

DEATH

TIMES

TWO

by

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2015

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn and Rosalie, my patient readers, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.

Prologue

I stared at my hands. It had been a couple of hours. The blood had dried. I turned on the tap, picked up the soap, and scrubbed until they were raw, but traces of the scarlet were still embedded under my nails and the cuticles were stained with sick reminders of what I had discovered.

I did what Pam asked. They were identical twins, just like she'd said. Even through the dope ravaged features, I could see the two of them side by side, smiling like mirror images in the photograph. Soon she would know.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Now I was in deeper than I could ever have imagined. Sunny's image flashed in my mind, but I had no one to blame. Some believe in destiny, a predetermined fate that we all pursue mindlessly, never fully aware that the die is cast. Despite how we have been schooled by our parents, our teachers, our religions, the whole of western philosophy . . . we really have few choices.

I propped myself up on the settee and my mind began to drift. Things were better when I actually believed I could escape. But now running away simply wasn't an option. Besides, how do you run away from a murder?

Chapter 1

Key West is behind me – and I hope some of the evil mantle that drapes my legacy is gone with it. I've just entered the Gulf Stream on KAMALA, my beautiful and strong O'Day 31. The wind is from the southeast at 10-12 knots and the swells off the starboard quarter hold her in their sweet, gentle sway. The full main and 130% Genoa are full and drawing, whispering the secrets that waft on the breeze. The GPS says nine knots over the ground. The sun is low on the horizon and the orange and gold tint the blue indigo current that races north up the Atlantic Coast until it meets its cold antithesis in the endless fathoms off Cape Hatteras, NC. But I have secrets of my own and they stalk me like malignant wraiths that refuse to be silenced.

I never wanted to be the Ghostcatcher. After all, I am simply an English professor whose retirement was hastened by the murder of a friend. Actually that's a nice way to put it. The truth is that I became imminently expendable when I became involved. The university offered me the opportunity to resign with full pension and I snapped it up. Let's face it, I was damaged goods and they needed me gone to avoid the publicity . . . all of it bad. But that's an old story. If you want details, I have an unlisted number.

I sought sanctuary . . . more honestly, escape . . . in the blue water and the confines of the benevolent chaos that is Key West. I had devoted friends on the dock at Land's End Marina. Fritz and Chris were people I cherished in their own ways . . . and ultimately trusted. I met Samantha Marie Elgar, my Sunny, a woman who transformed me . . . gave me sustenance, and ultimately, love. In many ways, she was the reason for this voyage. Those thoughts danced with the dolphins as I skirted up the coast.

It all seemed so simple until the first death. I thought it was a one-time affair . . . a chance to help my old buddy, Captain Sal and her crewmate, Billy. There was Frank Beamon, the affable detective on the Key West Police Force. He and I had joined forces and found the killer. I thought it was over, but the Voodoo and the imprimatur of the Ghostcatcher was upon me.

Next it was Fritz, a friend of over thirty years. He wanted my help. I couldn't say no. We had saved his daughter from a living death of drugs and a multitude of evil scars on her body and her soul. Now she was a Private Investigator in Fort Lauderdale and fighting her own personal war against the demons, the pain, and the injustice they wrought.

The death of Hallemina's husband had been the most recent . . . and I thought, the last of the horrors I would be forced to confront. Then the Ghostcatcher could go to a quiet place and dissolve into a misbegotten past. Each case was different, but they were all the same. The sycophants and the idealists would have it all be very simple. Good versus evil. The black and the white. Defeat the darkness and it will refuse to return. Bu there is one problem that refuses to lay its head to rest. It's man, himself. The inherent nature of the beast is a host of contradictions, some dark, some light, but mostly an infinite array of shades of gray. The lines we draw are ours and none of us knows where we will draw them or how they will shift until the circumstances dictate paths that lead us to heaven or hell.

These were the things I wanted to leave behind. I was on my way to join Sunny. She had taken an offer last August to teach psychology at a small branch of her alma mater, the University of Virginia. It was in Norfolk near Hampton Roads, the southern entrance to the Chesapeake Bay. When I met her, she was the best damned bar tender in Key West and according to her male patrons, had the best ass in the state of Florida. I hadn't seen her in three months or so, but I bet she still did. Despite all of the mayhem, I was happy on KAMALA at Land's End, but without Sunny beside me, I didn't think that could continue. It took me a while to wrap up things in the Keys and say my goodbyes, but I was gone.

This voyage was to be my catharsis. Chris had offered to crew with me on the offshore jaunt, but I figured that singlehanded, I could collect the pent up emotions and the terror in parts of me and simply consign them to the deep. I had already rented a slip at Tidal Refuge, a marina just a short bike ride from Sunny's apartment. Another few days in the Gulf Stream, and if all went well, KAMALA would be tied up and I'd be in the arms of a woman who would help banish any remaining demons. A sweet scenario.

It almost worked.

Chapter 2

The days at sea were long, but the wind held steady. I had left Cape Fear to port and made landfall through the inlet at Beaufort, NC. Exhausted, I pulled into the city marina for an overnight respite. A few icy beers at the Dock House and some damned fine guitar playing by one of the locals set me at ease. I slept like the proverbial brick. The next morning after an engine check and some slight re-provisioning, I was off through Adams Creek and into the Neuse River, ready for the pounding slog up the Pamlico Sound. A couple of anchorages and the Dismal Swamp Canal later, I pulled into the Tidal Refuge at Norfolk, VA. Sunny came down the dock as I was securing the last of the lines.

It was like a scene from a Nicholas Sparks novel. The afternoon sun sparkled through her hair like a thousand fine diamonds. She wore tight red shorts and a white tank top that shimmered with every breath. It had only been a few months, but the curves were all in their appointed places. Her skin was the color of a light walnut and I told myself there was love in the crystal blue eyes.

She bounded on board and hugged my sweaty body like I'd hung the moon. I popped a couple of cold Kaliks and we sat in the cockpit, talking, touching, and embracing.

"Oh God, T.K. It's even better than I thought. I have four classes, two introductory, and two second level. The kids are just awesome." She laughed, mostly at herself. "Listen to me. Now, I even sound like them. The other professors are helpful and respectful. I haven't had anyone grab my ass yet."

She'd had plenty of that in her former gig at The Green Parrot. Not that it wasn't an ass worth grabbing, but it did get old. She asked about the trip. I just patted KAMALA and grinned. She planted a big slobbery kiss on the bulkhead and whispered, "Good girl," to my noble craft.

We did some catching up. I told her the latest tales about our former dock mates. Fritz was still his grizzled sometimes gruff self, punching computer keys and making a meager, but honest living. Chris was working at West Marine. He had calmed down a bit. Now he was generally leaving the twenty year olds to the younger and more boisterous male crowd. His new pursuits were strictly mid-thirties. More experienced, he told me, but still not carrying too much baggage from ex-husbands and screaming children. Captain Sal was doing well, still catching the big ones for the tourists with fat bankrolls. I regaled my lady as long as I could with the updates on the rest of Buffett's Roundtable, Louis, Tracy, The Whip and Miss Julianne. I finally begged off to get a fresh, hot shower. Then we ambled off to Crab Heaven, a place down the street that boasted the "Best Blue Crab on the Bay".

After a sip or two of a good house Cabernet, we got more than a bit serious.

"I didn't know whether you'd come, T.K. I missed you the minute I cleared Stock Island in the old Saab. I played Bruce Springsteen and cried damned near half way here. It's only been three months, but I longed for you every day. I like it here and I like it even more since you are with me."

I reached for her hand and said quietly, "I am." Her blue eyes began to tear, but she blinked a few times and wiped them away with a napkin. She smiled and gripped my hand tightly for a few seconds, then withdrew it to return to the Cabernet.

"I don't want to bug you on your first night in port, but there's someone I want you to meet. I told her about you. I'll pick you up after my 1:30 class and take you over to my office. You'll like her."

It seemed a little weird. I wondered exactly what kind of propaganda Sunny had related to the mysterious lady. I assumed she was a student. Maybe she needed help with a research paper or some other innocuous project. Anyway, it wasn't the time to ask. I had other things on my mind and they involved one very pretty woman wearing nothing but a smile.

The crab was delicious, as advertised, and the Cab went down with a fruity bite. It was obvious our time away hadn't dampened Sunny's appetite. She went through a dozen fried shrimp, a double order of fries, several fat hush puppies and slaw off both our plates. As for me, after several days on the O'Day, it was nice to eat anything I didn't have to prepare in a rolling seaway. We got back to the boat and went below. It was cool enough to light the brass kerosene lantern. It swung gently, casting graceful shadows that danced on the golden teak bulkhead.

Sunny Elgar has never been one to waste time. She had my shirt unbuttoned before I could fill the snifters with brandy. Her hands crawled all over me like an explorer creating a map. I tried to reciprocate, but she held my hands at my side and ran her tongue up and down my chest. My dad always told me a gentleman does not kiss and tell. So I'll let your imagination do the rest of it. Forgive the clichés . . . but, thanks, I needed that.

Chapter 3

I spent the next morning and early afternoon cleaning the boat. She was decidedly a mess. I started with the topsides, sprayed, brushed, and even buffed a few places. Then I rewarded myself with a cold Kalik and started below. The head, the sinks, the teak. Hell, I even vacuumed the throw rugs and scrubbed the floor. Then I started on myself. Fresh shave, shower, washed the hair, clean clothes. It's okay. You can call me Mr. Clean from now on, but thank the gods, I still have my hair. I don't quite have his build, and my skin looks more like tanned leather, but my 6'2" frame still features some hard ripples and grit.

There was a hint of fall in the air. The sun had lost it burning intensity and the glow bathed me in a warm and comforting blanket. I knew from my time in the Carolinas a few years back that it was only a few weeks before winter began to bluster in announced by the north wind. With Sunny by my side, I could survive that. I heard the old Saab pull into the parking lot. Sunny had the top down. Hey, enjoy it while you can. She talked mostly about her classes. B. F. Skinner was the flavor du jour. Interesting guy. I always thought he was at least partially correct about the Behaviorism. We all like to think that we are masters of our own destiny, but there is little doubt that our environment and those things we carry with us from our youth dictate many of our decisions. It's only the degree which is in question. We were on campus within ten minutes. I figured I could make the ride on my bike in another ten or so. Definitely manageable, and I damned sure needed the exercise. She didn't mention the girl.

She pulled the Saab into her assigned space and we entered a brick four story building. Old Georgian architecture, tall windows, white columns, just what you'd expect from a sedate southern institution of higher learning. Her office was on the third floor. It was small, but neat, with the obligatory wall of book shelves and a scarred wooden desk with a black leather chair that rocked and pivoted. All very academic. We had barely settled in when there was a light tap on the door. Sunny bade entrance and there was a slight creak as the wood swung inward. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this.

Pam Wallace was small. An inch or two less and she could have been a munchkin dancing down the Yellow Brick Road in "The Wizard of Oz". Her features were unremarkable, almost tiny, like her body. Her face was plain and pale, almost sickly. The nose a bit too plump for her face and her lips were oversized. Her hair was more like fine straw. She wore a green sweatshirt two sizes too big with UVA emblazoned on the front. I couldn't even tell if she had any breasts. A pair of wrinkled, baggy, jeans with holes at each knee covered her legs. The shoes looked like rejects from the Salvation Army. So red that they made her undersized feet look diseased. She kept her head down, but extended a cool ghostly hand.

"I've heard so much about you, Professor. It's nice." I had to turn my head to hear the mouse like tones.

"Thank you, but its ex-professor. I am currently an over educated boat bum. You can call me T.K. Everyone else does."

I barely heard the muffled giggle, but I have to admit, it was somewhat endearing.

"Ms. Elgar tells me you're going to come hear me and Shorty tonight."

I looked at Sunny. She hadn't told me that part. She nodded and shot a reassuring glance in my direction. "Trust me," she said, "you're gonna get your socks knocked off."

"Sounds great," I said rather half-heartedly. I had been hoping for an instant replay of last night's carnal festivities, but I reminded myself one mustn't be greedy. Even if I damned sure was.

That was it. After Pam left, I asked a few questions, but I didn't get many answers. Sunny obviously had something up her sleeve and she wasn't quite willing to show those cards. At least, not yet. Every time I asked a question, she just said, "It's music. You can wait. But you just met an American Treasure." Sunny knows me as well as anyone. Hell, I'm still in mourning for Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix and I had to add Jack Bruce and Joe Cocker to that list just recently. If Sunny told me I could wait, she was probably right.

Chapter 4

We picked up a fish sandwich and some fries from one of the local joints on the way back to the boat. I had to have a little taste of Evan Williams on the rocks while Sunny stuck with the Cabernet. I dozed on the settee for forty minutes or so. At about nine, Sunny rousted me. We drove over to Virginia Beach and parked in front of the HOTEL AUSTIN right across from the beach. I hoped the building wouldn't cave in while we were inside. Rumor had it that the place had been built as a joke and an insult to one of the Hilton clan who had ridiculed Virginia Beach as a venue for a classy resort. In any event, it had been rode hard and put up wet. The ancient red carpet at the entrance smelled of stale smoke and squished beneath your feet. Inside wasn't much better.

The tables were chipped brown Formica and your forearm stuck to them if you were brave enough to put it down. But there was good news, too. The draft beer was generously served in frosty mugs and the joint was already full with what I guessed were mostly locals, sprinkled with a few adventuresome tourists. There was an air of expectancy, like the Duke and the Duchess were arriving any minute. The recorded music was loud, and knees, hands, toes were already tapping to the beat of Bob Seeger's "Rock'n'Roll Never Forgets". I saw a man, small, but built like a miniature tree trunk, lift a bass guitar out of a stand. He cuddled and caressed the instrument like a father holds a child. Then the drummer adjusted a stool behind the snares, cymbals and a bass drum emblazoned with HIGH FLYER. Another munchkin candidate with a scraggly goatee fondled a burgundy Fender Stratocaster, and finally a Stevie Nicks clone waltzed up to a double stack of keyboards.

Her wispy yellow hair draped over her shoulders and down her neck in a shimmering wave. Black stilettoes accented a pair of legs that can only be described as dead-on luscious. The dress was just barely that; short, diaphanous, sheer enough to catch the backlights highlighting her sexy shape. The curve of her breasts beckoned with every breath, probably a push-up bra. But the best was definitely yet to come.

The little man with the Fender plowed into a sweet funky riff. The drummer hammered the beat and the bass thumped. Then there was the voice. A Queen of Soul classic, "R E S P E C T", and Aretha, herself, would have been proud, if maybe even a little jealous. A couple stood at the corner of the dance floor tentatively trying out some moves. The girl, in white shorts that must have been sprayed on, and a pink top that plunged to her navel, slid onto the floor, her shoulders and ass in perfect rhythm to the pounding beat. Soon her man had joined her with his own brand of groove. The multi-colored strobes flashed, and suddenly writhing bodies appeared everywhere. Some holding hands, some holding hips, and some grasping sweaty bottles. We sat in awe while the band ran through a cascade of soul and blues, spiced with dashes of rockabilly and pure country. The Fender screamed when it should and the drummer never missed a beat. The bass solos were incredible. Every note, every bump, every tone just as it should be. It didn't take me long to figure it out. We were in the presence of a rock goddess and her faithful courtiers. She just plain had it. At the break she came over and sat down.

"T.K., I'm glad you could make it. I hope you like it."

"My God, Pam. Now I know why Sunny told me I had met an American Treasure."

She grinned and I could see a glimpse of the shy, plain girl I had spoken with earlier in the day.

"I want you to meet Shorty and the rest of the band on the next break. Shorty was lead guitar on a record a few years back that peaked at number one. 'Kisses Everywhere'. Do you remember it?"

"I damned sure do. The Howling Brigade. I bought the album."

