has been my task to see that all the children in my village receive an education."

"You mentioned some sort of mental problems seemed to have helped certain great leaders, Can you elaborate?" This from the BBC.

"Yes and no. In the case of a bipolar person who has highs and lows, there might be a danger in the highs. That leader might think he could do anything at that time and might indiscriminately start bombing his neighbors. If mania might make a leader creative, depression might have an empathetic influence."

"Any examples?"

"Of course. Abraham Lincoln had fits of depression which some think made him a great crisis leader. Martin Luther King and Mahatma Gandhi might fall into this same category according to a well- researched book I read. Winston Churchill obviously had some sort of mental aberrations, but no one seems to know exactly in what form. He was a moving target."

"What about Roosevelt, a man of the same era," AP questioned.

"Again, not your run of mine personality. Wanted to be liked, disliked being alone. Maybe we're all crazy. Kennedy was reckless. I'll not mention Hitler. Remember, I'm no more a psychiatrist than any of you. Much like Will Rogers, I only know what I've read or heard."

At this point Hager attempted to end the press conference which because of its fascinating topic had attracted a large crowd and dragged along too long.

But someone from the rear shouted, "Will you run for president?"

Molly rose to the occasion. "Who knows? With an African chief as my father, you might call me illegitimate, or you might not. With race plus the role of women in America being what it is, it's not for me to say if I should run or not. I would not court failure. Nor would I give up without a fight. Is that enigmatic enough for you? Thanks for showing up and good morning." She turned and led her small group back to her office.

# Chapter Fifteen

Thelma Chabot was seething mad. She had been led astray by Wolf, made to think she was bringing Roy and his Mom in for a routine scholastic evaluation to be followed by a meeting which would include Penny Troy.

What a betrayal, but at the moment, nothing could be done about it. She could and did reach out to Penny to say she had no knowledge of what had been Wolf's plan. They were on the phone for almost an hour which settled Penny's nerves, cleared out the cobwebs and permitted her to look carefully at her options. One of which was to examine the legal papers to see who had officially done her dirt.

Meanwhile, Mallon Wolf and Josh Bentley were again closeted in Wolf's office late in the day. Wolf unveiled the second phase of his plan.

"I've had experts research schools in Switzerland, that's where many rich folks send their offspring. Out of sight, out of mind."

"I believe it's for an education," Josh said.

"That too. But it's a normal thing to do. So the school has been picked and enough cash has been spread around to enroll Roy, despite his early lack of formal schooling."

"Sounds like the proper thing to do."

"That's exactly what I thought. Now here's where you come in. I have certain contacts and this must be handled with extreme delicacy to preserve your identity. You must remain anonymous during the transaction."

"What transaction?"

"You might have guessed. We will fly Roy to Switzerland in our small airplane. I've checked and it's capable of making the flight, maybe planning a refueling stop in the Azores, or some other foreign place. No matter."

"Whatever, I'm certain the crew will make certain it's safe."

"Yes, that's important," Wolf said. "Safety first. But at the last minute, you must tell the pilot, or crewmember, that a package is coming aboard to accompany Roy."

"Sounds secretive."

"Top secret. It will be a very high powered bomb that will blow up the plane and all its occupants, leaving no trace in mid ocean. One minute the plane is on radar, or in radio contact. The next minute, it's gone. Slick, hey?"

"Holy, Christ. Mass murder."

"Settle down, Josh. People die every day. Lots of them. This is our lives I'm talking about. We have to get rid of the youngster. I know sacrificing the plane and crew members seems harsh. But we'll pay off the survivors. Even toss a wreath on the ocean. Not long ago there was no boy, now there is a boy, now you see him, now you don't. We're back on top for life."

"Oh, God, Mal, there must be another way."

"There are many other ways. We can hire someone to do the job in Switzerland. But with the help you get these days, the job might be botched. We want a first rate professional job, the plane and its occupants gone in a puff, like magic." Wolf smiled broadly to bring Josh out of his depression, like he had done many times before. He had anticipated some reluctance, but knew it could be overcome.

"Ok, Mal, I've followed you to the top and I must admit Maud and I enjoy the high life. But I really don't know how to make a bomb and getting someone to do it might be dangerous to our health. We are in this together, you know."

"Certainly, Josh. About the contacts I mentioned, the secret ingredient is money, lots of money and in cash. I figure half a million. That means a quarter of a million in advance. I'll assemble that in a suitcase. Your job is to make contact, make the offer, but without revealing yourself. Use throw away cell phones, then arrange a meeting in some dark place."

