

THEY KILL US FOR THEIR SPORT

By Kevin Murphy

Copyright Kevin Murphy 2016

All Rights Reserved
1

Costas George plays a small counter-intelligence role for the Allies leading up to Overlord. He's humbly billeted in Sudbury, England.

June 1st, 1944: loses his virginity to Sally from Norwich; she doesn't believe him when he says that he's going to fight at the Normandy coalface. She's gone for good by dawn.

His marksmanship's been uniformly poor on the range. It's true that he sees no action. And Harry's A-bombs teach him to steer clear of any voting booths for the foreseeable.

1946

Chicago

Nineteen year old Emily Klick's not the prettiest girl around. Still, he pushes his way into her line of sight. They get to talking inside sweaty and puffed-up Liberty Dance Hall just off Division Street. She's got a lazy eye and some unkempt teeth and walks with a quick, bold step. Her hourglass curves are wickedly set to stunning. Costas is the fourth man to ask her to dance this evening. (He's been keeping a close eye on things.) He's sure to be long face number four. Surprise: she agrees. They have some wars in common. And boy oh boy, can that girl lindy hop! A Wurlitzer vision of swinging indigo; like she and Glenn Miller got a personal game going. She runs 22 year old Costas into the ground into the wee hours.

Walks her home to North Park Avenue in Old Town. The night is mild and purpled. She gives a little background to start: three younger brothers whom she babysat throughout American involvement in Europe. Her mother got paid cash and kudos as a Rosie producing munitions from the gut of a reconfigured Goliath factory in the Loop. Emily enviously observed, felt stifled. Home life was dreary during the War. Nevertheless, she glued her ears to the radio everyday for updates; cried from dawn till dusk when the Japs attacked Pearl Harbor. Adores the oration of Winston Churchill - wants to name her first boy after him. Her father's dead since '37. She's vague as to the cause of death.

Costas is thickset and naturally reticent with a lumpy Mediterranean nose inherited from the line of men in his family going back ten generations.

*

On their sixth outing, following The Big Sleep at a drive-in, Emily says, 'I love you, Georgie,' to Costas at the corner of her neighborhood block. He surprises her by saying that he loves her too with no goading. She says, sheepishly, 'You didn't have to say it.' He replies, 'It's the truth.' They kiss for the first time in the fuzzy pool of a streetlight. She waves goodbye at her front door and they seem to concur then that their lives are to be spent as one.

They stroll through Humboldt Park or Lincoln Zoo on shimmering evenings, holding hands. Oftentimes, they say little. He learns to know that she is contented when she sighs with her gaze to the middle-distance.

Emily meets Costas' father and brother; Mrs. George nods in the background - her true calling - wrist-deep in dough. Souvlaki is served for kings that night in Greek town.

*

They picnic on the autumnal sands of Lake Michigan. Costas' father is happy to lend them his car. He's ambivalent to Emily's German heritage. He pities her Jewish heritage.

To Emily: Costas explains his desire to be a good man, a good policeman. He wants to bring harmony to the community. He wants to uphold the law. He says on occasion, 'Wartime can't be the only time we unite.' Her heart bulges when he expresses things like that. His words are Spartan but steeped in honesty.

Her birthday's in November. He surprises her with the Nat King Cole record I Love You For Sentimental Reasons. Emily puts it under the needle and they slow dance in the living room by candlelight where the world can do no wrong.

Christmas comes and Emily's gift is an engagement ring on the lakeshore and they see a shooting star. Most people tell them that that's good luck.

2

January 27th, 1967

Fort Jackson, South Carolina

Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda, here I am at Camp Fort Jackson (tired of that joke yet?)

So, I have reached the big halfway point of Basic. Aren't you proud? You better be!

This morning Drill Sergeant Tabler inspected our footlockers and beds, like every Saturday, but he was in a foul mood and decided because Gonda's boots couldn't be eaten off of that we all had to do an extra five mile hike. And it rained hard too. But a little rainstorm never stopped Company B!

I can't wait to get out there to hunt Charlie. Some guys aren't so sure about it. We started with 48 guys in the barracks and after four weeks there's 10 gone home. Oh and I've named my M14 Charlene but I can't tell you why!!

I feel so good on the range, Dad. Drill Sergeant Tabler says that there are two kinds of soldier: the Quick and the Dead and he says that I'm not the Dead. I think he likes me because I don't talk up much. I don't ask questions. I show my brains by obeying orders. I like the tactical parts too. It's like a jigsaw with men.

He's always shouting at us, I'll shoot any one of you who ever had his picture taken with a smile on his face!

Last week I scored 36 rungs on the overhead ladder in 52 seconds, which is pretty darn good. The PCPT is a piece of pie for me. (PCPT is the Physical Combat Proficiency Test for the old folks with bad memories.) I'm getting stronger and faster and more precise everyday. Drill Sergeant Tabler says that I definitely won't be pushing any pencils in Saigon.

And Mom, you'll be sad to know that my baby fat has become lean muscle. And I don't get nearly as tired as I used to at the start.

I don't know what else to say. Tell Jan that I miss her and give her a kiss from me. I miss you all but volunteering for this was the best idea I ever had. It is the event of my generation!!!

Chow's good and I have made some good friends too. Oscar Taggart is the best. He's from Arkansas. Maybe I mentioned him before. He does the best impression of Johnny Carson you ever heard! No good at cards though. I beat him all the time. He makes me laugh non-stop.

I can't wait to see you guys for Graduation. (Remember it's Feb 22nd!)

Anyway, I better run. Lights out in ten.

I know that you are probably still kinda worried but it's OK. I am very happy here.

Tell the Windy City that the next time I see it; I'll be wearing a medal. Michigan Avenue will be lined with people come to see me home!!

Love always Mom and Dad,

Pvt. Winston George.

P.S. Mom, thanks for those raisin cookies. It was sure hard to share them!

Oh Dad, you whomping on any of them hippie louses for me?

(a month later)

Fort Jackson, South Carolina

First platoon wins the march-off by a large margin.

They give static weapons displays to the families in attendance as reward. They are applauded. Private Winston George stays with his brothers-in-arms, the fringe of center.

First platoon partakes in 2-months'-worth of well-rehearsed, second-nature drill demonstrations. They are again applauded, cheered. It is ancient.

The grass in Dominance Field is lush, the young men opulent in their formations, and Costas fills his lungs with it.

The Band marches in tune: America The Beautiful and Dixie etc.

Family Day reminds him of things he has been through himself; the sweet camaraderie and coordination and excitement. Costas would do his service again, although the reasons for it this time around might seem less clear-cut.

His stomach churns: this ongoing Tet Offensive over there; the number 100,000 dead or wounded Americans breached. Even that long-time hawk McNamara's bailing.

Emily shoots handheld 8mm film of Winston and randomly the dozens more who dot the frame during the day.

Winston played his part in the earlier entertainment, a skit based on The Honeymooners which was neither funny nor particularly accurate. Sometimes he good-naturedly refers to Costas as Jackie Gleason.

Emily and teen Janine hug handsome Winston so tightly, squeezing tears loose. He's so sharp in the uniform - muscular, efficiently prepared, poised; so manly. He shakes Costas' hand with a huge smile knowing that whatever is said, it will be supportive.

You're proud of Winston?

'Well done, son,' says Costas. The man who is Costas George's son cannot help but be a boy forever in the presence of the man who raised him. He will be many things to many people and only ever one man's son. 'Thanks, Dad.'

WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY IT?!

Costas and Winston would cry if further was said and this is not the time or place. The mother and sister blubber enough for a brigade.

'My M.O.S. is 12B,' Winston tells them enthusiastically at the Family Dinner that night. He will be a field engineer with luck, to be trained at Fort Leonard Wood in explosives. It's an important tactical position and he will see action as promised.

Emily runs out of color film stock. Has one reel of black and white for emergencies. She struggles with the canister through teary, embarrassed eyes at the long communal table.

There's a little impromptu singing - Goodbye Ruby Tuesday \- from the galvanized men. Evening bends and wants to break beneath the furious cocktail of their emotions.

Costas recalls myriad thoughts from the eve of his deployment in '42. The sheer unbridled cohesion of this group of American boys reminds him of why he loves being a cop – traditional loyalty and unimpeachable brotherhood.

The majority of these American boys don't have passports and a large proportion of them are shortly off to foreign shores so that they may kill or be killed without deadline. Those that return will be changed. Parents and lovers with photographs to their breasts know it truly.

Winston loves tugging on Janine's hair and pretending it was someone else that did it when she turns around. Because he's going to Missouri in a few days and shortly thereafter on to Southern Vietnam, she gives him ample latitude. Her palms love the feel of his fuzzy head. There is a map now on their kitchen wall. She knows exactly what the 17th parallel means.

Friends that Winston has made here introduce their families. People of varying deep backgrounds from all corners of the country fall into chit-chat, baby photos and endless dreamy recollections. There are people talking, listening and sharing equally. There is no talk of hope or death or war; these are feelings transmitted in every handshake, in every gap in the corrugated discourse.

Tomorrow is officially Graduation.

'Do you remember when I broke my arm?' comes Winston in the parking lot.

Rain is near. The soporific air caresses, envelopes, blankets, placates.

Their motel is a five-minute drive.

'Yes. You fell from that peach tree at Grandpa's,' says Emily, twinkling with pride and fear as she has for weeks. She never envisioned her boy firing guns.

Can a mother despise another man's fight any more than she can love the desires of her only son to be part of that fight?

'I was trying to climb high enough to see Fidel Castro,' laughs Winston. 'You remember that, Dad?'

Yeah. Dad remembers.

January, 1968

(eleven months later)

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

It's 8 degrees.

He's at the kitchen table enjoying an impromptu bowl of Cap'n Crunch and outside it's snowing hard, has been for weeks, hailed earlier. He's into work for the four to midnight. Cracked a tricky double yesterday, gave him a nice kick. No flair, just good police work.

Planned to stay drinking with the guys longer afterwards last night. Had to leave. No one knew what to say about Winston so they said nothing. Costas has a disease, a sickness - he's grieving and their kid gloves are out permanently. Makes him itch.

She's packing, his back to the door. Emily's in and out, back forth, to and from the bedroom. He knows that she knows he's waiting for her to stop. The argument's surfacing like a submarine, long submerged since the delivered news of a cloudy Friday morning 2 months ago:

To the Father and Mother of Sgt. Winston George:

My dear Sir and Madam, in the untimely loss of your noble son, our affliction here is scarcely less than your own. So much of promised usefulness to one's country, and of bright hopes for one's self and friends have rarely been so suddenly dashed, as in his fall. In years and in youthful appearance, a boy only, his power to command men was unsurpassingly great. This power, combined with a fine intellect, an indomitable energy, and a taste altogether military, constituted in him, as seemed to his leaders, the best natural talent, in that department, they ever knew. And yet he was singularly modest and deferential in social intercourse. He appeared to have no indulgences; and he was never heard to utter a profane or intemperate word. What was conclusive of his good heart, he never forgot his parents. The honors he labored for so laudably, and, in the sad end, so gallantly gave his life, he meant for you, no less than for himself.In the hope that it may be no intrusion upon the sacredness of your sorrow, I have ventured to address you this tribute to the memory of our young friend, and your brave and early fallen child.

Yours very sincerely and respectfully, Lyndon Baines Johnson.

Emily's eyes grazed it. Costas taped the pieces back together. Christmas was indescribable.

Radio's playing that Incense and Peppermints by Strawberry Alarm Clock \- trash music for a Campbell's Soup generation of long-haired, narrow-minded, promiscuous drones.

Tell me your ambitions and hopes for a new America in 20 years when you're middle-aged and paying a mortgage.

He's all right. And it stings on all sides.

The boy CHOSE to go to Vietnam. It was his choice. Why should anybody feel sorry for a grown man putting himself in harm's way voluntarily? He knowingly ventured into a war zone for Christ's sake. I'd kill the boy if he wasn't --

The feeling of betrayal rests on his heart like an injured animal. 'Tears of a proud father,' someone had said and they raised a glass to Winston, to all the fallen, and so did Costas to demonstrate his solidarity.

Some sort of inner shame is fuelling the outward pride.

Burn MY fuckin flag and call good police fascists for trying to sustain a reasonable level of decent behavior on the streets, will you?

Her train's at 2 o'clock. Going with her niece to DC. It's ridiculous. He's let it slide.

Emily's bent over, then hands and knees on the bedroom floor looking for something under the bed. He stares at her from the doorjamb, her back to him. She knows that he knows that she's waiting for him to stop.

She locates a lavender hand brush and that seems to be the end of the search. On the bed is an open suitcase, mostly full. Distressingly neat.

Deluge snow's unstoppable silent satin.

'Don't go,' he says, softer than he wanted: immediate loss of territory.

She begins zipping the case, must have heard him. Zip's jammed. She wrestles with it. They got the case as a wedding gift.

'Did you hear me?' goes Costas, firmer, his .38 Special visibly shoulder-holstered, short-sleeved shirt. Immune to the chill. She gives up on the zip and sits down on the edge of the bed.

Emily George needs to sleep forever. Patience.

He stops staring and doesn't come nearer. Her body's showing signs of a fragmented heart hardening to stay intact.

'I need to go. I need to show my support,' she goes timidly.

'You don't see how it might be thought of as disrespectful to Winston?' he says; it's really half-hearted but something's got to get the ball rolling.

'It's got nothing to do with him,' goes Emily, doing little to camouflage the fact that she doesn't believe that at all.

He sighs for drama. Moves towards the bed, doesn't touch his wife, and commences unpacking the case. She starts to cry by his side. 'No,' she comes.

It's all encompassing, ambiguous and complicated.

He's methodical in restocking shelves and drawers. He could do it quicker, it seems purposely piecemeal. She notices that and cannot decipher the point of him doing it slowly other than to stomp on her.

'I will go without a stitch on my back but I am going on that march!' she says loudly, fists are balls. He ignores her.

'This is something that I have to do. Please, Georgie,' she comes so tenderly, catching his arm. Irresistible. He meets her shattered eyes finally. Used to be that he saw himself in those dark caves. How fast things have changed.

Whispers to her: 'I love you,' and it's hardly enough, genuine as it might be.

'You're living in a dream, Costas! Somebody has to -- we have to at least try and stop this war!' she says louder than before.

'You're forbidden to go,' he says, still unpacking, careless with the clothes in the past few moments, grabbing bundles.

'Oh that's wonderful!' she slaps her thigh, laughing, despairing, belittled. 'If you want to wrap yourself up in a blanket, go ahead. I want to fight for \--'

Doesn't raise his voice one iota: 'You didn't fight before he signed-up, did you?' and that's accusatory, full pelt.

'I did the best that I could!' which comes across as an exhausted answer to the question what did you teach this child that made him take such a stupid risk with his life? Every pair of eyes asks her that.

The mother is responsible. She dreams of the jungles. She gives lectures in nightmares on how to kill your children.

Costas has emptied the suitcase. She watches him in disbelief, still being ignored by this stranger who has had her heart for more than two decades. Devastation: he always will have it.

He calmly shuts the suitcase and slides it back onto the top shelf at the back of their wardrobe. She sits there steadily, her eyes afire with helplessness and he won't even talk to her.

When he walks out of the room, she gives the sobs from her core to the pillow and temporarily drowns out a blackening world.

*

It's 2.54pm

The day's wounded. Migraine city.

He should've left the house when he left the bedroom. Emily's not come out yet and it's been an hour \- shit, two hours. Phone's off the hook. Kept ringing, someone trying to see where she was. Train's gone.

Weather's picked up. Snow-cum-sleet's left a startling trail of freshness.

Piss on MY son's grave with your anti-war sentiments and your disgust at the fine young men fighting to keep America free, will you? TV, radio, newspapers \- crock of shit one and all. Spin, spin: a spinning top in the gutter.

The Jeanette Rankin Brigade they're calling themselves. 5,000 housewives stomping up to the Washington Memorial begging to be heard, respected, brandishing their rolling pins. Costas' mother is mortified by the idea of such a ruckus; ladies of her reticent, old country ilk await revolution as it is explained to them, they do not seek to define it.

He's actually resting his forehead against the glass of the kitchen window and it's ice cold peaceful. Anger's giving way to remorse. Emily's his livewire, his bright spark, the cream in his coffee personified.

What role will I play in the future?

How he wishes he had somewhere to go. Janine's out of school soon. She does her homework at Angelica Hadsall's, arrives home from hers off the El about 6. It's an excuse 5 afternoons a week to be busy and most times Costas' and her paths do not intersect. It's a flaky, ne'er-do-well system that has, for these past two months, prevented their sky from folding.

Brainwash good people into thinking that the only ever solution is bloodshed and that these dead and crippled boys are heroes for sacrificing their potential in the name of liberty, will you? You're no goddamned leaders of MY country!

Yellow and red dots swim in his vision. He needs to sit. The stool creaks beneath.

There's blood everywhere and nobody sees it.

Too many Instamatics of family in this room; it's a menagerie of meaningless history - he recognizes no one.

*

Emily wakes to the bedside alarm at 4.45pm. She doesn't recall setting it. She's slow to orient herself.

Yawns. Terrible pains blanket her mid and lower back. She pops a shoulder. Neck's stiff as a board.

Walks into the kitchen. House brims with emptiness. Her face is old and stretched.

She's stopped in her tracks when she opens the fridge door and glances to her left.

Her suitcase is packed and standing by the back door. All zipped up. Her raincoat's folded on top.

Handwritten note taped to the case: You can make the 6.30

Emily acts upon the single thing that comes first to her heart: she rattles a sigh and whispers, hoping the words might navigate their way to him, 'Thank you, Georgie.'

3

2 Days Later

President Lyndon B. Johnson's Address to the Nation (Excerpt)

...The Communists may renew their attack any day. They are, it appears, trying to make 1968 the year of decision in South Vietnam--the year that brings, if not final victory or defeat, at least a turning point in the struggle. This much is clear: If they do mount another round of heavy attacks, they will not succeed in destroying the fighting power of South Vietnam and its allies. But tragically, this is also clear: Many men--on both sides of the struggle--will be lost. A nation that has already suffered 20 years of warfare will suffer once again. Armies on both sides will take new casualties. And the war will go on. There is no need for this to be so....

4 Days Later

Robert Kennedy (Live):

Ladies and Gentlemen - I'm only going to talk to you just for a minute or so this evening. Because... I have some very sad news for all of you, and I think sad news for all of our fellow citizens, and people who love peace all over the world, and that is that Martin Luther King was shot and was killed tonight in Memphis, Tennessee.

My favorite poet was Aeschylus. He once wrote: "Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God." What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.

4

8 weeks later

Resurrection Cemetery

Midday

'You're the king of the sacrifice bunt,' had said Fillmore Mallard with a friendly smile before going back to bed - he was 20 at that point, half the age he is today; came downstairs for a glass of milk, found his father, Hogue, seated at the dining table alone and silent in the thinning darkness. Looked like he was posing for a portrait. They talked inconsequentially, Hogue's level of vulnerability unprecedented. Fillmore sensed something awry. Didn't address it.

Where to begin?

Hogue Frederick Mallard: Born of Frederick and Marla Mallard in Kankakee, Illinois, July 6th 1902. Eldest boy of five. With birth, from day one, came unstinting fatherly expectation;

· Hired in 1926 by Rice, Dennison & Rock Attorneys-at-Law right out of Harvard. Made partner (on merit) in 1933 when Rice died of a stroke.

· Professor of Constitutional Law at The University of Chicago Law School: 1939-43

· Member of Advisory Panel on Financial Disclosure Reports and Judicial Activities: 1943-46

· Assistant US Attorney in the Appellate Division: 1946-1948

· Unites States Court of Appeals 7th Circuit: 1948-55

· Dean of Harvard Law School: 1955 \- 1956

Hogue fell helplessly in love with Donna Nimmo. She moved into his neighborhood when he was 16. Played shortstop for his sandlot team around then too. That 1918 summer of love and baseball's probably the highlight period of his life. He wanted to play for the White Sox. Practically glued his ear to the transistor. Snuck into Comiskey Park with Bobo Jorgensen the day the Sox sealed the 1917 World Series in 6 games against the NY Giants. Dreamed every night of pitching the perfect game. Frederick, his father, grunted unfailingly: Foolish, foolish, foolish boy. Head out of the clouds! Turn it down, turn it off, do your housework, do your homework. Yes, sir.

Hogue worshipped Sox pitcher Eddie Cicotte. When Cicotte admitted to throwing the 1919 Series along with the great Shoeless Joe Jackson and 6 other players for money, Hogue was not alone in proclaiming their skulduggery the death knell of professional baseball. He has not since attended a baseball game.

*

There's a huge oak tree in the heart of Resurrection cemetery; an abundance of leaves create a gargantuan green ball. The tree possesses - from certain angles on certain days in certain lights from a certain distance - the acute, disconcerting appearance of a bewildered general, frozen in sadness, amidst the detritus of fallen men - a standard-bearer.

Weather's twisted suddenly; sheets of teeming rain from nowhere. Sky's half-perfect blue, half-distraught gray. Dozens of visitors dash beneath the sheltering branches, weaving left and right between the ornate graves. Elderly people, veterans, grandparents are led slowly by the hand. Children are carried and hurried. A young boy in a wheelchair laughs in the rain - loves that bumpy ride. Sunlight bounces off the metal.

Costas smelled it coming. He's mostly dry. Sporting his dusted-down fedora today. Who cares if Kennedy killed the gentleman's hat? Janine's beside him, tetchy, only as near to Costas as she has to be, picks flowers at the trunk's base - doesn't want to be here.

Costas pretty much blackmailed her into coming with him - he didn't want to visit Winston alone. Emily plain refused to go.

Hands in pockets, Costas ponders. Seeing Winston's headstone did not move him. The numbness rules.

On arrival, Costas and Janine passed Judge Hogue Mallard. He stood all in black in front of a grave with his back to them. Costas felt it improper to approach him. Costas and Hogue have teamed up over the years to take dangerous men off the streets. They're not friends, just friendly. Between them resides an old-fashioned respect that requires no words.

*

Donna Nimmo's eyes sparkled like a pair of stars in the winter sky. She was two years his senior. They clicked and chatted and held hands and kissed sometimes. Hogue daydreamed about their wedding day. She named their babies and it didn't scare him. His baseball contract would take care of it when it came. Donna's father dug graves, her mother tended to their seven children with, to Hogue's mind, admirable elegance and tolerance. The family lost 2 boys to the Great War.

Time came: Frederick told Hogue categorically to go to Harvard and to marry Beryl Hackett after graduation. Beryl's father, Charles Hackett, was a banker running for Kankakee mayor: won at the second attempt in 1920. He and Frederick had personally known Daniel Hudson Burnham: architectural mastermind of the 1893 World's Columbian Exhibition.

They circled in those kinds of echelons: Charles: Dinner with Woodrow Wilson in 1922. Frederick: Lit a cigar for Douglas Fairbanks in '25. Charlie and Freddy: discussed Gatsby with Fitzgerald in 1928.

Unexpectedly, and against his own wishes, Hogue actually enjoyed Harvard - the secret fraternities, the snobbery, the high-mindedness, the history, the lectures on a Harvard man's innate privileges. The haughty isolationism cushioned his all-conquering bitterness.

Hogue's steady progress pleased his father. Frederick's letters overflowed with instruction and stern warning. It was not in Hogue to fail exams to spite his overbearing father. He was the first son of an era: it was in him to seek his father's backing no matter how steep the sacrifice.

1926: 6 years later: a qualified criminal lawyer, gainfully employed, Hogue and Beryl married - such a big and brash celebration. Better description: Coronation. Says Frederick in his prolonged reception speech, 'I expect my son to be a great man; I expect that he will do more for this country than his old pig of a father ever could!' Laughter, hoots. 'I expect the apple not to fall far from the tree. I expect he and Beryl shall be a happy couple. I expect to be well provided for in my declining years!' Laughter, stomping feet. 'We should all expect to see a future Supreme Court Judge here today and I don't refer to myself!' Thunderous applause. Marla Mallard's bawling with unfettered joy. Her husband raises a glass, a fat cigar in the other paw. In unity, the room copies Frederick's move. He goes, 'A toast to my son, dear Hogue, a dedicated and wise boy within whom I have always thought there rested shades of my own many personal, unlived aspirations. If I may quote my esteemed and sadly missed friend, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, of whom I know one or two things that I swore I would take to my grave under pain of death --' He sells it. Tears of laughter. Choking. Gasps for air. Frederick's tipsy; flaps at his audience to calm themselves, lower lip in a mock-infant pout. The madness eases - Shush! Let the man finish...! \- Frederick stares right into Hogue. Hogue knows that what's coming is a permanent branding. Frederick: 'Teddy once said: 'Big jobs usually go to the men who prove their ability to outgrow small ones.' Here! Here! Well said! Symphony of clinking glasses. Frederick Mallard and Charles Hackett shake hands this night - a deal signed, beneficial for both of them. Hogue withholds his tongue throughout the summary collapse of his soul.

Baseball went on without him; Donna Nimmo waited and wept and moved on too. Became Mrs. George Squires. George Squires was a renowned and respected stockbroker.

*

Under the cemetery oak: Costas steadily eyeballs Hogue 50 yards off. Costas likes the black derby on Hogue's head.

The Judge hasn't moved, the sole person still out there; rain's gushing vertically now, pounding Hogue's shoulders, as if flagellating - why doesn't he use the unfurled umbrella in his hand? Hogue may well be dead on his feet - for all the world, to Costas, the Judge's drained constitution appears to be that of a man resigned to living life as a deserved punishment. Something comes to Costas: the Judge's wife died recently - 12/18 months back. What was it, stomach cancer? He retired from the bench in -- Costas wants to say '65, to take care of her at home.

What was her name?

They swapped pleasantries one morning on stony downtown steps not long before she passed. Hogue was typically courteous, firm handshake, asking after Costas' family and the like. Costas thought, if anything, Hogue Mallard was surprisingly upbeat given the circumstances. A brave act.

*

Hogue did his best to love Beryl Hackett from day one - a mostly cryptic, hot-tempered, unhappy woman.

Fillmore's arrival in '28 brought him respite and immense pleasure. Doctors had said that their chances of children were slim-to-none.

Charles Hackett jumped out a 10th story window in 1936; his bank having gone spectacularly belly-up overnight. Not long afterward, Beryl's already erratic behavior nose-dived - her naturally negative view on the world only vindicated and thus bolstered by her father's ignominious death.

Hogue stayed busy. Pulled in hefty salaries. Their rocky relationship hit rock bottom early on and evened out to a moribund plateau of routine.

Bolt from the blue: offer of the Deanship of Harvard Law School. Over the moon in 1955! They moved into #12 Evergreen Ave., Winter Hill, about a 10-minute drive from the campus. Beryl acquiesced to everything apprehensively. Living in DC to accommodate Hogue's work for so long through the 40s had been because she loved him. But to leave her hometown again?

Hogue adored his new post immediately. He adored the hallowed hallways, the respect that his time-honored position caused students and faculty to evince; the ticklish memories of Widener Library relived; that previous life by the banks of the Chuck rekindled, his old Quadling compatriots remembered, the stout traditions resurfacing. The prideful stride he reacquired kept at bay any niggling tugs of doubt or regret.

By Easter of 1956 Beryl's incessant recalcitrance came to a head. She hated the New England weather, the people; everyone was too greedy, too preachy, too liberal, too clean \- they're niceness was a sham, a mask to cover their obvious untrustworthiness. You can turn your back on a person from the Midwest and be sure that your cash will stay on the table.

At its height her drunken disquiet manifested itself as loud, lengthy, pulsating, crashing, shrieking declarations of her desire to commit suicide if they didn't return to Chicago forthwith. More than once the police were dispatched to the house, anonymously summoned: domestic disturbance. They told Hogue to get her dry for her own good. He nodded. Wild horses wouldn't have been able to get her into a clinic.

Therefore: Embarrassment, anger, disgust, self-loathing - locked inside a prison cell of his design and he'd swallowed the only key. Cul-de-sac. Debilitated. Hogue Mallard sacrificed Harvard, lost it as fast as he found it. Leaving, the college motto spooked him over the entrance - Veritas, it reads. Truth.

Beryl wrapped her open arms about Hogue in Chicago; squeezed him so hard in the doorway to their home that he couldn't breathe.

*

Hogue Mallard now turns from the tombstone to the oak. His face is barely visible against the torrential April shower. Seems to Costas that Hogue tips his hat in Costas' direction - can he identify me from there? The moment lingers.

Costas tips his hat in deference, whether seen or unseen. With that, Hogue begins a slow trundle towards the exit.

Shortly thereafter: rain stops like someone hit a switch. Clouds melt. People emerge into the light and scatter. 'Can we go now, please?' goes Janine, goosebumps on her bare arms. Costas says sure. He snakes a different route back to their car. Curiosity has pricked him. Costas wants to see Mrs. Mallard's grave, see her name, see if Hogue has written anything on it.

The big red wreath that Hogue left behind acts as a suitable landmark so that Costas can't lose Mrs. Mallard's location. But there is a surprise on the headstone: Donna Squires?

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #1

(20 months ago)

Next Stop: Pasadena, California

About 4 am

Soft night.

Probs judges his errors to amount to the stars overhead. His sorrowful body judders atop the roof of the freight.

Three days since he spoke to anyone. Two days since he's eaten. He smells. There is no poetry to this kind of life from the inside. He's living like an animal.

He should have jumped two weeks ago.

Flat on his back. It's cold. He's stiff. He's lonely. He's human. He can't go back. It seems that nights on end without shelter have no power to erase the past or mollify the regret. The mind does not so easily bend.

The train speeds through a tunnel and momentarily he is caught in a gust of darkness and sucking wind. It is a form of dying. When the next bridge approaches, all he need do is sit up and it's over. He has said that to himself fifty times already.

Is he staring at Heaven? Is it a Great Beyond?

There is no end to the railways. He is profoundly lost. Philosophy is surely the last refuge of a masochist. No fixed address.

He cannot sleep. He sits up. There are pictures in his wallet that he will not look at. The gaunt moon is partially blocked by withered clouds. It is the same moon for everyone.

He descends the ladder. The wheels crank and holler with the heat of their own solemn rhythm. He counts the chugging beats of the finely-tuned language. Sometimes the train replays lovemaking.