"Yeah, a lotta people did. They got the tune, I kind of got the guitar player. Well, I need to get back. The owner doesn't like long breaks, just enough time for the crowd to order another round. That's what he tells us. And we need the work."

Most of the dancers sat during the break, catching their breaths, wiping the sweat, cooling off with the golden elixir that ran from the taps behind the bar. But at the corner of the dance floor three men stood and waited. The middle one wore a black silk shirt and cowboy boots with sterling silver toes. His hair matched the shirt and shone in the light, slicked back off the forehead with some kind of thick grease. A thin dark mustache added the final touch. He reminded me of one of the bad guys from old Hopalong Cassidy and Buck Rogers serials. A

Ming the Merciless sort of character. The shorts were always sandwiched around the matinees I used to suck up on Saturday afternoons for the princely sum of 25 cents. Sometimes it even included a small bag of popcorn. Butter was a nickel extra.

The two goons on either side of Mr. Slick were right out of central casting. The one on the right was short, but built like a fireplug. His face was plump, but at the same time fraught with a total lack of expression. He might have been a life-size version of Michelin Man, but without the smile. The other one was a cross between Lurch from the old "Addams Family" and Jaws of James Bond fame. Maybe 6'6", thick and sculpted, about to bust out of a Washington Redskins jersey with the number 00 stretched across the chest. He had a permanent glare tattooed on his face.

Pam got up and glided back to the stage. She whispered something to Shorty. He looked over at our table and nodded. Then Mr. Black Silk strode casually over to the low stage and placed a shiny boot up on the edge. He towered over Pam and Shorty. He slipped them each a serpentine smile and said something I couldn't hear. Pam grimaced. Her lips moved and she turned away. He grabbed her arm and Shorty stepped between them. His mouth hurled two words. I couldn't hear them, but I was betting on "Fuck you". Slick's motioned to Lurch and the giant's hand snatched Shorty's shirt with a force that pushed the little man back into a stack of amplifiers. The short goon watched from a few feet away, waiting for a cue. The club's bouncer and one of the bartenders were hustling through the crowd toward the scene. Suddenly the three bad guys melted back into the audience. It had all happened so quickly, I doubt anyone much noticed. I looked over at Sunny. Her eyes were hard and focused on the American Treasure. I tapped her on the shoulder. "I'll tell you later," she said through clenched teeth.

The brief commotion was over. Shorty gathered himself and shouldered the Strat. HIGH FLYER was ready to leave the ground.

The treble moved into the stratosphere and I picked up the opening immediately. Big Brother and the Holding Company featuring none other than a budding Janis Joplin. Most people didn't know that it had been recorded a couple of years earlier by Aretha Franklin's older sister Irma. She blew the doors off of it, but the psychedelic treatment by Janis and the band took it into the blues cosmos. "Come on and take it . . . Take another little piece of my heart."

By the time the Treasure growled that last line, I was semi-comatose. Sunny just looked at me and smiled with that "I told you so" look plastered all over her beautiful smug face. She had an eight o'clock class the next morning. So we said reluctant goodbyes between songs and I dropped a twenty in the tip jar. Best twenty bucks I've spent in a long time.

We went back to KAMALA. I couldn't get Sunny to stay, and I didn't get the story on Pam's and Shorty's ominous buddies. But cocktails and steaks on the grill were planned for the next evening. I figured a "tell all" session was in the offing. What I didn't know was that I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

Chapter 5

Sunny looked tired, but she still radiated that focused intelligence, and the tight jeans shouted sheer sexuality. I hugged her as she stepped onto the cockpit. It seemed to revive her a bit. She pressed her breasts against my chest and let out a warm breath that I took as a promise.

"Reading essays all afternoon. Choose the most effective psychotherapist and explain the reasons for your choice. A lot of them love Carl Rogers, but Glasser and Jourard have their fans. Even good old Albert Ellis got a couple of votes. It's damned exhausting. My eyes are on fire and my head is spinning like a merry-go-round on meth."

I silently ran my memories of the classroom and shuddered. I understood all too well. I offered a heaping glass of Cab, but Sunny insisted on something stronger. I poured a generous dollop of Evan Williams on top of two ice cubes and whispered water over it. Then I duplicated the potent concoction for myself.

"Okay, I said I'd tell you later. Here it is. Pam is a terrific student. She's probably older than you think, comes by the office for help and sometimes just to talk. She and Shorty hang wallpaper during the day and HIGH FLYER is the house band at the hotel Wednesday through Saturday. In late September she came in bubbling like tonic on steroids. They had caught the eye of a recording agent. He wanted a quick signature. Then he'd arrange a tour an opening act for a big name, maybe even the latest incarnation of AC/DC. Lots of promotion, the whole gig. She wanted my opinion. I made some calls, checked some credentials and IDs. It all looked legit. That's when the tall slick dude showed up. He's president of Talent Pro, LTD, another agency. He had an offer that looked even better. I was still trying to help. I've gotten pretty chummy with the wife of a detective on the Norfolk PD. She's on the faculty. Sara O'Mara and he's Bill. Nice folks. You'll meet them. Anyway, I've got an edge. Sara won't hear it from me, but I think Bill likes my boobs."

"Yeah, well I can't say I blame him."

"Okay smartass, enough." She took a slug of the Evan and faked a hearty frown of disapproval.

"Anyway, I asked our lecherous friend a few questions, found out Talent Pro is tied to the local mob. I told Pam and she refused to sign with them. Then it got interesting. Pam has a twin brother, Paul. But now I think it's time for me to shut up. Let her give you her story. When you hear it, you might want to help."

"Damnit Sunny, what did you say to her? I left that stuff in Key West. It's time for me to go back to being a gentleman boat bum and work on the Great American Novel."

"I didn't tell her much of anything, but she's not stupid. That Ghostcatcher shit is all over Google. You should never have written those books. Anybody with a decent laptop can find out damned near anything about anyone these days. And you, my love, are an easy mark."

I didn't want to admit it, but she was right. I told myself to count to ten and take a deep breath. It was time to reassess my priorities and focus on the problems at hand. Cook the steaks and coax my lovely lady into the v berth. I am happy to say I succeeded at both, but not before I agreed, under copious duress, to listen to the sad tale of Pam and Shorty. Sunny told me to check by her office at three. Then we got on with other business. Within an hour we were moaning and sweating like two thoroughbreds in season. Life does have it's compensations.

She left about eleven with a not too thinly veiled warning, "Don't forget. My office at three."

The next day was kind of strange. New digs, new people on the dock, a chill in the air you didn't find in Key West. I wasn't quite ready for it. I dug out my old space heater, plugged it in, and turned the knob. It roared to life with just a little clatter from the dusty blades. Then it settled into a nice warm breeze. That would do for the time being.

I brewed a cup of hot coffee and spiked it with a healthy hint of Jameson . . . just for medicinal purposes, you understand. The morning was magnificent. The salt air filled my nostrils and infused my lungs with a satisfaction I hadn't felt since Sunny had left on that dark day in the Keys. The sun was high in the sky and brilliant. I found a couple of slices of stale bread and ate them without butter or jam. KAMALA looked good and proud from yesterday's cleaning. Hey, what's not to like? I didn't know it then, but there was plenty. It was just a matter of time.

As I sat in the cockpit sipping the warm brew, my mind began to spar with the Pam and Shorty thing. Sunny, my loving companion and a perennially devoted crusader, had adopted this talented child. That was obvious. She and her husband were in some kind of trouble. Mr. Black Silk, his personal fireplug, and Lurch were involved. Sunny thought I could help, but help with what? I'd sailed a thousand miles to leave the Ghostcatcher. I thought I'd dumped the sonovabitch overboard somewhere off of Islamoroda. Maybe he was still swimming after me. I thought of Satchel Paige, the refugee from the old Negro Leagues. He'd finally pitched in the majors, the oldest man ever to start a major league game. "Don't look back, "he said, "something might be gaining on you." Yeah.

Chapter 6

I called Sunny about two and told her not to pick me up. I pulled the old Schwinn off the deck and hit all the critical spots with a good shot of WD-40. In minutes I was pedaling toward the campus and the wheels were spinning like a finely tuned turbine. I parked my fine charger in the bike rack and headed up the steps. I was a little out of breath when I reached her office on the third floor. Mental note: I needed to start back with my daily exercise routine.

Pam was sitting meekly in one of Sunny's warped chairs. The Diva had transformed back into Miss Mousey. Not a trace of the stunning, vivacious dynamo I had seen clutching the microphone and belting out sounds that could have been made by an inspired demon. Only a smudge of mascara below her left eye whispered of the magic she had wrought the night before. She said hello and again I had to turn my head to hone in on the subdued tones of her voice.

"The professor says I need to tell you the rest of the story. I can, but T.K., don't hurt me."

I didn't like the choice of words. I wasn't sure I should do it, but I put my hand on hers and squeezed just a bit. She lifted her head and looked at Sunny. The professor nodded while she bit her lower lip. Pam seemed somewhat reassured, but there was still fear lurking behind those blue eyes. Finally she went on.

"Paul's my twin brother. We're identical, born only seconds apart. He's quiet, like me." She reached into a denim bag and pulled out a photograph. They were maybe twelve or fourteen. The two of them arm in arm somewhere on a beach, smiling and full of love. It was like looking at two puppies snuggling and longing for their momma. She waited for me to be consumed, then went on.

"There's tons of kindness and a joy that's sort of hidden beneath the surface, but now he's lost . . . into the stuff. It was just marijuana at first, then some coke. He finally started shooting. That's when it became really bad. He couldn't keep up with the cost. A hundred bucks a day. He started selling. A little at first. Then his habit got more expensive and he hooked up with some major dealers. I tried to help him, but he wouldn't . . . maybe couldn't . . . listen. Me and Shorty were playing some gigs, but we had to work cheap. The construction business was down and the wallpaper jobs were drying up. That's when I blew it."

"What do you mean, Pam?"

"Last year Paul asked for a favor. He knew I'd do anything for him. He's my brother and my twin. There's something between us that can't be divided or broken. He didn't mean to make trouble for me. Before I realized what I was doing, I was delivering like Federal Express. He'd give me an address and hand me a packet. Tell me who to look for. I just did it. I tried to pretend I didn't know what was in those brown envelopes. But I did know . . . it was packaged death. He'd slip me a couple of hundred now and then. Hell, it helped make the rent and keep some food on the table. I didn't tell Shorty. He'd seen too much of that shit already when he was "the next big thing" in the recording business. When we got the steady gig at the HOTEL AUSTIN, I told Paul I couldn't do it anymore. I thought he would be pissed, but he took my head in his hands and kissed me on the cheek. "No problem, Sis. I don't want you going down with me."

She grew silent and covered her face with her small hands. I saw a few drops of crystal escape her fingers and slide over the pale skin.

"So Mr. Panko, the slick one . . . is telling me if we don't sign with them, maybe my past . . . that's the way he put it . . . will come back to haunt me. I guess they want me and Shorty bad and if they don't get us, me and Paul may end up in jail. No telling what might happen to Shorty. So maybe you could talk to somebody . . . Ms. Elgar says you're smart . . . you can figure things out. And I read about the Ghostcatcher. That's you. You've done it before. Maybe you should talk to Paul."

Oh yeah, I'd done it before. The bodies piled up and the blood ran. The dead never left me . . . in my waking hours, in my dreams, and in my very soul. The screams never left my lips, but they howled within me, locked into an eternity that was cold . . . where only the dead things moved. The anger in me boiled. I hated the girl. I hated Sunny, but mostly I hated a washed up college professor who could find no release. The blood in my temples pulsed and my hands became fists. I looked at the floor for a minute and when I raised my head, both sets of eyes accused me, but behind the glare was a longing . . . a plaintive voice that begged "make it all right." I couldn't, but maybe like Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre, the celebrated French existentialists, even if the meaning didn't exist, the victory was in the attempt to create it.

At that point, Pam deconstructed like a used-up high rise being hammered with a giant wrecking ball. She shook and whimpered like a cur that had been whipped with a belt. I felt nausea creeping into my gut. Sunny leaned over the desk staring straight into my eyes. She was pleading.

"Okay," I said, "I can try to help, but I can't promise much. I don't have the contacts up here and I need more information. I'll try, Pam. But that's all I can do."

I looked at the Diva, the child, the small one who desperately loved her brother. My teeth were grinding and a violent pounding slammed into my head.

"I'll get into it," I said. Pam tugged her rag doll body out of the chair and left the office, pulling the door. It closed behind her with a muffled click.

"Okay, Sunny. You got your wish." I tried to keep the disgusted tone out of my voice.

"The hell with you, T.K. Don't lay this one on me. She's a good kid who got into a bad situation. Now she has a chance to do something other than hang wallpaper. She's got talent . . . and a real live spirit. I told you that you shouldn't have written those books. I didn't get you into this situation . . . you did. And you're damned good at this shit. So don your shining armor, mount your white warhorse, and don't forget to take the magic sword with you."

"Yes, Ma'am," I said and headed for my Schwinn.

Chapter 7

That evening we went back to Crab Heaven for a schooner of Yuengling and one of those soft- shell crab sandwiches I'd eyed the last time we were here. The place was crowded, but we spotted a couple of stools at the bar and squeezed in between two hefty gents who were each inhaling massive burgers with cheese oozing out of fat Kaiser rolls. I was beginning to like this place more and more. Jack Johnson was on the sound system at a volume that still allowed for conversation.

The bartender was a burly guy with a snow white beard and a friendly smile. He offered us menus, but we told him we were ready to order. The beer was icy and satisfying. I looked around. This seemed to be the kind of place where everyone was enjoying himself. Lots of grinning and laughter, and conspicuous consumption of mountains of seafood and fat French fries.

There was a 39 inch Vizio in front of us, tuned into the local news. The sound was off, but the captions rolled at the bottom of the screen. The mid-term elections were only a week away and the mayor of Norfolk had declined to run again. His deputy, eager to take the helm of the city, could have been a life-sized Barbie doll except for what they used to call a "Roman nose", a nice way to say she looked like a hawk. Alison Bondura filled the screen spouting the usual platitudes. Jobs, justice, equal opportunity for all. I was sure she was older than she looked, but right now she looked pretty damned good, even with the schnoz. Long, silky blond hair, just the right amount of eye shadow and mascara framing sparkling blue eyes just a little too close together. She was smartly dressed in a navy business suit, minimal jewelry except for an American flag pin in the lapel. Her faithful husband, Bret, was standing behind her, just to the left. The two of them could easily have been poster children for the W.A.S.P. Couple of the Month. The results of a recent poll had her leading her opponent by a good 10%. I was new in town and didn't know enough to care. At least for now.

Sunny patted my thigh with a gentle hand. She left it there and a warm spot suddenly surfaced.

"Okay, Ghostcatcher. You've met my helpless victim. You told her you'd 'get into it.' Exactly how do you intend to do that, Sir Galahad?"

"You can drop the Ghostcatcher shit any time . . . like yesterday," I said gruffly. She feigned a look of shame.

"Hey Buddy, if you got it, flaunt it."

"Well, I like the kid. And she and Shorty have a groove that damned near drives me nuts. The Janis Joplin was maybe the best I've heard since my idol went to her last reward. We really don't know much. I need some people I can trust . . . people that are wired into networks that can provide information and, God forbid, backup. This mob thing worries me. We are not equipped to take on the local Mafia. I'm not shooting anyone . . . or getting shot over a damned recording contract . . . And by the way, you aren't either. Don't forget. When all is said and done, we are simply humble educators . . . in my case ex. Not Eve Dallas and Roarke from some J.D. Robb novel."

"Okay, Hotshot. But you told her you are going to look into it . . . and I ever remain your faithful Indian companion."

"Okay, Tonto. The Lone Ranger says we eat."

The soft shell was sweet and crunchy and the fries cooked to perfection. It was almost like a celebration and that called for another pitcher. We wolfed down the sandwiches and slogged the Yuengling like a couple of barbarians at the gate.