"Like in the movies," Josh interjected.

"Very much," Wolf agreed. "Then the bomb maker is to package his product, set a timer and dress like some delivery man, UPS or whatever, and deliver it to planeside. The package should be plainly marked, maybe 'Confidential – Deliver to Mr. Epstein.'"

"And who is this Epstein?" Josh questioned.

"Purely imaginary." Wolf resisted rolling his eyes. "You see this is a delicate matter – making the bomb, setting the timer, delivering the bomb in a businesslike manner."

"I understand, Mal."

"I knew I could count on you. The trick is no one knows what happened to the plane and no one ever will. It's foolproof."

"I understand," Mal.

I was at a loss of which way to turn. Obviously, the Blackstone lot had gotten to a judge who arranged the adoption to be called off and then issued a restraining order. I was not about to start violating judicial orders and swim deeper into the soup.

Managing to get through to Thelma, I found she was as mad as I was. They had betrayed her with the evaluation story. So not only was I out one son, but I also smelled a scuzzball of a rat. I called Washington and after quite a struggle managed to get hold of the senator. It took me sometime to explain the situation, but she agreed I had been dealt a cold hand and that she would have her top staff guy look into it.

Back in my old apartment, just where I was before this whole business started, I spent a couple of days brooding and watching the news on the tube, hoping that Senator Moon might come up with something, or maybe even Thelma, although she was employed by those bums.

Late one afternoon Hi Card called with the greeting, "I heard you were back."

"Back and blue, do I have troubles. You wouldn't believe."

"Maybe I would. How about breakfast tomorrow. We can hash over old crimes."

Same old Hi Card, same old line. So we agreed to meet and eat.

Somewhat off my feed, but regardless, I ordered one of those Belgium waffles, with strawberries swimming in sauce plus a side order of bacon. Of course there was plenty of coffee. Someone said it makes the world rotate. Hi Card was showing his age. He had cold cereal and yogurt.

After unloading my tale of woe, I told him there was a guy I thought I knew, looked like a local torpedo, accompanying the shyster who gave me the bad news.

"What did this person look like?" Hi Card inquired.

"Like a wise guy. But the shyster said he was a private eye sent along in case I created a disturbance."

"And you thought you might have seen him around."

"Certain of it and his name keeps coming and going. Tommy I think."

"Not Tommy you think, but Tommy the Turtle."

"That's it, Hi Card, Tommy the Turtle. I may have talked to him a time or two. I think he knew I recognized him. So, he's in on this deal!"

Hi Card nodded wisely. "That is certainly a possibility, Penny. And I am just the guy to track it down. As you know I accepted my payoff from Thelma, even though you declined. You and me, we're still a team and a good one I might add."

"Like peanut butter and jelly," I tossed in.

"Exactly."

I had finished my waffle and was crunching on crisp bacon and Hi Card filled me in on family and elsewhere happenings, including who was in and out of slam. It was a thoroughly interesting breakfast and seemed to buoy me out of my funk. Once more, I began to feel human.

# Chapter Sixteen

After Senator Moon's press conference she was diagnosed, dissected, autopsied and cut into small bite sized pieces by the media. The media jury came in with a thumb's down opinion. Molly was a never been presidential candidate and her chances for reelection to the Senate were paper thin to nonexistent. Born out of wedlock to an African chief and a Peace Corps volunteer? These credentials seemed more fitting for a barista than a candidate of any kind to serve the public. What if our present set of elected officials shouldn't be allowed to play with matches? What of it. They must have had something going for them.

A couple of days later both the print and electronic media realized they had totally ignored public opinion. A tidal wave of the public supported both Molly Moon and her African father. William Harper who had spoken only a few words, had scored instant success as a man of some depth who could be trusted with small children and animals.

Of course the media shrugged off its earlier attempt to vilify and reported that they knew it all the time. Molly Moon seemed to be a favorite daughter on both sides of the Mississippi and William would make an excellent secretary of state.

In the meantime, Molly's staff was looking into the Blackstone dealings with a certain judge who had the reputation of being as crooked as a dog's hind leg. There was definitely the odor of skullduggery.

It took Hi Card only a day and a half to locate Tommy the Turtle, who he found across town in an out of the way drinking establishment called The Blind Pig.

"You may remember me," Hi Card said when he approached Tommy who was eating pickled eggs and drinking beer at the bar.

"Your face is indeed familiar," Tommy responded, adding, "You are something of an old timer."

Hi Card mulled that remark, but did not take offense. "I am in business with Penny Troy who has recently been bummed out by a shyster accompanied by a wise guy posing as a private detective. Ring any bells?"