He swings down into an empty boxcar. Stands hunched in the dead center. The four corners are invisibly black. They look like they might be blurred doors to new worlds.

5

August 2nd, 1968

2 months later

They're running and quickly winded, pausing at the corner of Roosevelt & Kedzie. Dustin Bentley coughs up his guts. Pierce Dudley laughs at the score and Dustin's breathlessness.

Pierce checks where they came from. It's peaceful. No tail.

Both are about twenty; gaunt, bug-eyed. Dustin's whittled white and Pierce's burnt-out black. This is a dynamic pair of sunrise-to-sundown, nickel and dime, shuck and jive men addicted to heroin. They are on their own.

Two mirrored family lives on different sides of the same tracks drove these cats to the outdoors in search of rebellious relaxation. Popped their B&E cherries last October: everything down the middle.

They know the shit's bad, man, but so are the times and the white lady don't fuck you like the white man do.

Dustin secretes the jacked ounce of powder in his pocket. Pierce's cool. They strut down towards Sawyer Avenue.

Not a bad town on nights like these.

'Daddy, I'm gonna get higher than high tonight, dig?' comes Dustin with a Cheshire grin.

They're flophousing in their ragtime suits near the corner in a dive. Seems like this building's permanently enshrouded in shadows. Last tenant's got a sense of humor, scratched Home Sweet Home into the wood on the wall. Cockroaches don't even live here, man. You got rats all over.

Pierce says, 'Best you share that shit real friendly this motherfuckin' time,' because when they copped the other day, Dustin conveniently forgot everything down the middle.

'I hear you, bro,' comes Dustin.

'Not least 'cos I stuck my black ass way the fuck out just now.'

'Damn boy, you been heard, baby.'

They creep up into the place. Nobody in the corridor. Some dude's nodded off or died at the foot of the stairs. Everyone loves the ironic Stars and Stripes on the wall. Scorch marks at the bottom left corner of it where one tripping Mickey got busy with a blowtorch before he passed out.

Now things are heating up in apartment 4E, last known address.

They got it bubbling sweet on the spoon. Pierce's drooling. He's flexing. No time to lose. One chair and neither uses it.

Dustin's knee throbs. Got twisted in the ruckus, he supposes. Pain eats away at the craving a fraction.

He sees an envelope on the floor. Must have stepped over it. Stands, hobbles, retrieves it.

Pierce primes the needle. The red hunger flame's got his veins agog.

Dustin opens the envelope because his name is on it; except that it says FAO MR. BENTLEY. No stamp.

He finds instructions and $100 in twenties.

*

4 days later

Hotel Leland, Chicago

8.15am

Looking respectable. Doorman doesn't bat a lid. Revolving door whirs behind him, won't stop spinning.

Dustin Bentley's kept this skullduggery to himself. Partner-in-crime Pierce's none the wiser. It's gone smoothly heretofore for this dope fiend.

Waiting to be nabbed. Awaits the downfall. Not coming. Does nobody hear his heartbeat?

Looks about for eagle eyes. Finds none. Soft, perfumed air in the lobby, floating music similar to what he thinks a creek might sound like, what a sound night's sleep might feel like.

Everyone's tall and quiet and perfectly turned-out. Color scheme screams of money spent traditionally. He's got his orders.

Attract no attention: stolen black slacks, borrowed crisp red and blue striped shirt with collar and sleeves, washed and hung from salvaged chicken wire over the mattress. Stolen shoes from an elderly neighbor spat on; teeth cleaned with a finger and toothpick, hair rearranged with a 5-cent comb.

Couldn't refurbish the damn eyes no matter what.

Feels as if he's standing in one spot too long. A woman behind the desk lifts her face to him – a passive look or a scrutinizing stare? The gun's burning a hole in his pocket, his deciduous body.

Moves left; takes a threesome of carpet steps towards twin elevators.

Room 99.

Signs give direction. Reads what he can take in – a Negro elevator attendant looks at him – going up? Dustin swallows and darts to the right, following the shaded corridor like a work-bound coal-miner.

Will I never see another day?

Walls snake, the room numbers coalesce. The building zips its lips and watches on as he ascends stairs. He's not keeping track of the route. He's queasy.

Buying the weapon was easy; escaping Pierce Dudley's suspicions ditto.

Shit, is this even a crime?

He'd considered the note, the man or woman giving him money for nothing, embellished with a sense of you-name-it. It said clear as crystal that they know he's on parole.

Room 99 appears as a shock and he reads the polished digits over and over and forgets why he came. Then the bulge in his pants tweaks the scene into focus. First rate fireworks in the belly.

The temptation, the reflex, is to knock, to see if there's anyone inside – it's a trap, for sure, finely-crafted, a morning's muster from top to bottom on the brink of disintegration. He is alone. He slicks his hair with the sweat of his brow.

The lowlights corridor is left in his wake. He goes into the room. The door is not locked.

A squeaking set of creaking steps gets louder in the background.

He does not look back.

The bed is made. He demands a bloodbath finale. The sliding door to the balcony is open, net curtains fluttering. Nothing to smell. Eerie doesn't fuckin come close.

An air-conditioner juts into life in an adjoining room. Inhale.

It's too beautiful in here, white light, perverse virginal. Exhale.

A door slams. A man's whistling recedes as he passes down the hallway.

Dustin's frozen.

The envelope on the pillow reads FAO MR. BENTLEY as the first one did.

Can't survey every possible angle, small fry. Just get it over with.

Catches the envelope, reads the level-headed note inside - after counting the $100 cash, of course – and skims the gist: leave the .38, take the money, thanks a lot, get the hell out.

Far out.

El ride home's baby-smooth clickety-clack.

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #2

(19 months ago)

A mile east of Needles, California

Must be 6pm

His body is closing in on panic-stricken. The cold is crazy.

When were there ever blizzards in Southern California?

Has his hands tucked under the arms. Snow and sleet. He tap-dances on the spot. He daren't stick out his thumb in case it freezes. If he set himself alight, he'd still be cold out here.

Not many cars on these icy roads this evening. He can't remember why he left the shelter earlier today. It may have been that the prospect of another night in Needles proved less enticing than freezing to death on the side of a road.

A small car indicates on approach. It pulls over. The driver reaches over to roll down the passenger window. The windscreen wiper on the passenger side isn't working.

'Where you headed?' says the driver; maybe 35, white, clean-cut, predictable.

Probs bends to the driver as far as his petrified back permits. 'Anywhere's warm,' he says. That's good enough for the driver. Opens the door. Probs climbs inside gladly and they size each other up properly when he's seated.

The driver has a crucifix dangling from the rear-view. He holds a bible. He removed it from the shotgun seat. They shake hands.

'Name's Larry Escotto,' goes Larry Escotto, the driver.

'I go by Probs.' Larry smiles and delves no deeper. Puts the car in Drive. Probs rolls up his window. The whistling from outside ceases. Larry senses the unholy and ambiguous stench stemming from Probs. A thaw is coming.

'So, you a man of god, huh?' says Probs, showing the wallowing teeth. The man of god wants to wretch.

'And you're a vagrant,' Larry says, matter-of-fact. Misjudgment on the part of both parties. Calls for compromise. The man of god rescues the leather interior and begs forgiveness from his Maker.

Probs falls soundly asleep in the rumbling trunk.

6

August 8, 1968

Miami, Florida

Richard Nixon's Acceptance of the Republican Party Nomination for President (Excerpt)

...They work in American factories, they run American businesses. They serve in government; they provide most of the soldiers who die to keep it free. They give drive to the spirit of America. They give lift to the American dream. They give steel to the backbone of America. They're good people. They're decent people; they work and they save and they pay their taxes and they care. Like Theodore Roosevelt, they know that this country will not be a good place for any of us to live in unless it's a good place for all of us to live in. And this I say, this I say to you tonight, is the real voice of America. In this year 1968, this is the message it will broadcast to America and to the world. Let's never forget that despite her faults, America is a great nation. And America is great because her people are great...

7

August 18th, 1968

Olympia Fields, Illinois

Not like Elm Kite to miss church, no sir. Everybody asked after him.

True to say that he's been going less and less since the divorce; still, told Burt he'd be there only last night on the phone. They're supposed to do a little shooting on the farm afterward.

Burt has his Browning and Springfield in back of the truck.

Later today: lunch with Billy, Burt's brother, and Billy's girl.

Burt's job's to pick up the ribs and brats.

See if they can't get Dad's old John Deere running again this afternoon. Burt's got a couple of engine parts in a greasy sack to try.

Open up a couple of cold ones. Watch the Cubs.

All of that's hours away. Nevertheless, he wants to check.

And it's a blistering morning. Burt's got his window down fully and he's going too fast. Feels right to have Light My Fire full blast along the highway.

Pickup's dirty and used and, with nobody coming, he likes to sway across the centerline and back. He's only 25 and good-looking with his shirt on or off.

A hippie girl left him two weeks back but pussy ain't always the answer in god's country.

Cuts the corner off the highway - darts east for a couple miles. He's on his Dad's land now. 75 acres of corn and it's a ripe gold.

Burt honks his horn loudly in approval of the crop. It's labor-intensive work and no one could ever call Elm Kite a lay-about. He provided for his children as well as any and Burt still wonders what exactly his mother expected of Elm.

He screeches into the dried-up driveway. Dad's truck's parked out front, plain as day.

Shuts off the radio, honks again a couple times to summon Elm.

Elm's house is old and sturdy. He and two cousins built it themselves more or less. Could do with a lick of paint but so could the old man.

Burt gets out of the pickup and yells for his Dad. Nothing's happening.

'You still in bed, old-timer?' Light-hearted.

Pulls back the screen and front door and goes inside. Radio's playing Light My Fire in another room. He searches.

'Where you at, you lazy S.O.B.?' Light-hearted. Burt marches into the kitchen where the radio's on on the table.

His father lies on his side on the floor. Chair's knocked over.

Elm Kite's mountainous, very much a man of the land in that sense.

Meantime

The Chicago Tribune

435 N. Michigan Avenue

Theo's pounding those keys at his desk. Building's quiet; city's on its post-Saturday night comedown.

He woke at 5. Left Myra sleep. Drove to Lake Michigan for the sunrise. Took a leisurely walk.

Hit an early deli: pastrami and slaw on whole-wheat and black coffee. Called home around eight, said he was going to do a little rewrite at the office. Myra gave him a noon deadline.

'You better not be trying to snake out of Mom's birthday party,' she said, smirking.

'Perish the thought, dearest,' he replied; crossed his heart, hoped to die and blew a kiss down the phone.

He's in a groove. His piece on a recent glut of vicious race-related assaults is sizzling. Keys are hot to the fingertip.

He likes to come in Sunday mornings. Good share of cleaning staff at this hour too. He knows their first names and empathizes some days in a roundabout way with the immigrants.

'Gonna be hot today say the radio, Mr. George,' chirps Tina Gonzalez, 51 years old and El Salvadoran by birth, hardly 5 feet tall, hair tidy ringlets as black as tar.

'Sure looks like it, Tina,' he replies and meets her smile.

Millie Kite, 24, is a bespectacled typesetter and rounds a corner to the main floor with a tissue in her hand up to her nose. She's catching up on some work. Missed 3 days the past month through illness. Got upbraided. She cannot afford to lose this job now. She's pregnant and the father's hit the road.

Everyone stops to watch Millie cry, not for enjoyment, just to allow the scene progress. A couple of people move to comfort her. Theo stays seated. He watches, interested.

Millie needs to sit down. Claude goes to get her water. Tina holds Millie's hand. Tina looks at Theo with imploring eyes; maybe fifteen yards apart?

His shrug says to Tina: What's going on?

Her shake of the head says: Something bad.

Theo sighs.

Nobody's doing Theo any favors by keeping him detached like this without information. He must now seek out the information through stealthy sympathizing.

'Are you OK, Millie?' says Theo on approach, softly.

She nods her head, still not an answer of any merit as far as he's concerned.

Claude's head janitor, everyone likes him, he's forever bringing in a batch of home-cooked goodies. The recipes are passed on. He hands shaking Millie the water. She thanks him and dries her eyes and sips it with a tremulous hand.

Claude takes a knee – hear the hip-joint pop - to continue Millie's support. Theo nabs Tina's elbow and slides her aside.

Theo whispers, 'Did somebody die?'

Tina Gonzalez nods and whispers, 'Her father.'

Old Man Dies Natural Death.

Wow, what a scoop. Theo's disappointed.

'I see,' he says, glancing back at Millie. She's hugging Claude.

Tina swallows the emotion as best she can and says, 'He was murdered.'

Shortly Thereafter

Olympia Fields, Illinois

Sheriff Lipton Coates is in his Sunday best; receding hair neat, shades with tape at the middle, healthy white moustache. He broke the speed limit to get out here. This was as a result of his anger at being dragged away from the church bazaar (his apple butter's in competition) rather than any desire to trawl through the minutiae of a bloody murder scene.

His Deputy, Gilbert Morningstar, speaks with Burt Kite. Burt looks solemn. They're seated on the front stoop of Elm Kite's place with Burt's head lolling like nearly-severed. Giving a statement.

He parks out of the way, behind Morningstar's dirty, trusty, rural cruiser.

The sun pounds its victims. No escape. Heat's everywhere and building.

Lipton adjusts his hat and steps out of his Lincoln, into the dusty yard. First thing that grabs Lipton is the calmness that surrounds the fields on his crunching arrival.

Gilbert's young, 26, waspish, wearing full police regalia as appropriate. There are dark stains on his shirt's underarms. Gilbert is fastidious by nature. He likes being a diligent cop.

The Sheriff cannot stem his headache's flow.

'I wanted to wait for you, Sheriff, before I set up a perimeter,' comes Gilbert.

Lipton strides right past Burt Kite without a glance and into the house; steps act like a war cry against the dominating silence.

Gilbert follows, apologizing for bothering the Sheriff. Uses nimble feet to scoot in the wake of the big boots of Lipton Coates. Elm Kite's musty floorboards need/needed a wash.

'But it sure looked like a mess you'd wanna take a look at,' says Gilbert as Lipton finds the scene as Elm's son found it.

Elm Kite has been killed by fatal gunshots – one in each eye on first inspection. Was probably seated at the kitchen table, given the situation of the body. Doesn't seem to be any further significant damage to his person or the environment.

Lipton pinches the bridge of his nose; shoots a look hard enough to shift the crow from its perch on a window sill to flight; the cornstalks, in such close proximity to the house, look like spectators through the open window.

'When's Hal get here?' says Lipton.

'Said ninety minutes when I called,' says Gilbert. Stands with hands on hips, trying to copy his boss' puzzled gestures as inconspicuously as possible.

'Lotta people's gonna miss Elm Kite,' comes Gilbert after a minute.

Lipton cases the room for insight. He ignores the Deputy's talking. He ransacks a couple cupboards, up high and low down for something. Seems unsuccessful.

Lipton says, 'Bastard's got nothin' to drink and that truly tears it, by God.'

Deputy Morningstar wants Sheriff Lipton to ask him how he thought it went down. Five'll get you ten that when the Sheriff's like this, he wouldn't be satisfied with the unspeakable desires of Elizabeth Taylor.

I believe Mr. Kite knew the attacker; no signs of a struggle or forced entry; no visible bruising. No casings and no witnesses. How d'ya like them apples, boss?

Lipton stomps to Elm Kite's corpse, close to the thick red pool and, for a second, the Deputy fears that Lipton might spit or stomp on the dead man.

'I found this too, in his shirt pocket,' says the Deputy, pointing, by way of perhaps preventing the Sheriff from doing something rash.

Gilbert stands next to a note on the kitchen table. Won't touch the paper, it's an artifact. It takes a few moments - Lipton finally lifts his head to look at his Deputy.

'I think the killer left it,' says Gilbert. His sleuthing tastes sweet as honey.

'I was careful to touch only the very corner. Fingerprints and all,' he says and Lipton swings a boot over Elm Kite to step to Gilbert. The Deputy always suffers from mild trepidation when he's so near to Lipton Coates - half a step back on the back foot.

Lipton picks up the paper on the table – white A4 with crisp, small, black, typewritten font. He reads it with a squint. He probably doesn't read it.

He squashes the sheet in his fist and stuffs it in his pocket.

Gilbert's dreaming.

A car arrives out front. They hear it.

Gilbert can smell milk on the Sheriff's breath and caution on the words: 'Who we expecting, Gilbert?'

Gilbert remains shocked by the destruction of the note, disconcerted. 'Nobody, sir.'

First time that Lipton really meets Gilbert's eyes, nose to nose. 'Well, you better see who our visitor is then.'

Burt Kite's talking to a man with a notepad out by the old man's tool shed.

'Excuse me, sir, what are you doing?' comes Gilbert, arm outstretched in protest, skidding the distance to Theo George.

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #3

(18 months ago)

Williams, Arizona

10.15pm

Had a fin tickling his pocket. He's now soused on a fifth of rye. Probs didn't know what the date was until he saw the banner hanging across the full width of a circuitous boulevard. Valentine's Day. Probs' heart bleeds a river tonight.

He cries, gazing in the window of a pleasant restaurant. He's telling the glass about the first time he took his ex-wife Candace to dinner. She worked at City Hall. She was conscious of her body and he was the first to make her feel comfortable naked. 'She let me take her picture,' says Probs, mopping his tears with an oversized coat sleeve.

The maître'd asks him to move on; he's upsetting the happy couples. Probs tells him to go to hell.

He feels as low as he did on Christmas Eve last. He held a fifth then too: Down to his undershirt. Shoes off. Staring the river in the face. There was nothing left to live for.

There came a screeching whistle from the distance, somewhere in the guts of the forest. It stayed his discomfort long enough. A light bloomed from the alley of trees ahead and the bridge upon which he stood began to shake gently underfoot.

An idea sprang. The survivalist bell rang inside him. The freight train picked up speed as it passed; or slowed down. So loud, so proud, so magnificent. The whistle blew again. He could see the caboose on its way. He made the choice. He risked a leap and caught the ladder...

He's in cuffs. His bottle's gone. The cop leads him into a quiet, open cell. There are two other drunken men in there. Bars are closed behind him and locked. It's colder in the cell than on the street. Still, it's nice to take the weight off.

7

4 days after Elm Kite's murder

113 North Wacker Drive, Chicago

Dead at his desk, tilted seating at 45 degrees to the floor against the back wall. Gunshot impact knocked him back. Brains splattered.

'Wife found him,' comes Officer Lafler, first on the scene, a kid really. He sighs, feeling for the wife and daughter. Glances towards the open door. The wife's sobbing in the other room makes him uneasy.

Detective Colin O'Meara, 38, doesn't care. He's got a stomach ulcer and an ex-wife.

'Short on details here, Officer. Fill us in quicker,' he says to bony Lafler.

Lafler gathers himself like someone who can't choose what to leave behind.

Camera flash. Scene's being reviewed and catalogued. Empty tumblers and half-empty scotch bottles, door handles and window sills are dusted.

Lafler goes, after consulting his notes, 'Grady Birch,' referring to the dead man with one bullet hole in each eye. '44 years old,' Lafler continues. 'Daughter called it in, Chloe, 15. Pretty distraught. Um, wife's Louella Birch. Married since 1950. They were out at Mr. Birch's sister-in-law's in Pilson for their regular Thursday night canasta game. Returned about 11.15, having left the house at approximately 6.30pm.'

Two windows behind Birch, one with open blinds. Costas George peers through the closed blinds, out onto the manicured backyard. Reeks of clueless stillness.

When he's listening, Costas keeps his hands in his pockets. If he kept words to a minimum before last November, he says even fewer nowadays.

Colin surveys the clogged, neat bookshelves. 'What's this guy do?' to Lafler/himself.

'I haven't been able to ascertain that yet, sir,' says Lafler.

Colin gazes closer at the books, as if trying to bully them into coughing up skinny.

'Ledgers,' says Colin. Plucks one randomly, leafs through it. 'Numbers up to our eyeballs.' Puts down the ledger.

Pulls a filing cabinet drawer open, sifts through a couple pages from the alphabetical system.

He replaces the files and then inspects the body and surrounding area. The safe by Birch's legs is locked solid.

'Looks like a pro hit him,' comes Colin, to himself/Costas. 'Cookin' somebody's books maybe.'

Costas, at the window, turns just his head to Colin and goes, 'Maybe.'

Colin gets low. Checks out the blood on the wall. 'Don't look dead too long either,' says Colin.

'Interviewed any neighbors?' says Costas to Officer Lafler.

'I was going to do that next,' Lafler says to Costas and leaves promptly.

Colin stands with a creaking huff. Donut paunch has been developing, now developed. Costas leans against a nearby bureau.

'Knew the guy, I bet,' says Colin, nodding to Birch, 'Kid's gonna come back with nobody heard or saw nothin'. No robbery gone wrong. Definitely no scuffle. Doesn't look like he'd know how to make a fist if he needed to anyway.'

Colin lights up a Chesterfield, unfiltered preferred, as he theorizes; steps back. Costas stays where he is.

Derek Davenport, 42, takes close-up pictures of Birch.

Davenport goes, 'Haven't found casings either. Points to calculation.' More snaps.

Colin smiles, impressed. Davenport doesn't catch the smile.

'Mob bookkeepers pull this kind of risky shit all the time,' blows Colin, with smoke.

Costas gazes at Grady Birch - Birch is dressed for home, shoes off, top button undone, seated, nothing in front of him but a rumpled Herald, chin now pressed to the chest.

The stiff was just getting comfy.

Costas sees something lurking in Birch's breast pocket. Takes his hand out of his pants pocket to retrieve it. With delicacy, he slides free a twice-folded white sheet of paper. He reads what is written.

'What's it say, Chief?' Colin goes to Costas, long smoky exhalation and yawn.

Costas pauses. Reads it again. No change on his face.

Costas gives the window another look and says, 'I think someone's been watching.'

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #4

(17 months ago)

Holbrook, Arizona

8.30am

Now, that is one FINE ass.

Something to set his sights on. She's only 18, long blond ponytail. Problem is that Probs can hardly stand. Successive nights on the courthouse steps have made his back steel. Hair's matted, greasy, thick. There's an ungainly beard growing, flecks of encrusted vomit. When did he last see soap? When did he change his clothes last? He cannot go back. He refuses to.

Town's quiet. Sun's not so loud yet but it's only warming up. He hasn't seen her face yet. His Pop always said that the Female is gentler by nature. The old man, it would seem, is out of his mind. But Probs isn't horny, he's hungrier than a son of a bitch. Last few meals, such as they were, shot through him like he's a drainpipe. Feverish some days now too. Can't walk in a straight line. Needs a drink.

She goes inside and he pushes in after. It's a bakery. She's alone behind the counter. Ties an apron around herself. Sunlight looks like butter on the breads and pastries. The smells make him dizzy. There is some kind of work going on in a backroom. She sees him and doesn't smile. He's standing still, enjoying the warmth, chewing on a fingernail.

'How did I get here?' he says.

'Walked, I guess,' she says, rearranging her hair higher. Her midriff sneaks into view. Probs is so lonesome he can't cry.

'Is this paradise?' Probs goes.

'Quit lookin' at me and get outta here.' She busies herself with organizing the counter displays.

He takes two steps forward, goes, 'You got any food?'

'Not for you, I ain't.'

'Anything in the trash?' His throat's a desert.

'I ain't givin' you shit outta the trash, alright? Ya vagrant,' shaking her head like he asked for the earth. He stares between her sumptuous breasts as she lunges forward time and again.

'I'm begging you,' he says with such heart that it actually gives her pause.

'You was fightin' over in that Vietnam?' she goes, not softer, more patiently - shifting a strand of hair from her eyes. He asks for Forgiveness and gives thanks for Opportunity.

Big lie: 'Yes, ma'am.'

'Get the fuck out, baby-killer!'

8

Day after Grady Birch murder

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

Elmwood Park, North 74th Avenue

Costas is prostrate on the sofa, shoes off, curtains shut, eyes shut, windows open. An electric fan on the coffee table blows warm air straight into his face. Air-con's on the fritz, making this shrieking noise worse than a jumbo jet. He's down to his string-vest and slacks.

Theo George enters from the kitchen wielding a freshly-moistened facecloth. He carries a tumbler of bourbon and ice for himself. Hands the cloth to Costas. Costas places it atop his forehead and face. Just the fan whirs lightly in the living room which is tidy and respectably average.

Janine's room is another story – festooned in the gaudy colors of 60's youth revolt. She and her mother are at the mall with Theo's wife Myra and their girl Victoria, 18 looking 25. Expected shortly for a grand family feast.

'Any relief?' comes Theo, sipping, rattling his cubes, legs crossed; sitting in the hideous chair that Costas isn't allowed to take to the landfill.

'Some,' whispers Costas, frozen in agony.

'You need your meds, I can get 'em,' says Theo, unbuttoning his shirt fully, sleeveless undershirt ironed, his forehead shining in the tremendous heat. Costas shakes his head.

Theo naturally has compunction to evade quietness. His brother is rather the opposite. Theo admires the walls, the furniture, the ceiling, and the smudge on his glasses lens.

'Humphrey's going to get it when he arrives,' says Theo. He tried. Costas says nothing, probably feigning sleep. Theo is the younger by 4 years, also smaller and, consistently determined, the more handsome of the two.

Still nothing from Costas.

'You're not dead, Costas,' Theo goes.

'Pretend.'

A racket of cars out the back: the ladies are home. Theo leaves immediately, happy to have someone to talk to. Costas stays put.

With a squint, Theo greets the mothers/wives and daughters/cousins as they exit the cars parked on sizzling concrete. The women chat and hum and gladly offer bags for him to carry and he does so chivalrously, enjoying this burst of activity, and kisses Myra and doesn't need to invite Vicky's retelling of their adventures with her arm about his hips.

The girls go into Janine's room to try on their newest clothes and listen to the 45 they bought together called Those Were the Days. House rules: if there are guests, headphones. Theo helps unpack groceries into cupboards and the fridge. He's dazzled by how sexy his wife looks in her yellow tank top, bronzed skin, blue short shorts and sandals, feet petite, finger and toenails zippy red. Nineteen years of marriage and she's still the only one he wants to take to bed.

They keep their voices down. Costas and his migraine have since retreated to the master bedroom. Emily comes back from checking on him with a sad smile for Myra and Theo in the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind her.

'He's OK,' she says to them. They have taken it upon themselves to begin work on dinner. 'Just needs some shuteye.' He suffers from these pains more frequently and acutely since Christmas.

They leave the backdoor open, Theo manning the outdoor barbecue. Myra and Emily dice vegetables, the threesome talk friendly and drink beers and laugh lightly. Finally, the teenagers appear in their fresh tie-dye shirts and stonewashed jeans to hollers of much approval. They pose and pout and Janine, 16 looking 14, says, 'We thought it was time to turn on, tune in and drop out,' and the adults are impressed.

'Where did you hear that?' goes Emily, interested, not scolding.

'Around,' goes Vicky, faux-sheepish. They are asked by Myra to go inside and set the table and they oblige, singing Oh yes, those were the days!

'Be quiet!' Emily shouts into the house suddenly through the open back window and everyone stops with surprise. 'Your father is resting,' she goes to the girls, a little more self-ware after the reaction. The girls apologize.

Emily George rarely shows off her body, even if it's 110 degrees. Her discouraging upbringing does that, most likely. Having her teeth done made a huge difference.

'I am sorry about that,' she says a minute later to Myra and Theo, having planted herself on the bottom step at the backdoor.

'No need to be,' says Theo, as if he was the one that she had berated.

'Vicky's really maturing into a stunning woman,' says Emily, steadying the ship.

Myra takes a seat beside Emily, dregs of her beer bottle in hand. She removes her sandals and says, no dillydally, 'We caught her smoking pot the other night.'

Emily sniffs, swigs from Myra's beer. Myra stretches her toes on the warm ground. Emily's eyes widen. She goes, 'What did you do?'

'Kicked her sorry little ass down the block,' goes Myra with a smirk.

'Hazards of modern parenting, I guess,' Emily says, feeling and looking specifically exhausted.

'They've got a lot more to deal with than we did at that age. Liberation can be scary,' enters Theo, burgers and sausages doing fine.

'The country's in tatters,' says Emily after a short silence.

'Maybe the second American Revolution's on the horizon,' goes Theo, keeping his distance by design disguised as function. Emily rises calmly, perfectly erect; 5 ½ feet, thinner, has aged ten years in one, swan's neck, wipes small tears from beneath both eyes.

'Anger's giving out door-to-door samples and everyone's having a taste.' She excuses herself to go inside the house.

*

Emily's disposition does not improve over dinner. She is lethargic.

Costas has recovered somewhat, eats well, and remains pale. General conversation pirouettes any lingering personal pains in favor of school grades, sports probabilities, domestic politics (no foreign-policy talk), the latest clothing fad, movies, parents' vintage cars, and popular radio commercials.

The sun sets without pomp.

A stark coldness between Emily and her husband has grown increasingly tangible through recent months. Today's certainly no exception. Costas slops his ice cream in front of Bewitched with a brewski next to him despite Emily's half-hearted protests for him to be with his family at the table for dessert.

Myra, Theo, Emily, Vicky, Janine - spoons on bowls and silence. Emily says that she needs to go to bed early; the heat's drained her. She's sorry to be such a terrible hostess. She apologizes again for Costas' rudeness within earshot of him. Theo and Myra will do the cleaning up with no fuss. Emily is grateful. Vicky and Janine scoot into Janine's room again, giggling, daring. They're going to do their makeup. No, paint our faces!

'We're heading home soon,' says Myra to Vicky; unclear as to whether the girls have heard and disregarded or plain didn't hear her as they leave the kitchen.

The house feels like the sky before a bomb's dropped.

Theo washes. Myra dries. Their words have a whispered spring, slinky smiles. The soap suds in the sink give rise to a suggestion from Theo for later. She likes it, wants it badly in fact, plays it dilettante. She knows that her cat never wants his mouse so easy.

From Emily and Costas' bedroom, Bob Dylan's Ballad of a Thin Man plays. Costas mumbles, stands to raise the volume on the TV. He's drinking harder.

'Gonna share that hooch?' says Theo to Costas from the doorway, drying his hands on a towel. Costas doesn't look, his slouched body highlighting the widening waistband. Holds out the bottle to be taken. Myra says something to Theo from behind. Then Theo says to Costas, moving no nearer, presumably repeating his wife's unheard words, 'Want a little coffee to cut the John Barleycorn there, brother?'