"Bill," she said, "Bill O'Mara. I think you can trust him. You'll have to figure that out, but I'm sure he will meet with you. His wife and I are friends and I'm still sure he likes my boobs. I'll get the number and you can work your magic."

"Magic, my ass. But I will call him. I have nothing to lose but time, and I've got plenty of that."

"Okay Sam Spade, I know a pathetic psychology professor who loves you."

"Yeah . . . well you damned well better."

The next morning I decided to call the detective. After all, what did I have to lose? At first he was polite, if distant and professional. When I told him I was Sunny's significant other, he warmed up quite a bit. We agreed to meet for lunch at Paleo's, a pizza joint favored by the cops and the local gentry. When I told him I was biking, he offered to pick me up in his unmarked. Sure enough, he was in the parking lot at 12:30. I got in the passenger seat and we shook hands. He wore a gray suit, a bit wrinkled, with a red club tie and a white cotton shirt. Tassel loafers with black socks completed the ensemble. Even sitting, I could tell he was tucked into the seat like a stuffed sausage. Probably forty pounds overweight, graying at the temples, but with a shock of black-brown hair as thick as a horse's mane.

He parked in a fire lane and we got out just a few feet from the front door. The smells coming out of the kitchen attacked my nose and demanded surrender. It was going to be an Italian feast. We ordered a sixteen inch Paleo's Special: pepperoni, sausage, onions, mushrooms, green peppers, and some other stuff I couldn't identify. I tried, but I couldn't resist a bottle of cold Moretti. He had sweet iced tea . . . on duty, I guess.

As he eased into the booth, I noticed that the extra forty pounds hidden beneath worn gray suit coat contained a hell of a lot of muscle. He was simply a big man. After the requisite small talk, I filled him in on the mission that Sunny had so insistently assigned to me.

"Look, T.K., you got no business messing with this. You're not even a cop."

"I understand, Bill, but try to tell that to Sunny. I've been a paid police consultant on several cases in Key West. You can call their office, ask for Detective Frank Beamon. He'll vouch for me. I won't interfere with anything the department is involved in. I just need to please the lady."

He grinned and joked about his wife, Sara, and the stuff of legend, the ever-present honey-do list. We both laughed. Dutiful husbands know all about that shit.

"Okay. Yeah, I've seen the girl . . . gotta soft spot for the old rock'n'roll. You understand this is strictly graveyard talk. I can't officially give you access to information restricted by the department. Officially, Paul Wallace is under investigation, but the truth is they're waiting. He's a junkie. He'll screw up sooner or later. We know he's pushing, but the drug guys are hoping they can nail his supplier and it will lead to even bigger fish. Patience is virtue, my friend."

"His sister, Pam, is worried. Thinks the bad guys might use him to make her do something that is not good for her."

"Well, she's his sister. I'm sure she loves him, doesn't want to admit some things that are seriously ugly. But he's using and selling. That's a scary combination. Things happen to guys like that. The people they get in bed with are not very nice."

It sounded harsh, but not many cops escape the cynicism, and by all counts, they're entitled to it. It's got to be a self-defense mechanism for anyone who spends endless lifetimes dealing with the evil and the crass lack of humanity of the dregs of society. He devoured the last slice of the supreme and finished his tea.

"Okay, T.K. I'll go back over the reports. See if there's something that might be useful. But don't get your hopes us. His kind disappear all too regular. I'll call you if anything turns up, but remember . . . this is all on the Q.T."

I thanked Bill and wished he left that last slice of pizza. He dropped me off at Tidal Refuge. I tried to convince myself I wasn't all that hungry.

Chapter 8

I felt pretty good about the meeting. I liked Bill O'Mara and my instincts told me I could trust him. I kind of half expected to hear from him within the next few days. I was at a crossroads. Would I just go through the motions to satisfy Sunny or get serious about trying to help Pam and her husband? If I did, what would it cost? And if I didn't, would Sunny figure it out and would it cause damage to our relationship? Hell, I'd just traveled 1000 miles to be with a lady that made my life whole. I couldn't bring myself to disappoint her. I was in. I needed a place to start so I made a list.

  1. Meet with Pam and Shorty to go over the background info again. Was there anything they or I had missed?

  2. Find out if there were any contacts who might know something about Paul. Try to meet with him.

  3. Get more information on Leonardo Panko and Talent Pro.

  4. Find out more about the Norfolk Mob. How extensive? Who was in charge? Just how dangerous were they?

I didn't know whether any of it would lead to something useful, but at least it got me off my ass and maybe into the fray. The sooner I got some answers, the sooner I could go back to being an educated boat bum. I had Pam's cell number. What the hell? Might as well get on with it.

I could barely hear her voice over the phone. I turned up the volume and pressed the black unit hard against my ear. She and Shorty were hanging wallpaper at a condo near the beach, but they expected to be finished by 4:00. We agreed to meet for a beer at the HOTEL AUSTIN. They had to pick up a pay check, anyway.

I caught a cab and was sitting at the bar when they came in. The old place looked worse in the daylight than it had a few nights ago. There was gum stuck to the undersides of the tables and I doubted that the carpet had seen a vacuum in months. The residue of ashes and ancient dust coated everything that didn't move and the smell attacked the senses with a flush of decay and neglect.

The bartender was a tall, leggy, bleached-blond, in cut-off jeans. Plenty of cellulite was clumped in the backs of her thighs. Too many layers of makeup tried to disguise a face that was much older than it wanted to be. Hard miles were etched under her eyes. Still, she smiled and spoke with a voice that had a tough, but musical, quality. She definitely wanted you to like her and prove it with cash on the counter. She waved when Pam and Shorty entered, then handed him a white envelope. We got our beers and sat at a sticky brown table against the wall.

She was dressed in a faded jumpsuit two sizes too large for her. No makeup, the hair pulled back like dried out straw, and hands still covered in wallpaper paste and tiny red cuts. Shorty was short, but powerfully built. His grungy gray-flecked goatee hung from his chin like a body on the gallows. The skin had a drinker's red glow to it, pock-marked around the cheeks and chin. Nevertheless, his eyes sparkled and shone like a bushel of stars on a clear winter night. His hands should have been on a much larger man. They were scarred, but the fingers were long and nimble, in constant motion. He seemed to drum out a subtle beat on the table to a tune that only played in his head.

"So you were the lead guitar player in The Howling Brigade? I told Pam I bought your album."

"Yeah," he said, "a lotta people did. Nice gig. Number one on the charts. We thought it would last forever. But we didn't count on the dope, the women, and the sharks in the business. We couldn't produce a follow up that was worth the vinyl it was pressed on. When the big boys figured it out, we were poison. Toured for a year or so after that, but we were done. Nothing creative or exciting left. The guys in the band started drifting, more dope, more women. It was a deadly spiral. Shit, I was broke in two years. About to go over. Then I met Pam."

He looked at her and patted her leg. She smiled delicately and cooed a bit. Then she eyed Shorty like he was Eric Clapton.

"But it seems like you've got a break. Two offers to record. A new tour?"

"Well . . . it's Pam they want. Nobody gives a shit about a has-been guitar player. A dime a dozen. But she's the real thing. They know it . . . and it's all about money. She's the ticket. She damned sure doesn't need me."

Pam grabbed his arm and spoke quietly. "You're wrong, Shorty. Without you, it doesn't happen. We'll play this hotel 'til hell freezes over. And as long as I've got you, I don't care."

It sounds corny, but I understood that kind of devotion. It was exactly why I was here.

"So tell me a little more about Paul," I said.

"I already told you pretty much how it was. Did you talk to him?" she asked. I shook my head. "You probably ought to talk to Glen, too."

I knew Glen was their bass player, but I didn't know much else. Pam looked at me and hesitated. I wasn't sure why.

"They are close . . . very close. Just talk to him." She handed me a business card with his name and telephone number. I guessed he was a hired gun, played his instrument for any band that paid him. Blues, jazz, rock'n'roll, country. I'd seen these guys before. They were in high demand among the groups whose members drifted in and out like the daily change of the tides. I told them I'd give Glen a call and moved to the next name on my list.

"So what about this Leonardo Panko, Talent Pro?"

Pam squirmed a little in her seat. Shorty took a slug of the cold draft, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and spoke.

"He's not a very nice man. He . . ."

Pam was quick to interrupt, her voice much louder than usual, "Go ahead and tell him, Shorty. No . . . I will. Panko tried to feel me up. I barely even knew him. Told me, 'sometimes you got to give a little to get a little'. Well I got all I want. Nobody puts their hands on me except Shorty."

He nodded and put his hand on her shoulder.

"I don't like that shit. I grabbed the sonovabitch by the collar. Next thing I know his two creeps got me by the arms . . . and none too gently. The big one says, 'Leo had a little too much to drink, didn't mean anything by it. The healthy thing to do is forget it'. That's what he said, emphasis on the word 'healthy'. Well . . . I didn't forget it. I'm not going to. Like I told you, he's not a nice man."

Even though I'd only seen Panko once, the scene played in my mind like something out of Scorcese's "Goodfellas."

"So when did you last see Leo?"

"Yesterday," Pam said. "He came by a job we were working on. Had his two watch dogs with him, lapping up his ass. He even brought the contract. I told him we couldn't sign. We had a new agent. They should contact him."

"Probably a good idea. An agent can negotiate or dodge him, maybe get a contract that is legitimate. Nice move. Who's the agent?"

Pam and Shorty looked at each other, both waiting for the other one to take the lead. Finally, it was her.

"It's you, T.K. We told him you were our new agent. He's gonna call, probably want to pay you a visit. I guess I'm sorry. It just sort of came out before I thought about it."

"Sort of came out?" To say I was stunned wouldn't cover it. Agent? I wasn't even close. I was here to help, but this kind of charade was crazy. I didn't think I could fake it for even five minutes and the middle of this shit was a place I didn't want to be. I was breathing heavily and trying to keep my mouth shut. It was barely working.

Pan stared at her hands in her lap. Shorty shrugged and held up three long fingers. In an instant our blond bartender had set three more mugs on the table. Pam looked at me sheepishly and promised to call Paul to set up a meeting. For the time being, I just decided to shut up.
Chapter 9

I dropped Sunny off at her office and drove the Saab to a seedy neighborhood near the Navy Yard. I wasn't far from the fleet of ships in repair that lined the Intracoastal Waterway just south of Hampton Roads. It was an impressive sight, inspiring and at the same time, depressing. Our country was strong, but the bleeding heart in me wished all of that money could have been spent on hungry children and education. I scolded myself for being such a naïve sonovabitch. Character flaw, I guess, but it is what it is.

I parked on the street and walked up to the second floor of a brick building gone gray with soot and neglect. I knocked, but there was no answer. It was almost ten, but maybe he was sleeping in. After all, the man's work dictated long hours in the darkness. I knocked again a little harder and the door cracked open.

"Paul, T.K. Fleming. Pam said you would be expecting me." Still no answer.

I pushed lightly on the peeling paint and the hinges creaked. I eased my head in, seeing no signs of life. The place was dingy, no pictures on the faded walls. A foam green sofa with holes that might have been gnawed by rats, a cheap veneer coffee table with several empty beer cans, and a 40 inch flat screen TV sitting on a rusty wrought iron stand. I closed the door behind me and called again. I moved silently to the entrance of the bedroom and saw him. He was laid out on the mattress in a posture that reminded me of the man on the cross at Calvary.

His eyes were open wide, focused on nothing. A river of blood had escaped his mouth and run down his neck. There were only a few visible tracks on his arm. They were mostly healed, but the last one was a fierce red and seemed to gape. The needle was on the floor, shiny and proud at the grisly work it had done. I put my fingers to the carotid artery, smearing blood on my hand. No pulse. I crossed my palms and pumped hard into his chest. Once, twice, then several more times. No response. I forced myself to look at the prone body. His face was the color of yellowed paste. Rigor mortis had begun to set in. His upper arms each bore a faded purple bruise with the imprints of fingers that had sunk hard and fast into what had been living flesh not that long ago. I touched nothing else but my cell phone. I had Bill O'Mara's phone number on speed dial.

The cops were there quickly, with the rescue squad, but it didn't take long to get their reaction. Another junkie . . . this one also a dealer. One more problem for the Norfolk P.D. off the street. I mentioned the bruises to Bill, but he was as skeptical as the rest. There were no signs of a struggle. Paul's IPhone rested on a plastic fold up table next to the bed. There were baggies of marijuana and cocaine on the kitchen table, a few unused hypos and an open brick of heroin, but no other obvious physical evidence. The forensics people were on their way and Bill assured me they were professional and thorough. It looked like Paul was just another degenerate soul who had ridden the white horse to hell. I quietly asked Bill to update me when the findings were complete. He winked, but said nothing.

The thought made me sick, but I figured maybe it would be better coming from me. I told him I would inform Pam and Shorty. I slid behind the wheel of the Saab and drove slowly back to the boat to clean the stink of death off me. I had an ugly message to deliver. Better to get it over. After I washed my hands, I scrolled my cell to Pam's number and hit the call button.

"Pam, it's T.K. I need to see you and Shorty." I tried to keep the emotion out of my voice, but it didn't work. She was wary.

"So you saw him?" she asked. Yeah, I saw him, and he was very dead, but I couldn't say that over the phone. She caught the pause.

"Where are you now? I can meet you any time you say, but it needs to be soon." She told me they were at their house, actually half of a duplex they owned. They had taken the afternoon off to practice a few new songs. She gave me the address and said she'd be waiting. The building wasn't far from Paul's place. I pulled into the driveway and parked next to their dented blue Econoline.

The place was square, faded white cinder blocks, with an attached aluminum carport that probably came from Home Depot. There were a few scraggly azaleas scattered about. The blooms were white and pink, but everything needed a good trim. A couple of boxwoods were struggling around the front stoop. I knocked and Pam appeared immediately.

"I fixed coffee," she said. I nodded and sat on a moth eaten recliner across from Shorty. Both wore jeans and t-shirts. There were three guitar stands, the red Strat, a natural Telecaster, and a scarred Martin acoustic resting side by side. An old Yamaha keyboard was pushed against the wall and several amps and speakers filled out the musical assortment.

Shorty looked at me, but didn't speak. He knew, and she probably did, too. But they waited. Pam handed me a white china cup and pointed at the powdered creamer and artificial sweeter on the table.

"So what did he tell you?"

His lips hadn't moved, I thought.

"Pam, Shorty. Paul passed away sometime this morning. I found him when I got to his apartment. He was gone. The rescue people came, police, too. But it was too late. There will be an investigation, but it looks like an overdose."

She was silent. Shorty put his arm around her shoulders and patted her as though she were a child. At first she didn't cry. She cradled the fingers of her left hand in her right and bent them back until they hurt. Then she moved them to her mouth and tried to stifle a choking sound.

"Overdose? Who said? The cops? I don't believe it. He was always so careful with the needles and the amount. Shot up between the toes, in the thigh . . . moved the injections around so he wouldn't have tracks in his arms. Wouldn't hit anything unless he knew exactly where it came from, who the supplier was. He can't be dead."

I decided not to hold back. I'm not very good at it anyway. They'd call her to identify the body and she'd know soon enough. Still it was time to be as gentle as I could. I spoke slowly and just above a whisper.

"There were bruises on his arms, like someone had held him down. A big hole at the elbow . . . dried blood, like he'd been stuck with a giant needle."

"That just wasn't him. He was too careful. I'm sure the cops will write it off . . . one less junkie to contend with. One less seller on the street. Maybe they're right. But God help me . . . he was my brother."

Now she was crying. Shorty had pulled a red cotton handkerchief from his pocket to catch the tears, but it wasn't enough. Her whole body shook. I put down the cup and got up to leave. Shorty followed me to the door.

"Find Glen," he said.