"I have no desire to offend Miss Troy, who I have met once or twice on previous occasions. I had merely been hired because they said a certain individual might take the news to be handed down by the shyster as a cause for a fit of violent temper. Of course Miss Troy kept herself under perfect control which did cause me some alarm because I saw a glint of recognition in her eyes."

"You were aware of the situation. That they were removing a mother's son and insuring that she would never see that boy again?"

"I became aware of that and later it soaked into my brain that this is a totally serious situation. As far as I know, I have no children. If I did it might be a different matter. But a mother and son, that's another setup. After she was gone, I told the shyster I wanted nothing more to do with that situation. And more to the heart of the problem, I am pleased we are having this conversation because you can now extend my apologies and regrets to Penny. In fact, if I can be of any service, like roughing up the shyster, I'll be happy to oblige."

Hi Card was greatly pleased and touched by Tommy the Turtle's statement and offered to stand drinks for the two of them and continue the conversation.

As it came to pass, Tommy dropped what turned out to be an exceptional clue. While in the employee of Blackstone he had overheard one of the higher ups mention the name Luigi. The two kicked this around for a time, going over a very short list of men with the name Luigi.

Hi Card mulled the name for a few hours and then had a meeting with Penny.

After relating Tommy the Turtle's regret and apology, he said,"I'm reasonably certain that this Luigi character is the same one who offered protection for Roy. He had some contact with the Blackstone boss who probably nailed him as an unsavory character, just the type he might employ for unsavory tasks. Something is in the works here."

"I'm with you on that Hi Card. The more I think about it, the more I think that certain gents at Blackstone, that is the ones running the establishment, would not welcome another Blackstone who would be calling the shots and therefore breaking their playhouse down."

"So, at present, we have one name, Luigi. He was cooperative and full of goodwill when last we spoke. So, I'll set up another meeting, this time in neutral territory."

So the meeting was set. This time at a restaurant favoring Cajun food away from both our territories. Hi Card and I arrived first, ordered ice tea and perused the menu. It seems a large feature among these Cajun folks is a dish called gumbo, a type of thick soup. It struck my funny bone because as I recalled Tommy the Turtle is named after his love for turtle soup, although it is difficult to find these days and if found sometimes there is a reluctance to serve it with a pony of sherry on the side which is a must for lovers of that particular dish.

At the time set Luigi arrived with his top advisor. There is a fancy Italian word for this post, but I can never keep it straight even though I have heard it repeated throughout my life. Introductions were made, the two of them also ordered ice tea and we got down to business.

Hi Card went right for the heart of the matter. "It has come to our attention from a person who might better not be named that your name has been mentioned for having some dealings with a large company by the name of Blackstone. In fact you and I and Penny met to discuss a similar matter one unrelated to this, I might add."

"What you say, Hi Card, is very true. And it is very troubling to me. The two of us here, Mario and me." With this he indicated his companion with a motion of his hand. "Believe we can trust the two of you with our deepest secrets. You have proved this in the past."

"Thank you, Luigi. We are grateful for this meeting and I'm beginning to belief it might bear fruit."

"Well, there is big money involved and also what some would call a heinous crime that would cost lives and property. It seems that a small airplane owned by the company in question, Blackstone, is to fly to Europe in a few days, the name Switzerland was dropped perhaps by accident. I get a call about this departure from what you might call a mystery man. No name, no address, no phone number. But an offer of half a million dollars simply to make a bomb, set the timer for say one hour, then deliver it to the waiting plane pretending to be a delivery service of some kind."

At this point I entered the conversation and asked if the idea might be to blow up the plane and its occupants somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.

"That would seem to be the case," Luigi replied. "Now in my line of work, I might say our line of employment, we may have done many things. But this borders on an act of terrorism of the type committed by those desert folks we have sometimes wrongly referred to as camel jockeys."

"I would say so," Hi Card agreed. "The money is good, if paid. But the act itself is distasteful. From what you have told me you would not know who or how many might be aboard that plane."

"That is totally correct. We know there would be a pilot and possibly an assistant pilot and perhaps a female crew member to make coffee and such. But why explode three such innocent souls. There must be at least one other individual someone is willing to spend half a million to totally obliterate, no fond farewells, not a hair left behind. Frankly, Hi Card, it is not my cup of tea."

We were all sipping our ice tea at the moment and we all pondered the question for maybe half a minute. Finally, Hi Card asked, "This money, how is to be delivered?"