'No,' goes Costas. Swigs.

Theo holds Myra in the kitchen; the coffee percolates, foreheads together, bodies against the countertop. Kisses here and there, so thankful not to be in Emily and Costas' shoes.

Ballad of a Thin Man finishes. Seconds later, it begins again. A mite louder? Costas is perturbed at this stage. She's doing it to piss him off.

He wakes up about twenty minutes later to prodding from Janine. 'Hey Dad, what d'you think? Am I not just a work of art?' He nods, having not seen her.

There's shuffling somewhere in the background. People are preparing to depart it sounds like. He checks his watch. Theo says from somewhere, 'Goodnight, Costas.'

'You're going?' he says to himself, belches, staggers to his feet. He feels every pound of the 215. Now he sees Janine's beautiful, grinning face. She wraps fragile arms around him. 'Man, do I ever love you, you big bear of a man!' The spontaneity adds to the humor. People giggle. 'Don't laugh! I mean it!' says Janine looking up at her Dad with adoring eyes. Her cheeks have multicolored Peace signs on them. He focuses in, says to her, 'What's that?'

'It stands for Peace, man,' gives a pair of Vs, a pout and a twirl.

'Take it off,' he says, coughs, in a tone clearly not planned to be repeated. No more Dylan, thank Christ. He heads for everyone.

'Aw, don't be such a square, baby,' goes Janine and Costas says over his shoulder while walking, 'Don't push it.'

He finds everyone in the kitchen; puts an arm around Emily's shoulder and kisses her forehead. They smile gently at each other. She hands him a fresh shirt from the laundry by her feet which he puts on without question.

There's a solitary light lighting the whole room, the whole world at a push.

Farewells and hugs all round. Consensus: a very nice day has been had.

'I really hope I get a gravy tan,' comes Janine by the backdoor to Vicky.

'You're always afraid that you won't and you always do,' replies Vicky.

Costas sees that Janine hasn't washed her face. Vicky has identical multicolored Peace signs on her cheeks, streaks of pink in her long hair as well. Myra and Theo are already in their car. Emily waves to them through the back window, seated at the kitchen table.

'Hey, what did I tell you about your face, Janine?' Costas says, rupturing.

'I'll do it in a minute Dad, OK? Zoiks!' she snaps sharply.

Kaboom: He catches her collar roughly, has no plans for more action, feels his position's clarified; it's an extremely aggressive maneuver in and of itself.

Emily goes, 'There's no need for that, Costas!' A tear of Janine's new shirt shoves the situation into full throttle.

'Look what you did!!' goes Janine to her father.

'Tough luck,' he goes, letting go and turning. His disregard sets her to boiling.

'Kiss my ass, Dad!!' Vicky's still there. Theo's got the engine gurgling. This is happening very fast. Emily can see it like a movie: Costas spins, stomps back to Janine - Emily knows what's coming: remember, it's a movie – and Costas slaps Janine as best he can across the face.

Janine stumbles, doesn't collapse. Earthquake registers high.

'Now you wash your face!' comes Costas, volcanic. It's still a movie: Emily watches Janine's tearful eyes - mouth agape - look to her for a maternal reaction, some effort at outrage. Theo's here now, perplexed by the desolate atmosphere he's come upon.

For Emily: volume's on mute. Theo asks her something. She gets to her feet. Costas walks into the living room. Emily starts after him. Befuddled Theo talks to the girls. Vicky hugs weeping Janine. Costas turns on the TV. He goes through the channels, standing.

It's a strange movie, with an underwater feeling: Emily's the star. She decides to run. She decides to charge him. This is outer body. She knows how to tackle. She bends, and her shoulder driven strongly into his lower back whips the head back and they crash, bringing the television crashing with them. Theo moves in too late. Emily gashes the left side of her face on impact with the wall. Costas takes the landing relatively softly. In the succeeding blur, Theo intervenes to prevent further violence.

Costas calmly rises. Emily bleeds onto the carpet. Astounded Myra enters, rushes to Emily and Theo. Enough surprises: Costas catches his jacket and leaves through the front door. Theo allows Myra to cradle Emily. Chases his brother. Certainly feels like everyone's crying.

'Where are you going?' says Theo firmly to Costas on the front lawn. Costas darts around the side of the house towards the car at the back. He looks gigantic from behind in the dark, big as a planet. It's tough for Theo to stay apace.

'You can come with me, Theo, but if you say a word before I'm ready, I'll probably kill you,' and this comes from Costas without stopping or turning.

*

Almost five years before, Costas nabbed a triple murder in the newly-renovated Casarotto's Family Grill House off I-294. His partner at the time was Rod Blakely, a steaming lush who can't pronounce his Rs. It was statistically proven that Blakely couldn't catch a cold.

News filtered through on the radio as they drove to the scene that President Kennedy had been shot. They were horrified momentarily. When they arrived at the diner, they found people openly weeping - men, women, children, a rainbow of colors and creeds despairing as one.

The rubberneckers spread as Costas approached the diner, the crowd suddenly less enthused by the bodies inside Casarotto's. Blakely nipped Jameson. Costas blocked out what he could.

Inside: a facedown waitress sprawled across a table, white, 25 maybe. A Negro boy, 18/19, lay on the floor by the counter. Both pooled big-time blood.

The officer first on the scene was choked-up as he detailed the crime - something about a robbery that went south real bad. Eyeballs said a white kid went ape. Manager was dead behind the counter. Blakely sat in a booth, lit up a Camel. Said he'd kill for a rare steak and fries. Place was known for its malts.

Costas excused the officer and shut the door, shut out the clamorous keening that rode the air. He gave the dead his full attention. He knew that he would never forget their faces. The rest outside Casarotto's wondered what exactly was going on in the grandest sense. Costas found many of their answers circling within the fixed pupils of his dead waitress. He bent over the Negro boy who reached for the sky.

What happened in Dallas didn't affect everybody. It wasn't the end of days. It never is. Nothing sings life goes on like a fresh corpse.

*

It's the same joint tonight for different reasons. Empty again. Friday nights Costas comes to Casarotto's when he feels the need; nurses a shake usually, maybe a burger. They know he likes extra onions. He hopes they have forgiven him for never coming close to solving that triple.

'She wants to join those clowns in Lincoln Park,' says Costas, arm thrown over the back of the booth. Theo lifts his head from crossed arms atop the table. Chocolate malt's turned his stomach.

'What does Emily say about it?'

'That's who I'm talking about,' goes Costas. Theo thinks on it. Yawns.

Costas comes shortly, 'Won't change a goddamn thing; fifty or fifty thousand of them.'

'You can hardly blame people, Costas. From Jack to Malcolm to King and then Bobby. Civil rights. And the unholy fuckup that is Vietnam.'

Costas sighs heavily: I don't know how to deal with it.

'Going easier on Emily and Janine would help, ya know?' comes Theo with no sympathy. More breathing and more thought. Costas knows that Theo's on to something.

I never hit her before.

'Emily's hurting very badly. As far as she's concerned her only son died for nothing and the US government's responsible. She's just one of thousands who feel dazed by the bullshit. I know I am. The upsurge in need for political accountability is --'

Costas puts up a hand, cringing, 'Alright, alright. I get it 24/7 at home.'

Theo's gonna let the interruption slide. Waits a minute, looks around, and says, 'Something's gotta give.'

*

Costas uses the restroom. He's gone a while and Theo decides to pick up the check in the meantime. He bids their waiter a goodnight and exits. Leans against the hood of his car, craning his neck to the stars, comfortable to wait in the puffy humidity. Costas' eyes are ringed red when he comes out. Theo does not comment.

'We good?' Theo says and Costas nods, sniffs, coughs. Theo takes over the driving and they head back to Emily and Janine. The men are peaceably quiet en route; as is nocturnal Chicago for the most part. Costas stares glumly out the passenger side.

'Hey, I got a call yesterday from the blue,' says Theo, by way of distraction, 'from a guy inside the County Sheriff's Office. Wouldn't say who he was. Got a fin it's the Deputy though.'

He's not sure that Costas is listening. Plowing on: 'Said that there was a note left at the murder out near Flossmoor. A corn farmer last Sunday. Turns out it was destroyed before any technicians came.'

Nothing at all from Costas so Theo stops. Theo's elbow lollygags out the window. Rolling wheels. Gears up and down, reds and greens.

'What was in the note?' says Costas after a minute or more.

'Couldn't recall exactly. Only words he could remember were sport, gods and flies,' goes Theo, bounced by Costas' interest.

'Sounded interesting so I called up the Sheriff and got stonewalled,' he continues.

Then Costas comes with, 'Your farmer got one in each eye?' Hasn't budged his head an inch the whole time.

'Yeah,' goes Theo, one part puzzled, two parts intrigued.

'You know the quote?' Costas half nods and then goes, 'Emily says it's Shakespeare.'

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #5

(16 months ago)

3 ½ Miles SW of Albuquerque, New Mexico

3.14pm

Strips down by the stream. Nobody in the gulch. He's slept here three nights. Water's low on account of the increasing temperature. Washes himself. First time in weeks. Gargles and uses a piece of glass to shave. Nothing he can do about the hair on his head.

Probs notices how thin he is. Ribs are protruding, thighs have lost their meat. His chest is a hairy board. He breathes hard as he splashes himself. It's getting more difficult. A drink would be divine.

He washes his same change of clothes. Leaves them flat to dry. The sun on his body in the silence is golden. He sings a happy tune, looking up at the bluest, whitening sky. He lies naked in the stream with the waters tickling him, bubbling in his nose and eyes and ears and smile. Twittering birds add to the music of solitude.

He agrees with this moment of happiness: A man relies upon himself alone. A man's nature is to be independent. A man must not be fenced in or tied down. A man must answer only to himself.

There was a creek near where he grew up. Catfish swam along in it. Walked the four miles to school and four miles back. The creek was a secret, a shortcut home. In the summertime, he left the beaten path to be part of the secret.

'Where do you go?' his mother would ask him every supper. He never told her. It was a game between them before she turned against him. He brought Loretta DeRocchis there, led her by the hand. She told everyone in the 7th grade the next day that he had etched their initials with a Bowie knife into the tree where he hung his clothes before going swimming (true). Loretta also told everyone that he had asked to kiss her breasts by that same tree (untrue). She was the one and only person he ever invited. His mother did not ask anymore and he did not return to the creek.

Probs rises to his elbows and licks his wet lips. He stretches his neck. Hunger shrieks like a middle child.

He can love again, he just feels it. He will forgive. He won't go back. These are steps towards something. There will be a reconciliation with himself or the women or the country that hates him. It will only come archaeologically.

A sound swoops down the hillside. Reminds him of a harmonica. He wants never to be clothed again. This afternoon is entitled 'Freedom from Fear.' It's certainly a harmonica poorly executed. The man's trying to play while stumbling down the incline.

Probs is disappointed to be glad to see someone else.

The man finally loses his footing entirely; helplessly crashes down to the flats, cussing like a motherfucker.

Damn if Probs doesn't bust a gut laughing.

9

The next day

Cook County Sheriff's Office

Not long after 10am

They're a half-hour late.

Colin changed that tire like a granny. Said it was twenty years since he'd fixed a flat. Costas didn't help much. When they come in finally, Deputy Gilbert Morningstar rises from his desk with an unnatural shunt. The chair shrieks.

'At ease,' says Colin. Deputy Morningstar knows that this is serious and that CPD's here because of his phone call to the Trib. Little's happening in the office; small trickling fountain by the ladies', a lawnmower slaves out back. Morningstar scuttles around to the front of his desk. He's got the unguarded face of an adolescent. And right now, the expression on that face is stampeding fear. Costas sees in the Deputy's quivering dark eyes that Theo's bet was right on the money. Morningstar swallows, about five feet away and goes, 'The Sheriff will be along shortly.' He seems to be expecting a reprimand for this delay.

Costas curses the sight of Winston in the young policeman. It's a pandemic: the country has engorged itself with youthfulness.

Gilbert Morningstar about-faces double-time and leads them down the short corridor to Lipton Coates' office.

In there, Costas and Colin sit shoulder to shoulder, square to Lipton's desk. Costas thanks Morningstar perfunctorily. Morningstar hardly lets him finish. Shuts the door as he leaves with a bang that he didn't intend.

'Our insider?' comments Colin about the Deputy. Costas nods, tugging the coat free from beneath his backside in the seat. So Lipton Coates makes them wait 20/25 minutes. Revenge. Colin's pacing after 5; opens the door a snatch, catches Morningstar on the phone to someone, writing something down.

Neither man has ever met Lipton Coates. Having said that, Costas feels that he can glom a reasonable account of the man from his personal accoutrements dotted about the room. Pictures of Lipton Coates give the impression of a man with a smile not prepared for the camera. There are numerous trophies for cattle-wrangling. Framed newspaper cutouts festoon a whole wall, the chronology of his time growing up in New Mexico. He looks handsome in earlier shots, pretty tall too. Huge stag's head sticks out high behind the pine desk, above law books. Rifles hooked to the south-facing wall, beautiful sheen to the stocks; unused, fired maybe once for the sake of saying so, gifts for birthdays/Christmases. The Pattern 1861 Enfield Muskegon rests highest, proudest in a spotless glass case, the Confederacy mainstay a century ago.

Costas pegs Coates for a rural everyman - likes his Sundays unabridged, his beers frosty, doesn't take too kindly to blabbermouths or desecration of American morality and learned a long time ago to accept hard times and drive hard bargains. Looks like Coates was 15/16 when Wall Street hit the wall. Costas feels confident that Lipton Coates' upcoming explanation will more than suffice.

'Real cowpoke here,' comes Colin, squinting and leaning in on a discolored black and white hanging snap of Lipton being unceremoniously thrown from a rambunctious rodeo bull.

Forty five minutes and Lipton Coates enters the room with a whiff of cow shit off him and by now Colin's fit to be tied down. Keeps the dissatisfaction hidden. He and Costas stand and Lipton marches by with a grunt to his leather chair. Dials a phone number. Still won't look at them. Costas and Colin trade looks - Costas surprised/pissed, Colin pissed/surprised.

'Irene, you tell that boy to get back here this instant!' comes the Sheriff down the phone line. Detectives sit again in the meantime. There's a streak of mud in the wake of Lipton's entrance. The smell of cow shit's becoming palpable. Lipton kicks off his boots. He's much bigger than Costas expected, must be 6'4" if he's an inch.

'If he ain't home by the time I get there, he's gonna be gettin' my boot up his ass!' Lipton hangs up loudly. Takes a breath. Sees Colin and Costas. Views them cautiously.

'City cops,' he goes, practically choking on it.

'Here on city business,' comes Colin, in no mood at this point for dicking around, shiny stripes be damned. Lipton sits up straight. The deer's head behind him creates a kind of regal intimidation that Costas is certain is the reason that the head was put up there in the first place.

'What's my murder got to do with you?' comes the Sheriff.

Colin, impatient: 'We may have a connected killing.'

'And you want to see my file,' says Lipton, moving himself further back into the chair like he just played a sumptuous chess move.

Costas is disappointed. Coates may always be disgruntled, so be it. But if a professional man is having a bad personal day, he's duty-bound to prioritize the greater good and subdue the personal - one of the few truisms Costas picked up from his old man and believes in himself wholeheartedly.

'Is it too much to ask that we share information?' comes Colin, a reasonable tone.

Lipton Coates starts cleaning his boots with a handy cloth from a low drawer. Concentrates on them at length. Military background to the hand motion.

'I do not make a habit of springing leaks in the middle of my investigations, Detective,' goes Lipton, assured, stone-faced.

Different tack for Colin, self-awareness: 'You've never heard of an interjurisdictional courtesy?' He even smiles a bribe. Costas would choose no other man in the force to be partnered with.

Lipton says, almost butting in, 'Nor am I in the habit of melting in the presence of two hotshots who think that they're dealing with a subservient dimwit,' and he rounds it off nicely with a shit-eating grin that categorizes Costas and Colin as simpletons.

'Do you make a habit of destroying crime scene evidence?' are Costas' first words and they come as something unexpected even to him. The tip of Colin's tongue moves to his own upper lip. Crosses his legs. The Sheriff's taken down a peg and his astounded face gives Colin an erection.

Throughout the course of the conversation, it's felt as though Lipton Coates and his desk had traveled back ten yards. Now, he's shot up right under Costas' nose. Sheriff Coates shoots his eyes to Costas and Costas realizes that it's the first occasion that Lipton has actually met his gaze. Lipton Coates is clearly a powerful individual and it's not often that Costas is made to feel so insolent.

'What was that?' says Lipton.

'You destroyed a valuable piece of evidence, Sheriff,' says Costas.

'Oh I did, did I? And who says that I did?'

Costas hesitates: Coates already knows it could have been only Deputy Morningstar.

'Look Sheriff,' says Colin, 'you made a mistake; we're not accusing you of anything dishonest. I've done it myself. It happens,' enjoying that cheeky smack.

Coates' blood's curdling, his face's blushed with it, and he says, 'Well, ain't I lucky you're such good sports?'

Colin senses a weakness, sharper: 'Just co-operate and we'll forget it.'

Lipton thinks on it for a second and Costas adds swiftly, eyes locked on Coates, 'For now.' The Detectives are a force to be reckoned with in their own right.

*

Colin's already in the car, pining for scrambled eggs and black coffee. He's content with what went down. Squealing on the old guard's not something he's interested in doing, nor is Costas. 15/20 years back they might've taken on the system. They're long enough in the tooth to know the job's got its limitations. It would be his word against theirs. They got what they want for the time being. Another murder would help.

Gilbert Morningstar hands the folder on farmer Elm Kite's homicide to Costas George without looking him in the face. It's a shame. The boy should be allowed be proud of his honesty. They do shake hands at least. Costas leaves his card, making certain that the Deputy knows that it's specifically for him and then he thanks Gilbert sincerely.

'I'll get it back to you in a couple days,' Costas says to Gilbert about the file. Gilbert nods, thank you, Detective and pretends to have something urgent awaiting him in the adjoining room.

Costas hears Winston's thrum again in the lack of inspiration he feels this morning following Coates' shenanigans, in the space left vacant by Deputy Morningstar.

Winston and Gilbert: two ageless young men up in smoke, curling up and away from the tips of older men's cigars.

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #6

(15 months ago)

6 Miles North of La Junta, Colorado

3.30pm

The day's not cooling.

Probs has his jacket slung over his shoulder. A finger pokes about his mouth. Gingivitis.

They tread the highway's cusp - up and down the sandy foothills. Have done so for days. Custer rolls a joint, humming idly. Custer's teeth are yellowy black. Some are gone. Custer explained early on that he's one half Arapaho and one half disenfranchised motherfucker.

'You any good on that thing?' said Probs, in the water that first time they met in New Mexico, pointing to Custer's harmonica. Custer, 28, finished picking himself up off the dirt at the base of the hill.

Custer shook his head, 'Just like how it feels in my hand.' Got deep red skin, like his blood's visible. Long fat-free body too, lean. Dresses like Robin Hood when Robin hid from John at the archery contest in the cartoon – clothes grey and oversized; large high-pointed hat shields half his face - fine black hair the other half. His bindle's an Aladdin's cave. Split from the reservation body and mind.

On the plains northeast of here, on the other side of the Rockies, in centuries long believed to be fiction, his ancestral warrior brethren died young and old but as men to the limit and there was no such thing as cirrhosis of the liver.

It's true to say that this pair of vagabonds has found a link. There's more common ground behind them than in front.

*

The white woman they come across (first person for miles) is plump and edgy in the shimmer-heat, hair askew, mood catty, on her knees beneath the Ponderosa pine in the heart of her parched front yard. She cannot work the mower.

'I can do that for you, Miss,' comes Probs with a vaulted step forward. She is understandably wary. She glances back to the house. Kids frolic by the water pump, three of them under ten. Wrests herself to standing with Probs not ten feet away. She's fifty and the vertical crease carved between her eyes is deeply ingrained and well-earned.

'You a god-fearin' Christian?' she comes, got an Austro/German lilt slow in fading, sun in her eyes, ignoring Custer thus far. Probs delightedly shows off the small crucifix dangling around his neck as proof of his piety. He arm-wrestled it from a drunken Methodist preacher in an orchard. Thought it might be useful.

'I got a bowl of cabbage soup you do this damn yard before sundown,' she says, rolling down her sleeves. Probs' face lights up. He drops his jacket. Spits on his hands, rolling up his sleeves.

She stares at Custer in the background, flicking a pointed finger at him, 'He yours?' she goes to Probs. 'Well, he's what you might call my road-buddy,' says Probs, too hungry to be insulted by proxy.

'No redskins on my land or near my children,' goes the white woman. 'And watch your step too,' she says to Probs who begins circling the mower like it's a fresh kill, 'I got a Karabiner don't give a whit for skin color.'

Probs salutes her eagerly, tasting that soup. She heads for the house, rusted. Custer sits on a tree stump off the property. Places his hat on bended knee.

Gets high as a bird.

10

August 25th, 1968

36 Hours Later

53 West Arcade Place, Chicago

Common knowledge: Dan Basford's not a people person. He's entrenched as the Tribune's chief crime reporter for the last 15 years. Won't budge for love or money.

At 58, Dan hardly reports anymore. He oversees universally, delegates happily when he isn't asleep or ravaging fast food at his desk. He's grown rotund and lazy and puerile. Very little stirs his blood beyond the gyrating girls on American Bandstand or any chance that emerges to criticize the work of underlings. These underlings are, for the most part, Theo George and newlywed Ed Hawke.

*

Phone's ringing.

He's snoring like someone's drilling into a granite mountain. Mavis gets it by the bed, hair curled so tight the skin on her face could be mistaken for unused canvas; asks politely who it is. Turns on a bedside lamp. Crashes an elbow into Dan's ribs. It takes a few digs. He wakes like a ship entering port and takes the phone because it's handed to him.

He speaks to the voice on the other end because Mavis tells him to. It's a girl doing the graveyard. Explains that she couldn't get through to Ed Hawke, his phone rang out. Dan catches his bearings fast, the bearings that served him well in bygone days.

Ed Hawke: asshole with a smirk on his toothy puss every morning; getting newlywed-laid on the hour, every hour. The women are looser in the late '60s, and a tighter fit, goes the grapevine. Jealousy doesn't scratch the surface.

'Yes. And why exactly did you call me?' he goes, tempted to just replace the receiver.

'Well, I didn't know whom to call sir. It sounded urgent,' she says. Dan can't place her. She sounds mousy and irritating.

'A murder?' he says, yawning.

'Yes, sir. Two murders,' she comes, voice breaking at two. Panicky still. She's young. Dan's trying to picture her body.

'What's your name, sweetheart?' Dan checks the clock on his bedside table.

'Gladys.'

'Gladys, learn something: I'm – how long have you worked at the paper?'

'A year, sir,' she says, in such way that anticipates a dressing down.

'You're a slow learner, my dear. In situations like this, I'm the last person you call,' and Dan's thinking of Theo warmly dozing by or banging that sweet piece he calls a wife.

'Will I try Mr. Hawke again, sir?'

Big sigh, 'No Gladys, why not try Theo George?'

'I would, sir, but Mr. George left early today because his daughter was taken to the ER. It didn't feel appropriate.'

Dan's unaware of any incident. That's because he didn't show up for work today.

'What happened to her?' goes Dan.

'I don't know, sir. I believe that --'

He regrets asking. 'Call him immediately or you're both out on your asses in the morning. You think you can quote him that, honey?'

Dan allows her a reply. Gladys is slow to give one so he hangs up.

Meantime

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

The clock's ticking like sledgehammer thuds in the silence. A speeding car's headlights flood the ceiling. Emily's alone in the center of their double bed. She's wide awake and it's not the first night. She will repaint the room, starting tomorrow - something bold, radical, outrageous; these are her thoughts each night.

She wraps herself in Costas' huge velvet gown and steps into his equally huge cotton slippers. She checks on Janine: sleeping soundly. From the day of her birth, Janine has slept well and ate like a bird. Her easy breathing makes Emily envious. The sight of Janine in soft nightlight sets free a few demons.

As she walks downstairs, it comes to Emily that the house is filled with clocks. It's a barrage of time, as if the sound of passing seconds were telling her things that she needed to know but couldn't grasp because their language is too ancient. The connection is broken.

Warm milk. Silky smooth. Beautiful big gulps. A white moustache and a heated belly. Emily disturbs the white ring on the table left by her glass with a fingertip. Digresses the circle in many tangents.

A half an hour of this brings no sleep.

She makes shadow-puppets on the wall for a while. It's frustrating. She cannot transmit the intended shape accurately from the brain to the hands.

Meantime

Colin O'Meara's Apartment

410 West Kinzie Street

Colin's all in: perspiration and fury. Costas is red hot. Won the last two hands on the turn. Colin's sickened by Costas' luck. Costas needs a Jack on the river for a flush. The third player's Stavros, Costas' cousin. He's out, down maybe $1.25 tonight all told. Finishes his Stella. Pot's got to be $20-$22.

Player #4, Porter Cho, flips the card, enjoying the dogfight between cops. Jack it is – man oh man does Colin hate losing at cards. Costas is magnanimous in scooping his winnings. Colin collects the cards meantime and shuffles wildly. Stavros and Costas share glances and smirks.

Porter Cho lives in the one-room upstairs. This is his debut at Costas and Colin's semi-regular card game. He's studying pharmacology at the U of C. Room's filled with the smoke from joint #3. Colin snatches it from Porter's hand and pulls nicely.

Colin's behavior's not very surprising to Costas. Costas is old-fashioned, god help him, and breaking any law does make him uncomfortable.

Porter's a motor-mouth; fascinating topics include: how badly he wishes that his father were dead, the amount of grade-A pussy he's had this summer, the ongoing feud between a couple dealers at the pool hall he frequents. His beady eyes rattle whenever he laughs.

Stavros is on the fence. He comes to play cards.

Colin laughs with Porter Cho and deals a new hand. His anxiety decreases/increases by turns.

Merry Porter to Costas, 'Sure you won't have a hit, dude?'

'No,' comes Costas with no smile, picking up his fresh cards.

Stavros has no qualms. Produces rings with the smoke.

Meantime

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Ulysses Thompson

16 East Ohio Street

The humidity's not such an issue with the light breeze off the harbor. Feels good to Theo after the stickiness of the hospital. Vicky's heavily sedated at home with her fractured collarbone. A day of drama and then some.

Dwayne Clooney's always been an effective cop. Clearance rate's 50% plus each of the eight years he's been a murder police. Walks with an occasional limp: war wound for the girls, football injury for the boys. Average height and width, and smart. Internal affairs keep watch; excessive force, twice, wrongful arrest, and bribery, twice. Got ink for that one. Couple buddies went down for it. He's not been pinned for anything yet. Guys sometimes rub his coattails for luck. One day he'll shrug his shoulders and look the other way; the next he'll hunt a killer with incomparable doggedness. Dwayne's a stand-up guy and a real son of a bitch. Friends of many years will attest to his unpredictable nature.

Theo George knows the above fully. They've crossed paths. Dwayne's not one to help the press even on his best day. Being Costas George's brother buys leverage but not every day. And it's the middle of the night – Dwayne's not going to be too pliable. It's a short-straw deal for Theo. He hears Dan Basford's laugh in his ears. But he has to try.

He's in the car, parked a block from the murder house. His eyes are heavy. Dribbles Teacher's scotch into a fresh cup of Joe. Ought to be Johnny Walker; Dwayne's preferred. Hopes that Dwayne's palette's out to lunch. Warm cheese Danishes too. Theo knows how each cop expects to be softened. Theo's car stinks from booze that he's never tasted. Sets his wage packets back a chunk each week – accounts don't look too kindly on liquor as an expense.

Smattering of onlookers on the street in slippers and gowns. No popcorn? Not a dangerous part of the city by any means. Theo approaches with the coffees and snacks. Plans to wake himself up within those hundred yards. Scopes for Dwayne. No sign. Hangs back. Listens to talkers for details:

Who could have done such a thing?

This city/country's gone to hell in a handbasket!

I grew up with the Thompsons!

Tragic. Horrible.

Where will little Jacob and Nancy go?

The usual. He skirts the crowd for further nuggets. Blank. He stands on the street looking directly up the front steps of the house. Cordoned-off at the sidewalk. Uniform cops maintain the peace like watchful gargoyles. Clean front porch. Notches of creeping ivy. Working class and proud. Beautiful hanging flower baskets – seeds of an opening paragraph? Partially-shut front door opens fully from inside and Dwayne Clooney appears. He descends the steps; a few radio and paper people bother him with questions. They're ignored. Greenhorns.

Theo's patient; stays out of Dwayne's eye-line. Bursts of light come from inside the house. There's a hum of forensic activity in the building. Dwayne walks calmly to his unmarked, speaks into the dispatch radio; awaits a reply, gets it. Satisfied.

Theo uses his peripheral vision for Dwayne. Main focus is on the house – details. Who's Dwayne's second on this? Theo sneezes. More people arrive, some go. There's poetry in motion and he can't quite catch it. Dwayne relaxes on a neighbor's low adjoining wall. He crosses his ankles. Shoves his hand inside his coat. Takes out cigarettes. Taps the bottom of the packet. Raises his eyes for a moment. Puts a cigarette between his lips. Holds the cigarette free of his lips again. Coughs into the back of his hand. Replaces the cigarette in his mouth. Investigates his pants pockets for a lighter. Finds one. Tries it once, no good.

Theo makes his move.

.Dwayne tries the lighter again, no good. Shakes it, tries it. Ignites the cigarette. Inhales. Slips a hand into his pants pocket. Picks a speck of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. Scratches his nose.

'Fun and games, Detective?' says Theo with a face sneaking up on a smile. Dwayne looks at him, Theo can't read it. Theo doesn't offer a coffee off the bat so Dwayne reaches for the left cup. Theo gives him the right. Dwayne's got no problem with that.

Dwayne half-shrugs and goes, 'Sleep's a dream,' and sips the drink. Picks up on the liquor fast, raises the cup in thanks and recognition.

Theo forgot that Dwayne's got a newborn, less than a year.

A flood of media begins to advance on the house. Theo turns to the scene, acts as though he's taking it in. Couple TV trucks, lights, and cameras. Microphones and photographers. A body beneath a sheet's being carried on a gurney down the steps from the Thompson place. It's escorted, flanked by uniformed police. A mild frenzy ensues as the ambulance is loaded up.