Chapter 10

I got back into the Saab and called Sunny. The canned voice on her cell informed me that she was unavailable. I could leave a message or a number and she would return my call as soon as possible. I figured she was in class. I left a brief account of the horrific facts and told her I'd see her at her apartment around five. I knew she'd help me dissect the entire gruesome scene over a well-deserved belt of Evan Williams.

I knocked. Sunny glanced through peep hole before she opened the door. It was an old habit from her days as the best looking bartender in Key West and the paramour of one reluctant Ghostcatcher. She threw her arms around me as soon as I entered.

"I'm sorry. T.K. I had no idea it would come to this. I knew you didn't want to get involved, but I had to push like the demanding bitch I sometimes am. I did it for her." She backed away for a moment, but held onto my hands. Her eyes were a little swollen. She looked like a contrite Aphrodite begging for forgiveness, but promising a redemption, and her brand of redemption was one no healthy male could forget.

"It's not your fault," I lied, "I'm in it for Pam and Shorty now. But you called yourself my faithful Indian companion and I need you to put your ear to the ground and help me find out who the bad guys are and which hill they're hiding behind."

She rolled her shoulders and took a breath to compose herself. Her head nodded and she tried a smile that only went halfway. I kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"You bettum', Kimosabe. Sit down and I'll get you and Silver something to drink."

She went to the kitchen to mix me a fat double of bourbon and a few cubes of ice. Just the feminine sway in her hips and the scent of sweet perfume distracted me and lifted my spirits for a prolonged instant. It seemed blatantly irreverent, but I hoped she'd get me something else a little later in the evening.

In the past I had relied on Sunny as a listener and a sounding board. Her mind was deadly keen and she had a knack for analysis that was quick and precise. She spotted things I didn't, made suggestions I wouldn't have thought of, helped me plot improbable strategies . . . and even saved my ass on more than one occasion. I gave her a rundown on my bloody discovery and the things Pam had told me about Paul's habit.

"Find Glen.' That's the last thing Shorty said to me as I left."

"Okay, then that's the first thing you should do." She went over to a small desk and picked up her laptop. She hit the on button and typed in a few letters. I saw the screen come to life as I sat next to her on the couch.

"Damned. I got a bunch of hits. Glen Macklin. I knew he had a day job, but I didn't know he had his own school."

"What kind of school?" I asked. She turned the image so I could see it, then dumped the machine into my lap. There were several entries, but I settled on the Macklin School of Self Defense. There was a photo of Glen in a white robe with the black belt of distinction tied around his waist. There must have been forty trophies on the floor around him, all awarded to him personally for tournaments he had won, or for team championships earned by his Dojo. Apparently his students competed all over the East Coast. His specialty was Karate, but he had also been trained in Krav Maga a self-defense system developed by the military in Israel where the only objective is to kill. There was a host of shots of Glen and his students in different fighting poses.

He was short, and trim, but a body hard and supple lurked in the folds of his canvas karategi. The look on his face was anything but benign. For an instant I doubted it was the same man I'd seen making sweet love to his bass guitar a few nights earlier. There was a phone number listed. It was early evening and I knew HIGH FLYER wasn't scheduled. I tried it and he answered after several rings.

"Glen, this is T.K. Fleming. I'm a friend of Pam's."

"I know who you are, Dr. Fleming. Shorty called me earlier with the news. He said I'd be hearing from you. Thank you for sparing them the police . . . at least for now."

His voice was surprisingly gentle, but the sadness was unmistakable. We agreed to meet at the Dojo in the morning before his students started coming in for general workouts or private lessons.

Sunny and I talked about a few other aspects of the case and drank some more. It didn't take long to realize I needed to leave. It just wasn't a night for any extra-curricular activities. She offered to run me back to the boat, but I told her the walk would be good for me. It wasn't.

The street lights were out in few places and I navigated blindly through patches of darkness. Sometimes I get the feeling something is stalking me, but it's usually the result of an overactive imagination or just plain paranoia. I looked back and a black Mustang passed me too slowly, then eased to the curb. Two gray figures got out, on opposite sides. One was short and stocky, the other tall and lean. They approached me like a couple of feral animals sizing up their prey. I looked left and right, but there was nowhere to run. In a sliver of light, I thought I recognized them.

Lurch stepped up into my face while the fireplug circled to the left. Suddenly a fist like a sock full of nickels plunged into my gut. Then a stiff right to the jaw. I bent over gasping and a solid forearm came down on my neck. I hit the filthy concrete and tried to breathe. The fireplug approached and raised his boot. I expected a steel toe stomping my face, but Lurch grabbed his arm and spun him around.

"The Boss Lady told Leo not to go too hard on the Secret Agent Man," he growled.

The fireplug looked sorely disappointed, but backed off and whispered, "Aw shit, I wuz jus' startin' to have some fun."

"Yeah, well that comes later," the tall one said and turned back to me. He put a silvery blade to my cheek and nicked it with the razor point. The blood came quickly. He got close to my ear. His breath stunk of stale garlic.

"Understand this is just a friendly visit. If we didn't have strict orders, they'd be washing you off the sidewalk with a fire hose. You're gonna get a call . . . a few questions . . . I gotta a suggestion for you. Give the right answers and sign in all of the appropriate places. I hope you got that? I ain't gonna write it down."

They got back into the Mustang and pulled off slowly. I pushed my finger into the cut. I didn't think it was too deep or too long, but it hurt. I pulled out my shirt tail and pressed it hard against the wound. My gut was throbbing like a slow motion jackhammer. I got up and coughed into my hand a couple of times. Fortunately there was no blood. Then I walked.

The light through the ports on KAMALA welcomed me. I went below and checked the cut. I was right. Not too bad. Some peroxide and a small band aid would do. I grabbed four Ibuprofen and washed them down with Jameson and water. I didn't call anyone. I didn't want them worrying, but I damned sure was. The Irish and the painkillers met in my aching gut and sleep was easier than I thought. Thank God, no dreams.

Chapter 11

I woke up near dawn. I actually felt better than I thought I would. The cut had already begun to close up. I doused it again with peroxide and applied a new bandage while the coffee perked. I poured a cup and went into the cockpit. The promise of winter was in the air. The sun was still low and streaks of cadmium orange flooded the horizon. The wispy clouds were a magnificent blend of purples and blues. It was a day fit for the gods. I just hoped it was fit for a reluctant Ghostcatcher.

I decided to go for broke. Three eggs, three slices of crumbled bacon, mushroom slices, green peppers, diced onions, a glob of sharp cheddar cheese sprinkled with Italian seasoning and a shot of salt and pepper. Why worry about calories and cholesterol when you might soon be a corpse?

The smell wafted off the alcohol stove and filled the cabin with memories of my dear old momma. She was the breakfast lady. Meanwhile, my mind was scrambling. "Secret Agent Man" . . . that's what they had called me. They were definitely Leonardo Panko's boys, but whose boy was Panko? Lurch had mentioned the "Boss Lady." Who the hell was that? And how could I find out?

I ate the omelet with culinary pride and even added a couple of slices of wheat toast slathered in butter and raspberry preserves. I was still carrying only 190 lbs. on my 6'2" frame and the isometrics I do on the boat kept my muscle tone nice and solid. I could afford a little sustenance, and in a pinch I might even need it. I had to meet Glen at 10:00 at the Dojo. I cleaned up the dishes and myself, then called a cab.

It was a strip center. The sign above his space was large and easy to read. "Macklin School of Self Defense" with a black silhouette in a fighting stance on either side of the bold print. Chinese takeout on one side and a small consignment shop on the other. The door swung aside with no sound. There was a cheap wooden desk and a small reception area with a couple of metal folding chairs, but most of the building was open. I noticed the rails that circumscribed walls covered in mirrors. It was probably a dance school at one time, maybe even ballet. There was a circle painted in red in the middle of the floor, probably a makeshift ring. Various sizes and kinds of mats were everywhere. Punching and kicking bags hung in the corners. The whole place smelled of sweat and concerted effort.

Glen came out of a small office in the back and extended his hand. His grip was firm. I was sure he could have crushed every bone, but that wasn't his choice at the moment. He wasn't wearing the canvas robe I'd seen on the website. Instead, a red t-shirt and navy shorts exposed solid tanned rings of muscle bulging from every fold.

He nodded and pointed to the curtain separating the work spaces. I followed him in and sat. There were a few photos and trophies scattered about, but the space was definitely Spartan. I guessed he spent much more time on the floor with his students than shuffling papers in this barren place.

I towered over him. I figured he might be 5'4" in stocking feet, maybe 145 lbs. Still I had the feeling he could make a pretzel out of me if it suited him. He eased into an old wooden chair behind the desk and placed his elbows on the marred surface. His eyes were a pale blue, almost like a cloudless sky in the Bahamas, but there was a steely glint that radiated a total lack of fear . . . and a quiet challenge.

"I appreciate you coming," he said. "I like what you're trying to do for Pam and Shorty. I know about you . . . know what you've done for others. It's good stuff. I want to help. But you gotta let me know."

"Thanks, Glen. I'm not sure what, if anything, I can do. But I guess I'm involved whether I should be or not. You can start by telling me what you can about Paul."

He leaned back in his chair for only a moment. If you wanted action, you weren't going to wait long. Then he drilled me with those pale eyes.

"We were lovers. I'm gay. Not too many people know. Wouldn't be good for the school, but I'm not ashamed of it. I just don't go trumpeting it around. I did all I could to get him away from the dope and the stinking parasites who feed on the weaknesses of poor bastards who can't protect themselves. When it became clear that the needle was more important than me, I stepped away. Too much to lose, I guess. Maybe I was selfish. I loved him . . . but I guess I loved myself more. We'd still talk . . . I'd even see him occasionally. It was hard to give up, but he got sucked into that whirlpool. He was drowning. He didn't know it, but it was obvious to me . . . to Pam and Shorty. Maybe nobody else cared, but we did. In the end, there was nothing we could do."

The grief in his voice was unmistakable, but he'd accepted some things that bled him. His features were set in granite, gray and determined. I was glad I wouldn't be on the receiving end of what might be his unspeakable violence.

"I'm sure Pam told you about the circumstances. She thinks it was more than an accident."

"Yeah . . . she told me. She's right about how careful he was. And the bruises on his arms . . . I don't know. Maybe it was an accident, but I do know he was involved with some serious scum. I guess he's in junkie heaven, but who put him there remains to be seen. I want to find out."

He folded his hands on the desk. The fingers were laced like twisted cable and a slight twitch appeared over his left eye. His entire body was as rigid as a brass figure on the marble base of one of those trophies. But he suddenly seemed larger, like he'd been blown up with an expanding rage. I waited for him to speak, but he was a malevolent sphinx.

"Could this have anything to do with Panko? I hear he has mob connections."

"You hear right. Leo wanted Paul to persuade Pam to sign with Talent Pro. She was his sister. He loved her. He wouldn't do it. I noticed your cheek and you're not hiding the bruises very well. Have you had unexpected company?"

"Yeah," I said.

I described my encounter with Panko's mismatched twins. Repeated the boys' suggestions that I embrace an agreeable attitude and sign whatever the hell it was.

"Those guys can be quite a handful. You damned well better watch your back. I'd even suggest a weapon. Neither one of them has enough brains to fill a thimble. They do what they're told and they're very good at it. Pam told me she had named you her agent. That makes you number one with a bullet."

"I kind of figured that was the case."

He nodded and stood. Our interview was over. He thanked me and almost crushed my hand. "Call if you need me. No shit." he said quietly. I think he hoped I would.

I went back to KAMALA, greased the through hulls and lubed the engine controls, everything on deck that had been exposed to the salt spray offshore. I was moving gingerly. Lots of stuff was starting to get very sore. But the work was mindless and mildly satisfying. Sunny had an evening class, but I had promised pizza when she finished at eight. Mama Antoni's delivered and Thursday was special night. The 16-inch Monster Supreme for $14.99. I heard Sunny padding down the dock just before nine.

"I smell it," she said, "no conversation until I get a glass of wine and at least two pieces."

I poured her a generous glass of Cab and watched her inhale the sausage, ham, anchovies, green peppers, mushrooms, onions, extra cheese and God knows what else on the thin brown crust. Her breath would be Italian road kill, but mine already was.

She sucked in a bolt of air like a diver who had been under too long, and snatched another slice.

"Okay, Sherlock. Fill me in."

She chewed with noisy enthusiasm and listened. I told her about Glen and his relationship with Paul, the encounter with the mismatched enforcers, and repeated things she probably already knew. She put down the remnants of the pie, took a slug of Cab and spoke. She laid her fingers lightly on my cheek. A pall had come over her features and her voice was earthen and ominous.

"You got to be careful, T.K. Next time they might really hurt you. Do you still have the .38, the Taurus?" I still had it. Parts of me wished I didn't. Once I had used it to kill a man.

"Yeah, I'll clean it in the morning."

The pizza box was dead empty. We settled into the v berth, each fondling appropriate parts with exploring fingers, soothing hands and languorous tongues. The first release was a prologue . . . merely the prelude to another. Another miracle by my immaculate lady. I had forgotten all about the sore body parts.

Chapter 12

She was gone when I got up. There was a note on the navigation table. "Call Bill," was printed in large, neat, letters. I went through my morning rituals, still groggy and slightly stunned by the aftermath of a night that had definitely earned a XXX rating. Over coffee, I pulled the Taurus out of its hideout where I had it wedged against the hull. The faint smell of gun oil reassured me that no moisture had breached the carrying case. I ran my hands over the leather holster. It was brown and supple and the ammo had held its fine brassy finish. I reamed out the barrel, tested the hammer and trigger, then slipped five .38 cartridges into the chambers. I didn't want to shoot anyone, but I decided not to be too particular the next time someone tried to cut or shoot me.

Bill answered quickly. He recognized my voice even though we had met just the one time.

"So how can I help you, T.K.?"

"Just following up. Anything more on Paul's case?"

"Not much. Not enough evidence. The M.E. wrote off the bruises and the blood around the injection. The only prints on the hype were his. Nothing else worth noting in the apartment. They checked the cell phone. The numbers all appeared to be clients. Nothing you wouldn't expect. I spoke with the chief of homicide, asked a few questions. 'Another damned junkie,' he said. Told me to forget it."

"So that's it? No further investigation?"

His voice got quiet. "Listen, T.K., some of the cops here don't know what they know and they forget the rest. It's like employment insurance and it helps with the mortgage."

I got the message. I told him about Lurch and the fireplug. He said unless I wanted to file a complaint, there was nothing he could do. I didn't . . . at least not now. Then I asked him about Lurch's reference to the "Boss Lady".

"That is a very touchy topic," he warned. "Can't tell you much. I know you're new to the area, but does the name Sirelli mean anything to you? Probably not. You might want to look into it. Look, I gotta go. This is risky. Maybe you shouldn't call here. Let me call you if anything turns up. Send a message through Sunny and Sara if you need to talk." He hung up.

I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. I didn't know any Sirelli. It didn't register with me, but it told me I needed to get smarter. The smartest person I knew other than Sunny was my own personal Oracle of Delphi, the refurbished Dell laptop.

I fired it up and the glowing screen welcomed me in capital letters. The marina Wi-Fi connected and I hit Google search. "Did you mean Pirelli?" Suddenly I had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to buy three tires and get one free. I considered it for a moment, but I didn't think they'd fit my Schwinn. Maybe another time.

Then I tried Norfolk Sirelli. In an instant, the page filled with sites, most of them from the Norfolk Daily Press. Anthony Sirelli was a former mayor of the city. He had served two four year terms from 1994-2002. Both elections had been landslides. There were several photos of him. The mayor cuts the ribbon at the new hospital. The mayor signs the permits for the new expressway. The mayor with his loving wife and two adorable teen children, a beautiful blond boy and girl. The mayor shakes hands with Bill Clinton. The mayor and Daniel Snyder, owner of the Washington Redskins, etc. etc.