"Cash. Like something out of the films. I am to get a phone call the day after tomorrow, then go to a certain parking garage, fourth floor, and wait. A car will come by, a door will open and a suitcase filled with a quarter of a million will be deposited. Then the car drives off."

"That's big money from a big money operation."

"Yes. They know who I am, but I do not know who they are. So if I don't hold up my end of the bargain, not only will I not get the other quarter mill, but they could clamp a hit on me. I'm tempted to tell them I won't do it. Stop it right there. Walk away."

Once again, I broke in. "If you do not do this job, Luigi, they will find some other way to eliminate whoever it is they are trying to eliminate. And I have a good idea it is the top leadership of Blackstone that has cooked up a plan to get rid of my adopted son. That is Roy, who you once graciously offered to protect. You see he is the last of the Blackstone's and with him out of the way, the ferrets running the company, no doubt milking it dry, can go on with business as usual. With him alive, there is an enduring threat. My idea is they are pretending to transport him to a school in Switzerland. That's where some rich folks send their offspring to rid their lives of them, at least temporarily."

Hi Card, Luigi and Mario followed my words with interest. Then Luigi asked if I had any suggestions of what must be done because I seemed to have a personal interest in the caper.

"Now this may sound insane at first, but I suggest I go to the FBI and see if we can work with them without endangering ourselves in any way."

As anticipated, all three men objected and discussed the matter for several minutes. In the meantime we ordered more ice tea which was served gratis.

I again held the floor. "There is an FBI man known to many of us, a certain Jim Ryan, one of those Irish cop types, who has cooperated with us in the past. I would go to him and ask to involve maybe two others as a team. I would then get their assurance that none of us could be touched by the arm of the law because we would be doing our civic duty."

Mario asked if we would be ratting out any of our companions.

"I believe we are dealing with corporate felons," I said. "This type of lowlife is capable of making off with bucketsful of cash from honest, hardworking folks. So we are home free."

"What if the FBI raises a stink?"

"We walk away and handle it ourselves in our own way. But that might be messy. Now Hi Card, who is my partner, will vouch for my honesty. If it meant slam for life I would never rat out any of my friends and neighbors, most of whom seem to be involved in some sort of criminal activity.

Hi Card did make a passionate plea in my behalf and I promised to have an up or down decision well before that phone call beckoning Luigi to the parking garage.

As it happened, I was able to reach Ryan by phone that afternoon and arrange a meeting in a nearby park for the next morning. I went overboard to stress the importance of this meeting.

My next call was to Senator Moon's office. She was out, but I talked to the case worker looking into the adoption and Roy's isolation. He told me the judge who issued the restraining order and invalidated the adoption seemed to be way out of order and the case had been referred to the U.S. attorney general who promised to fast track it.

This made me feel alright. Things were swinging right along. I found a piece of anchovy pizza in the fridge and washed it down with half a bottle of Pinot Grigio. I slept well. Rose bright eyed and ready to tackle the world. Showered, donned blue jeans and a travel shirt, grabbed breakfast burrito and coffee at McDonald's. Despite Ryan's objections, I had set the meeting at the park for eight a.m. Apparently, our FBI enjoys sleeping in.

It was a small park with only two benches. Either a drunk sleeping it off or a homeless man occupied one, I took the other. The city was alive, even if the FBI wasn't, cars filed by, an occasional bus, two or three pigeons apparently thought I had turned out at this hour to feed them.

Led by Ryan, the FBI arrived a half hour late. Ryan introduced Cliff and Reg, who stood and left me on the bench. Of course there wasn't room for four.

"Ok, young lady, what is it?" this abrupt question from the man introduced as Cliff. I looked at Ryan and he explained that Cliff was the agent in charge.

I nodded, and said, "It's quite a big deal. Hundreds of thousands of dollars involved to pay off a disaster that might cost three or four lives. International angle. Might be viewed as terrorism, but it's not."

He appeared skeptical, but said, "If you will come to our office and make out a report, we'll take care of it."

"The reason I called this meeting and asked for Ryan and three others is that it must be confidential in order to nail the top dogs planning these murders. My plan is for the three of you and my friends, or colleagues, whatever you might call them, to work as a team."

Cliff smiled as if he were addressing a child. "In our office I could have a female agent interview you if that would be better."

"Yes, and I might hold a conversation with the man in the moon. There will be no office and there will be no deal if you refuse to work with me and my friends. That's why we are here."

"Young lady, you don't seem to understand how the FBI operates. We work in complete secrecy with highly trained agents who would never betray a confidence."