Dwayne's steady. Theo's steady. Theo sees Mike Morella following the first body down. Mike's only 29/30. Passed his Detective's exam early and first time. Has premo suction with the brass: uncle's a retired divisional head. Mike's not used to this kind of attention and ain't relishing it too much either.

Mike searches for Dwayne. Unbuttons his top button. A second body covered by a sheet is brought out of the house. More of the same reaction. Media pester Mike for answers. Mike says fuck off. Dwayne stands up and calls Mike over to him. Mike's quick to reach Dwayne. Theo's a hawk, watching. Mike talks low/whispers to Dwayne; the noise around them's increasing. Theo watches. Dwayne listens, nods. Mike heads for their car. The ambulance is ready. It pulls out behind the cop cars that are headed to St. Joseph's.

Dwayne jerks his head to the side, for Theo's benefit, away from the maddening rabble. Theo: could be ten reasons for the need for privacy.

'You got thirty seconds, Theo,' comes Dwayne, green eyes brimming for the entire world to see. Theo's caught napping. Dwayne dumps the coffee down a gutter.

'Whatever you have,' says Theo rather lamely.

'Dead an hour. Ulysses and Mary Thompson. Husband and wife. Perp hit Mr. Thompson cold, calculated – two in the face, point blank - and Mrs. Thompson walked in on it during or shortly afterwards - educated guess, something of a struggle resulted.'

'Somebody's got to have heard or seen something,' interrupts Theo; brain rousing. He said two in the face, right?

Dwayne doesn't commit to a full-blown nod. The Detective continues, 'Broken neck probably bought it for her. That's unconfirmed,' saying it firmly with a wagging finger.

Mike Morella's beckoning Dwayne over Theo's shoulder and Dwayne gets it.

'That's more than enough,' Dwayne says to Theo. Stubs out his cigarette on the ground. Theo's woken up in the last half minute. He'd like a mulligan.

Dwayne heads for Mike Morella. They've got a report to fill out and family to inform. The noise has died down. Theo allows himself think.

Theo turns, 'Detective?' Dwayne stops and half-turns. He's not waiting.

'The husband's COD. Two in the face you said?' Dwayne nods.

'Where specifically?'

Dwayne points at his own eyes with the index and middle fingers of his right hand. A fork. Mike's calling him. Dwayne's (not) waiting for Theo. Theo wipes his forehead.

'Let's move,' says Mike, behind the wheel, window down, engine chattering. Dwayne climbs in beside Mike. Theo's able to catch the car before it goes.

'A note, Dwayne,' says Theo, across Mike, unable to communicate any better under the circumstances.

'What note?' says Mike, somehow insulted.

'Was there a typed note – a Shakespearean quote?' to both Detectives.

Mike says, 'Beat it, sleaze ball.'

Neither face tells Theo anything.

Dwayne says to Theo, 'No comment,' and Mike speeds off.

Theo's left to ponder that No Comment, hands on hips and thoughts in circles:

1. Dwayne's being cute to fuck with me.

2. Dwayne's telling the truth and there really is no note.

3. Dwayne's a seasoned shadow boxer playing the percentages.

NUMBER 3.

NUMBER 3.

NUMBER 3.

Meantime

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

So she's standing outside Winston's bedroom. It's a jarring move. It's been 9 months.

The room's a mausoleum and she doesn't shut the door behind her for fear it may never again open. She uses the lamp on his desk to smudge the darkness. There's dust on the shelves. She's sorry for that but the upkeep's not been possible. She knows he would understand, that he does understand.

No clocks in here. Books missing eyes. Records missing ears. Clothes missing a body. She touches what she can abide: his blue tassel loafers, his hideous Madras blazer, his prized baseball signed by the Cubs' Randy Hundley, his sketchpad, his model racing cars. His Milky Way mobile hangs from the ceiling; Mercury and Venus are lost. Near that dangles models of a British Hawker Hurricane and an American Consolidated B-24 Liberator. Winston's interest in the War was just taking off.

It's a heartless warehouse.

There's a box containing twenty or more unused men's ties. At the bottom of his chest of drawers is a collection of 8 or 10 Playboys. Dog-earred things. She sits on the floor and flips through one issue. The September 1965 Centerfold has a speech bubble in his script darting from her lips: 'Oh Winston, won't you take me away from this terrible place?' Beneath that, he has written simply, 'Nah.' Emily laughs into her fist until her tummy hurts.

Meantime

Colin O'Meara's Apartment

Heat's building on the streets.

The Democratic National Convention has Chicago authorities on red alert. 2,000-5,000+ demonstrators reported in Lincoln Park today. Frightening.

'Meatheads,' says Colin with a shake of the head, sipping a Bud. Porter Cho brought it up. He's against the war - wow.

Costas hoped this would be a non-issue tonight. A purposeful exhaustion seeks permission to land. Colin's long-standing Tabby, Matilda, saunters into the room; Costas concentrates on her to distract himself from the conversation. Porter wants lots of pigs' blood to spill; no offence. He can't go protesting tomorrow because he's got friends to see in San Francisco. Of all the luck! Colin's angry about the protests - not for any specific, discernible reason.

'I just hate listening to spoiled brats whine,' he goes. 'Try life in Czechoslovakia for a while. Piss on the freedoms they're born with here.' Defiance.

The King riots were a mess, he admits. He bashed people up, got a scratch or two himself. Knows guys that got much worse. Locked up fuck knows how many.

'Showed those whiny blacks who rules the roost, didn't we? Am I right or am I right, Partner?' Punches Costas' shoulder and Costas smiles as he's supposed to.

Costas watches Matilda. He seems to draw the cat to him. She cuddles up to his feet.

'I really hope Nixon doesn't get in,' comes Stavros - a rare contribution, scratching a carpet of throat stubble. Room's 50/50 on that point.

Costas scoops up Matilda. She purrs melodically, heavier than he expected. Soft and black. Stroking her's wonderfully soothing.

'...but the law's the law, you know?' he catches Colin announcing. His partner's becoming vehemently patriotic, as he does when he's overtired and had a few drinks.

'The top dogs say we gotta beat the shit outta a few college nuts to keep Uncle Sam's machine afloat, I got no problem with that. I say, where do I sign up?'

Porter Cho's on Colin's side out of the blue. Cho's a mainstreamer; a flip-flopper for the space age: sun, moon and stars are all the same to him. Stavros is a bank teller. War doesn't enter his daily equations.

It feels as though Matilda's asleep in Costas' arms. The poker game's on unofficial hiatus. Colin pops open more chips. Searches for dip in the press above the stove.

'I'm excited when I think about it,' Colin says, his back to them, opening and closing small, slatted doors like it's mindless hide and seek. 'The next week's gonna be balls-to-the-wall for sure. And if the hippies don't like it, which they won't, they can either get their asses handed to them America-style or they can hire out one of them aircraft whaddyacallits and sail all the way home to Mother Russia. Where'd she put that goddamn salsa dip?' Stavros points to the dip on the table and goes, 'Isn't that it?' Colin turns and looks and the three of them fall into hysterics.

Costas needs the bathroom.

Meantime

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

Under the bed Emily discovers a large shoebox. Inside the shoebox she finds a number of hardback notepads jammed with hand drawings. Most interesting: small stack of love letters and poetry to a Charlene. She rattles her mind and remembers no girl by that name. His words are from the heart, she reads; quirky, angry, silly and heart-wrenching - unrequited affection is the thread. Emily loves her son's passions; she's comforted momentarily by the knowledge that she was privileged to play a role of any kind in his life.

Further into the shoebox there's a slosh of unopened chewing gum sticks, baseball cards, movie ticket stubs, drill bits, the occasional photograph - some with Winston at parties, at Wrigley Field with Dad, at the auto shop and some snaps without Winston.

Is Charlene in any of these? She won't stop to question her rummaging. She's wading in him and wants to drown.

A chunky envelope. Sealed. Scribbled on the front is the name Charlene Weteling and her address on Justine Street in Back of the Yards. On the envelope's back is written, in the event of my dying horribly or peacefully, please mail this. Thanks. A cartoon smiling face accompanies the writing. It's stamped. Emily's both intrigued and overwhelmed. When did he write that? It doesn't cross her mind to open it.

Finally, there's a small bag of weed. She removes her slippers and robe. Climbs under the freezing covers. Sniffs the contents. Unhesitating. She can guess how it's done. She overheard that you hold it in your lungs. She's seen people making tobacco cigarettes, studied her old man, and loved the smell of him.

Takes a single rolling paper and sprinkles a little marijuana. Wraps it, seals it with her tongue; spits away what of it she licks accidentally. It's amateurish and so what? She lights a match found in the debris of the shoebox and sucks and chokes and coughs and gags and sucks more gently and coughs again, chokes a little and doesn't gag. She's not sure if she's doing it right. She perseveres. There seems to be no kick.

Then the phone rings downstairs. The sound of it floats in her head. The roach dies in her hand. She moves her limbs but she goes nowhere. Maybe this is what they're talking about. She's nauseous, diddy and gizzy. Uh, giddy and dizzy.

The ringing ceases mid-ring.

Meantime

Colin O'Meara's Apartment

Checks his watch: 2.23am. Work at 8.

Costas sways down the hall, fingertips fuzzy. Their raucous hooting quakes the walls. Free of the noxious fumes. No rush to get back. Unbuttons another shirt button.

Shelly van Asselberg is Colin's first lover since his divorce three years ago. She's Dutch; only been in the States a couple of years. She's got to be ten years older. Looks good for late 40s.

Costas reaches for the bathroom doorknob only for it to be twisted from the inside by Shelly. They both stop abruptly and smile in the doorway. She's very short and her gut's getting flabby. Has to have been sexy in her prime. The glint in her eye's self-explanatory - it begs no questions and provides few answers; he's met her maybe three times and she's a no-nonsense woman with a face that cannot lie. She paints and sings, writes poetry, speaks four languages to a fair standard, knows a lot about Eastern philosophies, lights incense in the bedroom, goes barefoot mostly. She's a suspicious character. How she and Colin are compatible, Costas hasn't yet figured out.

She leaves him to his own devices. He shuts the door behind him in the bathroom. Can't escape the laughter. Shelly's flowing orange sarong reminds him of the time that Emily wore housedresses. She maintained her hair intricately at that time. He would come home and dinner was ready. She kissed his cheek. She took his coat. They ate. Janine and Winston told him about school. There was less of everything. It suited him.

He urinates. Relaxation. He washes his hands slowly, douses his face with water. Feels like a new set of lungs. He puts down the toilet seat and sits down. The room is spotless and smells of Dandridge. Puts his head in his hands and it feels good.

A fiddle begins playing in the room next door to him; it's careful, meandering to start and rustic \- it sounds like the returning dead. It's an exhumation. Folksy stuff and so very, very brittle. Music pauses; a stomping foot of bass rhythm on the floor starts.

A woman sings now, with astounding peace of mind and empathy. It is her foot and it is her fiddle.

Shelly: Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears, While we all sup sorrow with the poor; There's a song that will linger forever in our ears; Hard times come again no more.

Wondrous candor and depth to her voice.

Chorus between verses: Tis the song, the sigh of the weary, Hard Times, hard times, come again no more Many days you have lingered around my cabin door; Oh hard times come again no more.

Fiddle kicks in here; a truly sublime show. It sends him back to a frontier campfire, to a fairytale concept of the nation, to a warmer, harder era. His ideal period perhaps.

Costas cannot believe what he's experiencing. He fights. Tears are coming. Wishes this world away. The men must be listening too. Laughter's buried. She's singing to the Source, to the Heavens, to the Universal Aspect. There's nobody in the world to save her.

While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay, There are frail forms fainting at the door; Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say Oh hard times come again no more.

There's a pale drooping maiden who toils her life away, With a worn heart whose better days are o'er: Though her voice would be merry, 'tis sighing all the day, Oh hard times come again no more.

When it's over, he is crying, shuddering, a total wreck, a naked laceration.

Pounding knocks on the door and Costas jumps to his feet; mirror shouts at him, Be a Man! Costas wonders in response: What do you expect of a man?

'Costas?' goes Colin, hurried, from the other side of the door.

'Yeah?' Costas wipes his tears on his shirt. Colin says something. It's covered by the flush. Unlocks the door. Colin scopes him up and down; have they both been crying?

Costas, 'What is it?'

'Your brother's at Andy's.'

Andy's Jazz Club

Christ, gotta be 3.30am

The 3rd last thing he wants to do is share anymore oxygen with Porter Cho.

The 2nd last thing he wants is to see Theo.

The last thing Costas wants is to go home. (He danced around an apology for slapping Jan. Emily's banished him to the spare mattress in the basement. Fair punishment, in his opinion.)

Hard times, indeed.

Club's near closing. Negro's wiping down tables, upending chairs. Flashes Costas a summery smile in spite of the hour. No other staff and Costas is motoring. Soft sax music comes from by the bar. Musician plays for himself with a tired flow. Low ceiling and stone walls imprison the sound. Lone white man in a blue silk suit lets his head droop in the corner. Out for the count. Bubbles pop between his lips. A good night.

'You've been avoiding me,' is Theo's opening line. He's comfortably seated, on his second or third Jim Beam at a guess. They haven't seen each other since Costas slapped Janine 2 nights ago.

Costas halts at the tableside abruptly. Hands in pockets and goes, 'What's so urgent?'

'What happened with Lipton Coates yesterday?'

Costas sidesteps with, 'We've all been detailed for this nightmare tomorrow. Any other business is strictly --'

'Come on, the same person killed my farmer and your accountant.'

Costas nods, 'We agreed that there are striking similarities. When we get more --'

'Stop Costas, all right, you think I don't want to be at home too? But we're here and they're identical. Aren't they?'

'I see where you're going Theo – same old game, but I don't want you coming any closer. There is no story. We haven't had time to go deep enough.'

'Who brought you the Deputy? I did.'

'Can I go home?'

'There's been another one.'

Costas shuts his eyes and sighs. Aware so totally of his exhaustion. 'When?'

'Tonight. I just came from there.'

Costas pulls up a chair and then says: 'What happened?'

'A plumber in his home on East Ohio. Had a small boy and a girl.'

Costas maybe doesn't care. He's so very, very tired. 'Who pulled it?' Costas says.

'Dwayne Clooney. You need to speak with him right now. We talked briefly outside the house.'

'Did you mention the other notes to him?'

Remember: Right now Theo's the only civilian in the country who knows that there's a link between Elm Kite and the accountant Grady Birch's deaths.

'Of course I didn't,' says Theo. Theo's got to work hard here. He wants to get what he can from Costas without giving Costas exactly what Costas wants. Concentration levels ratchet up. Costas' head hangs and he stares at the floor. Three in a week. My god.

'He got the wife too,' goes Theo - he's going to find it out anyway; concealing everything would bite him in the ass for sure.

'He killed two people?' says Costas, bending brows.

'Yes.'

'In the same way?'

Theo blinks: 'He broke her neck but there's a clear trademark here. She wasn't planned.'

Costas pauses, rubs his jaw like it's trying to break loose of his face. Shakes his head imperceptibly and goes, 'The man we want is very clinical, very deliberate.'

'Yes, and he's human.' Theo leans in, right outstretched palm facing up as if holding the point he's making. 'We're all victims of unpredictable forces beyond our control. Mrs. Thompson returned home unexpectedly so he had to take her out.'

Costas shakes his head again, more openly. Straightens his back. He's ready to talk, to hear his own voice - it's his brother that's drawing it out, his wife, his job, his sadness, tiredness, the bodies, butterflies for the morrow. It's a darkening rainbow.

Costas goes, 'It doesn't sound right to me.' Then, a sharp thought: 'Did Dwayne say that there was a note at the scene without specifying what was on it?'

Theo's a fly in a web suddenly: play it bigger, 'What does it matter? How many murders do you come across that involves the stiff being clipped with a pair of bullets to the eyes and a note of any description left behind? We should alert people; figure out any connection between the dead men. They need to be on the lookout for \--'

'On the lookout for what, Theo? He's a ghost. Colin and I have had less than 48 hours to figure this out.'

'So you widen the net. Let Infante or Renne in on it.'

'During how many cases do we have to have this conversation?'

Theo flips his hands in the air, a wry smile, frustration, falls back into his chair. 'Alright Dad,' comes Theo, 'so we're boys again, I see, OK – Jesus, you're so fuckin pigheaded.'

'It's never been my problem that I'm not as dumb as you think.'

'Costas, this is not about us.'

Costas can't really take Theo's bullshit at this particular point. To allay niggling suspicions, he blurts out: 'Did Dwayne say if the note was found in the dead man's hand?'

Fuck \- that snapping - that's Theo's brain. 'Yes, um, it was, I think.'

Another shake of the head, a sly one this time from Costas - the culmination of copious letdowns. Costas feels a prick of foolishness and vindication.

'You prick,' Costas says. Theo's regretting his duplicity strategy now. It was stupid. But he's a man who will be beaten before he surrenders. One final roll of the dice: 'Oh yeah? It's in my notes, you wanna fuckin see?' he starts for his notepad.

Costas taps his breast pocket with great satisfaction. Says, 'Breast pocket, my friend. It's gotta be in the breast pocket. You're lying.'

Costas gets up and walks out, disgusted. Theo's stranded. Stays put. Costas is outside. He hasn't really got anywhere to go. Theo jumps out from inside the club. Costas sets off just to escape. Theo hunts him.

'OK, OK. Costas. Goddamn it. I asked Dwayne about a note and he just gave me a no comment. Wouldn't you be curious if he didn't shoot you down outright? A big fat No and I would be gone.'

'I will check later with him,' says Costas. Speed walking.

Theo: 'I can write up something light, something ambiguous to feel for a reaction. I think I deserve first stab at this when the shit hits the fan. This guy's not gonna stop at three!'

Costas stops and pivots dramatically; Theo nearly bumps into him. 'Theo, this is not your territory. Sit on it until further notice.'

Put his finger right in Theo's face when he said not.

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #7

(14 months ago)

Approaching Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

11.25pm

JUMP!!

He's misjudged it; gone too early. Railroad bull's slick on their heels. Not many of them left nowadays - only takes one to profoundly spoil an evening.

Lands hard in the sandy mud - might be a breaking branch he hears or he's snapped his ankle in two. Can hardly see anything in the blackness.

Custer's hat's floating downstream. He splashed all right. He's wading/paddling to dry land, wet as wet. Scoops the hair back, so much of it looks like it weighs a dead ton on his head. Train rumbles on across the bridge, an impressive rage.

Probs soon realizes that it was not a breaking branch. He folds to the floor with a bellicose bellow. 'You stupid Injun prick,' he mumbles, vomits the words repeatedly beneath his fiery panting; struggles to rise, dragging his body in a blind direction, handfuls of squeezed soggy dirt.

Custer's collected himself sharply. Standing buck-shouldered, gazing out over the landscape like the king of a fattening kingdom, like the panicked escape was part of the plan. Bindle survived by his feet. He never eats. He's strong as two men. There's a tension been brewing for some time: Custer's uniformly superhuman. He revels in the bottomless pit. He is not fazed by disaster or abuse. He is not a fighter; he is a graceful mover, an unwashed soul that encourages substantial hatred through his nonchalance. As it lies, loosely based, Custer's satisfied. Probs would like to throttle him.

Custer oxter-drags Probs beneath a second bridge. This one's close to the one the train traveled over - extremely derelict, formerly used, purposeless, the river's been long diverted. Clogging weeds and flitting rats. Probs deposits a two-track trail in the reeds leading in. Too tired to be weak to resist Custer. The ankle sustains a single searing, percussive note.

There's a barrel-fire dying out. Nobody in attendance. Couple of raggedy blankets, Arctic cold. Custer revives the flames. Opens his palms to the heat as it burgeons. Probs wants rid of this scum, this lowlife. He feels that he makes no decisions of his own any longer. Custer is heartless and shameless. And Probs will be no man's follower. That's why he left Carol behind and it's why he won't go back to Candace either! This freedom is too deeply hewn to forsake, too smothering.

Potential rebellion presents itself in various guises. If he had both his feet he'd tell Custer that this is their last night. The Indian undresses to his skivvies. His body's sheer muscle and bone and in his sometimes-smirk resides the self-assuredness of a longstanding monument. Handsomely impenetrable. Brutally frustrating to the seekers of easy answers.

Probs feels in an inside coat pocket for his rusted switchblade. Custer picked it from the pocket of a dude window-shopping. Gave it to Probs with the words, 'Use it wisely, brother,' and the trademark wink. They got drunk as skunks together then, laughed so hard that Custer coughed up blood.

So Probs is going to jam the blade into Custer's breastplate and break it off with one twist, bringing his lips closely to Custer's ears. He'll whisper, 'Use it wisely, brother,' and, with any luck, Custer will understand how clever Probs is before he dies. Killing a man will be a new feeling. He'll take whatever feelings he can get.

'No man deserves to die beneath a bridge,' says Custer out of nowhere and it gives Probs impetus. Custer is solemnly cross-legged, rolling a fresh joint, barefaced and comfortable. How does he have an unending supply of that shit?

Probs latches onto the wall behind him, fingernails crumbling the decaying stone. Stands with considerable difficulty. Custer watches him on and off.

'Hey!' Probs shouts to grab Custer's attention though he already has it. He wields the blade in his right hand. Trembling. Mostly fear. He should have sneaked.

'What's your real fuckin name?' Strange ignition, pedantic, evasive. More than mostly fear.

Custer coolly stands up and expands his chest. Fills his lungs. He has to bend slightly so as not to bang his head. Wide hands, rugged terrain, the backbone of these United States. Custer stares at Probs and the light hits the Arapaho's glinting eyes just-so to remind Probs of a coyote. The fire haze plays tricks and Custer's incisors are uncloaked as fangs. Shapes are shifting for Probs.

He darts for Custer and Custer unexpectedly steps forward to punch Probs square in the nose. Probs stops dead, like he was tied to the wall behind and didn't know it, loses the blade in the grass. He's numbed into a daze. He's seeing stars in the cloudy sky. He swings a fist and tamely hits Custer's neck. Custer reaches for the back of Probs' head. Clutches a mound of shaggy hair. Steps aside. Pile-drives Probs headfirst for the wall behind Custer.

And that's all she wrote.

11

August 26th, 1968

Following morning

Near North Chicago

Mayor Richard J. Boss Daley has dined out for many a year on the fact that his state pulled the rug out from under Tricky Dickie to nab the Big Seat for JFK in '60.

Illinois: a hot, hot, hotly contested hotbed swing state with 27 college votes. '68's gonna be no different. He leveled big behind-the-scenes criticism against local metropolitan authorities for what he considered a lenient response to the riots in April following the death of Martin Luther King. Made sure that from top to bottom down the chain of command orders are clear as day for round two: She ain't gonna be pretty, boys.

This is the first major political convention of any kind in Chicago for 12 years. How the world has changed. Anxiety has festered to fever pitch from city hall to homesteads far and wide. Zany rumors hover:

BOOM - Chicago's gonna burn!

ZAP - LSD in the water supply!

THWAP - Sewers flooded with gasoline!

Situation, to Costas George: nose being cut off to spite the face. Peaceful protests up to last night. Friction came when the Bigwigs, in their eternal wisdom, decided to shoo the motley crews of beatniks, misfits and malcontents out of Lincoln Park onto the city streets. Cold light of day revelation: they're on Lincoln Avenue, Clark Street, Oak Street, State Street, Division Street, La Salle Blvd., Rush Street, Chicago Avenue, headed south in droves for the Convention Center on Michigan at the Conrad Hilton.

Traffic's dead, honking horns, people everywhere, the minority marching with placards, chanting with flags - any momentum the demonstrations lacked is galvanized now by this sanctimonious and unreasonable treatment. Picking up pace and picking up numbers.

'Hell No! We won't go!'

Costas' nerves fluctuate as the day progresses, butterflies check in and out. This is a recipe for trouble - the simmering heat, the invective from the minority of the minority present and the paranoid wariness of the authorities. The whole world's watching and the police have been debriefed to be unmerciful.

On the other hand, he's surrounded by 12,000 loyal brothers-in-arms. He's relatively safe bobbing along in the middle of this deep blue sea. It's mostly standing there and taking verbal abuse but the 1968 sheep ain't so inclined to wallflower status. They spread and they shout and they won't heed warnings and they're not stupid.

'What do we want? Revolution! When do we want it?' Now!'

He slept horribly last night. He can't sleep without Emily by his side. A lot of today's gone over him like a droning cloud; the electricity encompasses everything. 6,000 army troops on Personnel Carriers dotted about, based at Soldier Field. Another 6,000 Illinois State Guardsmen oversee.

'Fuck you, Pigs!'

'Pigs are fuckin whores!'

He sees colleagues shouting insults up at citizens watching from their balconies and windows along the street. He knows that some of the men feel like it's their duty to bust heads. Strong hints pointed to rewards for bloodletting. Though that makes no sense. TV newsmen and journalists are swarming the place. Whatever occurs will be caught on film.

Young white guy - 25/26 \- in front of the Cultural Center on Washington recites Ginsberg's Howl \- flips to the second of some 6 pages in his hand. Hard to hear him above the cacophony. A cop squares up to the rabblerousing poet, knuckles already white around the Billy club. Costas watches, stands with Colin. Colin's scanning elsewhere. The young poet's got thick black, spherical hair, glasses. Looks like Winston - lanky, battered sneakers, drainpipe bellbottoms, light gray sweater. Keeps shouting, punching the air above the cop's face. Cop's evidently not enamored of the guy's sentiments. Nostrils flare.

Costas' eye is snatched by a high and large VietCong flag – red top half, blue lower half with a small yellow star in the middle - passing by in the hands of a gaggle of young hippies. A real pang of anger lurks.

'Look at these pieces of shit,' goes Colin, reading Costas' mind. 'Should be given license to lock every one of these turncoat faggots up till forever.'

Costas looks back across the street at the Ginsberg poet and he's on the ground; helped up by supporters, talking to him, tapping his cheeks, face covered in blood. He's in and he's out. Head's flopping. They're taking him away. The cop that stood in front of the poet's nowhere to be found.

A group of people is loudly cursing someone down the street.

'Come on,' comes Colin with a tug of the sleeve on Costas' uniform shirt. Colin didn't see any of that. Insanity then takes hold, like a bored infant might, somewhere and at some point - the dam capitulates.

Sun goes down. It daren't look.

Fast, fast, fast.

A rock zips through the air; hits a cop in the back by Costas, ten yards away - they're throwing bags of piss, some of them - bags of rotting food.

The cop that's hit turns savagely and whacks the first person he sees in the chest. Victim's on the floor, out cold; his buddies are yelling at the cop. The cop strikes out at a couple more of them for good measure and is soon joined by another cop; they mace their way through a small riotous cell.

Retaliation airmail: bricks hurled, lumps of concrete, epithets, profanities like Costas has never heard before. Arrests out the yin-yang. There's a plainclothes doctor seeing to a skinny boy on the street, 15 or 16 years of age; bleeds profusely from a slit at the top of his head.

The Turtles sing Happy Together turned up high. Where's it coming from?

The scuffle widens. Costas pivots to Colin. Colin's involved. It's very unplanned. Costas is amazed, thrown for a loop. It's within touching distance, this amazing scene unfolding. A paddywagon pulls up and a number of casualties are bustled in back; so much shouting and violence and palpable confusion on such a grand scale.

Costas catches a few people by their shirts or arms, warns them to cool it - he's trying to be professional. They tell him where to go. Streets are decorated with people blurred like burning paintings.

Costas finds Colin following a most recent fracas, like moth to flame, like magpie to glitter; blood on his pristine shirt, spatters. Colin smiles, wipes his nose. He's panting and goes, 'Man, I got a couple of 'em real nice. This one sexy bitch with a fuckin umbrella, she's got a nice set of bracelets for the evening. You get any?'

Costas sees wind and fire in the eyes of his partner. Costas sees Winston in the face of every man under 30. Everywhere. Before he answers Colin, Colin spies a TV news team in the thick of the action, getting close to a cop repeatedly punching a woman in the face.

'Hey! Gimme that fuckin camera!' goes Colin to the crew and he's off to save the day. Sticks zoom by, landing at Costas' feet. It's a mélange of dissatisfied customers. The sea is parting and Moses has overslept.

'KILL! KILL! KILL!'

Mike Morella's talking to cops, whispering - it's a trade secret, pass it on. Morella comes to Costas who's with a dozen or more other cops suddenly - a gravitational pull. A bathroom tile crashes on the road - more food projectiles, rains human shit.

'Get the newsmen,' Mike says to the dozen and runs off. Costas sees Dick Terry. Dick slaps his left palm with the Billy club in his other hand, squeezes the shoulder of plump Dick McShane and the pair slink off. Predatory.

It's fast becoming too much for Costas. He walks to ease his bones - the line is perforated. Whatever rats were here to lead have long left the crew to cannibalize.

Tear gas enters the fold. Kids scream and scatter like the waves of an unfurled bed sheet in the streetlight-for-starlight. A woman jabs Costas in the mouth as she runs by him; he's too slow to counter. There's a lasting zing to her connection, an aftermath. No teeth gone. Dammit, he didn't even see her.

Waves, waves, waves of bodies in all directions - the tink of canisters made airborne and the soft release of gas. The rush of stampeding footsteps, of coughing - a man standing on the sidewalk, elderly eyes watering, breathing under siege. The rippling crowd, in dense sections, swells to evade and rolls to attack as one. Windows smashed; cars trampled, overturned and burned.

Sirens, sirens, sirens \--- --- could be sirens down the street, could be a block over, could be five blocks up - Costas can't measure it, his ears race with the pounding blood.

MLK riots were chickenfeed compared to this. Paddywagons fill fast - men and women – kids! \- dragged kicking and spitting, biting and fighting, conscious, unconscious.

Megaphones scrunch unending efforts to placate the untamed populace.

Cops are unhinged. It's all or nothing. It's all and nothing.

Costas catches a young man running; the guy flung a rock through the plate-glass window of a restaurant. Costas activates his impulses. This is some sort of hell.

A mindless radio blasts Steppenwolf's Born to Be Wild.