There was nothing remarkable looking about him, an Italian gentleman with a prominent hooked nose, bald on top, gray at the temples. He did have one hell of a smile. The local citizenry had considered him a political wonder, a possible gubernatorial candidate . . . at least until an investigative team of state and local law enforcement found he had been taking kickbacks from contractors who were evidently big fans.

The deputy mayor and several other aficionados went down with him. There were rumors of corruption from the police chief down to the dog catcher, but the courts had their raw meat and the public was worn out. In the end, he plea bargained, avoided any jail time, and retreated to a verdant horse farm in the Virginia countryside . . . of course, not without the stately white columns in front of the obligatory mansion. There's much to be said for pure southern elegance and the privilege that often accompanies it, not to mention the good ol' boys network. No recent reports on the pages. Judging from the articles, I would make him at mid to late 70's. I was sure he and his wife were enjoying a quiet and rewarding retirement.

Next question: What the hell did that have to do with anything? It was old news in more ways than one. Nevertheless, Bill had a reason for leading me in that direction. He had told me not to call him. "Risky" was the word he used. The comments . . . warnings . . . whatever they were . . . had come when I referenced "the Boss Lady." I didn't think it was his wife. I would have to wait and kick it around. Maybe Sunny would do that part for me. She was awfully damned good at it.

Chapter 13

I checked CNN and the ESPN sports to find out if I'm missed any beheadings, domestic violence, or drug deals gone amiss. I was shutting down the Dell when the phone rang. I thought it might be a call from heaven because the voice was definitely that of an angel.

"Dr. Fleming," she cooed, "my name is Sherry. I am calling on behalf of Mr. Leonardo Panko, president of Talent Pro, LTD. Mr. Panko requests a meeting with you in your capacity as agent for the band HIGH FLYER. He would like to meet at his offices. He will send a car for you. Would 3:00 this afternoon be convenient?"

"Well, you may tell Mr. Panko that this is awfully short notice. Nevertheless, as a courtesy, I will postpone my previous appointment. No need to send a car. I will see him at three."

She gave me the address and thanked me for my cooperation. My previous appointment was with a cold beer while I scrubbed the deck, but I didn't tell her that. The car . . . I shuddered to see who the driver might be. I figured I had already met the staff of the carpool. I fixed a bite of lunch, but I was completely out of pate and caviar. I chewed a soggy potato chip while I contemplated my wardrobe. Now just what would be appropriate attire for a powerful agent about to meet with the president of a high-class talent agency and were my sunglasses dark enough?

I pulled out my only pair of khakis and a spiffy orange golf shirt. It even had an alligator on it. I rubbed a wet towel over my topsiders. It wasn't winter, yet. No socks. I didn't have any gold jewelry to dangle from my neck or wrists. My old college class ring would have to do even though it was only ten-karat. I stood at the end of the dock and waited. Unfortunately the cabbie wasn't impressed.

He dropped me off in front of a glass high rise. I went through the revolving door and looked at the list of tenants. Lots of attorneys, several brokerage offices, two shipping concerns that each occupied an entire floor, and miscellaneous business types with clients to impress. Talent Pro was on the ninth, just high enough to carry some clout.

My shoes sank into the carpet and I noiselessly pushed open a 10-foot oaken door. Sherry reminded me of a Penthouse centerfold I had lusted after in my misspent youth. A water fall of jet black hair partially covered on eye and cascaded over her shoulder. I figured the clingy electric pink dress had been made on her. The cleavage stopped just before it got obscene. Her eyes were like two huge emeralds. I instantly realized I had chosen the wrong profession and wondered if Panko had room for another associate. She smiled and rose to near six feet of feminine glory, then floated toward a mahogany door. She turned the knob and stepped aside for me to enter.

President Panko was holding the phone to his ear, nodding and mumbling something barely audible. He turned in the chair and rose, his silver sharkskin suit, probably Armani or Hugo Boss, tailored to a tee, black open collar polo beneath the dapper fabric. His hair was flattened straight back over his head with something greasy and shiny, but all in all he looked the part of the smart, quick businessman. He slid me a serpentine smile and pointed at the over-stuffed burgundy leather chair in front of his desk. I heard a shuffle on the carpet behind me and glanced to see the source. Lurch had been behind the door when I walked in and the fireplug was in the adjacent corner.

"My apologies, Dr. Fleming, but I believe you've met my associates Lawrence and Albert."

The big man nodded. He held a gleaming switchblade in his right hand. He flicked the blade at me in greeting, smiled and pretended to clean his fingernails. I got the message.

I don't know what I expected . . . maybe some dems' and dose' and a nasal Jersey accent, maybe even south Boston. It always goes well with my image of thugs, but his speech was measured and precise. I noticed a diploma on the wall, J.D. Georgetown University, class of 1981. There were several other frames on the wall, most with photos of what I assumed were people of some dubious distinction. I decided to examine them more closely on the way out.

"It is a great pleasure to meet you, Dr. Fleming." he said and extended his hand with all the grace and charm of a Cobra. I shook it, ". . . and please call me Leo. I believe you have met my associates."

Yeah . . . we had already developed a rapport that was a little too close for me, but I suspected he was aware of that. I hadn't packed the .38. I knew if they wanted me, it wouldn't be here. It's expensive to replace carpet of that grade and red didn't quite go with the rest of the décor.

"Dr. Fleming, forgive me if I dispense with the small talk. I've done some research. You are obviously an intelligent and capable man, not to mention a writer of some merit. I must have missed the part about your previous experience in the entertainment business. Nevertheless, I am informed that you are the legal agent for HIGH FLYER. So we both know the purpose of this meeting."

He slid a paper across the desk and handed me an ebony Mont Blanc pen which must have cost $500. I didn't reach for either one. He waited and I heard footsteps closing behind me. Leo put up his hand like a crossing guard and the footsteps ceased.

"I assure you, Dr. Fleming. Our terms are quite generous. The little lady and her little husband will be very well compensated and your share will easily finance a more suitable yacht, perhaps even an appropriate automobile."

I found that one a little snarky, but I bit my tongue like the good boy Momma raised. She always said, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." Damned good advice. It had kept me out of trouble more than once.

"Mr. Panko . . . my apologies. . . Leo. My clients are considering other offers at this time. I have advised patience and caution."

"Ahh . . . caution. An excellent choice of words. If it's a matter of money, I can have those figures adjusted before you leave the office. Sherry is very efficient. There could possibly be a signing bonus in the form of a cashier's check made out to you. But to be very clear, it is your well-being and theirs that concerns me above all else. It gets very cold here in the winter, but there are places that get much colder . . . and it is not necessary to go north to find yourself in one."

He flashed snake eyes at me. I had visions of frozen ground or the muddy bottom of the Chesapeake Bay.

"I hope we can reach an understanding. I feel it rather imperative for your sake. Please give it your utmost consideration. But you must forgive me, Dr. Fleming. I do have further engagements this afternoon. Please peruse these things seriously, discuss them with your clients and relay my regards. I hope to see you again very soon."

I got up and scanned the photos. Leo with various local dignitaries, one of them a group. I paused. The image was old and a bit faded, but at least one face looked very familiar. There was also a picture of a pleased Panko shaking the hand of the owner of the Washington Redskins, one of their parade of former coaches standing dutifully beside them. I nodded and looked back at the President of Talent Pro.

"Oh . . ." he said, "Daniel Snyder and Mike Shanahan. Our agency still maintains a corporate box at RFK stadium. It's good for business. I often have extra tickets if you'd like to take in a game sometime."

I thanked him and left his private space. Sherry got up and showed me to the door of the office. Heart be still. That perfume and the curves had me gasping and trying not to drool all over my shirt. I decided not to tell Sunny that part.

I got back to KAMALA just before 4:00. I eyed her rocking gently in the slip and saw the trusty Schwinn tethered to the piling on the dock. I could understand Panko threatening me in his pointed and officious manner, but why insult my boat and my bike. Some people might have money, but that didn't mean they had class. The tailored Armani be damned.

I called Pam and gave her a general summary of my meeting with the Georgetown dandy. I didn't want to tell her anything that might be scary. They were playing at the AUSTIN tonight and I promised the lady I would stop in. "Good job, T.K., "she said. I hoped she was right.

I was due at Sunny's at six. This time I did strap the Taurus to my belt and stuffed it up under the waistband of my faded Wranglers. I fired up my turbo-charged Schwinn – well, maybe not – and headed for her apartment.

Chapter 14

Thank God for Sunny. She did what she always does . . . gave me a passionate hug, fixed me an Evan Williams and water, promised a night of wild sex, and sat down to listen to my sad tales of frustrating investigative work. You could almost see the astute sifting of information and the infusion of intuition taking place as she focused, not only on the facts, but my posture, the tone of my voice and every nuance as I related the details of my day. At first she didn't speak. Then her vibes began to dominate my thoughts, challenge me to explore the depths, and question the competence of my consciousness and comprehension.

"Okay Cowboy. A few things stand out. You have been warned. That shit about cold places is about as obvious as it gets. The photos in his office may tie him to Sirelli. That group shot you saw . . . the fuzzy one. Hang on."

She turned on the laptop and pulled up the sites on Sirelli. I stared at his smiling mug again. I couldn't be absolutely sure, but I would bet my last buck and add my first born, if I had one, that it was him in the middle of the line of hotshots that graced the wall of Panko's office. She hit a few more keys.

"Patience, my dear. I got a hunch." Now the screen greeted me with the long nosed Barbie who looked like a shoo-in as Her Honor, the mayor of Norfolk. Sunny performed a little more magic and grinned.

"Okay, big boy. Time for Double Jeopardy and the answer is Sirelli. What is the question?"

I looked at her with more than a little disgust. I just didn't think it was an appropriate time for half-assed games.

"Well . . . you're a bit slow tonight, genius. The question is 'What is the maiden name of the bimbo who is currently running 10+ points ahead of her opponent in the upcoming mayoral election."

All I could say was "Holy shit." She pulled up the photo of Sirelli with wife and kids. It was 12 year old Alison Bondura holding his hand and looking up at her dad with obvious pride and adoration.

"Okay," I said, "now the work really begins."

"Yes, it does and here's a serious flash for you, Mr. Ghostcatcher. You're going to a brunch tomorrow. A gala affair to secure the support of prominent members of the university faculty and administration. 11 A.M. at the conference center. Coat and tie are requested. The guest of honor is the leading candidate for the office of mayor, Ms. Alison Bondura. Be there or be square."

Now I was really worried. My blue blazer was wrinkled, probably smelled of mildew, and I didn't own a tie, but somehow I'd have to make do.

The HOTEL AUSTIN nightclub was probably about half-full. No sign of the Talent Pro entourage. Thank God for that, not to mention the dim light and the booze. The place still hadn't been cleaned, but the small crowd was already in their cups and waiting for the main event, Virginia Beach's own American Treasure, Miss Pam Watson and HIGH FLYER. They kicked it off with a Rolling Stones' classic, "Beast of Burden." Shorty's guitar was wailing and Pam was pleading. Glen's bass provided the throbbing rhythm and the drums pounded every vibration straight from the soles of the feet to the top of the head. The dancers were an orgy of gyrations and haunting grimaces. We grooved and drank.

To close the final set Pam went to an old Bee Gees love song that Janis Joplin had transformed into a lonely, longing anthem. "Nobody knows what it's like to love somebody . . . to love somebody . . . Baby, like I love you." I thought the audience was going to crawl up to the stage and demand she be christened the Holy Mother of the Blues. I went up to the bandstand and hugged the miniature diva. Shorty smiled, waved, and silently mouthed what I thought was a thank you. I felt a tug on my arm and turned to see Glen standing behind me. "Remember what I said," he whispered into my ear. He didn't have to remind me.

I spent the night at Sunny's. No wild sex. Too much to drink and just plain tired. That's okay. Patience is virtue . . . at least that's what they tell me. Sunny left early. There was a note on the kitchen table. "Buy a tie. See you at eleven. Love."

My Schwinn was at the marina. It was okay. A good walk in the morning sun might loosen up the smog in my head. I stopped off at a Family Dollar store and found an appropriate cravat for $1.99 plus tax. Such a deal. Nobody would notice it was cheap rayon unless they looked too closely.

KAMALA lay motionless in her berth and conveyed a quiet accusation. "Where were you last night?" I mouthed the name "Sunny" and she seemed quite satisfied. I pulled my blazer from the hanging locker. It didn't look all that bad and I figured it would air out if I hung it in the light breeze for a few minutes. A shirt was another matter. Fortunately I had a travelling iron on board for emergencies like this one. A light blue oxford would do. It damned sure better . . . it was the only dress shirt I owned.

I thought it a bit improper to arrive by bicycle, despite the academic trappings, so I took a cab.

Sunny had apparently been watching. She met me at the door.

"We're on our way. I am going to introduce you as a retired professor and distinguished author," she said, "and by the way, you look pretty damned good." I smiled and pretended to straighten my tie. She took my arm and we promenaded into the large banquet room. There was a speaker's stand at one end decorated with an American flag. A series of long tables covered in sparkling white cloth was on the opposite side. Assorted canapes, of course, small china plates, tiny forks and linen napkins finished off with two sterling silver urns of hot coffee.

I'd been to a hundred of these affairs during my years of imprisonment in higher education. It required a healthy dose of bullshit, replete with political correctness and pompous hypocrisy. Clothes, posture -- both physical and intellectual – and a general attitude of superiority were requisite. There were lots of tweed coats and bowties on the professors, conservative business suits on the ladies and gentlemen of the administration, and an air that this was all the norm -- if not expected or even dictated. There were a few legitimate human beings sprinkled about the crowd. I could tell by their knowing smiles, but they were definitely in the minority.

Of course, the belle of the ball had garnered most of the attention. Alison Bondura was the center of a mesmerized group of pseudo admirers. She looked absolutely stunning . . . a gracious smile tattooed on her face as she wordlessly made promises to the chairman of the building committee and the chancellor of the university. She wore a black suit with a satiny white shirt topped off with a multi-colored scarf tied at the neck. Hermes, I suspected. Black stilettos, probably Jimmy Choo, adorned her feet. She wore her jewelry discreetly, nothing flashy, but it definitely complemented her conservative fashion statement. I was sure there was a little dye in her blond tresses, but it contrasted beautifully with the black fabric, shimmering in the florescent light.

Sunny spoke to a few of the dignitaries and introduced me as she indicated. I smiled congenially and hoped there was no broccoli embedded in my teeth, but I was sure Sunny would tell me. I watched Ms. Bondura work the crowd. She was no amateur. I couldn't hear them, but I was confident she spoke all of the right words, laughed at all of the right jokes, and patted an arm when it was appropriate. We migrated closer and closer. When there was a small opening in the fawning crowd, I made my move.

"Ms. Bondura, I am so pleased to meet you. I am T.K. Fleming, the significant other of . . ."

"Oh please, Dr. Fleming, call me Alison. I certainly know who you are. I am a great admirer. Your murder mysteries have been favorites of mine for several years. They have an intellectual gravitas combined with suspense and raw excitement. It must be eminently satisfying to be so creative."

It was a bit over the top, but I couldn't have said it better myself. Her intimate smile and the tone of her voice were all decidedly on key. This lady was a pro. But even with that insight and the vague sense of hazard that accompanied it, it would to be tough not to be lured into her web of charm and blatant patronizing.

"I understand you have an interest in music," I said, testing the waters slightly.

"I do, but it is limited to some of the old show tunes, Lerner and Lowe, Rogers and Hammerstein . . . things of that sort. My parents were great fans of "Camelot," "Oklahoma," and many others of the classic musicals. They were on the stereo in our home constantly when I was growing up."

"The home of Mayor Sirelli?"

She gave me a look that pierced and sliced. I fought a chill at the back of my neck.

"I see you have done your homework, Dr. Fleming." I didn't respond at first. Then I moved on.