I turned to Ryan and questioned, "Who is this guy and where did he come from?"

"Duluth, Penny. He was transferred in from Duluth."

"Is that a foreign country? Or might it be on Mars?"

"It's somewhere in the Midwest. It must be a fair sized city, but I couldn't tell you how to get there."

"Well, Ryan, two families are involved in this deal, two families cooperating. Mine and one other. You get my meaning?"

"I do, Penny, but Cliff is all by the book. He would like you to tell the entire story in our office."

"That so called office probably leaks like a sieve. The higher ups behind this deal, and they are higher ups, would likely learn of the federal involvement almost instantly and the whole thing would be called off. Then they would devise another plan probably unknown to me. I can't fight city hall and I can't give sensitive information to an office full of pretend cops."

"Young lady," Cliff said, still using that offensive salutation, "if you lie to the FBI it is a federal crime."

"I have told nothing to the FBI and do not intend to. I called Ryan because he is a reasonable man and might cooperate with a reasonable plan. On this turf, the organization I represent is larger than yours and seems to have a bit more smarts. So, it's been nice knowing you, goodbye."

"Young lady, you may be subject to arrest."

I turned to Ryan and said, "Get him out of here."

The three of them looked at one another, then walked off in the direction from whence they came. So, the ball was in my court and time was running out.

Ryan called me later that morning and said he had talked to Cliff and he might cooperate if I would come in and lay out my story. I told him they should send that meat head back to Duluth although he would probably be named FBI director one of these days. Ryan said he agreed on both counts.

So, it was back to Luigi and his bomb package. We met briefly, on a busy street corner and I told him he might have his cake and eat it too. His role was to do his best to discover who delivered the cash, where it came from and any other details he might uncover.

The entire remainder of the caper rested on my shoulders and I'll have to admit it felt good. It was Penny in charge and Penny to take the credit, or Penny to take the blame. We would complete the job and Luigi would get his full payoff, at least that was what was going through my mind.

Luigi did get his initial payoff on the fourth floor of an ancient parking garage. He had family members stashed everywhere, on foot, in cars and with cameras. He himself was wired for sound if there was to be any. Of course they followed the car when it left the garage, directly to Josh Bentley's home.

There really was no need for the additional personnel. But they did piece together a complete picture.

Then the day came to deliver the package to the plane. Hi Card had rented an old brown truck and I had donned brown trousers, brown shirt and had a brown ball cap pulled down over as much of my face as possible.

There was one surprise. I was stopped at the gate and told they would have a messenger deliver the package. Thinking quick, I said someone must sign for it. I was waved through the gate and Hi Card, smiling like a Cheshire cat, pulled up next to the Blackstone plane.

"Good, Penny," he called out, giving me a thumbs up, as I stepped out and into the plane, its door hanging open. Once inside I was surprised to see the same crew that had accompanied us to Africa, pilot, assistant pilot and Nancy, the attendant.

Roy shouted, "Mom" and gave me a big hug and kiss, adding, "How I've missed you."

Nancy was next with the hug, followed by the other two.

"It's important we get airborne and nobody knows I'm aboard," I said. "I'll explain later."

Because of our past, they responded without a question and we were soon down the runway followed by what is known as wheels up. By the time we had levelled off, we all managed to more or less cram into the cabin where I could make my announcement.

"This will frost the buttons off your vest," I began. "The package I brought is what you might call a dummy. It is supposed to be a bomb courtesy of Mallon Wolf and Josh Bentley." I paused here to let the tragic nature of my words soak in. There was a medley of comments and questions I did not fully understand.

"The bomb," I continued, "fully capable of doing the job, was supposed to be timed to detonate about one hour after takeoff. That would blow both the plane and the occupants to hell and maybe back again. This was Wolf and Bentley's cute way of disposing of Roy, the only surviving Blackstone and a threat to their reign of terror over Blackstone industries."

Again a flurry of indignation and questions which took some minutes to answer. I remarked that I was surprised and delighted to find our old African crew aboard."

To this, Roy responded brightly, "I asked for them."

Nancy looked at him in amusement and said, "Thanks a bunch."

"So, what now?" the pilot questioned.

"Well, your jobs are assured as long as we stay alive and hang onto Roy." And to him, who I held tightly with my right arm, "And we are not to part my boy. I've got Senator Moon and the feds looking into that judge's ruling."

And to the entire group – "What I propose is about an hour out we turn south. Is it possible to lose the plane, I mean I've heard below the radar?"

"Certainly," the pilot replied. "We just fly low. The weather's fine. Where might we go?"