Costas pins the assailant to the floor, presses his forearm into the man's jugular. It's Winston. They wrestle. Costas is bested easily with speed. A couple cops assist Costas to standing; shaky but cogent. He stretches his neck. Surveys the wildfire - THERE! There he is again! It's Winston. This one is surely Winston, alive and well. Costas wants to tell him to be careful, go home, this is dangerous and no place for right-minded people whether you agree or disagree with the fuckin war. Can't do any of that unfortunately so instead he swings the Billy club with all his might; finds the left shoulder of a teenager who falls to the pavement like a spent cartridge. Nobody helps this kid; Costas concentrates on the lower body of the agonized youth for a succession of 8-10 blows; out of breath. It's a torrential tantrum, an uncut oversell of rage, the purging of internal self-loathing in response to the reflected innocence inside him that's been mangled trying so desperately to be opinionated.

Concerted chest pain for Costas. The boy cries his lungs out. Woman attempts to set her bra alight - Costas maces her; it becomes a rampage of indignation, a one-man band bringing peace to the streets of Chicago. Stomping, flailing, he's a monster. Stops in his tracks.

Winston.

His boy. This one is he. He works his way toward a man pitching dogshit at Army troops.

'Winston!' closing the gap, heart leavened. The man spots Costas nearing him; slams a clump of fresh shit into Costas' chest. Costas doesn't stop. The man reloads from a bandoleer of oddities on his body. Arms himself with what looks like a handful of cream cheese.

'Back the fuck off, narc, or you're going down!' bellows the man's girlfriend, betraying her stature, holding a lighted candle. They wear matching red bandanas.

Costas stops and squints. It's not Winston. It never is.

Someone with a baseball bat bashes Costas' middle first, then his shoulder, the ulna in his left arm cracks. It's nothing short of a raucous barrage replete with primordial belly-yells. The attacker goes doolally before being tackled.

Officer down. Officer down!

Earlier

Chicago Tribune

3pm

The theatrical hubbub's outside; cooler heads in the lobby. The front door blocks noise.

Theo passes George Bliss' 1961 Pulitzer for the millionth time: For his initiative in uncovering scandals in the Metropolitan Sanitary District of Greater Chicago, with resultant remedial action.

Haunts him from behind the glass, feels its heartbeat. He doesn't look at it.

Upstairs, there are on/off newsroom gawkers; looking on in amazement at the driven force of people floors below them on the street. Some are for and some are against. Elements of hell are breaking loose. Building's alive with muddled concentration - the World's Greatest Newspaper's been swallowed up by the Democratic Convention.

Phones, footfalls, shouts, and typewriters. Theo loves this energy ordinarily; he wants the heat of pressure, suckles on the intellectualizing, gets off on the one-upmanship. This sidebar story though, he daren't breathe when he goes far enough into the maze of what-ifs - a lifetime scoop, he's fantasized front-page banners: KING LEAR KILLER STRIKES AGAIN! by Theodore George.

He's doing the beeline to a haven along the embattled trenches: the desk of one Dan Basford. Theo glances to Editor-in-Chief Jim Underwood's office on the way over - people in there, 3 or 4; Jim's office's populated for high-octane meetings to meet deadlines, argue priorities etc.; the glass partition is cobbled so the bodies look like mermaids.

Dan's working hard on a Big Mac and cheese, sauce's roundabout the chin. Theo calls Dan's name before he gets to him. Dan can hear him all right.

'Dan,' Theo goes, softer on approach.

'Yes?' says Dan, licking his tie, eyes to the task.

'I need a favor.'

'Oh yeah? You and everybody else,' comes Dan, putting his burger down and licking a couple fingertips.

'This is urgent,' says Theo, leaning in, palms pressed down on the desk, conspiratorial.

Dan leans back, hands knitted behind his head, tongue mindful of morsels. He looks at Theo and Theo waits. Dan lifts his eyebrows to say I'm listening.

Theo says, 'I need one of your girls,' and he says girls like he's testing the word out in his mouth before committing to it.

'Oh?' and Dan catches his drink, sucks on it, smiles knowingly, left eyebrow higher. 'And does the little lady know about this?' with a delinquent's wink. The Mona Lisa of puckered assholes Dan may be but Theo knows that Dan will respect the professional privileges of another journalist \- naturally after the requisite digs and innuendoes.

'Just an itch needs scratching,' comes Theo; offers Dan a bottle in a brown paper bag.

'I bet,' he says slyly, taking the bag gladly; inspects it - Drambuie. Secretes it. Dan then looks about, takes his time. Puts the drink down, hums and haws, makes a song and dance of it. Rumbles through drawers, fakes like he doesn't know where it is. The alcohol buys no more than the bare minimum. Theo waits because it will be worth the wait. Dan comes up with a little black book from his jacket pocket, draped over the back of his chair.

'Should be focusing on what's out there,' Dan says. 'That's history,' with a yawn and a vague gesture to the protests. 'Gonna get messy later. Count on it,' he finishes.

Theo stands, arms crossed, as Dan flicks through the pages of his small book. Theo says, about outside, 'Spent the morning and afternoon getting copy, some really clean quotes too. Besides, we got enough hitting the pavements right now the paper can spare me -'

'OK,' comes Dan, with a sigh, eyes to the pages, not listening, 'Here we go.' Clears his throat, puts down the book. Licks a fingertip, mouth's always up to something. Turns a few pages, backs up a couple. Can't find a pen now. Hands are chubby starfish, desk's a papery bombsite.

Theo grows impatient and says, 'Shirt pocket,' with a slight point to Dan's chest. Dan looks as directed, pressing down the neck jowls like a croaking frog.

'Oh,' he goes, takes the pen out of the shirt pocket, exasperated shake of the head. 'Age,' he says to Theo to explain, with eyes high and head low. Gets a tiny flip-pad to hand, hunches over it, and pauses momentarily as if in thought. Sucks his coke.

Theo sees Jim at his door, emptying the office.

Dan writes a phone number while quoting Napoleon, 'Men are moved by two levers only: Fear and self-interest.'

Theo doesn't want to hear that shit - now Dan Basford's a mentor? Dan rips free the page with great ceremony. Theo takes it gladly and says, 'Thanks.'

Jim's gone, his door's shut. George Bliss' humble trophy's lost its polish in the lobby. The light's changed. Theo gives the Pulitzer in the case a nod, a skip to his step. Plenty of stories to tell.

Hey, dig this: there's a snug little spot beside George Bliss that's just gagging to be filled.

PROBS INTERLUDE #8

(13 months ago)

Somewhere between Fort Worth & Round Rock, Texas

There's no moral outrage, he's just taking a liquid shit. Hardly the American Dream, although certainly an American Fact.

Baking by the side of the road behind a decrepit mesquite bush. Squatting. Watching a scorpion crawl towards him and then angle off. Probs can hear the stones cooking under the ruling sun. The horizon is a 360 blur. His moustache is bushy, like a frontiersman's; it strategically hides his mouth of shame.

He pulls up his pants. Thighs ache. Ties the belt, with no buckle, in a knot. He hocks and spits and doesn't lift his head from the tortured earth until he finds the scorpion and crushes it. Squints against the light. He has no idea where he is. Simply keeps hopping trains, hitchhiking, and walking and the random elements adhere to a strict routine. Swigs dirty water from his used gin bottle. He splashes a dash over the liquidated scorpion, wishing him well on his journey.

Arms akimbo, Probs surveys this no man's land; the landscape hasn't changed and he wonders if it ever will.

A shape protrudes the encroaching distance gradually. Licks his cracked lips, tongue absentmindedly playing with the gap in his upper teeth – a constant reminder: may that goddamn Indian rot in heathen hell. Shoves the bottle back down into the dregs of his jacket pocket.

More shapes; people. Two at least. The shimmering glare distorts the forms. The forms levitate. He notices an encircling turkey vulture overhead. He flips that bird the bird. 'I double dare you, fucker.'

The shapes that might be people stop moving up ahead. He waits. Dehydration and loneliness love black magic. His headache mounts an offensive. He's had it so long he ain't sure if he wasn't born with it.

So he approaches the mystery. Tells himself that he's going crazier. No cars out here. The road stretches like a galaxy. He shuffles along the roadside scrub. Surprisingly, the shapes are enlarging.

It's a girl/woman, a black girl. She's emaciated. Sunken eyes and heart. Carries an infant, slanted eyes, should be fatter. There's three more little ones orbiting her, clinging tightly. They don't move freely. Major difference between kids and adults: kids CAN'T ignore the strings controlling them. They drag thoughts of his own child to anchor.

'Clara,' she says and he says, 'Probs, pleasure to make your acquaintance.' The kids have no shoes, soiled rags for clothes, spirits hanging by a lagging thread.

'What's Probs mean?' she goes.

He goes, 'PC's my initials. Guy I met early on liked it; short for Probable Cause.'

Her face is expressionless. She's on the lam from an orphanage. The people there beat the children, rape them too - she got raped herself a couple times. Probs thinks she's 14. She says she's doin' what she's gotta do. 'Kids in that place ain't got a prayer,' she says with the embroidered disappointment of a bruised veteran. 'Next man so much as look at me funny's gonna get hisself a bullet.'

And that's a promise.

12

That night, after the riots

Passavant Hospital

Costas is unconscious in bed; left arm from wrist to shoulder in plaster of Paris. Face's in bad shape. Janine's stretching her legs along the sleepy corridors.

Emily's bedside in the silent dimness, writing:

Georgie, What has happened to us? How did we ever get here? I miss the way we were. I know that you will tell me that to wish for things to be different is pointless but I do wish it. I feel that I may not recover fully from these days and that scares more than anything.

Oh my pen can hardly describe the love I have for you, Georgie. I am no poet or songwriter. Only my heart bleeds for your happiness. You have always known that, I hope. You lift my spirit like no other could. I cannot afford to lose you as well. The doctors say that you will be OK. The doctors.

I need you. I see the need for change. I'm not sure exactly how to get it. We are the only ones who can save ourselves from being dragged down into the hole. We are on the edge, I think, as are so many others. I am so fortunate to be loved by you and we have a wonderful daughter. I look at her in disbelief. We created this person, you and me. It makes me feel so hopeful when I think like that although I find it hard to think positively sometimes, or a lot of the time, I suppose.

It is sad to say that there are mornings, usually the freshest, the sunniest mornings, where I come downstairs expecting to see my boy eating cereal at the table or going out to ride his bike. I hear him saying Morning Mom and it is the sweetest music and I am honestly ashamed to only now understand that when he has left me. My god, what I had when I had him!

I recall easily the first night that we made love; boring thing to bring up, I know, but how gentle you were. You have always been so gentle with me, Georgie. There is no man for me but you. I get scared sometimes when I think of the violence that you face everyday now. Police work isn't what it used to be. It is so dangerous. Everybody's so frustrated with everything. I see your frustration. I wish that you would consider quitting. I feel it very strongly. You could do anything. But I am so proud of you for the difference that you make and have made to the city. You are one of the good guys. I know that the work you do is important to you and to many other people.

You have so many friends and well-wishers. Dozens of people have called into the hospital and call up on the phone to say that you will pull through, you're too strong. There is kindness in many hearts for you. Still, I am your wife, your other half, and I worry. I worry more and more.

It is difficult to say what you feel. I find it difficult anyway. I know it is the same for you. I hope that when you read this letter you will not be mad with me. I love you so very much. Maybe we can use this incident to reset our marriage. I would like that very much. I am so very sorry for becoming violent towards you. We can make more time to spend together and with Jan. I can understand why you hit her, I think. I do think I understand why you slapped her.

These words and thoughts spilling from me make me feel better. Any anger there may have still been inside me towards you is washed away by this hospital room – it's so infantile and stupid, looking back. Life's too fragile and sacred. You've got to accentuate the positive, don't you?

Looking on you as you rest in that bed, I want to hear you say my name. I am prettiest coming from your lips. You are my lover, Georgie, my best friend, and my hero. I am your servant. Your beautiful stormy hazel eyes. Please open them soon. It is a scary and confusing world without you.

Meantime

West Diversey Parkway

Something of a bloodbath in the Loop tonight with riots.

Out-of-towners would be forgiven for thinking that the Half Shell restaurant's been around for a lifetime; in fact, it's less than a year old. Façade's rundown. Reliable reports suggest that they do a mean oyster platter, however. More importantly, it's become the somewhat regular watering hole of one Detective Mike Morella. Theo's got the place centered in his rear-view mirror; chewing gum furiously - murky waters plug the back of the mind.

Mike's been in there since around 12.30am. They're here since 11pm. The meter's running. Theo needs him reasonably blotto. Checks his watch. Taylor's beside Theo. She's doing her eyeliner again in a pocket compact. No word of complaint from her. Car's dense with her heavy Norell scent. Window's cracked. She's 26, a ruddy white woman, large ruby lips, sunken green eyes, poorly dyed shoulder-length blonde hair, average tits, long legs, gauzy fingertips, one kid - began on the cold corners, worked up the ladder to heated penthouse business. Got an implacable sort of beauty, an unkempt refinement, exceedingly personable. Very few men would not take her on. Her profession demands patience. She's a real professional. Theo can't help but wonder if Dan Basford's seen more of her.

'OK,' Theo goes and opens his door. She follows accordingly. Avenues are dead up here. He spits out the gum, walking across the street in his sports jacket; Taylor skips to keep up in pink heels, matching handbag over the shoulder.

He offers her a fresh stick of gum and she says, 'No, thanks.' He takes one for himself. Pretty cool out here. She tugs on her skirt. Stops outside the Half Shell. He appraises it like he's in the market, cranes his neck.

Doesn't look at her, like the roof's fascinating him: 'So, we're good?'

She winks, nods, smiles, 'Watch and learn, Daddy.'

He holds the door for her and she enters. He waits on the sidewalk for three complete minutes before going in. Bouncer's playing with the change in his pocket.

Inside: cozy, busier than he expected. Stays back. Eyes vacuum the scene. There she is: a fast mover - drinking at a table with Mike Morella near the back. Morella's got sandy, cropped hair, shorter than five-five – wouldn't stand out in any line-up. There's another girl sandwiching him. Hard to judge his level of inebriation. Mike's got a rep for the ladies.

Theo orders vodka neat. Hugs a shadowy corner of the bar. All we got's peanuts this hour. Nurses the drink like it's on life support. He's a night owl - scouting eyes, eyes, eyes. Drops the salty nuts like painkillers. Slippery slope, this enterprise: whatever goodies they yank from Morella on the Thompson killings are gonna be second or third-hand and not necessarily corroborated either, unofficially or otherwise. Dwayne Clooney's incommunicado - Theo tried all day for an update on the case.

Seat-of-his-pants journalism no matter how it's sliced but that's the game - Theo's no dummy, the risk are the risks; things sometimes need pushing to make other things happen. The timing's in the lap of the Gods. It will be or it won't be. Gotta see it to the end. Costas can be pissed on his pedestal if he wants. Theo's gotta believe in his gut for the glory. Am I digging a foundation or a grave?

1:26am: Mike puts his hand on Taylor's knee. She goes, 'I don't believe you a murder cop.' He loves it. Flashes the badge.

1:32: Taylor's fingers swirl in Mike's hair. She goes, 'I think murder cops are sexy. You a hard-ass, Daddy?' Mike listens. Mike flexes.

1:38: Other girl goes to the bathroom; Mike moves in on Taylor. She goes, 'Tell me what you got on the burner, baby.' He goes, 'You don't wanna know.'

1:44: Mike's sufficiently drunk. Groping both women, leaning towards Taylor. She goes, 'C'mon, baby. What bodies you got on your watch?' He replies, 'You some kinda sicko bitch, gets off on horrible shit?' She says, 'Depends,' uncrossing her legs, 'You wanna get me off?' Mike's eyes put down the deposit.

1:49: Last orders called. Mike kisses Taylor full on. He says shut the fuck up about work. Other girl appears put out by the attention given to Taylor.

1:52: Theo George pays and leaves. Waits in the car.

1:57: Theo's pulled up right in front of the joint. He promised to protect Taylor. Mike exits with a woman on either arm. Taylor knows that Theo's right there watching. She allows Mike to suck on her neck.

1:58: Other woman and Mike start to fight about Taylor. Taylor takes the opportunity to look at Theo, he sees her - she shakes her head: Nothing yet.

2:07: Other woman's gone, screaming match. Mike's driving erratically. Taylor's with him. Not the plan - nervy Theo pursues. This girl's got cojones to burn. Mike talks about the dirty biz of catching bad guys.

2:11: Mike books into the Titus Hotel on Belmont. She goes, 'They ever leave clues behind, like in books?' Taylor squeezes Mike's ass. Mike says, 'Oh sure they do.' Theo parks outside. Follows them inside. Still in control.

2:13: Taylor's pulling Mike's arm – where to? \- the hotel bar. Mike wants to go to the bedroom. She does the puppy dog, hands clasped, index finger raised. One more for the road. Theo has to smile. Mike relents. She says, 'Find any clues at the last one?' Mike smells her, she lets him rub her tit, 'Uh-huh.'

2:45: Mike's asleep in a booth. Thank you, Mickey Finn.

2:59: Theo drops Taylor off at her apartment building. Anytime, Daddio. He watches her walk, feeling bad for Mike. She's a rare bird. Worth the green for sure. She got the info. Note at the Thompson scene? Check. Was it Shakespeare? Check. Same precise wording as Kite and Birch notes? Couldn't say. Never mind. Good night's work.

3:00am: Theo laughs heartily, smacks the steering wheel in delight: veni, vidi, vici. Bases loaded.

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #9

(12 months ago)

Cross Lake, Louisiana

In his underwear. Feet in the calm water beneath a shady cypress. Has a cypress branch in hand whittled down to a makeshift fishing rod; string hangs from the end. On the end of that there was a bug he caught. It fell off and floated off. He remains hopeful of nabbing a dumb perch.

Lake water's brochure-glossy and the sun's on overdrive over the somnambulant mountains. Trees smell like those of a fairytale. The air creaks with insect sounds, gentle waves and the odd distant motorboat. He's secreted in this nook. Despite months of wretched loneliness, this place solicits solitude. He's upbeat. Life stands on the head of a pin. Things can/do change, is his understanding.

To his 7 o'clock a land rover climbs the steep slope, backward in time, towards Probs' 3 o'clock. It's lost behind the trees. The engine barks, the tires scratch. It comes into view. He sees light hit the windscreen. It stops.

Probs watches a youngish white couple alight. They take in the vista. They're about fifty feet above the water. Probs is hidden from them. He resumes his own business, lays back, eyes shut. A minute or two passes: a splash, then a female scream ended abruptly by a second splash. Probs determines quickly that they've both dived into the lake. Heads emerge from below the surface - giggling, chatty, playful, embraces.

Probs decides to dress himself. Moves as fast as he can up a trail towards the land rover. It takes breathless time. He stops sporadically, hacks up god-knows-what. Supportive trees encourage. Catches his breath.

Eventually: two piles of clothes atop the rover's hood. He sneaks a peek below: fun and games. Oblivious. Auto's green-dirty, in good order. He tries the trunk: it opens.

Careful now - - grabs the swanky pinstripe suit hanging from a hanger in the backseat, doesn't check the size. Stuffs his pockets with sandwiches, fruit, candies from the picnic basket. Finds jewelry amidst the suitcases \- a man's watch, a bracelet; there's his wallet, plain as day on the hood - about 70,80,90, $100 in cash.

Her handbag in the passenger seat's full of stupid knickknacks. Slings it over his shoulder for later. Looks inside the glove box - maps, a flashlight etc., no use. Wait, a gun. A loaded S&W snub nose .357 Bodyguard. Done deal. Leaves the transistor - why? Can't say. In the rush it seems superfluous. Ignores the tent. Snatches the fishing gear from the trunk - rods, nets, tackle boxes; gets tangled in it, drops some on the dirt, makes noise. Freezes. Nothing. No witnesses. Forgets the fishing equipment. Pockets are nicely plump. Greed's a man's ruination.

In back, under the mess he's made, eye's caught: a beautiful Kodak automatic SLR camera. Flash! Zoom lens! Worth a fuckin mint. He used to be able to tell if there was film inside one of these things just by feel - he's not sure now but it feels so good in his grasp that he could weep. Shoves five/six black and white 35mm rolls in the pockets of the pinstripe suit.

Runs back down the hill. Nearly breaks his neck.

13

Morning after the riots

Chicago Tribune

At the water cooler, he finds Dan alone and goes, 'Did you read it?' No nonsense this morning. Got three hours sleeping preening the article.

Dan Basford's leaning with his back full against the wall, sole of his right foot flat against it; hanging around for gossip, eyeing the girls.

'I did, Mr. George,' he replies after a pause and a nod, 'I did.' Mr. George: he's feeling arrogant.

'It's a nice idea,' Dan says with a shrug.

'What is?' says Theo. Dan doesn't respond, rubs his nose. City's in meltdown and this guy's bored.

'Heard about Jeff Kenmare?' comes Dan.

'Yes I did,' replies Theo, indifferent to Jeff's situation. Jeff Kenmare's as sweet a man as you could ever meet and a hell of a photographer. Freaked-out fuzz fractured his skull last night. That's for later.

Dan shakes his head, goes, 'Terrible thing.' Seems sincere. He's stalling because Theo's in a hurry. 'Oh yes,' starts Dan, a smirk cracking, 'did you get that itch of yours scratched?'

Frustration: 'Dan, please, what about my piece?'

Relenting with a sigh, Dan says, 'Who's your source on the farmer's murder?'

'Inside the sheriff's office.'

Dan crosses his arms, straightens his legs - scanning the newsroom intermittently like a schoolteacher.

'The second one, I buy, the accountant. That comes from your brother,' says Dan. 'I believe that.' Gut shot.

'My source is reliable on the first one too,' goes Theo, convincing. 'No quote on your Shakespearean note,' is all Dan says, with a shrug to say that he couldn't care less. 'And nothing really of use on that double killing either,' grimacing, ''A source inside the police department says - '''

'One of the investigating officers is the source!'

'No confirmations. Lipton Coates is sheriff since the Mayflower hit Plymouth Rock; there's no way that we're dragging his name through the mud without serious, concrete backup and fair comment.'

Theo: 'I've tried, Dan, goddamn it. He won't talk to me.'

'And what do you want me to do about it?' with exasperation. It's rhetorical but Dan holds the indignant look long enough for Theo to think that he's after an actual retort. So Theo gives him one, 'He destroyed vital evidence that connects the three cases.'

'Says who?'

'Says my source.'

'Then get your fuckin source on the record. Is this the bush leagues?'

Dan pushes himself away from the wall, close enough to offer Theo potent mustard breath and gives up 3 fingers: 'You got three murders tied by a fairytale line, plucked out of the clear blue yon by nobody but you as far as I can grasp, because there's not a thing in your article to support any such cockamamie theory.'

'All 3 got a bullet in each eye, Dan. Jesus Christ!'

Dan doesn't blink, 'I've got no problem with you writing facts, Mr. George. Libel and guessing games are something else.'

Theo's impaled by self-righteousness. Tubby bastard's a pain in the ass. He's also right. Dan twists the knife with, '3 disparate ongoing investigations? Why's there not a single detective heading one cohesive case? Because you've joined the dots and the cops haven't?'

What was I thinking? Pie in the sky. Kid's stuff.

Although -- must save face. Theo's beside himself, neck veins pumping: 'Where's Jim?' he says as evenly as possible.

Dan shoots him a sharp look, says, 'You've got squat. Drop the --'

'I'm talking to Jim,' goes Theo, sets off for Jim's office.

'Well, jeez-o-petes,' comes Dan, tough, 'the boss' Mom got her windows smashed yesterday. Old dame's shitting bricks. Jim won't be in before lunch.'

Balls.

Theo stops dead. He's making/unmaking fists.

'Could always try Joe,' Dan comes with a laugh. Joe Marky Markowitz is Jim's number 2. Theo sees Joe barking at someone out of earshot. Joe's a busybody, sequoia torso, red hair flaming like he's electrically charged; Theo knows that Joe'd expect sources lined-up outside his office with sworn affidavits and blueberry muffin baskets before he'd even give Theo a sniff. Jim's a leader. Jim gives latitude.

Double balls.

'Or see if Ed can't enlighten you on approaching Coates,' goes Dan, on his way to the Gents'.

'Why?' says Theo.

'Don't you read the papers?' goes Dan with a wink and out of sight. Theo's curious to know what a Pulitzer might look like wedged up that fat man's crack.

Where's Ed Hawke?

Theo searches. Not at his desk. Asks someone passing - they reckon Ed's out covering the protests, just missed him. Spies Bobby Westcott from Sports nearby, sipping coffee, shooting the breeze with a colleague. Paper folded underarm. Bobby loves to talk loudly when he feels in the right. Reckons the AFL-NFL merger's never gonna work. Theo yanks the paper from him. Bobby goes, 'Hey, Theo. See what happened to Jeff?' Eight times he's been asked that.

'What can you do?' Theo goes sullenly/disinterested, leafing swiftly through the paper, eyes up and down.

'What do you think of the Bears' chances this year?' comes Bobby, sips. Theo's not listening. He - wait a second!

'The LA Times, Bobby?' Theo says, wielding the paper high in contempt.

'What? I used to read it when I lived there,' Bobby says, hurt. Theo shoves it back in Bobby's chest. Can't believe there's no copy of the Tribune lying around.

'You seen Ed Hawke, Tony?' he says to Tony Huff. Tony's 35 and something of a savant. Once he predicted the lottery numbers correctly and then forgot to play it. Since then he's referred to as the idiot savant. Tony's poring over his political column, realigning the ribbon on his typewriter.

'He's out. Piece on the fire's page 9,' says Tony without looking at Theo.

Fire?

Theo's heart's racing for some reason. He's out of the loop and it's his loop.

Finally: rescues a Tribune from the trash - sprints to page 9. Gloms at sonic speed: Ed Hawke interviewed Lipton Coates yesterday. Sheriff's office was badly burned. Sunday night.

No arrests....certain evidence lost in blaze....arson suspected.

Jesus, he should've been told! Theo's breathing complicates and simplifies. Mouth's a little dry. Thinks briefly. High-gear entered. Strides quickly across the grid system to his desk. Picks up the phone, sits down, asks the operator to patch him through to the Sheriff's office. It's done promptly.

A woman answers: 'Cook County Sheriff's Office?'

'Hi, can I speak with Deputy Morningstar please?'

'I'm afraid he no longer works here, sir. He was fired last evening.'

Bombshell. Be cool.

'Oh? What happened?'

'I don't know. I'm just a temp. I started an hour ago.'

'Do you know if it had anything to do with the fire the other night?'

'I couldn't say, sir.' She sounds kind and open to suggestions.

'I see,' goes Theo, trying to keep her on the line and think it through, 'And would you happen to have a forwarding number or address for Deputy Morningstar that I might get in touch with him?'

'Um - may I ask who you are?'

'Name's George Theodore. I'm -- the Deputy's cousin.' Can't think of Morningstar's first name.

'Hold on please, sir.' She puts him on hold. Theo rubs his forehead like he's trying to remove a smudge, tries not to look anywhere but down.

She comes back on, 'I am sorry, Mr. Theodore. I have no information in that area.'

'Oh what a pity,' he goes, 'it's just that there's been a death in the family. A sudden one.' Theo cringes, his leg's like the red, red, red robin. 'His favorite uncle.'

Ethics, man! Ethics! Where is all this leading you?!

'Hold on, sir,' she says, patience exemplified. She's off longer this time. Theo's got a pad and pen at the ready. Voices: he hears muffled voices in the Sheriff's office. The receiver on the other end is picked up roughly.

'Who is this?' and it's an angry man. Is it Coates?

Theo's lost for words. He replaces the phone softly. He writes a big black question mark on his pad.

Think, man. Think!

Ed Hawke's not back yet. Nowhere to be seen. Marky's about the place like a 5star general; office is emptier. Marching/chanting outside's beginning to reignite near Grant Park. Theo ruminates for the 101st time: fate has intervened:

Elm Kite's daughter Millie works in his building,

Grady Birch's primary detective is Theo's brother;

he got the call for the Thompson imbroglio. Keep driving forward.

What do people want?

I've gotta catch this guy myself and kill the story so that I then might be trusted to WRITE the story?

Trawling through the phonebook: MORNINGSTARS of Cook County. Starts close to Olympia Fields and works his way out. Gets lucky; call #6's the one. Roger Morningstar, 51, a modest greengrocer in Lakeview. Soft-spoken man. No trouble talking about the son of whom he is so proud - says Gilbert's treatment's a tragedy, a disgrace \- just kicked to the curb like that. Gonna probably come back and work in the store with his Dad. For a spell, at least. Theo wants to know if he can speak with Gilbert - Gilbert, right \- Roger's not sure if Gilbert wants to spill any beans. Gilbert's at his sister's anyway in Braidwood.

'Get-away time. He's earned it in my book,' says Roger. Theo gets Gilbert's sister's number and thanks Roger sincerely. Tries Gilbert's sister's place 14 times in 30 minutes. No husband, no kids. Checks his watch: fuck it - it's only 90 minutes. He makes like a tree. Another needle in Haystack City.

*

Something of a one-horse town. Took less time than he thought. Gets there about 12.25. Adrenaline did the needful.

No car in the Morningstar drive, no signs of any presence. Knocks on the door. Peeks through the blinds. Checks the backyard - garden's magnificent, tremendous hours dedicated to the maintenance; smacks of by-the-book spinsterhood.

Sits in the car. Chews gum, gum, gum. Listens to the radio; sings along with Herb Alpert's This Guy's in Love With You \- doesn't much care for the song but the damn thing's been everywhere.

An hour goes bye-bye. Nothing. Walks to a café - ersatz coffee, eggs swimming in grease, burnt toast, bacon underdone. Leaves with a rumbling tummy.

Can see Pamela Morningstar's home from the café door down the street. Nothing. Gets to four o'clock. Calls the office from a payphone, lines are busy or the Trib's deserted; in the end - Tony Huff picks up, says, heading out the door, all's quiet on the Western Front. No messages for Theo. Jim Underwood's the Invisible Man. Thanks a lot, Tony.

Checks in with Myra; sorting through clothes for goodwill, feeling good on a beautiful day. Costas is awake at Passavant, refrigerator's leaking again. Vicky's resting, experiencing less pain today. Give her a kiss from me. Theo's going crazy with the inertia and fresh air.