"I understand there is a vibrant rock scene in the area. Lots of local talent waiting for that all-important break. I believe Leo Panko of Talent Pro is a friend of your father's."

"I wouldn't know. My father has many friends with business concerns of all sorts." For a split second she shot me an icy glare. Then went on, "Of course, entertainment and the boost it provides to tourism are crucial to the economy of our area. But I'm afraid I've been so involved with matters of good government that I haven't had the opportunity to explore that scene personally."

Her voice had taken on a barely perceptible edge. There was probably some truth in the words, but I guessed there was more behind that accommodating smile. Suddenly we were surrounded by another bevy of worshippers. She shook my hand and told me that the pleasure had been all hers, but that nose seemed to be tilted upward. Then she cut me a look with hard crystal eyes that held something else. I couldn't be sure, but it felt like a warning.

Sunny had been watching the whole time. She grabbed my arm and pulled me back toward the buffet table. She picked up two pigs-in-a-blanket, dipped them in mustard, and stuffed the handful into her mouth.

"Don't get in too deep," she mumbled. We stayed for another hour. I listened to her and an assortment of colleagues delve into campus politics and moan over the new lows in motivation among some of their students. Teacher talk. I'd heard it all before, but I just nodded and smiled a lot. After more pigs-in-a-blanket and a couple of handfuls of cookies, Sunny grabbed my arm and we backed out into the sunshine.

Chapter 15

Sunny went back to her office. I told her we could meet for dinner, but she had a ton of essays to grade and told me I wouldn't see her until the next day. I caught a cab back to Tidal Refuge. I fooled around on the boat, went to the computer and reviewed some of the info we'd managed to assemble. It could be incriminating, but in reality it was all circumstantial. Several questions danced in my head. No particular order. Nothing that made rational sense, but they kept on coming like an assault weapon rattling off rounds.

When would I hear from Panko again? Was it possible that I had just shaken hands with the Boss Lady? What was Talent Pro's angle for their insistence that HIGH FLYER sign with them? There had to be money involved, but where was it coming from and where was it going? Exactly how sharp was Lurch's blade and when could I expect to find out?

About 6 P.M. the phone rang. I thought maybe Sunny had finished and reconsidered my dinner offer. I picked up the cell and panic poured out of it.

"T.K. They broke his hand."

"Whose hand? Who broke it, Pam?"

"Shorty's. The big one you call Lurch, and his sidekick came by the duplex. Lurch held Shorty's hand over the kitchen table. The little thick one picked up Shorty's Gibson and slammed it down on his fingers. They're all twisted and bloody. I got a towel on them."

She was trying to hold it together, but her voice quivered.

"Did you call the cops?"

"The big one, Lawrence, Lurch, whatever, told me, 'you don't want to fuck with the police. They might want to search your place. And no telling what they might find.' Then the sonovabitch leered at me, puckered his razor thin lips and said, 'Sing pretty, little lady. You're good at it. Maybe it'll make the pain go away.' I'm scared shitless. I don't know what to do. Help us, T.K."

I grabbed the .38 and got over there as quick as I could. I didn't know . . . they might be waiting. Pam's description of the hand was on the money. It was mangled and the towel was dripping crimson. Shorty wouldn't be picking any guitars for a while, if ever. He was still sitting at the kitchen table. He managed a tight grin.

"The bastard ruined my Gibson," he said, "You handle her right, she'd talk to you."

"How about the hand?"

"I was able to straighten the fingers. I can still move them. If there's nothing crushed, it'll heal. I been meaning to learn to play slide." He forced a laugh. "I gotta get to the hospital, get 'em set. But you stay, just in case. Give the place a once over. No cops . . . at least not yet."

Shorty needed to be at the hospital A.S.A.P. I told Pam to take him. I felt odd going through their place, but I didn't want to tell the brave man no. I started in the back of the house. It was a wreck. Old albums, books, magazines, several more guitars, a Yamaha acoustic, an Epiphone, even a Silvertone that probably qualified as an antique. There was a small keyboard shoved against the wall and tons of plain old junk. I couldn't empty every box and crate in the place and I doubted Panko's boys had that kind of time, especially since they had entered illegally, and I was sure they had. I had just started when I heard a fist thudding against the door. I pulled the Taurus from my belt, pointed the barrel toward the ceiling, and approached at an angle from the left. I waited for a moment and the pounding grew more insistent. There was no eyehole in the door, and anyway I didn't want to be standing in front of it in case a shotgun blast splintered the wood. I heard a voice.

"Pam, Shorty . . . it's me, Glen. Open up."

I did. I lowered the .38 and cracked the door slightly. It was him. He slid in.

"T.K. what the hell are you doing here? Where're Shorty and Pam? How come tonight's gig was canceled?"

We settled at the kitchen table and I told him about the call. There was still blood pooled on the formica. He avoided it and sat with his muscular hands in his lap. His jaw was set in granite. I could see his teeth grinding and the lines in his forehead deepened like gray concrete hardening into a final form.

"So I told you I would help. I guess we need to case the house, try to find out what our pal Lurch was talking about."

"Okay," I said, "You start in the garage. I already did the bedrooms. Be careful out there. They may be watching. Yell if you need me. I've got a friend."

I laid the Taurus on the table for a moment. He nodded and went out the rear entrance. I went back to the bedrooms for a few minutes to see if I had missed anything, but somehow it didn't feel right. Any burglar with a good eye would be smart enough scan and drag through the clutter. It's no place to hide anything of value. Better to have a yard sale.

Suddenly I remembered Poe's story of "The Purloined Letter." C. August Dupin was the forerunner of Sherlock Holmes and a host of other clever sleuths. Where was the mysterious missive hidden? It didn't escape the master of deduction. In the most obvious place.

I went back into the living room. There were several amplifiers, both large and small. Next to a dusty Crate 2000 I saw a large indentation crushed into the worn carpet, possibly made by a man kneeling. There were a few flecks of metal covered in black paint. When I examined the back, I could see the prints where the dust had been disturbed. The screws that held the rear cover had recently been removed. I looked around for a Phillips head screwdriver. A kitchen drawer yielded my prize. It didn't take long. The cabinet was empty of any speakers and the wiring had been yanked out. They'd been replaced with four bricks of what I suspected was heroin, stacked and wrapped neatly in painter's plastic drop cloth. Try to explain that one to the cops. I hollered for Glen.

He came into the living room and knelt behind the amp.

"Christmas comes early this year," he said.

"So what do we do with this shit?" I asked.

"I got an 18 foot Scout, Merc 40 outboard. The horse goes in the bay. Might be a few stoned fish, but no smack in Pam and Shorty's duplex."

We searched the rest of the amp cases, but as far as we could tell, there was no trace of other drugs in the place. We loaded the Crate into Glen's Explorer and he drove to a deserted dock on the river. I punched a hole in each of the plastic bags with a filet knife. In an hour or so, our mission was complete. I felt sorry for the fish.

Chapter 16

Bill called early the next morning. I was brewing coffee and trying to figure out my next move.

"T.K. Got some news when I came in. Thought you'd be interested. One Albert DeMarzio took a nasty fall last night . . . off the balcony of a cheap motel on Avenue A. D.O.A. Only the second floor, but he had a broken neck. Found a couple of lines of coke on a mirror, a near empty bottle of Stoli. He was probably stoned, drunk, or both. One weird thing . . . the M.E. thinks his neck could have been broken before he took the fall. A few signs of a struggle, but nothing definitive."

"Albert? That wouldn't be one of Panko's playmates, the one that's built like a fireplug?"

"The same. It will probably go down as an accidental death. He was fucked up and all that shit. The room wasn't registered in his name. Desk clerk said a white guy in a blue hoodie came in and paid cash. No real physical description. Said he'd had a few beers . . . couldn't remember. Not unusual in that neighborhood. Albert was visiting someone, but my guess is we'll never know who. No luggage. The place was damned near empty. No prints. Of course, nobody saw or heard anything. Albert was decorating the sidewalk when the morning clerk got in. 'White guy in a blue hoodie?' There's probably only three or four thousand matching that description in the metro area. Anyway, just thought you might like to know. Get any ideas, call me."

I had one, but I wasn't about to tell Bill what it was. He didn't know about the broken fingers, but in the mind of some, that might be a damned fine motive. I figured the fireplug's weight at 230 or so. Not many people would have the strength to hoist him off a balcony, especially if he was already dead. And who could break a man's neck? How about a master of self-defense?

I wanted it to make sense, but I was wary of jumping to any conclusions. A guy like DeMarzio probably had plenty of enemies and if he didn't, Panko did. A statement, a warning, rival mob interests? The possibilities were endless. And how was I going to find out?

Sunny and I were doing an early lunch. Mama Antoni's again. Pizza that satisfied like an Italian orgasm. I biked over about eleven. Sunny was looking her scholarly best. It's all about being conservative and looking undeniably academic. Still, that woman couldn't hide her sexuality under a circus tent. It exuded and flowed like rose petals meandering down a sunlit river.

We ordered a large Pizza Margherita. It came about the size of a manhole cover, oozing white cheese and peppered with thick, red slices of ripe tomato. I had a mug of Yuengling, but she demurred. "Not while I'm working," she said in her most convincing professional tone. I started my tale.

She said, "No shit," about sixteen times between mouths full of cheese, Mama's private marinara, and fat golden garlic knots. She also drank about half of my Yuengling. So much for "Not while I'm working".

After Sunny had inhaled the last garlic knot, she dabbed at her perfect lips daintily with a white napkin, drained the last of my mug, and leaned across the table.

"Okay, I'm guessing you think Glen is the neck breaker. Bondura is the dragon lady, and Panko will be gunning for you if they don't sign the contract. Talent Pro can't be too concerned about Shorty if they broke his fingers. That was a warning, no doubt intended for you as well as Pam. The bricks were a reminder that she could end up in very deep trouble if she didn't play nice. What I don't understand is Panko's angle. They put Pam on tour . . . she might be big, but there are thousands of musicians out there with talent. She could be a bust. A break doesn't mean you'll be a star. It just means you might have a chance."

"Okay, Swami, you read my mind again. And you're right. The angle is the thing. I have a theory, but that's all it is. The heroin in the amplifier got me thinking. A band moves tons of equipment in big vans from one town to the next. The cabinets for the sound stuff are huge and heavy. It wouldn't take many to move large amounts of that white poison all over a region, if not the entire country. It's a built-in delivery system. At the same time a lot of cash changes hands. Nice opportunity to wash greenbacks if the money comes with lots of dirt."

"Damn it, T.K. You've been watching too much CSI, but it could make sense. So how do we find out?"

"Well . . . I haven't seen that episode yet." We finished up. I wanted another Yuengling, but I didn't think Sunny could handle it and still teach class. I fished a few spearmint Altoids out of the tin container in my pocket and handed them to her. We couldn't have the professor returning to campus smelling like a brewery.

I called Glen when I got back to KAMALA. I filled him in on the latest. I wanted to ask him if Albert's unfortunate accident had been aided by an enraged karate instructor, but that was a little too obvious.

"That's a shame," he said when I told him about Bill's call. "Sometimes bad things happen to bad people, but I don't think I'll send flowers."

I knew it wasn't the cops and I didn't ask Glen for an alibi. The truth is I was glad Albert had been removed from the equation. He was stupid and dangerous and that's often a lethal combination. I could only guess about Glen's involvement, and sometimes what you don't know is better than what you do.

Next I tried Pam. Shorty was doing okay, but she didn't have time to talk. She was burning up the lines, desperate to find a decent guitar player to fill in so HIGH FLYER could do their regular gig at the Austin for the rest of the week. She thought she had one, but only if he didn't show up too drunk or two stoned to massage the strings.

I got one last call.

"Good day, Dr. Fleming. I am beginning to think I have underestimated you. I got one of yours . . . you got one of mine. Perhaps it is time for more serious negotiations before this thing gets entirely out of hand. May I propose a meeting? Your choice of venue, but let us make it before the day is out tomorrow. It may cut down on the casualties."

"Your call is timely, Mr. Panko. I'll let you know the time and place first thing in the morning."

Panko obviously thought I was at least indirectly responsible for the death of his lackey. Let him think it. Maybe it would give me an edge, or maybe it would put an even bigger target on my back.

I hung up and called Glen.
Chapter 17

We were at Waterside, the popular shopping complex and marina on the Elizabeth River, at about eleven the next morning. I picked Joe's Crab Shack for our meeting with Panko. There'd be lots of people around, all potential witnesses in case our boy, Lurch, got frisky. Glen and I settled into a booth in a small alcove near the back, a good place for private conversation. My pal Leo and his giant sidekick joined us a few minutes later. Lurch could barely get his knees under the table.

It was early, but an Absolut Bloody Mary sounded too good to pass up. A little pricey, but it was my secret plan to stick the Talent Pro President with the check. I was sure he could afford it.

"Good morning, Mr. Macklin. I had a premonition that you might be joining us. You appear to be in great shape. Been doing some heavy lifting, no doubt." Panko smiled like a python savoring a fat kitten.

Glen shot him a stony glare, but nothing came from his lips. Lurch just stared, the malevolence in his eyes focused and deadly silent. Our server brought the drinks, coffee for everyone else and a thick crimson delight with a crisp stalk of celery for me. I wasn't really hungry, but since our host was paying, I ordered the Hungry Man Brunch, two eggs, two pancakes, with a side of sausage and biscuits. I didn't realize I was setting a trend. The rest followed suit.

"We have ordered our repast, Dr. Fleming. To employ the vernacular, let us cut to the chase. We have both suffered what might be termed collateral damage. Most unfortunate . . . but often unavoidable. Every business has its liabilities, its down-side risks. Best that we anticipate them, then formulate strategies that transform them into assets. I was reluctant at first, but I have been forced to admit that you and your violent friend are potentially very useful."

Not at all what I expected. I had assumed this was a meeting to warn us off . . . imply broken bones, or even makeshift coffins unless we cooperated. But now it was time to play a different set of cards.

"Thanks, Leo. I'm glad you have finally realized that Glen and I have some unique talents and very useful associates. We are in a position to provide valuable service. Of course, it has a price, but the goods you deal in are immensely profitable. Surely a small slice of that pie will be hardly missed, especially if the rewards are hearty and filling."

It's always interesting when you're making the shit up as you go along. I hoped I wasn't too far off the mark, but if I was, we'd have to live with it . . . or maybe die with it. I questioned my own sick sense of humor for a moment. That might not be so damned funny. Leo feigned contemplative briefly and went on.

"I think we may have a small project for you. You must forgive me if I am a bit skeptical, but it serves me well in my position. It is always appropriate to test the water to insure that it is not deceptively deep. It will take a few days to set things up, so best to keep your schedule flexible."

"And who, exactly will I be working for? I've been lucky in past associations, but that luck has been borne of caution. I like to know who I'm in bed with. Is this operation strictly yours?"

"I like a man who asks questions. It enables the astute listener to ascertain one's priorities. But you must be patient, my friend. All in due time."

He raised a finger and wagged it at me as though I were a child. I tried to ignore it, but I felt Glen tense up beside me.

I nodded and Leo began to slice his pancakes into tidy bite-sized portions. Lurch was already sopping up the remains of the butter and syrup with the extra biscuits he had asked for. The well-dressed thugs pleaded a previous appointment and hurried away from the table. Leo casually tossed a folded bill on the table and made for the exit. I reached over and picked it up. A twenty. Hell it wouldn't even cover the drinks.

Glen and I sat. I glanced out the window at the vessels resting in their slips. I had stopped at Waterside on my way to Annapolis several years ago. The Chesapeake Bay was a cruise destination complete with sweet sailing, great crab cakes, raucous bars, and quiet anchorages where the only boat in the creek was yours. If you were a poker player that was the Royal Flush.

My partner hadn't said a word past hello and most of the brunch was uneaten.