"I checked a map. Bimini."

"Oh, let me go down to Bimini," the assistant pilot sang.

"The so called bomb is a pack of three cans of blue spray paint. If we could land somewhere and paint out the Blackstone markings. The reason for this is to pretend the bomb worked. Have Wolf and Bentley shed crocodile tears and vow to get to the bottom of the disappearance. Then two or three days later, I've arranged for someone to tell the local cops, the CIA, the FBI, Senator Moon and anyone else who will listen the full story.

"In the meantime, what do we do?" Nancy questioned.

"Live it up under fake names. I've also got a packet of false IDs that should be passable. I have money, credit cards and I can arrange to have a hundred grand wired to a bank in the Bahamas."

"But we'll be on Bimini," Roy interjected.

"I have to make phone calls. I do have throwaway cell phones, but maybe someone can tell they're from Bimini. So after the plane is altered, we fly to the Bahamas. Not far away, eh?"

"Plenty of fuel," the pilot said.

"Is it possible to find maybe a hangar or hiding place for the plane?" I questioned.

"I would think we could wheel it into something on the Bahamas," the pilot said.

"If there's a black market for planes we could peddle it," I speculated. "With Roy's approval."

"Why not," the boy replied, beaming. We were plotting together and the four of them had had a close encounter with the grim reaper of the nastiest kind.

"This is a sweet little number and it should bring some big bucks. But what would we do with the cash?"

"Spend it. And as quickly as possible. Thick steaks, dry martinis. Except for Roy. Ice cream sodas, all day long. A boogie board on the beach. Mom will be watching." He cocked his head and gave me a large smile. We were as happy as clams at high tide. An hour out, the plane dived toward the Atlantic, straightened out and turned south toward Bimini.

There was never such a cheerful bunch, laughing, joking, thinking of outwitting Wolf and his flunky. There was a cheer and applause when we spotted Bimini. The pilots had talked about touching down on a beach, but feared soft sand and being stuck for good.

An ancient road on a deserted part of the island offered a bumpy landing strip. We piled out and were soon absorbed in spray painting our magic carpet, covering all markings. Probably illegal, but we were beyond the clutches of U.S. law and the islands tend to be carefree. Also open to undocumented cash of which I had brought a supply.

The sun was a demon and soon we were off searching out the major Bimini airport. Traffic was light and we were cleared by the tower to land and pull up in the commercial area. The crew, Blackstone required blue uniforms, soon changed into civilian duds and we checked in with the office, paid a fee, and caught a cab for the hotel-beach area. All was right with the world.

Only hours before we were thought to be lost in mid-Atlantic with not one soul alive. Now we were registered under fake names, sitting outside under canvas and sipping something red and tropical. Even Roy, with his Shirley Temple.

I had assumed the position of leader of the group with my small Blackstone backup. My plan was to telephone Hi Card the next day and sick the FBI on the Wolf-Beckley duo, still under the pretense that the plane was lost. Then a day later fly to the Bahamas where the plane might be wheeled into a hangar and sold on what might be called the black market, or more to the point a thieves market. We didn't, after all, have a title. It was a dandy and the money would be divvied up among the crew.

The day dissolved into evening and we dined on Florida lobster, the type without claws, and a fresh green salad with bits of mango and dried cranberries. Roy and I had a room with a gallery overlooking the ocean, of course there were a few palm trees in between. We sat there as the night swallowed the blue of evening and chatted about what he had been up to since being seized by Blackstone. Mostly tutors ostentatiously preparing him for a nondescript school in Switzerland.

I waited until well after breakfast the following day to call Hi Card and at that seemed to rouse him from sleep. He had been concerned that the plan might not have worked which would mean myself and companions would be chumming with creatures of the deep.

At any rate, I told him to hold the belief that the plane had blown up on schedule and inform the local FBI as well as others that the two top boys at Blackstone were guilty of both mass murder and the also willful destruction of company property.

Later, I learned Hi Card had called Ryan and told him the story, but Ryan was compelled to ask him to repeat the story to Cliff.

"You are making some very serious charges against two very important men," Cliff replied. "Of course our office is in pursuit of lawbreakers regardless of their station in life. But the men you speak of are at the top of the heap. Most people have heard of Blackstone."

"You think it unimportant that the last surviving Blackstone family member might be at the bottom of the Atlantic?"

"Of course not. The pane seems to be lost, but very likely it is some natural disaster, or engine failure. However, if you bring me evidence, we might begin a preliminary investigation. Did you say your name was Top Cat?"