Tries Homicide: Dwayne Clooney around? Less than nothing.

Reads a crumpled Harper's. Falls asleep in the car. Thinks on how many stings Costas has probably been on, mind-numbing stakeouts. Costas and he are not to be confused with birds of a feather. Watches birds perch and sing and alight branches high above the car's hood. One of them takes a shit on his hood.

Braidwood's a serene little nook - its charms could easily grow on a man at war with himself. Gilbert's obviously careful and a man not to act rashly.

6pm's the final straw. Adrenaline sapped.

Slides a card under Pamela's front door with a word or two scribbled on the back for Gilbert. Desperately Hopefully yours.

Burns rubber out of town. Stops for fast food; gorges. Chicago's unaltered after a day wasted. Man/City: profoundly sick of chasing his/its tale/tail for crumbs.

Dejection comes on like a dying bulb. The heated streets make him, of all things, glad to be home.

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #10

(10 months ago)

Decatur, Alabama

Leaving Decatur in his wake. Ditched the shoes. Socked feet ache. Can't remember anything of the past few weeks. Probs used to have it good and blew it. Eternally destined to fuck-up. The Kodak's about his shoulder; a miracle that he still has it. Rolls are used up. Suit's soiled. Rusty, forsaken Probs.

Atmosphere's furious with Goldenrod and Blazing Star. Hugs the highway with his thumb pointed ahead of him. Doesn't exactly know where 'ahead of him' is but he knows it ain't Decatur, Alabama. That's sufficient. Shit, it ain't Decatur's fault – it's his own – he had a girl way back, in another life, two girls in fact; sweet, kindly women willing to take him as-was; had a job he liked, good pay, a swell pad with mod-cons a-go-go. Drank it south, every fuckin drop.

Curve in the road brings a slight dip. Perseverance is rewarded with a forested patch flanking him either side. Shields the main force of the decapitating heat. So hot even this late in the year. He'd love to stop; his legs are teenagers - they don't listen and they don't stop. He's managed to make his mind blank; it's an acquired taste/skill on the road.

There's a grunting amidst the thicket to his right – a rustling of bushes in the ditch. Sounds like an aggressive animal. He stops dead to listen and observe. He's at an angle, not right across from it. A definite growl stems from the shaking. Are there bears in Alabama?

Reminds Probs of this big Rottweiler a neighbor used to have. Neighbor loved starving it for days. When it ate then, it ate rapaciously, turned demonic.

He steps forward a few steps. The motion and sound cease. Are their wolves or coyotes in Alabama? Suddenly, every large wild beast on his Rolodex seems plausible.

His legs: walk on, man.

His arms: pick up that heavy branch.

His brain: see what's up.

His heart: like you care what I want.

Picks up a heavy felled branch by the roadside tentatively. Only ten yards to whatever's over there. No further movement from the beast(s). He starts to tiptoe across. Got the branch ready like a baseball bat – shoulder-high. Spouts a random shout – to ward off attackers, presumably. Nerves play a part. Sees a shoed foot in the underbrush. No signs of any animals.

He leaves the road behind. It's a small drop. Eyes are wide, breathing's quick; maybe he's next. He knows that it's a dead body before he sees that it's a dead body. A man's ragged frame. He's on his back, throat densely sliced from ear to ear. Encrusted blood. The face has been mauled beyond identification. Probs turns from the sight of skull, of hanging muscle. Arms and legs are a mess. Shaved head – looks to have been forced. Torture. In the right hand there're breadcrumbs. Probs feels for the guy. Whatever he did, the sun's already cooking him pretty fast. Flies are feasting. Dead a day. Whatever chewed him up post mortem's vanished too.

Pulls the guy into the shade. Man, he's stinking. Covers him with as much foliage as he can muster. Probs has never dug a grave before. He has no spade. He searches for soft ground. Deep into the woods he finds a swampy area.

Makes no sense, but: falls to his hands and knees and digs. Takes him eight hours including a nap and numerous breathers. He drinks tainted water. He dubs himself a fool. What man would do the same for him? Not a one in this world.

Day's back is broken. Probs feels his soul will benefit in the long run from doing good. He is surprising himself. He catches the dead man's left hand and stands; drags him the two hundred yards to the hole. This takes a further 45 minutes. The breadcrumbs leave a trail from the hand – small yellow warblers partake; Probs kicks away a nibbling rat or two, curses them.

Eventually: the body nestles, crumples, into Probs' 4-foot (D) x 2-½ foot (W) x 5-foot (L) gouge. His back's aflame. He's seen a sheltered cranny throughout the day where he'll spend the night. Says no prayer over the grave. He can barely kick dirt to cover it. Sleepy now.

Double-checks where he found the body for trinkets. Do like the Egyptians. Shifts leaves and soil half-heartedly with his foot. Something does catch the eye all right: he can't bend so he gets down on the ground and picks it up. It's a harmonica – Custer enters his head immediately. Unavoidably. This harmonica's got 'E.D.' scratched on the underside. Custer's did too. Never said why. Probs understands that it's Custer's harmonica. Quickly he realizes that the man must have robbed Custer. Maybe Custer killed him for it.

And shortly thereafter Probs can't maintain the lie and understands that the dead man he felt sorry for and buried is Custer.

14

Same Day

Passavant Hospital

Dream: Dressed in the garb of a Civil War landed gentleman. Walks up the center aisle towards the stage. Ford's Theatre is empty save for him. Drawn curtains are huge Confederate flags. Costas wears a thick beard. Looks around cautiously for someone. Gazes to the box up high-right of stage. Mary Todd Lincoln's laughing so hard that there are tears streaming down her face; her voice echoes in the cavern. She holds a kerchief with C.G. monogrammed on it. The chair next to her is empty.

Down below, Costas has seated himself: speaks caringly to Mary Todd from there, 'Whatever is the trouble, my lady?' She looks to the chair beside her. Costas sits there now. Wears his contemporary detective clothing, beard gone.

'Whenever shall this war end, my love?' she goes to him, her face deathly pale. He takes her hand.

'It's over when I say it's over,' he says softly. He sees the hinges on the closed door behind him are broken. She nods in obeisance, dabs a cheek. Raucous laughter comes from a packed theater audience. Mary's delighted suddenly, fixes her sights to the stage. Costas watches the play with her, lets her hand free.

On stage: an exact re-enactment of the Grady Birch murder scene replete with Costas and Colin. Dialogue's word for word. The wooden door behind Costas bursts open. Costas stands to courageously face his assailant. Winston points a small pistol at Costas; feels the coldness of the steel on his forehead. The door's shut behind Winston without Winston shutting it. Costas spies an eye peeping through the keyhole on the other side.

The show goes on unabated.

'What's my line?' comes Winston, dry blood cracked on his face, dressed as a dirtied Union soldier. Costas pats his pockets.

'I forget,' says Costas nervously - looks at the keyhole again - the eye's vanished.

'It's not my blood, Dad,' says Winston, meaning his face.

'I know, son,' goes Costas.

'What's my line?' Winston whispers.

'Death to tyrants,' replies Costas with a wink.

'SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!' screams Winston.

Bang.

*

Charlene Weteling's been on her mind; mailed Winston's envelope according to his wishes yesterday morning. She's considered driving out there. Asked Janine if she knew/remembered any Charlenes? Janine said no.

Emily's reading her novel, making little headway. What makes Charlene Weteling so -- Costas wakes up, sucks air. Nightmare. Cold sweat. Been in and out all day like this.

Emily jumps to shush him. 'It's all right, sweetheart. I'm here. I'm here.'

She caresses his face, his heart's racket tempers. Kisses his forehead. Lying flat, his back's currently immobile. Arm's shot. He blinks to focus. She sits against him on the side of the bed, strokes his hair.

Multitude of Get Wells: flowers, fruit baskets, cards.

'Hi Dad,' Janine says, chewing toffees by the window. She comes to hug him.

'Hi,' says Costas.

'You were talking in your sleep,' says Emily to him.

'How long was I out?' he goes.

'Maybe 20 minutes this time,' she says, pulls her chair closer to the bedside, sits in it; squeezes his hand - says, 'So good to see you awake.' He sighs deeply, culminates in a cough. Janine sits down opposite her mother. Just a lamp in the room. Curtains drawn. Shadows eddy.

Janine holds a glass of water with a straw in it for Costas, 'Would you like some?' Costas nods and she holds it while he drinks. Colin O'Meara's standing at the end of the bed. Says nothing until Costas' eyes meet his.

'Hey there, Chief,' with a smile, pats Costas' foot that's under the covers.

'Colin,' comes Costas. 'What's the good word?'

Costas wants to lift himself to a higher sitting position. It's too painful. Emily sees his struggle. Janine sits to read her Rolling Stone.

'Here,' Emily says, helps Costas, plumps the pillow: more than a 45 degree angle.

'Oh you know, this and that,' says Colin, 'Ain't missed much.'

Costas says, 'Thanks, Em.' To Colin, 'What's it like out there?' .

'Vergin' on World War 3. Guys're bustin' heads extra hard across the board for you.'

Costas gives a somewhat sarcastic thumbs-up.

Emily says, 'Jan, you can go to Angelica's now if you like.'

'I'm OK,' says Jan without lifting her head. She's wearing a crimson T-shirt with a superimposed Karl Marx on it; reads underneath, I Warned You This Would Happen.

'Lotta people are pretty mad on account of what's happened to you,' says Colin to Costas.

Flash: Costas thrashing that boy on the street with his nightstick.

'I bet,' says Costas. Emily's happy to just listen. Cut above her eye from crashing into Costas and the TV has scabbed nicely.

'You're gonna get a commendation when this is over, most likely. Shake King Daley's hand,' goes Colin with a grin, watching his voice levels, comes around the side to Costas.

Costas shrugs, 'Great.'

Emily squeezes his hand again; it says don't belittle your efforts; Costas looks at her and she smiles. Doesn't waste his time in turning back to Colin.

'Any sign of a letup?' comes Costas.

Colin shakes his head, 'All hands to the pump.' Shrugs, betrays his desire to beam with an impish lip curl, 'War is what it is. At home or over there.' Colin appears older here, no worse for wear, bigger, a light somewhere in the corridor gilds his outline.

'So much mindlessness,' comes Emily. Colin nods. 'If only they could find a way to control themselves,' she says.

'Who?' says Costas. Emily thinks on her answer.

In the meantime, an interruption - Colin says, 'We'll fix them. The more they retaliate the faster and harder we hit back,' complete with a sweeping uppercut to the air. Flexes knuckles with dried blood on them. 'They brought it to our doorstep. What do they expect, a fuckin thank you?' Gestures an apology to the women for swearing.

Colin: 'I spoke to some of them in lockup - I said if you're so desperate for change, you know, against the war and whatever, why not turn up in November? Vote in change. That's democracy. We're not animals. This is the world's most civilized country. And they shot back with the usual crap,' Colin puts on a mocking, whining tone, 'Oh, they're all the same, Nixon's in the pocket of big business just like Johnson. Best one was from this sniveling little shit, maybe 12/13 - goes, bold as fuckin brass, 'Who do you choose when the choice is shit or Shinola?' I mean, I laughed, the moxy on this kid! But still, come on, my heart broke too when I heard Bobby got shot, ya know? The problem is these kids don't have enough sense to know the difference between shit and Shinola. Am I wrong or am I wrong? Who's filling their heads with this crap? That's what I'd like to know. It's pot over patriotism. Country's going down the swanny and all they care about's sex and rock 'n' roll music.'

Costas decides against bringing up Colin's occasional toke. Janine glowers at Colin from behind her Rolling Stone.

Colin to Janine, reading her loud and clear, 'All I'm sayin is that that,' pointing at her magazine, 'ain't the new Bible.'

'Cos your old Bible's done so much good,' Janine spits, unerring. Costas and Emily shoot down her snippiness. She does not fight it, it's their preferred reaction. It must be said, throughout Colin's speech Emily clenched her jaw tightly; she's wary of sparking an argument with Costas in his current state. No need to stress him. Anyway, he knows where she stands on the politics: no violence.

Colin's beliefs are misguided to Costas; they've lost their weight and meaning. Doesn't ring true anymore. The men were never exactly in agreement on methodologies but they were at least on the same wavelength when it came to deterring lawlessness. Costas' feels like he's on a fresh frequency.

Why shouldn't these people fight?

The men who try to make a difference are murdered. The young need an education in hope. The politician's got only his dinner plans to concern him.

Flash: Costas thrashing that boy on the street with his nightstick.

Flash #2: a repressed thought springs into relevancy - Fr. Breeden in the seminary, opening wounds on the backs of Costas' prepubescent legs with a sweaty bamboo switch, coming helpfully afterwards with, Nec spe, nec metu or Without hope, without fear.

Costas wins no prizes with, 'Things are complex.'

'You look beat, Chief,' comes Colin, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Stands. 'I'm due back out there in a while.'

'OK,' says Costas.

'Be careful, Colin,' comes Emily, rises, kisses his cheek, hugs him. 'We don't want you in here too.'

'Me neither,' he says, kisses her cheek. 'And you - watch yourself,' says Colin with a dramatic point to Costas.

'Will do,' smiles Costas, salutes.

'Talk later,' and Colin's out the door to goodbyes.

*

Costas eats and drinks a little, pushes it away in the end. Lumps where there shouldn't be in the food. Emily assists him to the restroom when he needs it. Gown's the color of used green toothpaste. Drafty too. Gets to see the bruising on his face for the first time in the mirror – left side's a bank of pinkish purple/sour yellow. Mean sutures, like catgut. Told him he was lucky the eye didn't go. Broken right-side rib, midsection wrapped around for good measure; swampy dark bruises on the legs. A mess.

'Are you alright in there, honey?' goes Emily, pecks at the door with a finger. She's like a bee in his ear. Sometimes space into love won't go.

The bathroom's airy, a bunker. It's a haven. He's taking his sweet time purposely. Remembers Shelly's singing in Colin's bathroom. Not 48 hours ago. Feels like years. His belly's a whirlpool – finicky sensations; it's not hunger or sickness; it's lighter, candy floss in his mind's eye – no, a cloud – it's white, hypnotic whipped cream - it's swirling – doesn't have a word for it. It's not regret or joy or – he inhales deeply.

Am I glad to be alive? What is this feeling?

It's a fundamental shift, it's a displacement of energy or a changing tide. It's whatever you want to call it – his core, his gut, his intuition? No. Is it God? Well – he's not smart enough to clarify – it's like a beating heart in his stomach. It's a middle ground without a base. Best to pinch his nose and swallow.

Brushes his teeth. Gargles mouthwash. Not bothered to shower. He knows that he was attacked and that he himself attacked. His brain broadcasts the carnage. His heart reports that he dreamed the battle.

'Are you OK, Georgie?' asks Emily.

'Just a second,' he goes, not so irritable. He's stocktaking. Privacy's important. This is some sort of tipping point. Swallow it.

The buzzing's not his wife – it's – wait, not a buzzing; it's something more throbbing. A marching drum's revved up – the tune's unfamiliar. Swallow it.

As the man says, a change is as good as a rest. Fills a glass with cold water and downs it in one. Opens the door. Greets Emily with a bountiful smile. Emily's eyes bob like a buoy, searching his face for a reason for the sudden happiness.

'What?' Emily says. His lips linger on her cheek, loving her scented skin.

'Nothing,' he says.

*

A call comes in from Emily's sister-in-law, Imogen, around 9pm. Emily's mother's asked that someone in the family stay the night with her. The riots passed by her door again today; windowpanes shuddered.

Emily's mother goes to Emily yesterday, 'Mrs. Shoebridge upstairs, she had an asthmatic attack today on account of it!' the teacup rattled in her grasp.

'Mom, Mrs. Shoebridge has asthma attacks at the drop of a hat,' Emily said, two hours into a grueling session of inexhaustible moaning from her mother.

First thing Emily thinks when Imogen asks after Costas, this is a pretext to a request – why doesn't Matthew ever do the dirty work?

'She's scared out of her wits,' says Imogen, probably repeating verbatim what their brother Matthew has said to her, something she tends to do. Matthew's got a business conference in Albuquerque evidently. Make or break for him evidently.

'My sciatica's got me housebound,' explains why Imogen herself can't go. Oh Emily could sing it from the rooftops: a rock and a hard place.

Costas understands when she tells him. She comments on the improving color in his cheeks. He says that he feels better.

'Honestly, Em,' says Costas; looks at Janine with a smirk, 'We'll be fine.' Both were surprised that Janine volunteered to stay with him. Costas said that she didn't have to and Janine rolled her eyes.

'Are you positive?' Emily says to him, putting on her coat, fishing for keys in her bag.

'Just go, Mom. Zoiks!' comes Janine. Emily declines Costas' offer of a police escort with a grin.

*

Janine goes to the canteen for 5 minutes and comes back in 20, chewing blueberry gum. He suspects she's been smoking. Costas reads the Herald funnies. She's got her headphones on, listening to the radio. The only words for an hour between them come when he sneezes.

'Bless you,' she says.

'Thanks,' he says.

Around 11.30 Janine yawns. Takes off her headphones. Rubs her eyes. She's slight and bony, always a sickly child – a misplaced patient. Costas lowers his paper.

'Long day?' he opens. She nods, reaching for a blanket nearby. There's that strange feeling again for him from earlier: a variation on a theme. He looks on her. He never sees her. She shuts her eyes with a sigh. The warm silence pushes him like a reluctant actor in front of a touchy audience.

Out there is Hell, in here is his daughter.

She's 2 on his knee, she's 4 in the bath, she's 6 with a temperature, she's 8 on her bike, she's 16 with a boyfriend, she's engaged, she's a mother.

Where have I been? What do I say? Where do I begin?

I love you. I'm sorry for slapping you.

'How's school?' he goes.

'Squaresville,' she says with aplomb. He remembers being 16 – didn't like his old man either, despised him, in truth. Inherited only death and taxes. Much obliged, Pop.

A pause. Break the chain. 'You got a boyfriend yet?' he tries. Predictable. She half-turns away from him – she's gonna sleep sitting up.

'No,' she says after she settles again. God, she is beautiful. Got her mother's neck, ears and, luckily, her nose.

'You got your Mom's nose, you know that?' he says cheerily.

'Yippee,' she yawns. He's not downhearted. She's replying, isn't she?

'You have no plans for tonight?'

She shrugs, 'Couple girls invited me to go to a movie.'

'But you didn't want to go?'

'I did want to.'

'So why didn't you?'

'Because I would only spend my time worrying about you.'

And that's slam-dunk honesty. It keelhauls him a bit. Maybe she DOESN'T hate me. She forgives me for the slap?

Flash: idealistic country girls from broken homes, floating urban beauty queens, fits and starts of unwanted, irascible, glowing warts-and-all women – not much older than Janine in many cases. Children of children. Did he injure any of them today?

Jesus, fathers tonight across the city, Who did this to my child?

I did. And why shouldn't they demand action? Costas would; he'd tear any man apart that touched Janine.

Who did this to my child? Who is responsible for the death of my son?

I am.

God above, forgive me.

Straightens his brow. Won't tell you again: Swallow it.

She speaks, 'You remember reading us stories in bed?' He missed her smile forming.

'I do,' he says, reflex. Hazy days. She opens her eyes, readjusts her body – slips her legs underneath herself, looks at him wide-eyed like she's been given a shot of caffeine. 'I used to love doing that,' he comes fondly.

'Do you remember any?' she says, hopeful. The barrier's been lowered. Panic.

'Wow, I don't remember them. It's been a while.'

'What about Goldilocks? Everyone knows that.' Put on the spot. He's shy. Her bright gaze scuttles him. He's 14. Feels like the most popular girl in school just asked him out. Ridiculous. But true.

'Well, why don't you tell me a story?' he says. 'Since I'm the one in bed.' She smiles; eyes to the Heavens in thought. He's saved it. Close shave.

'OK, how about this – the Sword of Damocles; you ever hear that one?'

'Rings a bell somewhere,' he says. 'Grandma used to tell it to us sometimes,' says Janine.

'One of those old Greek legends or something, right?'

'Right. A myth.' She scoots excitedly, barefoot, to his good side. She's a baby.

Do you know what I've done?

She begins: 'OK, so there was this king, Dionysus, and he had everything a man could dream of - power, gold, gravy threads, radical women, whatever he wanted, right? He lived the perfect life of pleasure and you get the picture. And he had a pal named Damocles, OK, and Damocles was always so jealous of Dionysus. 'Baby, you got the life,' he'd say. 'All the things in the world a man could want, servants and beautiful girls and great food too. I would give anything to try it, you lucky geek.' So Dionysus says to Damocles, 'Dude, be cool. If you wanna give it a whirl just ask. We're all friends here.' So Damocles goes, 'Really? Gee, thanks.' They agree that he'll be ruler for one day to see what it's like. So the king tells his servants and everyone in the palace to treat Damocles as their master for a day. They're all hip so Damocles gets dressed up in the finest robes, they feed him grapes and wash and bathe him, the whole shooting match. And he's having dinner at the head of the longest table you ever saw, right? And he drinks his wine, knocking it back hard, he's probably kinda wasted - and he looks up, and he sees, hanging right above him, a big sword with the tip of it just an inch from his face, suspended by a single horsehair from the ceiling. So Damocles freaks out, man, drops his goblet or whatever. Bang; on the floor. He freezes. Man, the dude's gonna piss – sorry, pee himself he's so scared. He doesn't wanna move in case the thing falls and gets him. 'What the f--heck's that?' he goes to Dionysus. And basically Dionysus goes, 'That's the high price of great responsibility, honey. Not too many true leaders of men out there.' And Damocles goes, 'Damn, you can have it back. I don't need that cramping me.'

Costas is sleepy, glued to her every word. He says, 'And the moral of the story is?'

She winks: 'Oh that's for you to figure out, old man.'

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #11

(9 months ago)

Closing in on Chattanooga, Tennessee

Conductor called it, repeated it; Probs hears it through the wall when they stop for a minute: 'Train terminates in Chattanooga. 15 minutes.'

Been thinking on Thanksgiving: some guy comes along, maybe a gang of wandering wagons in tow, finds it too hot or too dark to continue one day. Decides unilaterally or democratically that this relatively arbitrary place is as good a place as any to rest for the night. Finds the climate or landscape or feeding agreeable, perhaps it's simply a case of the barren isolation providing a favorable escape from whatever he/they left behind. After a time, a settlement is settled and someone creates a perimeter and someone else christens the dirt Chattanooga, for example. And the dirt becomes just that – 'Chattanooga' – it may mean something, it may not - and it remains that because people say that it is 'Chattanooga' and because dirt cannot speak up for itself. There are dwellings erected and workers employed and children born and a stranger ventures in the direction by and by, maybe lost or weary or delirious or all three and he's only seen dirt, dirt, dirt the whole route from wherever it is he rode from. No signs, no hints of people apart from the rutted road. The traveler has no map; relies on wit, luck and impulse, following the stars, his prick's a compass; he says to a local who has been bred on this single patch of dirt that has expanded to an area where individuals live and congregate, 'Boy, where am I?' The boy rejoins unhesitatingly, 'Sir, you are in Chattanooga.'

And the traveler takes in the surroundings, wipes his brow, and nods because it makes sense to him that the dirt has been named by someone sometime long, long ago. And this naming business happens across the country, across the world for centuries. But if a man calls a square mile of dirt home, what should his children do with just a handful?

Probs is seated, cross-legged, turning over Custer's harmonica in his hands in the unimpeachable darkness – these thoughts of dirt free falling, doing laps; this is not a microscopic analysis on the Nature of Man by any means. It's a homeless man on a train attempting to reach agreement with himself.

What are the odds of him stumbling across Custer's dead body like he did? A billion to one? Hundreds of billions?

Land's on his mind, the origins of Thanksgiving; the Indians et al. Selective history swept knowingly beneath a flag of Stars and Stripes. 'Didn't stop at the Indians, did it?' he goes, laughs to himself. It's a lark, a giggle: the Obsession of naming dirt and crowning babies kings.

Gonna call Candace and/or Carol when he gets to Chattanooga. Heart races at the idea. Hasn't spoken to either for almost a year. They'll assume that he's dead. They probably wished it. Got coins jingling their names in his pocket.

He's trying to guess Custer's real identity E.D: Edward Deacon? Ezekiel Derby? Ebenezer Delaney? Scratches his thick and sticky head.

Remembers Thanksgiving at home – Mom's Herculean efforts to guarantee that every previous year's feast was dull in comparison to this year's. Football in the yard; yard's fine green grass coated in soft red and yellow and brown leaves. Everyone stuffed to the gills afterward with turkey. Dad always saying as he patted his fat tummy cheerfully, 'My Lord, hope I never see another turkey,' and he'd wink at whoever was looking at him.

She never seemed to enjoy any of it, his Mom. Probs sees now that she's been a joyless person her entire life, actually unable to have a good time. A hard woman who understood only hardness. God's clay in the sun too long. She'd go, by way of most succinctly conveying her opinion on life, 'Ain't no man got nothin' comin' in or goin' out and that's how it oughtta be by rights,' with her characteristic lack of ceremony. This he heard first when he was 4.

He recalls her singing though. It's a memory that rushes forth and it's astounding. He'd forgotten it completely. She sang 'Chattanooga Choo Choo' to his little cousin in bed when Probs' cousin visited. Probs was too old by then, she said, to be lullabied. He'd sit on the floor in the hall by the shut door that stood like a wall and put his ear to the freezing wood to listen. That's how he learned the song.

Reeling as he paints the remembrance. Claustrophobia. Christ, either he sings a few lines now or he's going to start blubbering. Something's gotta give, gotta be unleashed:

Pardon me, boy

Is that the Chattanooga choo choo?

Track twenty-nine

Something, something a shine I can afford

To board a Chattanooga choo choo I've got my fare

And just a trifle to spare

You leave the Pennsylvania Station 'bout a quarter to four

Something, something, something and you're in Baltimore

Dinner in the diner

Nothing could be finer

Than to have your ham an' eggs in Carolina

Train's slowing. He readies himself to disembark. He's very sleepy suddenly. Tune stays in his head. The side door shoots open. The action doesn't fit into Probs' thinking. He looks but doesn't see.

His cousin's bedroom door shoots open.

The railroad bull stands like a totem pole. He's got a blackjack in his left hand. His three dimensions are maximized. Cocksucker FILLS the space. Crashes his flashlight into Probs' face.

His mother's standing there in the doorway, hand on hips. Larger than life.

'Off my goddamn train, you son of a bitch,' comes the bull with a growl like a boiling pan. Probs is frozen and it's not fear. It's the opposite of that. He is flush with an ease. Origin: unknown. Bull moves closer.

His mother bends to him, huffing and puffing early.

'Gimme what you got,' the bull comes, hand out, insistent. Probs sees the big chest heaving. Bull's got a left eye-patch, a sagging jaw, gray working man's shirt, slacks and hobnailed boots.

Mother's hair's graying and spindly above the hairline. He could play Xs and Os between the creases of her forehead.

Bull's in no mood; hand starts patting down Probs. Probs puts up no struggle. First to go is the jacket; the Bull tries ripping it off him. It's caught so he pushes Probs hard in the chest and Probs flies back against the wall to the ground.

His mother catches him by the ear; she tugs him unrepentantly to his feet. Bull goes on about teaching the motherfucker a thing or two as he rifles through Probs' clothes. Finds the Kodak camera and throws it away. Broken. Probs does nothing. He's a doll; pockets turned out – his phone call's lost. Everything plundered in a frothy fury. Frustration eggs on the shakedown bull like a whispering mentor. Probs' rolls of undeveloped film careen about the floor and the bull stamps on them like he's dealing with a roach infestation.

'What have I told you about eavesdropping, boy?' his mother comes and double slaps him; open-palmed and back of the hand. The speed of the assault, the ferocity of it.

Probs can't move. Bull slaps him three, four, five times and it's instinct that puts Probs' arms up defending, not Probs. He takes a few shattering wayward cracks to the head and back from the fearsome boot of the bull. Flaring nostrils.

She takes the crying boy by the hair; leads him with limp protestations to his bedroom. A fight back is useless.

Bull catches Probs by the back of the neck of his shirt and with one pulsating arm drags him to the exit. Train yard imminent. Whistle blows. Holds him at the precipice, yelling colorfully. What a gorgeous sky. Spit jumps on Probs' face.

'Happy holidays, asshole,' says the Bull.

Mother pitches him on to the bedroom floor. Slams the door. Total darkness. Tumbles, bangs his knee nicely. Falls asleep in due course.

Bull pushes Probs out of the moving car. Probs hits the ground falling, his knees take the brunt. Helplessly tumbles a few yards in the dirt. Finishes on his belly. Falls asleep in due course.

When he's roused, he's greeted with a dark that won't permit him to see his own hand. Some kid with a stick pokes. 'You dead, mister?' goes the kid.

Probs is a river of pain. Memory's unglued. Moves onto his back, about as much maneuvering as he can generate. Dried blood on his forehead. Frames the blurry kid. Barefoot. He's 7 or 8 – may be black and may be a dirt-poor white. Got a mutt without a leash licking Probs' sprained finger.

'Where am I, boy?' goes Probs with a groan; feels his bruised cheekbone, stretches the chinks in the jaw.

'Sir, you's in Chattanooga,' goes the kid.

Makes sense.

15

Day and a half later

Chicago Tribune

Bingo.

'Put him through, Gladys.'

'Mr. George?'

'Good morning, Mr. Morningstar. How are you?'

'I am sorry not to have called you sooner.'

'That's quite all right. No problem.'

'I've been spending sometime away from things, you know. To clear my head.'

'Of course, of course. I understand completely.'

'Honestly, I wasn't sure if I should call.'

'Were there threats made against you?'

Simultaneously, Gilbert goes, 'No. No. I mean --' and Theo goes, 'Mr. Morning-' Overlap.

Theo: 'Go ahead.'

Gilbert: 'No, please, what were you going to say?'

'Well, I just wanted to say off the bat that I'm not out to bring anybody down, if you see what I mean. I'm not in the business of ruining good reputations.'

'Oh yes. I appreciate that. I didn't think that you were.'

'But I imagine you feel that you were hard done by. Losing your job under a cloud of suspicion as you did etc.'

'Yes. And I wasn't even there Sunday night.'

'My colleague spoke to you Monday?'

'Yes. Mr. Hawke. Spoke to most of us.'

'Did you read the story he wrote?'