"Glen," I said, "I don't know whether to thank you, apologize to you, or try to run you off. This business may get very nasty before it's all over. If you want out, just say so."

He finally smiled. "So this is the Colonel Travis moment at the Alamo where he draws the line in the sand with his sword?"

"Yeah, I guess it is."

"Well, I'm crossing that line. I'm with you . . . for Pam and Shorty."

Those were words I was glad to hear.

"Okay, why do I get the feeling dear Leo is just a go-boy for someone much bigger? I can only imagine what kind of errand they'll send us on. Something nasty, illegal, and incriminating, no doubt."

"Yeah," Glen said, "and let's throw in dangerous."

"Let's do. At least Leo's schedule gives us a few more days to gather information. These people are into much more than dope. Prostitution, probably gambling. Who knows what else?"

"Someone does. How about your friend Bill? He must have some connections . . . maybe a snitch or two."

"I can ask him, but he told me not to call the station. He also suggested there might be some bent cops pursuing alternative forms of income. We need to give that some serious consideration before we go announcing our campaign to clean up the lovely and vibrant city of Norfolk. Too bad we don't know any loose jawed hookers."

Glen was quiet for a minute. Then he said, "I do . . . but she won't talk to me."

"Why not?"

"I broke her pimp's arm . . . in three places. But I can get you a number."

Chapter 18

When I told Sunny about our meeting, she did what she always does. Stuck her nose in. A most welcomed nose, I might add.

"So when do you get the number?"

"Glen left it on the voice mail last night. Her name is BelleAmie, works the streets not too far from the Naval Base. Gave me a description. I'm gonna try tonight."

"So you're gonna meet with our loose jawed hooker? Great . . . I'm in."

"Oh no, you're not. Who knows what might happen? I've put you in harm's way too many times already. You can sit this one out."

"Yeah, I could . . . but I'm not. You need my car and you need me. I can still cover your ass if I need to and our girl might be less suspicious of a woman, particularly if I tell her about my previous employment history."

Sunny had been a stripper, a junkie, and a hooker in a previous life. She knew things . . . understood the threats, the compromises, and the simple fear that the ladies of the night lived with. She picked up things I didn't, and it sounded like I didn't have a choice anyway. My significant other has a head like a brick.

"Okay . . . you win. Pick me up around ten and we'll go cruisin'."

She nodded and headed off to campus for another scintillating day of molding young minds. I spent the rest of the day making a few calls, checking the .38, contemplating my wardrobe for the evening, and whittling away at my endless boat list.

I heard the horn of the old Saab honk a few minutes early. I stuffed the Taurus into the holster on my belt and put on a blue nylon jacket to cover any telling bulges. Sunny slid over to the passenger seat and I crawled behind the wheel. We were only a couple of miles from the street corner Glen had identified. I drove slowly. When Sunny spotted a woman matching BelleAmie's description, I pulled to the curb.

She must have been a knockout at one time. No more than mid-twenties, but she looked tired and beaten. Probably 5'10", but it was hard to tell with the black stilettoes exaggerating her height. Very blond, the locks hanging over her shoulders like conditioned straw. She wore a vinyl red skirt way above the knees and a long sleeved black v neck cut down to China. She was braless, but still firm. Her breasts seemed to struggle for release. She pranced over to the car and leaned into the window.

"You're Fleming," she said to me, "I like a threesome if everybody plays nice."

Sunny opened the door and eased into the back. Miss Red skirt slid in and closed the door with a clunk.

"If I'm doing extra duty, it's gonna cost you a motel room and a bottle of wine. Pull into that 7 Eleven on the corner. I'm letting you off easy. MD 20/20, Red Grape . . . two pints."

I did as she instructed, then followed her directions to a four story brick building with a flashing sign, "Rooms for the Night". The neon was out in the two oo's. We parked around back and I went to the office. "No Credit Cards. Cash Only" glared at me in massive print from above the desk. Our host smelled slightly sour and he hadn't been close to a razor in several days. I held up a fifty. He snatched it, handed me a key and settled back into a tired recliner patched with duct tape. "No loud noises, no kinky stuff," he growled through the phlegm. I started up the stairs.

The room was surprisingly clean. A little heavy on the Lysol, but I was glad for it. The lady popped open the first bottle of MD and poured a full belt into a plastic cup. She offered it to me, then to Sunny, but we both declined. She gulped about half of it and refilled the plastic.

"BelleAmie. It means beautiful friend, but most of my clients don't speak French too good. You can make it Amy for short."

The dim light gave me my first chance to study her face. Her features were perfect, long aquiline nose, lips with just a hint of pout, an elegant chin and classic high cheekbones. Deep blue eyes . . . tired, but they still held a glint of youth and a tortured measure of joy long past.

"I see you starin', Buster. Yeah . . . head cheerleader, homecoming queen. Every guy in town wanted in my pants, but I knew how to play them. Hell I was still a virgin at 18. I was smart. I knew I was gonna be a star. Graduated with honors on the south Jersey shore not far from Hampton Beach. First to New York. Met some people who promised me I was gonna make it. They just didn't tell me what 'it' was. Came down here for a photo shoot on the beach. Then I found out I had to take my clothes off. I figured what the hell? It worked for Kim Kardashian."

She looked over at Sunny. "You were in the game, weren't you?"

Sunny nodded and pursed her lips. "I was lucky. I got out."

"There's something about us pros. I can always tell. I wish I was as lucky as you." Amy hesitated. She put a finger to her mouth. I could hear the faint click of her teeth as she clamped them together. Her blue eyes darted around the room to make sure the walls weren't closing in on her.

I changed my mind about the wine. It was sweet and churned in my gut, but I needed it to keep listening. Sunny said nothing else. She didn't have to. Her face had turned a sick shade of gray. I guessed she was reliving some hellish nightmare. Something dark that tormented her, something she thought \-- or at least wished -- she had forgotten.

"So now I'm a human pin cushion with a cunt that's damned near worn out. There's not much left, but Paul was a friend of mine. We used to shoot up together, but I think they killed him. Glen says I can trust you."

"I thought you weren't talking to him."

"Well, he broke Oreo's arm. The pimp is still in a cast, but it wouldn't have happened if the bastard hadn't hit me. Bad mistake. Glen fixed it. He's my buddy . . . maybe the only one I got left."

Sunny finally spoke. "So who's the Boss Lady?"

"Anyone knows I talked to you guys, I'm dead. Might not be such a great loss. It's just a matter of time. I got the horse running through my veins like it was the Belmont Stakes, but I still like breathing. I even like screwing sometimes. I have my regulars and they treat me good. Little presents sometimes. The Boss Lady? Yeah, I know her. Actually she's a little beefy, but a hot bitch, has what you might call alternative sexual preferences. We went around a time or two."

"So who is she?" Sunny asked.

"I'm not giving out names, but I bet you've seen her on T.V. That's all I can do. Unless you want to press some flesh, get the hell out of here. I'm gonna drink and sleep. The first time I've had a night to myself in a long time. Never know when it might be the last one for a while."

She slipped off the stilettoes and sat on the edge of the bed. Her feet were slim and elegant, high delicately curved arches that matched her long shapely legs, but the backs of her heels were chafed a fiery red, and the bone beside the big toe protruded. I placed two one hundred dollar bills on the night stand. She was snoring before we got out the door. I hoped she got some rest. I didn't think we'd see her again.

On the way back to KAMALA, Sunny and I were silent, but we were feeling and thinking the same things. All I could do now was wait.

Chapter 19

For the next couple of days, I kept myself busy with a flood of mindless shit. I had no idea what Panko's little test was going to be. I tried out several scenarios in my mind, but nothing jelled. Sunny and I ate, drank, and made love. Only so the time wouldn't be completely wasted.

On Thursday night we went to see the new incarnation of HIGH FLYER. The fill-in guy on the guitar was pretty damned good, but he wasn't Shorty and everyone knew it. Still Pam pumped in a little extra heart and soul and they pulled it off. Shorty watched with the cast resting in the spilled beer on the table. He told me the hand was actually coming along nicely. He figured six weeks at the outside before he'd be picking again. In the meantime, he could hang wall paper as long as he took some regular breaks and lots of Ibuprofen to stem the aching in the joints. Glen seemed stoical for the moment, but when I got close to him I could feel the anger simmering into a rage. I didn't want to be around when it hit full boil.

The next morning the phone rang. Panko wanted me to come by his office alone. "Safest place to talk," he told me. If that was the case, I figured he had someone sweeping the place for listening devices on a regular basis. Not a bad idea when you're in his business. I left the Taurus on the boat. After all, we were about to become real tight buddies, and I doubted the walls were thick enough to muffle the explosion of a .38 at close range.

Sherry still had the lush jet black hair, the insane cleavage and another spray-on dress, just in a different color. She smiled. I melted, and she led me to the President's office. Lurch was in his familiar spot doing the knife thing again. I got the message again. There was a fireplug clone against the other wall. He shot me an "I'd love to fuck you up" look. I guess dumb muscle is easy to replace if the price is right.

"It is good to see you Dr. Fleming. You are looking fit and eager. I am in still need of your signature on that contract, but we will leave that for another time. By the way, we are secure here. The exterminator comes twice a week to check for those nasty bugs."

"So I'm betting it's time for me to become your errand boy?"

"I prefer the word associate. If all goes well, perhaps it can graduate to partner. I assume you keep your boat in running condition at all times. She is certainly a handsome craft, although a bit small. We have checked her out and she seems quite capable. I also know that you are a licensed captain so I am certain you will not object to a short sail up the Bay. You may take Glen if you prefer. He has also demonstrated some skills on the water."

I had no idea what was coming next. A "sail up the Chesapeake Bay," especially before the weather turned cold, was a dream voyage for me. It had been over ten years since I had traveled these waters. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. But I knew there was a catch. I just didn't know what it was. At least not yet.

"All large endeavors begin with small foundations. No more than half a dozen boxes for the first run, none much over twenty pounds. You should be able to store them with little trouble. Office supplies, that's what we call them. We even keep spares in the basement, under lock and key, of course. They are quite safe from prying eyes."

"Leo," I shook my head, "what exactly is in those boxes of 'office supplies'? I need to know what kind of risk I'm taking and I'm still not sure for who."

"My, my, Dr. Fleming, but you are impatient. Suffice it to say that if you're caught, you will spend considerable time as a guest of the state, perhaps even the federal authorities. However, I have the utmost confidence in your discretion and your resourcefulness. We have made this very simple. You will not fail and you will find yourself shopping for a larger yacht very soon."

Okay, I thought. This is the test. I'm going to pack over 100 lbs. of pure heroin onto KAMALA and transport it to some port in Maryland. Suddenly I'm as dirty as they are. Then they can use me as their mule and put a bullet in my head when it's convenient. I always wanted a burial at sea, but the Bay gets mighty cold in the winter. I have a more Bahamas state of mind.

He gave me the rest of the details and told me to make sure the boat was ready. I had to able to move at a moment's notice. I left the office and smiled at Sherry. She smiled back. Maybe I wasn't getting that much older.

I was afraid to use the phone for much. If they had checked out my boat like Panko said, they must have been on board. One or more of those "nasty little bugs" the President had referred to might be living in some obscure part of KAMALA. I didn't check for now. If they were listening, I might even be able to use that to my advantage. I called Glen and we decided to meet between his classes at the school. I told him I'd bring lunch.

Two Big Macs and supersize fries, big iced tea, and even a couple of apple pies. Hey . . . a meal fit for a king . . . or maybe a dying man's last request. I hoped it was the former. The gym was empty except for one guy wailing away at a bag. We went out into the reception area. Hell, they could have bugged Glen's office, too.

"So here's the drill. We wait for a call. It should come soon. They bring in six boxes of 'office supplies,' -- most likely bricks of heroin – and load them on KAMALA. We leave the dock and head up the Bay. I'm assuming it will be at night. We bypass Solomon's and Annapolis, to the Patapsco River and put in at the Boater's Haven, a marina near Fells Point in Baltimore. It's maybe 240 nautical miles. Assuming we leave somewhere around dawn, we'd make landfall in 36 to 40 hours. We leave in the dark and arrive in the dark. Panko called the dock master a friend of theirs. Gave me a name and description. We offload the stuff and head back home."

"Why do I have the feeling you've got plans I haven't heard yet?"

"Because I do, but first I need some advice . . . and we are going to need some assistance from some outside sources."

"And do those 'outside sources' come with uniforms and guns?"

"I damned sure hope so."

It was the first time I'd seen a legitimate smile on Glen's face in days. Before I got back to the boat, I found one of the last existing pay phones on the planet and called Bill.

Chapter 20

I could barely hear him. I figured there was a good reason he was keeping his voice so low. I gave him a quick rundown on the errand that Panko had assigned me to.

"So what do you plan to do?"

"When he calls, Glen and I will be ready. There are two possibilities. You and your troops are waiting when they show up. You bust them while they are making the delivery or . . . I guess we could take the stuff to Baltimore and the bust can happen when they offload."

"There are problems with the first one. I told you we have some bent cops. I don't necessarily know who all of them are. There could be a leak, then the whole plan explodes in our faces and you and Glen are likely in serious danger. If you take the payload to Baltimore, you are crossing state lines. They've violated a host of federal laws and now the DEA is involved. I won't say that the Feds are more reliable, but they have resources that I don't. Snitches, manpower . . . just plain bigger guns. The chances of getting suppliers and the honchos in charge are much greater. Let me give you a name and a number. I know this guy. You can trust him. Give me twenty minutes."

888-472 -6005. I walked the streets and pretended to window shop. Then I dialed.

"Dr. Fleming, agent Joseph Bellini, D.E.A. I spoke with Detective O'Mara. Seems as though you have gotten yourself in a volatile situation."

"Yeah, I have . . . but I'm ready to get out before someone gets hurt. You can help me?"

"As a matter of fact, I can. We've had several unsavory individuals in your area on our radar for quite some time. It would be a pleasure to see them in prison orange. Buy a disposable cell phone and put my number on speed dial. I can and will answer at any time of the day or night. We're going to call this Fells Point Takedown. When you call, identify yourself with that phrase and you will be put through to me immediately. Thank you for calling, but you must pardon me. I have some homework to do."

I figured he'd check me out, have everything on Dr. T.K. Fleming except my underwear size . . . within the hour. Thirty-four, and I wear the tightie-whities, in case you're interested. So, as Sherlock Holmes used to say, "The game is afoot."

I stopped by the 7 Eleven and bought the phone. It had one hundred minutes. That would do it unless I ended up dead, then I wouldn't need them anyway.

I checked in with Sunny and Glen. They were both catching up with business and academics. I didn't tell Sunny everything. I didn't want her to worry. I told Glen to be ready.

The call came earlier than I'd expected. Panko.

"Tomorrow night around midnight. You get the office supplies, you leave first thing in the morning, be on your way to Baltimore. On another note, Dr. Fleming . . . please do not be alarmed or offended, but we have a guest. She is blond, shapely and quite the scholar. She will be with us until the delivery is assured. Do not concern yourself. She is quite comfortable and ensconced safely away from prying eyes. She will be released unharmed when we are certain your mission has been completed without incident. Call it what you like, but it is merely a bit of insurance, my friend. Bon voyage."

"My friend . . ." the vicious words stung in my ear.

The sonovabitch. They had Sunny. I called her cell . . . a recorded response. I left a message, but I didn't expect a call back anytime soon. I'm supposed to be a professor . . . well-schooled, always sifting the facts, cool and calculating, but I was frantic. So what the hell did I do now?

I poured a shot of Jameson. I thought the burn in my gut might help. Would they hurt her? I didn't think so as long as they believed I was following instructions. While I was an asset, albeit a small one, Panko would let me ride, get me in so deep I couldn't escape, then dispose of me when it suited his convenience. But I had set up a sting. If they found out, Sunny could end up dead . . . or worse.