"No I didn't." Hi Hat signed off and called Senator Moon's office. Later he also called the police, sheriff and state attorney general.

The following morning five FBI agents from Washington were waiting for Cliff when he arrived at the office, late as normal.

After they each satisfied Cliff with their identifications, the leader of the team said they would need to take over the office for a few days.

"Take over my office?" Cliff asked haughtily.

"The entire office complex. We will need to use your interrogation room, plus another, that could be your personal office. Also, we will probably need the total office space. So, why don't you and your staff simply take a day or so off. We'll call you at home when we've cleaned up the mess here."

"Cleaned up what mess?" Cliff asked.

"The Blackstone mess. The one you've refused to move on a couple or three times."

"I've been given no evidence of wrongdoing."

"Generally, Cliff, the FBI considers its job is to uncover evidence of wrongdoing. If we just sat in the office and waited for such evidence to wander in we might simply be called the FB, you could drop the I."

"We vet applicants for federal jobs."

"Of course you do, Cliff. You do it here and you've done it in Duluth. You do such detailed scrutiny of applicants that few seem to be interested in the job once you are through. And the Director told me just before we boarded our plane in Washington that you will soon be back in Duluth vetting job applicants. How does that sound to you?"

"Not very good. Could I help you here?"

"No. We've not come here to vet job applicants. But we can use Jim Ryan. He has a lot of local contacts. You and Reggie can run along. Out of curiosity, is Duluth your home town?"

"No, I'm from Broken Bow."

Dropping the topic, Cliff stomped off.

And so, both Mallon Wolf and Josh Bentley were taken into custody that morning as persons of interest. Both demanded their lawyers be present and both were sequestered in different offices at the rooms taken over by the Washington agents.

Ryan had been in contact with Hi Card to find what evidence he might have uncovered.

"It was Bentley who made the pay offs," Hi Card told him.

"And someone made the bomb?"

"Of course. Quite a skilled operation to make a deadly bomb capable of destroying a two engine aircraft and snuffing out multiple lives. Not your everyday July Fourth blowout."

"We would of course like to chat with the bomb maker."

"And I would like to chat with George Washington and the horse he rode in on. We are cooperating with you to nail the bad guys and to protect the innocent. If a bomb can't be found in one place, it can be found in another. If a murderous plan does not at first succeed, try, try again."

"And this bomb and plan seemed to work?"

"I'll let you draw your own conclusions on that. But I can say with certainty that Josh Bentley made both payoffs. If push comes to shove, I might be able to provide photographic evidence. We had the location thoroughly staked out."

Ryan reported back to the chief of the Washington squad. "Perhaps we should bring this Hi Card into custody," the chief suggested.

"If you did, Hi Card would be the toast of his community. Questioned by FBI agents from Washington. What an honor. And telling them nothing, but having good banter. Hi Card and friends are attempting to help us without involving themselves in capital crimes. The criminals inhabit the executive offices at Blackstone. The intent is to rid the world of the last living Blackstone, thus letting their pillaging of the company continue unimpeded."

"But we need evidence."

"You're beginning to sound like Cliff. We can perhaps arrest a relative innocent bomb maker, or we can nail the two who planned and executed the crime. Take your choice. Although it might be more difficult to find the bomb maker."

"You have sources."

"And I value my skin. That is also why I have sources."

# Chapter Seventeen

A pair of lawyers had appeared at the FBI office, first names Floyd and Lloyd. The FBI chief noted a similarity in their appearance.

"We are twins," Floyd said curtly. Both were all business and pretended to be put out by their clients being held without arrest.

"You want arrest?" the chief inquired.

"Not necessarily," Lloyd said. "We want to talk to our clients together, away from others, no interruptions."

"In other words you want to get your story together, is that it?"

"Certainly not," Floyd said. "We simply want the judicial process to proceed smoothly and on an even keel."

"Well, I can tell you both that the plane carrying a three member crew and Roy, the only surviving member of the Blackstone family, has vanished in mid-ocean. I can also tell you that we are getting evidence that Mr. Bentley made a large pay off to a bomb maker."

"I say either charge our clients, or release them," Lloyd demanded.

"This is an international case. It could be terrorism. We are bringing in the CIA, Interpol and the British judiciary. So you see we can hold your clients indefinitely under the laws of piracy, sedition, terrorism, and a few others. I might add the U.S. attorney general has already launched an investigation of legal hanky-panky. That would involve your clients' law firm."

"That would be us," Floyd asserted. "What on earth?"

"The odd case of invalidating a legal adoption, restraining a mother from seeing her child, clamping a ring of security around the boy until he could be sent to his death in a company airplane."