'I did.'

'And did you find it fair?'

'I have no complaints about it.'

'And, if I may ask, did the sheriff openly accuse you of setting the fire?'

Pause.

'He said that he had proof that I did it,' says Gilbert.

'And when did he tell you this?'

'Maybe 10 minutes before firing me.'

'And he allowed you no recourse, no defense?'

'No. None.'

'What proof did he offer?'

'Well, I don't know. He said there was a witness.'

'Do you think that he's using you as a scapegoat?'

'I couldn't say.'

'But you would admit that his actions are odd, especially given their timing with Elm Kite's murder etc.'

'I suppose, so. Yes.'

'Would you ever consider suing for wrongful dismissal?'

'Well, that's a kinda sticky one. I don't really think so.'

Boring.

'Do you know who caused the fire?'

'No. I mean -- uh,'

'Take your time. I know you don't want to say anything you might regret.'

'Will you be printing all of this?'

Pause.

'Did you enjoy your job, Gilbert; can I call you Gilbert?'

'Oh yes, yes.'

'And I'm Theo. You were good at your work, yes?'

'I think so yes, I thought so.'

'Aren't you angry at Sheriff Coates for what he's done? It's a serious charge that he's leveled against you.'

'Yes. It is. You're darn right about that.'

'And he's going to pursue a criminal case against you I presume?'

'I think so.'

Keep it moving: 'What I need from you Gilbert is just a confirmation on one or two things. I want to help you out. We can iron out the creases as we go, OK?'

'That sounds fair.'

'Firstly, do you think that your dismissal had anything to do with the visit of the city homicide police last Saturday in regard to Elm Kite's murder?'

'I do, yes.'

'Did Sheriff Coates' behavior change at all on foot of that visit?'

'Not really.'

'Let me rephrase: did his behavior towards you change?'

'Not particularly. He was never very kind to me.'

'And you would say that it's not possible that you lost your job because of any incompetence on your part?'

'Absolutely not.'

'You believe that Sheriff Coates cooked up a reason to have you forcibly removed?'

Delaying, Gilbert says, 'I really don't want my name mentioned in this story.'

'Why not?' 'I don't know. Jesus. I'm in a tight spot, you know?'

Bullish: 'So why did you call me? To waste my time?'

'No, no. I want justice that's all. For Mr. Kite. But I want to be protected too.'

'Who set the fire at the station house, Gilbert?'

'I don't know. Truthfully.'

'Do you have a suspicion as to who it might have been?'

'All I know is evidence from Mr. Kite's murder was lost. Every scrap's gone.'

'Coincidence, you think?'

'I couldn't say.'

'And was it more than Mr. Kite's evidence burned up?'

'Yes. A number of investig --'

'Was there a quotation left at that Kite scene, a piece of paper?'

'Yes.'

'Did it say: 'As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport'?'

'Yes, that sounds right.'

'That's a confirmation?'

'100%.'

Theo puts a pair of exclamation marks after the giant BINGO on his writing pad.

'Was that note also lost in the fire?'

Chunky pause.

'Are you still there, Gilbert?'

'No, it wasn't lost in the fire.'

'So what happened to it?'

'I don't know.'

Pulling teeth.

'Gilbert, listen, I think that Sheriff Coates destroyed it. Now, I understand that you probably possess a certain sense of loyalty to the man or your former position that is admirable but not necessary at this juncture. So, what I would suggest is that all you need do is confirm that the quote was found and lost at the scene although you are unaware of the person who may have carried out the deed. Your name will not be associated with that confirmation. What I can do then is have my colleague write up a follow-up in the paper about your current predicament, the ins and outs of it etc. etc.'

'I'm not sure that I want that, Mr. George.'

'You're just as entitled as anybody else to have your good name fought for, Gilbert. Think of this as fighting your corner. Think of the hardship Coates is selfishly causing you.'

Big sigh down the phone crackles the connection. 'I saw the quote. It was there. I found it and it was lost at Mr. Kite's house.'

'Thank you, Gilbert. Someone will be in touch.'

Roughly the same time

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

Scrubbing.

I'm not going to go over there!

Hands and knees. Up with the worms.

Emily's mopping the kitchen floor, kerchief about her head, barefoot, denim cut-offs - has done the dishes, pans, countertops, cleaned out the fridge, sorted the cupboards.

I'm not going to do it!

Will shop today, will mow the lawn, will iron, will tidy out the garage, will dust and vacuum. Bathroom's going to be a doozy.

The sun's soft. Forgiving. It's good to be busy. Lucky she put a return address on Charlene's envelope. Came right back this morning. Plot thickens.

It would be insane to drive all the way across town to see what's going on!

She stands with some difficulty; back's taken the burden. She rolls her neck for crunching cracks that make her sigh and moan. Fallen behind on laundry, car needs an oil change, Janine's dental appointment, must see if the TV's fixed and ready for collection.

She's not your business. Not meant to be.

Emily makes herself a cup of coffee. Too weak. Swishes it down the drain after one sip. Her head's all over the place. She laughs at herself. Journalists pestering off and on -

How is he, Mrs. George?

What's it like being married to a hero?

Costas is austere. He is no cartoon character. Emily supports him, of course.

Shocking footage of the riots on the TV last two nights. She said nothing. The sadness of it is so hard to comprehend. Convention's over. CPD accused of brutality and of instigating the --

How could I live with myself denying my boy's final wishes?

*

Showered and shaved. Painkillers are slightly discombobulating. Arm's holding up. The sling's strong. Rib's tender. Sutures are out. Emily says it's far too soon. Costas says that Infante may not even allow him back in yet. Besides, he's got that psycho to catch, remember? What's he going to do, lounge about the house like a pussycat?

Traffic's a tease. A/C's busted; windows are down. Emily drives slowly. Discusses one-sidedly her bloated schedule - the cheerful chores and happy headaches. Costas is glad to let her talk. He feels surprisingly good.

Downtown's nauseous, like what it's just swallowed's indigestible. Last night Emily put that letter she wrote in the hospital for Costas under his pillow at home. The sentiments remained unchanged. She hoped he'd find it, read it, agree with her (if only in principle) and try to shed the skin of the past weeks, months. She checked their bed this morning as he breakfasted; letter hadn't been touched; Emily felt a strange duality of relief and disappointment. She had no problem crumpling and binning it. Relief, now in the car, hijacks her initial disappointment.

She helps him out of the car outside 3151 W. Harrison. She wishes him luck and he thanks her. No awkward kisses in public. In this moment - his fingertips licking her palm down low, an intimacy incomparable - Emily loves Costas' stubborn stoicism as much as she hates her own self-diagnosed cowardice.

'I'll see you tonight,' he comes.

'Knock 'em dead, Georgie,' squeezing his good hand.

Costas walks stiffly up the steps into the building; grimaces with notches of pain here and there like voodoo pins. He had to come back quickly: found Emily's letter last night, read it; dammed him with all conceivably accurate descriptions of extreme dread and remorse - her delicate words crushed like a collapsing wall, like an onrushing blade to his heart with a twist. Too much to deal with. It made him furious; she sleeping angelically right beside him, her rear against his thigh, impossibly sweetened - an insult! Wanted to shake her awake.

What am I supposed to do with this? It's too much, you selfish woman!

Will you not have mercy on me?

The musty smell that greets him inside the stationhouse's akin to a heavenly electric prod.

Goddamn it, she's calling for personal (r)evolution; to turn myself inside out. Handshakes.

Will she not allow me to breathe?!

Welcoming committees.

What more can I do?

Pats on the back upstairs. Costas George has never been so grateful for the company of men.

Afternoon

Chicago Tribune

Ed Hawke's wearing a with-it pink and blue checked shirt; purple tie, the knot pulled loose as is his usual wont, leggy old jeans and boots with a six-inch lift. Ears are like pitcher handles and his face doesn't come to handsome unless he's smiling. This morning, he's not smiling. There's friction. He's in Theo's face by Theo's car in the underground parking lot. They work, they compete. It's a level playing field. They don't socialize and don't cheat each other for a story. They share laughs. Acknowledged maxim: Let the best man win.

'You've overstepped the mark, Theo,' says Ed, eyebrows bent. Ed's heard about Theo's newfound association with the good ship Morningstar.

'Two totally different stories, Ed,' goes Theo, trying to walk to the elevator.

'No, man. Morningstar and that fire are mine.' Ed's 30; curly, with-it hair.

'The fire and my murder are connected. You should've known that,' says Theo, starting to walk, some pages underarm.

'Well, you don't think that you should've told me about Morningstar getting fired?' Ed's voice echoes. 'My piece's what motivated your calling him.'

'I'm not doing this back and forth with you, Ed,' says Theo with a sigh. 'My murder and your fire are bracketed by Morningstar. You want your prong of the fork to have legs, you go talk to him.'

Ed's leeching as they enter the elevator. 'He won't talk to me Theo, goddamn it. Because of you,' says exasperated Ed, all demonstrative hands. Going up.

'Why?' says Theo, covers a cough with a fist. Nonplussed.

'I don't know. It's too much coverage, exposure or some line like that. He wants to be left alone.'

'I'm sorry, Ed. My conscience is clear,' goes Theo. The doors part. Theo steps out into the light.

'Gimme a share of the by-line,' says Ed, following Theo into the cafeteria. Theo laughs, pours himself a gooey coffee. His look to Ed screams, Seriously?

'Be fair,' says Ed, mindful of the two other people in the room, doing his best not to sound whiny. 'We can write something stronger as a unit. You and me.'

'You're clutching at the proverbial, my friend,' says Theo, a little too assuredly. Sits at a table, there's a second-hand sports section available on it. Theo opens it, reads for something to do. 'We must play things where they lie.'

'Oh don't give me that bull, man. You know this isn't right what you're doing to me.'

'Hey, Ed, gimme a break with this, all right? You got a dud, I got a runner. What can I tell you?' and the nonchalant shrug really cooks Ed's goose.

Truth: Jim Underwood's still not gotten back to Theo. Could be the story's dead in the water as it is. His enthusiasm's used to cloak the insecurity.

Ed sits down after a few moments, to calm his nerves if nothing else. Both men are quiet. Ed studies Theo; Theo playacts oblivious. Hums offbeat to turn the screw.

'I know Morningstar would never have started that fire,' goes Ed, leaning in slightly. 'My guess is Coates is covering up a --'

And then a knock at the open door – Ed swivels, Theo looks up - by jiminy, it's Jim Underwood. Pale, ashen, wan – take your pick. Jim: 'Theo,' gestures with a flip of the head to say come with me.

Theo's on his toes. Jim's gone. Jim marches across the news floor to his office on the other side. Makes no effort to chat with or pause for Theo. Ed watches from the cafeteria door like an abandoned puppy; all that's missing is the slow, pullback dolly shot.

Theo sees that Marky's already in there, standing, his backside against one of Jim's packed bookcases, ankles crossed, opposing hands clasping opposing elbows, a clipboard hugging his chest. Maudlin Marky nods to Theo – his constitution no accurate barometer of what's on the horizon, Marky's never been an extrovertly happy camper.

Jim's hand proffers a chair to Theo. Theo hasn't even entered the room yet; Jim slips around to his own seat. Picks up a football from his desk as he sits – loves to juggle that ball during meetings.

'Shut the door, Theo,' says Jim. Theo does so; promptly sits. Jim Underwood's about 47, wispy moustache and steadily growing muttonchops; very skinny man, worryingly so. Chalks up 18 hour days like nobody's business. Outlasts everyone half his age. Sounds like Truman Capote when he talks – drops half an octave when he's impatient or agitated. Takes getting used to, the voice doesn't dominate – it's over time that his leadership qualities shine through. Eye contact, bluntness, gentleness, gritty integrity win him many admirers. Big bad-mood indicators: no please, no thank you.

'How's your little girl doing?' asks Jim.

How'd he know about that?

'On the mend,' comes Theo.

'Great. OK,' goes Jim, too loud.

'I'm here,' says Dan Basford on speakerphone. Marky moves to the free couch, side-on to Theo beneath a massive, teak-framed photograph on the wall of the Bears' 1963 NFL Championship-winning roster.

'OK Theo, I am sorry that it's taken so long to get around to this,' says Jim, shuffling, reorganizing a couple pages before him. 'I've read your piece. I understand that you have since landed a usable quote from the Deputy involved? On the record.' He firmly feels the football's contours.

'Yes, right,' says Theo. Been summoned in and out of this room for numerous reasons over the last 6 years – rarely does it go horribly. Palms are sweaty.

'Good,' says Jim, 'And you stand by it?'

'Every last word.' Jim gives a soft nod, to communicate That's what I like to hear.

'Anything from the cop, Clooney?' comes Dan on speaker. Theo remembers: Dan complained about his back yesterday. Probably going to take the weekend off.

'Off the record only,' answers Theo. 'Took me all week to get him. Confirmed that there was a note. Wouldn't confirm what was written on it.'

'Why do you think it's the same as the accountant and your farmer?' says Jim.

'Same MO and my gut. Plus confirmation from an unofficial source that would admittedly not hold up under scrutiny.' (Mike Morella.)

Jim ponders. 'Whaddya say, Dan?'

'It's risky,' says Dan. 'That's my opinion.'

'It is news,' goes Jim.

'Yeah,' comes Dan, frustrated, 'What I don't like is that the cops don't seem to be coordinating. There's no cohesive, umbrella investigation.'

'Hardly our arena,' says Jim. Dan's been working cops for years – he's got buddies in there, couple relatives maybe, feeders of no-string nuggets. Sure as shit he's made the rounds, knocking on doors for info to sink Theo.

Marky chimes in with, 'Do CPD see this as one person to your knowledge?' to Theo.

Unsteady ground: Theo comes up slowly with, 'My brother's leaning in that direction.'

Jim says: 'Do you have comment from him?' Remember Costas' unflinching stance outside Andy's: Tightrope Theo.

With a shake of the head, Theo goes, 'He declined to.' Pause.

'I don't like it either,' comes helpful Marky Markowitz. 'Doesn't feel airtight.'

'What about we go to print with the first two - uh,' consults the paperwork, 'Kite and Birch - and see how the third one goes?' says Jim to Theo. It's an endurance test – how strongly DO you believe in this?

'I say we go with three,' says Theo defiantly, unequivocally.

Jim smiles and says, 'Are we really a step ahead of the police on this? Could we have another Scourge of God on our hands so soon?' to Theo. It's all Theo can do not to sing I hope so.

'I suppose it's possible,' Theo mutters, imperceptible shrug. Captain Cool.

'Fair comment, Jim,' goes Dan, like a schoolteacher tired of repeating himself.

'Right,' nods Marky, loyal conservative accomplice. See how Marky got so high up the ladder.

'When I spoke to Clooney about the Thompsons, I asked him if he was aware of the similar killings,' goes Theo, with confidence.

'And what did he say?' says Jim.

Theo replies, 'He was vague but it sounded to me like he didn't know what I was talking about.'

'So Dan,' goes Jim, 'CPD are slow off the mark to catch a killer. Tribune noses out exclusive truffle. How d'ya like them apples?' Gives Theo a wink. Mood's changing, Jim likes poking old Danny boy when he can.

'Frankly, I don't like it one bit,' goes Dan.

'Wouldn't be the first time,' Jim goes to Dan, tongue in cheek, standing. Jim's always had a bee in his bonnet re the police – corruption, intimidation et al. He'll strike when the iron's hot like anyone else. It's a feverish numbers battle too, don't forget. Circulation boosts are welcome.

'No,' Dan says with space provided by the others to elucidate. He does not accept it. Jim thinks on it, football to his lips. 'It's your ship, Jim,' Dan adds, forewarning, washing his hands.

'I vote with Dan,' says Marky, crossing his legs, sucks snot up his nose. 2 against. Jim's careful, he's methodical.

A light bulb almost audibly pops over Dan's head, 'Printing the Shakespeare might invite copycats,' he says. It's a good point, one Theo's considered. Theo stares at Jim for signs.

'All right, Theo, I'm going to side with you. Write the King Lear line, include the Deputy's quote and Clooney's on-the-record denials. Be careful how you deal with the Coates implications. That's not to say that I will smother you; you have leeway. Get fair comment from a CPD spokesman and Coates' office. No matter what they say put it in word for word; likelihood's gonna be that you get squat but if we're going out on a limb we might as well show that we gave them a chance.'

'Playing with fire here, Jim,' says Dan, a dog with a bone. 'Lipton Coates is old school; he will not like --'

Jim Underwood's mother's staying with him now; she doesn't ever want to go home after random rioters graffittied her house. 'The Hell with Lipton Coates' old school and the CPD. Evening edition. Front page,' says Jim and only an idiot would question him. Theo wants so much to tell Dan to go fuck himself.

About the same time

Chicago Homicide

Looks on Chicago pensively from two stories above. Takes a crisp bite of a ubiquitous gingersnap cookie. Sleeves rolled up, creases smeared across the back of a blue/white shirt. Has a bulky index finger hooked inside the handle of a rather dainty cup – ever present Ovaltine, the room reeks of it.

Casimir Infante never sits, or, leastwise, Costas has never witnessed it. Costas sits before his Unit Sergeant, calm, feet flat; head's paddling on account of the sneaky celebratory hooch with the bucks downstairs. Pills too.

'God's watching all of this with a heavy heart,' goes Casimir, regretfully, after a lengthy silence, as if the city streets are replaying the past days for him down below. His melancholy grandeur is positively Shakespearean.

Casimir's mother was Orthodox Lithuanian and his father's Catholic Italian. Casimir moved to Chicago from New York aged 7 with his father after his mother's sudden death. Raised submissive Catholic/informed Orthodox, converted to Lutheranism when he was 18 to piss the old man off. Has had a more than passing interest in Buddhism; became Jewish for his wife. Wears a yarmulke unpredictably – not today. His up-top bald patch's free and groovy. Costas wonders which god Casimir's talking about exactly.

There's no European fire to Casimir's 50-year-old eyes, droopy lids; but he's a very patient, thoughtful man; broad and fit, with a dancer's disposition. Walks like a cat – piston shoulders.

'To see you is good, Detective,' comes Casimir, turning to Costas, the Jewish inflections assimilated in the course of 27 years, funny-sounding given the stony Midwestern brogue delivering them.

'Good to be seen,' says Costas, formalities.

Casimir judges Costas' facial injuries and says, 'And the work, you feel up to it?'

'I do.' Costas explains his medical issues, makes his solid pitch: I'm ready to go, boss being the crux of it.

Casimir chews, sips. No panic - his unhurried ways are a frustrating/invaluable asset depending on what's going on. Casimir's maybe been guilty once or twice in the past of not choosing and utilizing the appropriate traits with appropriate timing.

'O'Meara says you two have an interesting one on the books,' goes Casimir, the sincerely wry smile brought to you, like everything, eventually.

'We haven't really been able to delve too deep,' says Costas, curious as to what Colin's said.

'It would be a bad idea to stick you behind a desk, I think,' comes Casimir, swishing the remnants of his drink and then downing it.

Costas: 'Field work is preferred.' Casimir swallows and nods as if Costas took the words out of his mouth. Savors the drink descending.

'You're your own man, George. A hero, some out there have called you,' pointing towards his shut office door. 'Put away your fair share. Upstairs has no problem with you returning. Neither do I.' Finishes his biscuit, talks while crunching, 'Let me just say that I admire your chutzpah, you deserve what rewards you get, yet we all must put this week behind us as quickly as possible. It has been an incongruous episode. We can only be grateful that there were no fatalities.'

Flash: the boy that Costas beat six ways from Sunday.

Casimir moves with arms crossed, to the corner of his desk. Costas reads this as a signal to rise. Casimir offers a hand. Costas shakes it.

'Thank you, Sergeant,' comes Costas.

'You're a good man, Detective,' goes Casimir.

Costas turns the doorknob to leave. It's a superfluous comment really, filler. Then again, Casimir doesn't do superfluous. Costas exits, like he didn't hear Infante's compliment.

Costas feels eyes on him. Crosses the bullpen a short distance to his station. It's utterly unchanged since before the riots, like a shrine, a tomb.

Colin skips over to Costas, with a smile as wide as a pre-nup bride's. Claps Costas on the back; he didn't stop drinking when everyone else did.

'Hey Chief, how'd it go?'

Head down: 'Fine. Good to go.'

Colin's tail wags. 'Fuck me. Right decision. Hey, you know how many people've called looking to interview you this week? Hero of the hour - TV and paper and radio – all told, fuck, it must be 50. Crazy shit.' Costas sits, stomach queasy, lightheaded. Reaches for the Birch/Grady file.

It's NOT too soon.

Costas says firmly, 'Let's just do what we're paid for.'

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #12

(8 months ago)

Marietta, Georgia

5pm

'Go into town and take this with you,' was what the Vet said to Probs on the outskirts of Marietta. Handed Probs a scabby list with a tremulous hand. Probs took the list because he was hungry and slightly worried that the Vet might end up murdering him if he didn't comply.

The Vet: Crazy bastard's bivouacked in a tree house, if you can believe it; built it himself from scratch, he maintains; fifteen feet off the ground \- lumber chopped, pared, assembled. Beautifully kitted-out with the ugliest bare essentials. Wartime. The Vet is Probs' age, 38/39 - looks ten years younger, muscle and sinew. The Vet's what he calls himself – nobody homeless uses their real name; it's shame, of course, and a badge of mystery to camouflage the shame. The self splits with the body on the highways. Anonymity helps ward off that rabid wolf: intimacy. Intimate relationships of any kind are brittle quagmires, tried and true. The long-haul roofless learn to Bat That Fuckin Thing Away! Too acidic.

So Probs is hammered coming back from town, as he was when going into town, wavering in their stolen Toyota Corolla Sprinter. Running on fumes. Radio's fucked. Heating's fucked. He's fucked. The whole fuckin thing's fucked.

Had to duck and weave around happy families back there in Marietta; streets clogged with Christmas lights, trees, gifts, carolers – peace to all men on acid; they just ain't come up with the shit to make a man drunk enough to stomach it.

Sprinter finally gurgles to a halt maybe a mile shy of the Vet. Probs kicks a taillight. Evening's mild, undecided weather-wise; he hauls ass with the groceries – cheese, bread, chocolate, tea, beans, milk, toilet paper (executive decision), toothpaste etc: Household banalities to tame the laments of a wantonly neglected prince. Sprung too for cotton balls and superglue as ordered – Vet underlined them, put a hole in the damn page doing it.

Finds the Vet's hideaway, tucked in off the beaten track – all the while Probs has thought about legging it with the goods but fears that the Vet might track him down, raw vigilante-style, and grind his bones to make some bread.

Vet's skinning fresh squirrel; got Scandinavian hair and Germanic eyes. Splinters of gray about the temples. Intrigue rises off him like comic-book stink-lines – did a messy tour in Korea at 20, came home darkened, was re-evaluated by the Powers, declared Section 8 thanks to shellshock; promptly shipped out again. Alas, he left his heart and mind in Seoul. And the way he machine-gun talks, fuck, words come out like what-the-fuck, sets Probs teetering. Doesn't seem to do drugs, swore himself off them long ago, needs to keep his mind sharp, in tiptop shape. Waxes negative on boozing - irritating Probs - doesn't touch the stuff - his Pop was an atomic drinker - the Vet knew the Belt better than anyone.

Vet's got weaponry too, knives exclusively, but huge fuckers. Tactical and survival. Machetes. Wields this drop-point knife all day between his teeth; refers to it as Mama - could gut a dinosaur with the thing. Grizzly bears would be negotiating with this cat for conditions. Send this dude first-class to Ho Chi Minh, Probs thinks - war's done in days. Wears no shirt either – to make a point, to intimidate, to feel alive (a quote). Dresses in fatigues dawn to dusk.

The Vet's scatterbrained shit puts Probs' own shit into perspective. Nights since the Vet started letting him crash two weeks back Probs counts his intact faculties and kisses the ground they walk on.

Vet's hungrier than a Papa San (a quote) when Probs arrives. The ex-marine (as claimed) gets down to cooking mighty quick. He's a dab hand. Rustles up grub lickety-split. Smells like paradise. Possesses a weird set of accents; deep shades of New England when he's riding the crest of a story from the battlefront; strangely, a tense Midwestern snort when he laughs. Dips into a lyrical Southland mishmash during general conversation.

He's an easygoing psychopath all in all, despite his certainty that Armageddon's looming, with no political mandate to speak of; not bent on government overthrow. Maybe he's lying about Korea and MacArthur. Doesn't feel like it though. He bears no grudge against the family that insisted he go fighting and then kicked him out when he surrendered his marbles; or against America, the land that he loves. 'A wasteland founded by righteous, visionary motherfuckers like yours truly,' goes the Vet, nestling up against the base of an oak, belly full of beans. Fire's roaring. Probs hugs a tin cup hot toddy. If he wept now, the tears would consist mainly of alcohol. That's why crying's a waste of resources.

The Vet finds it cold enough tonight to don a well-worn Smokey Bear T-shirt. Sports a jovial white beard of super-glued cotton balls tied with elastic string about his ears. He snugly tucks a Takemine guitar under his right arm – knocks out one or two Christmas songs, irreverently performed, smattered with double entendres ('Come, she told me, parup-a-pum-pum...)'. Enjoys himself thoroughly (especially 'All I Want For Christmas is My Two Front Teeth') and Probs raises a can now and again to the parts that he can hear over his own bubbling desire to be anywhere else on earth.

The Vet shows his range, picks a few rare ditties, voice like a grungy buzz saw; the sweetest and most heartfelt song being 'Could You Be True to Eyes of Blue If You Looked Into Eyes of Brown?'

Probs sways with it. Intermission: no chat, it's lonesome men at Christmas with nothing to show and nothing to offer. Probs is disappointed - can't shake these ultimate vestiges of consciousness. Must keep drinking. Melancholy does eventually seize the Vet and his emotions run amok. He stomps about the dying embers counting cadence - a bitter Santa Jody call. Probs snuggles up under his blanket.

'Mission Top Secret, destination unknown,

We don't know if we're ever coming home.

Stand up buckle up and shuffle to the door,

Jump right out and shout "Marine Corps!"

If my 'chute don't open wide,

I've got a reserve by my side.

If that one should fail me too,

Look out ground I'm coming through.

Hookin and a-jabbin,

Slashin and a-stabbin.

If I die in a combat zone,

Box me up and ship me home.

Pin my medals upon my chest.

Tell my momma I've done my best.'

Predictably, there's tears sauntering down his cheeks; he put everything into it. The sheer alienation of the pervasive silence hits home like a ton of bricks.

The singular contribution Probs can make is to snore like a Billy-goat.

16

August 31st, 1968

24 Hours Later

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

Bodies left in the open, no effort to conceal.

Colin picks him up outside his place. Day's a golden invitation – Costas is looking forward to the game.

Colin's Ford's a sty; the sun-faded air freshener's a redundant joke. Costas expects an oink in back some day.

Bubbly, smoking Colin en route towards Wrigley Field goes, 'King Lear quote checks out. Same weapon: Coates' guy's our guy too. I'm talking to a fuckin T. You name it. Ballistics striations correspond with a silenced .38. Three for three on that front.'

'So Mrs. Thompson did walk in on it.'

Nodding Colin, sliding his lower lip to blow the smoke away from Costas, 'She forgot her keys; something like that, Clooney said. Collateral damage,' with a shrug, flicks his cigarette out the window.

'The lid's off,' comes Costas after a breath, wishing the lid was still on in truth, looking ahead at nothing particularly.

'Uh-huh. Got the vibe too that Clooney wouldn't say no to the primary slot when they stick the investigations together.'

Costas hears it, surprised and not surprised. Dwayne Clooney's someone Costas has always been fine with despite the controversies. He's no man's judge. Paired together once or twice to good effect. Costas should be glad that someone might take it off his shoulders. Paperwork and pressure and long, long days with no tangible payback lay ahead.

Instinctively: possessiveness grips Costas, ownership, primeval territoriality.

'I don't know about you but I want it,' goes Colin at the lights, on the same page, the same paragraph. 'Once in a lifetime deal, Chief, a nut like Mr. Shakespeare, am I right?'

He's right. Losing a case like this, at this point, would only widen the chasm. Costas' life is awash with impotence – home and abroad. This is an opportunity to inadvertently, to indirectly right a phalanx of wrongs – of his making and of others'.

The fight's everywhere, every corner's a war zone; peel back the red, white and blue and there's cracks on view, awards misallocated, diseases misdiagnosed, holes filled with lip service and little else. Each man must do what he must to stand his ground – if not, he'll be swallowed bit by bit by the swill of deafening indifference masquerading as the country's latest era of heartfelt rediscovery and reinvention.

Everyone thinks that they're Christopher Columbus, redrawing the history for the good of mankind. But there's no new ground. Wherever we land, it will be populated by those who wonder what we expected to be different. And we'll load their coffers for acceptance. Hanging high in the midst of the straight lines being curved and old worlds being trampled are simple certainties: comes a time when a man must shit or get off the pot.

'Don't worry,' says Costas, believing every word, 'It's ours.'

Measured, even sweetly, Colin says, 'Oh and Clooney said that Theo called him a bunch sniffing out a scoop.'

Costas visibly restrains the anger. Sharp and hurtling disappointments. Toes are curling. Colin knows that Costas' chewed out Theo about butting in on this and has done so before on other things with similarly little success. Reads what he can from Costas' reaction; doesn't wait too long to say: comforting, encouraging, first brick of many towards the rebuild, 'Clooney says all he confirmed was that Theo's an asshole. Trib's got shit to go on.'

Costas' arm didn't hurt nearly this badly earlier.

*

Doesn't want to be CAUGHT.

He wants to be CHASED?

Parking lot: Bodies everywhere, carnival atmosphere, titillating aroma of fried onion abounds from grill carts. Colin pays a blubbery vendor for a Polish dog, the works and the kitchen sink; the look he gives it is lusty. Bites and goes, full-mouthed, 'So, let's boil it down,' sweeping a big plop of ketchup from his lips with his tongue. 'Break it down,' chomping like a champ on his chow.

'Into bite-size chunks?' says Costas, watching Colin scoff. Colin, oblivious to Costas' grin, goes, 'Right. So's not to overlook anything.'

Costas is hot, gets a beer, moves to pay; Colin won't let him. Costas snaps the can open, sips, dumbstruck: Colin's dog was there and now it's not. Colin belches irrepressibly.