I felt I could count on Glen . . . and we had to find her. That much was clear, but the rest was a hellish miasma of options . . . all risky and some downright deadly. How I would deal with it if another man was hurt, or even killed, because of a decision I had made when I was barely rational? If I was confused, I could always count on Sunny to bring biting analysis and cold conclusions to the table. Now I had to do it myself or I could be without her permanently. But my brain was whirling at breakneck speed. I had to slow down . . . be logical . . . not let my fear and the flood of emotions render me helpless . . . or worse yet, just plain stupid.

Maybe I was a fool for thinking Glen and I could find her? We were as likely to screw up as to complete a rescue, especially without any information or any reasonable facsimile of a plan. It certainly made more sense to let the pros handle it. They had big guns and cool heads. But that was what scared me. What was their stake in Sunny's safety? I figured they would operate as efficiently as possible . . . and they certainly had resources I didn't. But what if they failed? What if I was responsible for her death and I had done nothing? I tried to imagine her state of mind, the fear, the longing. She was waiting for something . . . the cavalry, her knight in shining armor . . . and it was me.

Chapter 21

I had to call Bill and the D.E.A. I figured agent Bellini would be gratified to know that Panko and his confederates might be adding kidnapping to their list of crimes, but only if I told him. It just made the well deeper, but I hesitated. When I was sure we couldn't find Sunny, I'd let the law dogs loose, but I hoped she'd be safe in my arms first. That meant my little errand had to appear to be proceeding as planned. The dope had to be loaded onboard and KAMALA had to leave for Baltimore on schedule. It was roughly a 36 hour trip up there. That would be the only window for Sunny's escape. As long as the thugs believed I was their performing pony, Sunny had a pass. If we got lucky, maybe we could catch them by surprise. But hell, I didn't even know where she was, much less how to find out.

I called Bill and told him the drop off was proceeding. I was reluctant to mislead him. I might need his help and leaving out critical information is not a way to inspire trust. Nevertheless, he couldn't communicate what he didn't know. And if any of his associates, the ones on the take, were wired into the system, they'd be confused, if not ignorant, of the plan that was forming in my mind.

My next call was Bellini. I spoke the magic words Fells Point Takedown into the phone and Bellini answered immediately. I didn't tell him everything. As far as he knew we were right on schedule.

"Great," he said, "makes any questions over jurisdiction awfully damned simple. Crossing state lines with smack lets the Feds in. We can definitely work with that, make this the real thing. They'll soon be measuring your boys for jumpsuits and 7x9 luxury accommodations, gourmet meals on the state. What do you need?"

"I need two guys. Best case scenario . . . at a distance they resemble Glen and me. Both have to know how to handle a sailing yacht. Glen and I will leave the marina as planned, but near dawn we will pull up to the small dock near the Chinese Pagoda on the river. We switch out the crew and your people can head to Fells Point. In the meantime, I have some business to attend to."

"I don't know what 'business' you're referring to, Fleming. Maybe it's good that I don't, but if you screw up our bust, your ass will be in a sling."

I told him not to be worried, but I damned sure was.

The delivery went smoothly. Lurch was the supervisor. Two monsters in jeans and flannel shirts tagging behind. In the parking lot, a black Escalade sat with the motor running. The windows were tinted way beyond what state law allows, but in the glare of the streetlight I could just make out two shadows. One of them had to be Panko. There was a faint buzzing and the other one dropped the glass in the back seat a few inches to blow smoke out the window. I caught the barest glimpse of blond hair and red lipstick.

When the boxes were loaded, Lurch grinned at me and Glen like Bela Lugosi prepping for a bite on the neck.

"You got no worries, Doc. Your little lady is safe under lock and key. Just make sure you keep up your end of the bargain and she's yours without even her makeup mussed." He twisted his lip like a child who hoped he'd be able to pull that other wing off the struggling fly. He waved to the Escalade and it slid out of the parking lot.

We cast off the lines and headed out of the well-lit channel. It was only a couple of miles to Freemason Harbor where the Chinese Pagoda was tucked into the recesses. Except for one flickering dock light, the place was dark. The restaurant had closed earlier. No casual stollers, no other boats. We had the night all to ourselves. In five minutes, Glen and I had disembarked and two very business-like chaps took over the lines and the helm. No words passed between us. They had left us an old Crown Vic coated in dust and salt spray. I turned the key and the engine roared to life . . . I was betting it was an Interceptor, lots of horses and plenty of goodies that made them fly when they had to. Hopefully we wouldn't need it. We went to Glen's office and parked around the back. I checked the rearview mirror constantly and I didn't think we were being followed. We snuck in the back door and settled into the chairs. Glen reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a fifth of Knob Creek and a couple of dusty glasses.

He poured us each a healthy dollop of the brown magic, then looked at me and spoke.

"They probably killed her."

My gut wrenched. "Killed who?"

"BelleAmie. She never left that motel room. Just a paragraph in the newspaper . . . said it appeared to be an overdose. Just like Paul. Somehow they knew. Got to her while she was already stoked to high heaven. One more shot of high octane smack. Wouldn't have taken much. I got the news off the street the next morning."

The tired look on the hooker's face surfaced and haunted me. The tortured homecoming queen from the south Jersey shore. The washed out hair, the red vinyl skirt, the callouses on her otherwise beautiful feet. All she'd wanted was a good night's sleep. Her words echoed in my ear, "they find out I talked to you, I'm dead". Well, she got that sleep. It was cold and permanent, and Glen believed Panko had arranged it. Could Sunny be next? Glen was quiet, but the twisted pain in his face said he felt responsible. He was driven by redemption, if not a cold passion for revenge.

I took another swallow of the Kentucky fire. Where was she? We had roughly 36 hours . . . maybe less if there was a leak we couldn't anticipate. Anything could happen. The whiskey burned in my belly, but something else was stirring. It had been lurking in the recesses of my mind, just outside the ring of my consciousness, but I'd been so preoccupied with the madness around me that I couldn't focus.

"So what now?" he asked.

I glanced at the clock on his wall. 3 A.M. Still at least a couple of hours of darkness.

"I think I know where she is . . . and we've got time."

Chapter 22

I had given Glen my Taurus earlier. I didn't want to leave it on the boat and I didn't want to be packing it in case they frisked me or searched the boat. He seemed to read my mind. He pulled a drawer open and pushed the loaded .38 across the desk. Then he dropped a baggie of extra shells on the wood with a metallic thump. I picked it up, pulled the hammer back and spun the cylinder.

"You drive," I said.

"Where to?"

Panko had repeated the phrase "safe from prying eyes" exactly twice. Once when he was telling us about the location of the stash of heroin in the basement of their office building, and again when he suggested where Sunny might be hidden. Then our pal Lurch had said that Sunny was "safe under lock and key," exactly the words Panko had used when assuring us the dope was in a place where it wouldn't be discovered. It was a long shot, but it was the only one we had.

Glen drove the Interceptor slowly through the streets. He pulled around to the back of the building and parked in the shadows across from the loading dock. He popped the trunk. Cops often keep some miscellaneous tools in the back of the cars. I was desperately hoping for bolt cutters. They were under a couple of sheets of greasy cardboard. I grabbed the handle and felt the edge of the jaws. These would do.

I pointed silently to the aluminum roll up door above the concrete platform. I got to my knees and looked through the crack underneath. I saw a faint gleam of light in the back to the left. Glen handed me a dirty rag. I placed the lock in the teeth of the bolt cutters and wrapped the rag around them. Then I pushed the handles together. I could feel the steel bite into steel. Luckily someone had decided to save a buck or two on hardware. The shaft on the lock was thin and it snapped with little effort. The door was well-oiled and we lifted it just enough to crawl into the basement with the barest whisper of fabric on concrete.

We crept toward the light, staying against a stack of boxes that lined the wall. There was a gray metal cage in the corner with a bolt on the door. A green metal folding chair was on one side and an empty pizza box sat next to it. On the dusty floor was a sleeping bag with a woman curled up in a fetal position. I could see her shoulders heave slightly. At least she was alive.

A wooden chair was propped up against the wall outside the cage. Fireplug's stand in lay back snoring like a wounded bull. I pulled the .38 and we eased across the concrete. Suddenly I heard a loud click behind us. Lurch had a .45 automatic pointed at my chest. He waved it back toward Glen and gave us a toothy smile.

"Wake up, Elvis. We got company."

The legs of the chair hit the ground and the brick-like sidekick stumbled to his feet. He yawned, blinked the sleep out of his eyes and leered at me. Lurch took another step forward swinging the .45 back and forth like a reaper ready to cut stalks of dead wheat.

"Glad to see you Doc. You, too, Glen. Place the little heater on the ground. Be gentle. This baby has a hair trigger and the safety is off. And here we thought you guys were on a little sea cruise. Too bad you missed it, but I'm guessing you'll both be in for a long swim before the night is over. Might be tough when you're full of lead, but maybe you'll manage. You got some ringers on your boat Professor? Leo will be interested to hear it."

He pulled a cell phone out of his back pocket and shook it like a giant kid taunting trapped animals at the zoo. Glen took a slow step to his right and I leaned in the opposite direction. I bent down toward the Taurus. Lurch focused on me and dared me with is eyes. He wanted me to lunge for the .38. Then he could empty the clip on me and Glen and bask in deadly glee.

"Try it, Doc."

Suddenly Glen whirled like some demented dervish. His foot slung around and hit the gun hand. I heard the clatter of metal and a hideous screech as it slid across the floor. I grabbed the .38 and pointed it at the sidekick. He froze.

Lurch grinned again and rolled his shoulders. This was going to be his favorite kind of fun. He towered over Glen and must have outweighed him by close to a hundred lbs. His eyes glowed a hideous yellow like a feral cat about to pounce on a helpless mouse.

"I'm glad you did that, little man. Now I can break you in half with my bare hands, just like I did that stupid Albert. Yeah, Doc, it was me, not your boy here. He couldn't hurt a crippled nun."

He lunged, but Glen ducked under his arm and drove an elbow into Lurch's ribs. The giant staggered, but only for a second. He took a deep breath and his face became that of a demon. I wanted to put a slug in his gut, but they were too close for me to risk it without maybe hitting Glen. Now a huge fist came roundhouse at Glen's head. He stepped inside the arc, blocked it with his forearm and chopped at Lurch's Adam's Apple. Then he snatched his massive head, pivoted and flipped the monster over his shoulder like a rag doll. Lurch slammed onto his back. He fought for breath, then got to his knees again, shaking his head in addled disbelief. Glen clapped his hands against the monster's ears. He jerked. Another elbow. This time to the back of the neck. Now Lurch was stunned. A river of blood ran down his left cheek. Glen locked an arm around the head in a choke hold, his open hand against Lurch's temple. The short man's eyes flashed and burned like a demented banshee. He looked at me for a second, like a child begging forgiveness. I shook my head.

"Don't do it, Glen. It's not worth it. We may need him."

Glen looked at me and sobbed. A single tear ran down his cheek and his lower lip quivered. He focused on me for a moment, then dropped his chin almost to his chest.

"Sorry, T.K." he spit through gritted teeth, "this is for Paul and BelleAmie."

The snap split the air like a bullwhip. Lurch's head lolled at a contorted angle. It hung on his shattered neck like a rotten melon. His body collapsed in a pile of lifeless flesh. The sidekick was smarter than he looked. When I turned back to the spot where he was standing, the space was empty. We searched for a minute, but he had vanished into the darkness.

We searched the pockets of the corpse, but there was no key. Glen went back for the bolt cutters while I spoke softly to Sunny. She wasn't crying, but the skin on her face had melted into pale wax and her mascara ran down her cheeks in a bad impersonation of Alice Cooper. She had no words.

She put her arms around me and whispered, "I knew you would come, my Ghostcatcher."

I grimaced as I held her.

We went back to the Interceptor and Glen climbed behind the wheel. We eased out of the parking lot and went back to Glen's office. Daylight was breaking to the east. The orange cast was brilliant and I hoped . . . promising. We settled on no cops until the bust in Fells Point was complete. Glen poured us all a belt of well-deserved Knob Creek while Sunny told her story. They had picked her up on the way out of her evening class. Just our dearly departed Lurch and his sidekick in the black Escalade. They told her they were planning a little fun before the day was out. She'd 'love it', they promised, but they hadn't hurt her. It wasn't because they didn't want to, and the promises unraveled her. Thank God they hadn't been able to keep them. She was scared, but my blond professor was one tough lady.

Glen and I checked out Sunny's apartment carefully before we went in. The door was still bolted and everything inside looked undisturbed. I took her arm and led her in. Then Glen left in the Interceptor. I made coffee and found some Aunt Jemima pancake mix in the cupboard, half a quart of milk in the fridge with some butter. Time to whip up some breakfast. Sunny was snoring on the couch before the skillet got hot.

I was sipping the steaming brew and watching the butter run over the brown beauties when I felt my cell vibrate in my pocket.

"The jest is on you, my fuckhead friend. You may call your confidantes at the D.E.A. The boxes are full of sugar and flour. The Boss Lady suspected your intentions were insincere from the beginning, but we felt you did merit an opportunity. I only regret that we did not dispatch your learned female companion. Perhaps next time. And you may tell Mr. Macklin to rest assured that we will see him in the future."

He hung up.

Panko's voice spit shards of malevolent ice. I had no doubt that all of us better be checking our backs at regular intervals. I dialed the number of my federal buddy.

"Fells Point Takedown. We've been had."

In less than five minutes the cell rang. I told Agent Joseph Bellini about the one-sided conversation I'd had with Panko. He instructed me to stay available and put me on hold. I didn't have to wait long. The agents on KAMALA had opened the boxes. Sugar and flour, just like the man said. The agents were headed back to Tidal Refuge.

Epilogue

Panko didn't contact Pam and Shorty again. Time to cut his losses, I suspected. Sunny and I went to HIGH FLYER's final gig at the AUSTIN. The place was packed. When the Diva appeared, the crowd stood and applauded while wolf whistles and miscellaneous chants filled the air. Shorty was on stage, his hand still in a cast, but two fingers encased in a glass pill bottle and the Fender Strat hanging over his shoulder like it had never left home. The strings screamed and they slid into George Thorogood's Mannish Boy classic "Bad to the Bone." I'd never seen Shorty playing slide guitar, but he milked every note and Pam wailed like a haunted child.

After the final set, she came over to our table. She put her arm around my neck and said nothing. Then she planted a sweet delicate kiss on my cheek. I smelled the sweat, felt the caress of her hot breath on my cheek and the smear of her lipstick. I started to rub it off. Sunny took my hand away. "Leave it," she said, "it suits you." Shorty smiled and waved. It was the last time we saw them. They signed with the other agency and left the area quickly.

Glen continued to operate The Macklin School of Self Defense, but he was looking for a band that needed a good bass. I talked to him on the phone a couple of times, but I didn't see him again. I told him about Panko's warning. It really didn't seem to bother him at all.

I called Bill to fill him in on bust gone wrong.

"Sometimes the bad guys win." he said, "and if I were you, I'd get out of town and take Sunny with me . . . soon. They'll wait, but they won't wait long. It's bad for business."

I thanked him and told him I was working on it.

We never did find out who the Boss Lady was.

Alison Bondura was elected in a landslide. She was inaugurated as the smiling . . . make that smirking, long-nosed Mayor of Norfolk in January.

Sunny spent the winter sending out resumes. She had already established a reputation as a competent and dedicated educator. Norfolk got very cold, and most of the applications went to colleges in Florida. I got a deal on an alarm system for KAMALA. I kept the Taurus, oiled and loaded, with me constantly and watched our backs as best I could. Sunny bought a nice little Ruger .22 automatic to carry in her pocketbook. It seemed quiet, but Bill's words echoed in my ear from time to time. "They won't wait too long."

Sunny and I were both hoping to celebrate the summer solstice a little farther south. erHerHHH