"I think we should talk with our clients," Lloyd said.

"Whose client is who?"

"We represent them both, so we should talk to them together," Floyd said.

"Not that old game again," the chief laughed. "Pick your client. Did I mention the charge of treason, a hanging offense."

Lloyd gave him a bitter look and said, "I represent Mr. Bentley and Floyd represents Mr. Wolf."

"Good, I'll have an agent with a tape recorder sit in on each discussion. Strictly by the book."

Aware of the law, the two had no recourse but to stalk off to meet with their individual client under the eye and recording of the FBI.

On the islands, the Bimini five spent another relaxing day between the beach, the restaurant bistro. All had purchased bathing attire along with colorful towels. After another sound night's sleep they took off for the Bahamas where the plane was duly placed in a hangar and the airport personnel were quietly told it was for sale, no title, no questions asked, but cash only.

They soon had a bidding war on their hands.

Back at the FBI office, Floyd and Lloyd had huddled with their clients, then privately talked among themselves. They then told the FBI chief that they had decided to withdraw from the case and thus departed the office.

This puzzled the chief. He first approached Bentley who was still chatting with the agent who had sat in on the lawyer-client conference. "Your lawyer, Floyd, I believe, has resigned, leaving you unrepresented. What do you think of that?"

"I was just telling the agent here, this whole thing was hatched by Mallon Wolf. I've always been his flunky. He's carried me along just to do his dirty work. Fix judges, bribe certain employees, whatever gets us to the top of the pile and then what it takes to stay there. I want to make a clean breast of the entire affair. I carried the money for the bomb and instructed a man named Luigi to set the bomb for one hour and see that it got on the plane. But I was only carrying out Wolf's instructions. I should have known better."

The chief noticed that the agent had kept the tape running. "We'll have that confession transcribed and you can sign it. We will note it came without coercion."

"I'm glad to get it off my chest. I feel good. I'm a weak character and was led down a criminal path."

The chief then entered the room and found a similar situation. Mallon Wolf was telling the agent that Bentley must have feared for his job and concocted an awful scheme to kill that poor boy as well as the loyal crew of that small plane.

"You're aware that your lawyer quit?" the chief asked Wolf.

"I thought as much. Bentley had involved them in a shyster scheme to separate the boy from his mother and then carry through with his diabolical plan. Frankly, I wasn't aware of it until after the plane disappeared. My time is taken up running the Blackstone empire, if you can call it that. I was delighted that the boy Roy was found and returned to our loving bosom."

"That's your story?" the chief asked politely.

"And every word is God's truth."

"Holy Catfish," the chief said, almost to himself. "Now I can wash my hands of this entire situation, turn it over to the legal eagles and return to Washington. Get out of these soiled duds and into a dry martini as someone famous once said."

"You have my sympathy," Wolf said grandly. "I will stand by the prosecution every step of the way. How could it be that I put my total trust in a man who would so thoroughly betray not only me, but the entire Blackstone empire." Then he added, for no apparent reason, "The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

Shortly after Hi Card got the word he called and told me both Bentley and Wolf had been charged and incarcerated with a bond hearing set three days away. This would wait a team of attorneys from the Justice Department setting up camp and getting a grip on the case.

Meanwhile, a Saudi Prince had snapped up the plane and was already having it repainted to his liking. He had obtained registration and an official title from his country thanks to his status. The three crew members were swimming in cash and had gone off on extended holiday after assurances from Roy with my backing that their jobs would be waiting.

Roy and I caught the first flight home and managed through stealth to make it to my apartment. I called Hi Card and told him our location.

"Jeez, Penny," were his first words, "the sky is about to fall when they find you're not even wet. And Roy too."

"Stranger things have happened. I don't believe we're a pair of criminals, Roy and me, just honest folks with a plan."

"What about the crew?"

"They sold the plane and are off spending the take."

"For the love of God, Penny, is that kosher?"

"They have the blessing of the only surviving Blackstone. He's tanned and hardy after beaching in the islands."

"You want that I should make the outcome known?"

"Why not? You and me are as thick as so-called thieves. Just don't tell them where we are right away. Although we won't be hard to find. You might also announce that Roy recommends that Thelma Chabot serve as CEO while Wolf and Bentley are enjoying slam."

"That should give her a good retirement."

And so it happened that Roy and I set off to journey through life together – to travel through those wonderful teenage years, girl problems, struggles for an education, minor car collisions, minor and major spats, me as a mother-in-law. You name it. Sheer happiness.

***