'What links? Religion - out: one victim Catholic, one Quaker, one nothing. Social status: a farmer, an accountant, a plumber. Nothing there,' goes walking Colin to Costas, over-the-shoulder/side-by-side alternating.

'Mob-hit slant ain't biting either,' says Costas.

This is how they attack a prickly case. New angles can bring eureka moments. They could care less who overhears.

Nothing sexual. He is in control of himself.

'All white males,' says Costas, it's brainstorming.

Colin leads the way, through the shifting crowds, small beads of sweat about his temples early on. Organist's warming up CHARGE!! inside. Stadium's a concrete colossus. Wouldn't do much in the event of nuclear fallout...

'OK,' says Colin, 'do we have a rogue Panther on the loose?'

'You think we oughtta give Eldridge Cleaver a call?' says Costas knowing well enough, as Colin does, that the Black Panthers are low down on the suspect list.

At the North Clark turnstiles: people shepherded like happy livestock. Colin's got a Heineken and Costas doesn't know how or where he got it. The fans bottleneck at the entrances.

'One divorcee, two married,' says Costas. These are facts. It's a fact-finding mission. 'One and three did Navy service,' continues Costas; it's fish in a barrel with no firearm. Colin gives up his ticket to the checker, 'These gates seem narrower to you?' to Costas behind him. Smiles shared out, stomachs sucked in.

'All got kids,' says Colin, recommencing the main topic. Search for their seats.

'No break-ins. Family and friend interviews reveal dick. Vics got no sheets. No shells left, or prints. No witnesses,' goes Costas. 'Quote says the guy's educated.'

Neither's been to a Cubs' game since last season; came with Winston bedecked in his sacred #9 Randy Hundley jersey. Definitely won that day.

Costas breathes in deeply from beneath the shade of the stand having mounted the steps. Bluest sky. Such a buzz. Win or lose, this was the right decision.

'How can you legislate for these murders based on skin color? Why can't it be a lone loco spade? No political statement - you know, snapped under pressure - got fired, wife leaves him, racial stuff, uh, I don't know, lost a kid in 'Nam,' is what Colin says, wishing he'd omitted that last part about Vietnam.

Cubs' outfield is preparing: There's Ernie Banks (1b) throwing back and forth with Don Kessinger (ss); Joe Niekro (p) chats with Archie Reynolds (p) in the bullpen. John Holland's shaking hands with Houston's Salty Parker. Cubs' mascot's handing out trinkets to tykes, waving to cameras, bear-hugging grandmothers.

'Nah. This has been meticulously planned out,' goes Costas after a spell. 'Do you see these vics consorting with any kind of black guy?' Colin's silence says No, not realistically.

'Elm Kite was reportedly pretty openly racist,' says Colin and Costas is already shaking his head, 'maybe the other two were like that.'

'No indication of it,' comes Costas, showcasing overt and genuine disappointment. The PA crackles, boys are swapping beloved baseball cards, men with trays are selling their wares – peanuts, sodas, pretzels, donuts.

'What burns me is, why shoot someone twice when one close-range headshot's more than enough to take anyone out?' says Costas.

'Must be personal,' says Colin. The handgun's impersonal.

'That's my thought too,' goes Costas.

Which one is it, smart guy? Personal or impersonal?

They sit. Halfway up - section 211, row 16 - nigh-on level with Ron Santo's third base. Colin calls for a corn dog and Pepsi. Irritates his ulcer, too much sugar. Shelly's good for him like that, sweet treats her anathema. Raisins and peanut butter on a stalk of celery are about her only her vice. She calls it ants on a log. Game day Colin lets his hair down. Says with a wink, 'If only she could see me,' and bites hugely. Watching Colin makes Costas quite the opposite of hungry.

Applause and hollers for Glenn Beckert (2b) when he appears in the sunlight; tips his cap to fans near the dugout; does stretches, twists, bends, squats, lunges. Billy Williams (lf) perfects his cleats beside Beckert.

Colin goes, 'Killer must be seriously pissed off.'

'And determined,' goes Costas, thinking of Mrs. Thompson.

Costas stands to allow people pass. They apologize for inconveniencing him. His contusions are getting looks. Word is, apparently, that the city's generally pleased with the authorities' reaction to the public dissension this week. Early, unaffiliated polls and information indicates that the violence against the demonstrations has been seen by many of the country as a noble and timely blow for social justice.

Time's against them. This story's melting ice: it will break shortly.

Damn Theo. Thorn in my side Theo. Stone in my shoe Theo.

Team rosters are announced loud and clear; the Chicago players receive individual cheers, each one varying in volume commensurate to the player's popularity. A young boy's feet don't touch the ground; runs up to his Dad, boy's in shorts and an Astros' cap that's too big, maybe 8 years old, crew-cut, bumpy knees. Holds a baseball as he dashes up an aisle from the playing field. 'Dad! Dad! Look, Dad. He signed it for me, Look! See? There!' Points, shoves it in Dad's face and the parents are enthusiastic. Dad takes the boy on his lap; ruffles his hair, kisses the plumped cheek. Textbook. Father and son might shoot off like rockets. If the kid died here, he'd take his lot gratefully. And what's Costas supposed to do privy to a scene like that? Circle of life's all any shrink'd tell him.

Been five minutes since they spoke to each other and then ever-chewing Colin leans over, goes, 'He lies in wait. Learns routines. Knows when they're alone - look at the Thompsons, neighbors on both sides were at a bar mitzvah when he hit! Knows the layout of neighborhoods. Maybe he's even been to their places, inside them. Shakespeare thing says he's been to school, OK, that's a very fair leap. May've been on the streets prior. He's no roustabout. Trickiest thing's he's consistent - all 3 vics whacked at home, shows supreme confidence - but adaptable - TOD's day and night. Gets away on foot and car. Follows no real pattern.'

*

Bottom of the 6th - Houston 5 Chicago 1. Atmosphere needs a defibrillator. Colin's got the hiccups after 2 more hot dogs, a Coke and a doughy cinnamon pretzel. None of it's sitting pretty.

'Ah! Throw the damn ball, would ya?' shouts Colin in disgust.

It's no madman.

But look what he's DOING! How could he NOT be mad?!

'It's been eating away at him for a long time. Hatred, anger. Something,' goes Costas with a gentle cough. Colin doesn't hear him. The nock of bat on ball cuts the air. Everyone rises to their feet. Ball's sailing! Anticipation!

Stay left!! GoGoGo!!

Stay left, you son of a bitch!! Go!!

Ball's fouled off. Thousands breathe again. Claps, shouts, encouragement; scores of seats reset for sitting.

'What's the count?' says Costas to Colin.

'2 and 2, 1 out,' is the reply, Colin's interest in the game increasing.

And we've 3 outs.

For Costas, there's this overwhelming feeling - it's a blossoming tornado - that they started chasing this guy with him ready for the chase and that they're only losing ground as the days pass. Clock's ticking and there's seemingly no starting point. It's not something he's used to, this peculiar sense of empty effect. He talks himself out of the ditch as innings meander. Hunger's distraction trumps - the frozen yoghurt guy's not far off. Costas stretches his legs.

Meantime

Back of the Yards, Chicago

This was in his compulsive John Wayne/WW2 movie phase - examples: Mom, my cleats are MIA and/or His brain is MIA and/or Mom, why are all the good ones MIA? and so on.

Winston.

She knocks. Waits on the porch. Changed into something more presentable - baggy pants, matching pumps, long-sleeved shirt, and oversized shades. Button on her red cardigan's MIA.

Missing in action.

Slight chill, heralds a startling smell of burning rubber from nowhere. Background stockyards don't make the racket they used to. This part of the city's seen better times and may not see any again for many years.

Emily George glances back at her car across the street. Sat in it for a solid 20 minutes.

The front door's opened with a creak. Small black girl stands there, half-hidden - white/pink knee-length blouse is the first thing; dark hair in tight cornrows and pigtails tied with pink ribbons, huge nervous eyes. She's 7. Left earlobe's ragged, MIA. What sounds like a large dog starts in on a tirade of barks down the street. The house seems too dark behind the girl, the outdoor light rebounds off her, coating her in hard focus.

'Yes?' the girl says softly. Emily can only smile; the girl's enchantingly fragile. Emily comes to her haunches quickly and carefully.

'Is your Mama in?' she says.

'One moment, please,' comes the girl; returns inside, shuts the door gently. Emily stands up again. The meeting of such a flower has uplifted her. She's late for picking up Janine but so what?

Could those war movies have influenced and sucked him into its deceptive glory? Were seeds planted that I might have stopped to save him?

Chain-link fence at the front of the property; gate's MIA - tricycle's abandoned on the grass, handlebars MIA.

Front door opens again. Big black woman's there now, 40s, in charge. Small girl's in front of her, wanting to go and fighting to stay, tugging her remaining earlobe, sucking on a juice box. Sweating Mama's got her hands on her daughter's shoulders, not to control, to mechanize their matching footsteps - their bodies shuffling forth as one almost. Mama's face means business until she comes beyond the doorframe. A blinding smile for Emily is welcomed.

'Hello,' Mama goes.

'Hi,' says Emily. 'Sorry to bother you. I wondered if you could help me.'

'Can try.'

'I don't mean to be rude but have you lived here for long?'

Mama's cool. 'Moved in April. Why you ask?'

'Well, I was looking, or I should say that I am looking for the family that I assume lived here before you - the Wetelings?' Emily's thoughts are unfounded and protrusive - Charlene Weteling's maybe a Negro?

Mama nods, 'Uh-huh. Sure. Nice folks.'

'Would you know where they are now?'

'No. Sorry,' and Mama's sorry all right. Emily stays positive. Not a dead-end yet. She was prepared for this. Girl's voice from inside, older, teenaged, shouts, 'Mama, them brownies is done.' Mama turns back inside with, 'Take 'em out and leave 'em cool then!'

'I should leave you alone,' says Emily to Mama.

'You want a brownie?' Emily smiles and goes, 'No, thank you.'

'I didn't know them people too good,' Mama comes, scooping the girl into her arms with a whoosh.

'Oh?' Emily goes,

'No. But my Herbert, he do most of the dealin' on the house. Mrs. Weteling, she make me a coffee one time. Maxwell House it was.'

'And you chatted?'

'Yes. Some ten minutes maybe. Didn't really talk 'bout nothin' special far as I recall.'

'I see. So there's nothing you think you could tell me that might help me find them?'

Mama thinks, waves to an anonymous passer-by. Baby daughter slinks to the ground and goes inside. A window above them opens. Let's out loud radio.

'Well, he a teacher,' says Mama, 'Mr. Weteling. Gosh, now where he work at? Hmm. I remember he say it to my Herbert.'

'Your husband is at work?'

Mama's proud as punch: 'Uh-huh. Works for the telephone comp'ny.'

Now Emily's losing hope. Things she's put on the long finger for today have piled up - wouldn't've mattered a damn if she could just locate Charlene. Now, the backlog's going to spoil her weekend.

'You got a phone number?' goes Mama, no fool - she can see that all this means something to Emily. 'When my Herbert gets home, I ask him about that family fo' you. Getcha on the telephone later on, see what we got.' Emily's thankful for tender mercies.

'Would you do that for me?' she says to Mama.

'Why not? First thing's first,' goes Mama.

'Yes?' says Emily, revitalized - up and down so easily with any merest push. Her moods are too limiting.

'Tell me your name,' says Wonder Mama. Emily's flare is seen from all over MIA country.

Meantime

South on Sheffield Avenue, Chicago

Holiday travelers are moving OK. Game was a washout: Houston 6-2. Colin's grumpy now. Radio's up loud, no sports talk. Windows wound down. Day's winding down. They're off to talk to Infante. Dwayne Clooney may have extolled his own policing virtues already to the Sergeant in an effort to secure lead detective.

No panic: Sgt. Infante doesn't trust/like Dwayne Clooney. Doesn't help that Dwayne more than dabbles in anti-Semitism and part-time Bolshevik-baiting. Even so, Infante's not going to thank Costas and Colin for keeping him in the dark longer than necessary. The Sergeant expects cards on the table throughout. Better to go than to be summoned. Idiots rise through the ranks in all professions; but that's not how Infante got to where he is.

Costas is sleepy. He takes three pills. Hates/needs them. Maybe these drugs will retard his abilities. Maybe he's not ready for this kind of fight. The last thing he -- Costas double-takes in traffic - the passenger in the convertible right beside him going the other way is reading a paper. Costas pauses. He's dreaming. Quadruple-take.

'Excuse me?' he goes to the lady, leaning out his window; she's white, 30s, sunglasses, Grace Kelly hair and that's where the similarities end. Colin turns his attention to Costas. Engines totter.

'Yes?' she goes to Costas, face aging beneath a heavy brow. The man with her looks too.

'May I see your paper?' Pause. She's probably weighing up his bruises behind the shades.

'No.'

'Well, can you please show me the front page?' Costas goes. She sighs, holds up the Tribune: KING LEAR KILLER LOOSE IN WINDY CITY.

Colin leans over, reads the headline. Uber Fuck to himself. She snaps the paper back onto her lap. A car horn honks behind her. Time to go.

'Happy?' she says to Costas.

Costas closes his eyes, hangs his head. 'Can you tell me --' Costas starts to her; car's gone, pulls forward to take a corner. Car horn blares behind Colin. He ignores it. Puts a hand on Costas' shoulder, says to his partner, 'It's not far.'

Say 5.20pm

Chicago Tribune

A pair of bulls.

Newsroom's dead. They step into it. Costas feels woozy; those pills, his brother, the humidity.

Colin's proactively hunting Theo, walks like he runs the joint. People see him. People smell a cop. Costas' feet are leaden. Legs wobble. They're going. He sits with a tumble. Colin's doing what he does.

'You need water?' goes Tony Huff, the idiot savant, drinking water, to Costas.

'No,' Costas puffs, nauseous. Breathing's challenged.

'Or a doctor? You're pale,' says Tony, not especially perturbed.

'Is Theo George here?' He's coping.

'Scrammed for the holiday. Wisconsin someplace, I think.' It's a hit and run.

Someone shouts something somewhere: Colin. Costas and Tony wait. Colin comes into picture from behind a partition. Joe Markewicz's with him, the patient escort, relatively together, hands in pockets - he's got 4 inches on Colin and girth but Colin's the aggressor, hard finger-pointing.

'Here's my badge fuckin number, asshole,' and Colin shoots Marky a middle finger.

'Please leave,' says Marky with half a towering step forward.

'You tell that Judas he can't hide forever,' finishes Colin; marches back towards Costas. Costas is feeling stronger. Stands up with the aid of the chair arm. Tony moves away from Colin before he gets too close to the action. Colin O'Meara kicks an unmanned desk close to Costas in frustration.

'All due respect, Chief, your brother's a dead man when I get my fuckin hands on him,' Colin shouts, not yet over his exertion, riding the crest of the anger. Costas nods like he's not going to stop Colin going through with the threat whenever they find Theo.

Marky's still standing, watching, 20 yards. Colin's manic. Nobody in the room's moving. The phones won't ring. Colin retreats 5 or 6 steps to the desk that he kicked. Kicks it again - with clear intention now. Aims for a leg, thunders it. A girl nearby squeaks. He goes ballistic until the leg folds. Nobody stops him. The desk's toppled; everything's come crashing.

About 7pm

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

She's in a notably good mood. He's over the shaky episode at the Tribune - a pothole in the grand scheme of things. Dinner was exotic and tasty, sehr schmecklich as Emily's mother would put it - beef stroganoff, sautéed mushrooms and gherkins with homemade German Farmer's Bread which took Emily the best part of the entire afternoon to prepare.

He's glad to be with Emily and Janine. Things are on an even-keel in the house, as much as they can be. There is, at least, not the same razor-sharp friction that has permeated evenings between the three of them.

Good to feel Emily's body next to him in bed again; not sleeping much alas. No migraines since the beating: a touch-wood blessing. There's more soft light in the house as well, newer light.

Fresh curtains? Lower bulb wattage? Me?

Janine's dawdling over her vanilla shake. Wears a new Otis Redding T-shirt. Usually she eats dessert in her room.

'How is your petition going?' says Emily to Janine. Emily's wearing a hint of makeup; a dab of rouge, a flash of lipstick, that pricey pendant Costas' parents bought her for her 35th birthday, cream lace shift dress offset by midnight blue Wranglers. It's an expressive, showy ensemble, over the top for the dinner table in Costas' opinion.

'How do I look?' Emily'd asked him at the door, face aflame with nakedness. She didn't know what sort of day he was having.

'Beautiful,' he'd said, to save it, better than a hesitation, walking past into the house. Some things come easy, some things don't.

'OK,' says Janine to her mother's question regarding the petition, hardly bowling anyone over with her ebullience. 'It's hard. Nobody cares.'

'Oh, I'm sure that a lot of people care.'

'Care about what?' says Costas, doing what he can to not think about Theo. Called Theo's house a dozen times. Called Myra's parents. Fled.

'Banning the bomb,' comes Janine with a sigh. Costas is sorry he asked.

'They're trying to get 100,000 signatures on a petition to mail to the White House,' explains Emily. 'I think it's a wonderful thing to fight for,' coming across a little too deluded leftwing for comfort. There's brandy in the recipe.

Janine: 'We need 50 or 60,000 more. We'll all be a hundred years old or blown to bits by the time we hit our target.'

Costas would dearly love to have his TV back with an arctic beer. Why doesn't he have any real hobbies? When his arm's recovered he's going to take up bowling or swimming or shooting craps or fuckin rock-climbing. Anything. Not every free moment should be taken up with such pursuits but, damn it, there's a booming, long-quelled clarity here \- a man has a job, yes, and a family, yes. And himself. A third option is not unreasonable, is it? Is it? Look at how many guys take a piss on their jobs/families and they get buried with full honors just the same.

'Would you like to sign it, Georgie?' says Emily. He wonders if she's repeating what Janine's just said.

'Of course I will,' he goes. 'As long as I don't have to go on any peace rallies,' and he meant for it to sound playful but peace rallies comes out balls-to-the-wall condescending.

'Don't hurt yourself anymore than you have already, Dad,' says Janine, looking at him with her You're such a fascist scowl. Costas expects Emily to intercede, to cut down Janine's sarcasm. Not forthcoming.

'No. No. I want to,' he goes, his hand onto Janine's. Janine's not convinced fully. Nonetheless, she gets her pages and Costas does as he said he would, reading from the top of the page as he signs, 'Committee for Sane Nuclear Policy,' and jabs an ostentatious dot at the end of his name.

Janine says, 'Thanks, Dad,' and cheerfully kisses his cheek. It's a drastic change, as if his going through with the signing demonstrated that he actually may have a heart beneath the layers of gruffness. Janine goes into her room and that allows him to breathe.

Emily collects the plates and his other cheek is cheerfully kissed by her, harmonized with a whispered, 'Nice work, Dad.' He bent and it kept the peace. Interesting. Since when are women so easily satisfied?

4th & Goal: says to Emily while she runs water in the sink, 'You know, Em, ah, that meal, wow, what can I say? It was maybe as lovely as, uh, as you look.' He says it with his back to her, staring at the pig-shaped pepper shaker on the table.

When he manages to turn himself, he sees that she's beaming, almost blushing. Touchdown.

*

Casimir Infante phoned 15 minutes before Costas sat down to eat. Said to meet at his office at 8.30pm. Would've been earlier but for Shabbat - has to have the sun set to do anything. Didn't say much; he's naturally seen the newspaper. Sounded impatient anyway. Colin's coming to get Costas.

The roundup's got to include Dwayne and Mike Morella. Emily offered to give Costas a ride in. He didn't want to bother her.

'Go,' he said, 'take your bath.'

Costas sits by the phone here. Reddening sunlight hits him in the face. He's been mulling a course of action. His heart says that it's 2 wrongs struggling to make a right; his head's muscling in with seductive imagery, the most tempting being of Theo despondently lonesome and remorseful.

Janine's gone Labor Day weekend camping with Angelica Hadsall and Co. Emily's singing in the tub. Costas rises to pull the curtain in the living room to block the outside light. He picks up the house phone and dials a number from a business card in hand.

Nelson Tarris: police reporter at the Chicago Sun-Times, Trib's big competitor. Costas chose this publication above the wooing dozens because Theo cut his teeth there. Had a blast doing it too, apparently. Salt rubbed in, brother, for when the wound comes.

'Mr. Tarris?'

'Yes. Hello.' The sunlight's still finding its way through; gotta move his head to avoid it.

'You said it would be all right to call you anytime at home. I hope I'm not calling at a bad time for you.'

'Who is this please?' says Nelson.

They want an exclusive interview with a hero cop? They just got it.

8.45pm

Chicago Homicide

Reminiscent of film noir – elasticized, brash skeletal shadows; dim, dusty lighting – a real sense of foreboding that pinches, accentuates, beguiles the nerves.

Room's crammed: Costas in the green leather armchair, farthest from Casimir Infante. Colin's fidgeting in a chair before Infante's desk like he doesn't give a damn though he does - smoking like a burned-out building.

Dwayne Clooney's seated beside Colin, a statue. Mike Morella stands paltry in the corner. Looks like the right spot for him to Costas - insolent kid, hiding something different from everybody; plucky and shy.

Infante's got his yarmulke on. Costas saw him slide a siddur, the prayer book, into a desk drawer to the side of where Infante's sitting. First thing Casimir Infante said when the foursome was settled: 'My wife, she is not happy with this,' meaning, presumably, that Mrs. Infante's not happy with her husband working so soon after Sabbath.

The Mayor wants answers; so does Captain Renne, and Superintendent Darling. Casimir heard it more than once from them with no please and thank you – what the fuck's going on? None of this is earth-shattering. The shit's hit the fan, just sooner than they thought or hoped.

'Your brother, he is responsible for this?' says Casimir Infante to Costas, business only.

'Yes,' comes Costas.

On the hour radio and TV bulletins are being delivered across the world. Five men in a room with the power - incredibly delicate, undesired power.

Casimir: 'Who are these unnamed sources close to the investigation?'

That's open to anyone. Mike Morella leans against the wall. His cigarette's burning fast. Colin unclogs his throat.

'Probably me,' says Costas. It's the truth. He's not afraid of it.

'On murders two and three?' goes Casimir, tone raised a mite.

Costas nods: 'Grady Birch directly. The rest of it, off-the-record. Idle conversation.'

Colin enters the fold with, to Casimir, 'Costas gave Theo nothing.'

'What is true? Tell me,' comes Casimir; again, he'll take anything from anyone.

'What Deputy Morningstar said is true,' says Costas quickly. 'It came to light only this morning that the three cases may be connected.'

'And you said nothing to me?' furrowed brows. Casimir's already about as angry as anyone here's ever seen him.

We were at a ball game, boss. How to explain the thinking behind that move?

CPD wordsmiths are pulling an all-nighter to ferret out a statement for the morning: Speculation at this point......unhelpful reports......under wraps to prevent panic...

'You have nothing to say, you two?' says Casimir to Dwayne and Mike.

'None of us was sure exactly what was --' goes Dwayne, shifting awkwardly.

'I don't care,' interrupts Casimir. Takes a breath. 'Everyone's up in arms.'

'None of us gave up anything concrete on the goddamn Thompson murder,' says Dwayne. Cat's got Mike's tongue. The ceiling suddenly enthralls him.

'Is any of what's in the newspaper today a lie? That's what I need to know. I want it from the horse's mouth,' comes Casimir, waving a firm floating finger in everyone's general direction. Time delay.

'No,' says Colin.

'A mole's feeding him,' comes Dwayne.

'Who?' comes Casimir, taking Dwayne seriously. 'Who is this mole?'

'You don't think it would be me if anybody?' says Costas evenly.

Casimir to Costas: 'You talk often about cases with your brother?' Costas shrugs, not casually, 'Off and on. It's a professional courtesy. He's never gone this far before.'

Dwayne, referring to Theo: 'Cocksucker smells a big-seller.'

Colin to Casimir, referring to Costas: 'He told Theo to back off.'

'We're going to look like high-class schmucks; heads will roll unless we clean this mess up and fast,' says Casimir. Casimir despises the interfering media. Few things irritate him more than having to deal with reporters or having to keep them in mind when trying to do his job. The avalanche of coverage that's going to be coming will fill his swear jar.

'Saving grace is Coates,' says Costas. 'He's a kind of fall guy for us. His poor behavior's slowed our progress.'

Colin likes that, 'Right. Use that to deflect blame,' he says to Casimir. Casimir rubs his chin, 'Sheriff's denying every word of it wholesale. Threatening defamation lawsuits,' waves lawsuits away as bravado. 'Commissioner, Chief – he told them both to their faces that the article was lies.'

They've been unfortunate the way the chips have fallen, that's a fact. Of course, Upstairs could give a fuck. They want pictures. They want pretty pictures. Show it to the nice people.

Casimir's pondering sullenly; and then, 'Your lack of co-ordination is very disappointing, gentlemen. Sloppy. I say this personally. We cannot see what is around the corner for any of us at this juncture,' rounded with a heavy sigh. Costas feels positive, inexplicably. Confident of success based on nothing logical.

'So there has been no headway made at all?' says Casimir.

'Sir,' says Colin, 'we will catch this fucker.' Casimir straightens himself in the chair, redirecting his attentions.

'The King Lear Killer,' said like a coming attraction before the main feature nightmare. Sergeant Infante yawns, ruffles his face the way people do when they're tired.

'Sarge, for fuck sake,' says Colin, 'what were we supposed to do?' with an incredulous smile. 'The city's been on fire all week,' gesturing to Costas' injuries as prime example of their damned if they do/don't predicament.

'And how many people do you think, if and when the bodies continue to stack up in our own backyard, could care less, Detective?' Definitely an uncharacteristic night for Casimir – harsh, pointed. He must've really gotten it in the neck earlier.

'Give the case to me,' goes Dwayne, surprising everyone. Casimir looks at Dwayne with raised eyebrows, undoes his top button. 'To us,' clarifies Dwayne, jerking a thumb to include Mike Morella.

Costas perks up, says, 'It's ours Dwayne.' Dwayne's not averse to launching tirades when stood up to. Costas won't take his shit though, Dwayne knows it, and a heated exchange would surely blow any chance of landing primary for Dwayne.

'I don't know about that,' says Dwayne to Costas, eyes to nobody.

Colin comes with, 'We picked it up first. The --'

'Sorry, Clooney,' goes Casimir, nipping their antics in the bud. 'Looks like it's George and O'Meara's lucky day because it comes down from the mountain that the cop who's a hero and who's also the father of a dead war hero – sorry to bring that up,' to Costas, 'is to get the prize. Good for morale or PR I am assuming. Morella and Clooney will liaise and assist - their words, not mine,' lifts a page from his desk to prove it.

'Moreover, they have requested that George seriously consider giving an interview to one of our beloved dailies. Again for the sake of appearances and to buy time, I would say.'

'I'm meeting the Sun-Times in the morning,' says Costas.

'Great minds, eh?' cuts Casimir. Coughs. 'When were you planning to clear that with me?'

Truth: 'After this.'

Casimir makes no more of it, goes, 'And I don't care who writes it but I want a full status report on this time-bomb on my desk by 9am sharp.' Stands, takes his jacket off the back of his chair. Whips it on, giving Colin a real stink-eye, saying: 'May I suggest you work out some sort of a typewriting rota. See it as a bonding exercise. Don't worry, gentlemen, tonight I plan to sleep enough for all of us.'

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #13

(7 months ago)

Columbia, South Carolina

He's in.

Saw her put a key beneath a potted Yucca by the front door. Watched the lady leave from across the street; easy to go unnoticed.

Followed her home randomly when he saw her leaving her office yesterday. Oddly drawn. She's never been typically beautiful – body of a light bulb, 25 watt personality, black, cropped hair curling thickly at the ears, doughy face, has the gait of a lifelong survivalist. He imagines her rolling into a ball when confronted.

Probs slept last night in the withered porch loveseat of a foreclosed home down the block from her. Big weeds. Deflected the rain, not the cold.

5am: Neighborly mailman nudged him to move on or he'd call the cops. Probs wanted to jump the bastard; didn't – usual chickenshit stuff. Afterwards, thought he should've killed that mailman. What's so bad about life without? You get 3 squares and a roof.

Hey, this lady's house is CLEAN. Dollars to donuts no man with bedroom eyes has ever set foot in this haven. He feels bad for her. It's a kindred spirit kind of bond, you know. United outcasts. Could spit and hit one anywhere, these companionless and introspective moving targets. Gatherings are their habitats. The trusty gutter has provided Probs with pie-charts on the subject. He's very dirty. Goes, 'The Hell with it,' and strips. Clothes stay in the foyer neatly next to the Vet's old duffel bag. Naked as the day he was torn.

Can't help but peruse. Pans his head right and left; tilts, afraid to disrupt, like the whole place's a dead body. It's blissful crayon pastiche; whitewashed walls; to another eye, merely a murder scene painted over, old style gaudy carpet to a convert of reticence. No distinct boundaries. It's Norman Rockwell's whorehouse if he ever decided to run a whorehouse.

Her living room's populated by dozens of small ornaments – horses the majority, all shapes, colors, sizes – he handles one or two carefully; a portrait on the wall of a standing man smiling in jodhpurs with a regal pony.

A sea of white crocheted linen doilies, fine china set with a bluebell bouquet design displayed in a sparkling glass door cabinet; empty candlesticks atop varnished dresser drawers. A huge wooden clock ticks wildly above the large unlit fireplace, Roman numerals on the face. (Interesting to note: no photographs of her.) Museum quality. The lady's an archivist of cannibalistic fakery. In her efforts to make a house a home she's manufactured a heartless diorama, a hideous spectacle of propriety, an old maid's wet dream. She lives as a shell in a cave. Hold her mouth to your ear and hear her breathe like the ocean. He wants to meet her and say wonderful things to lift her up where she belongs. Probs'd go, 'Sometimes a stepladder and a determined stretch will touch the stars too, you know. So what if the Russians beat us? There's a lot of Space up there.' Bravo, she'd say, tell it to me again!

He showers as planned; feels lighter. Shaves too, as best he can; takes a scissors to his hair. Snoops for a slice of bread, crumbs of cheese. Upstairs there's a bedroom. Hers - nothing in it would move in an earthquake. Her terrible need acts as an adhesive.

Across the corridor, another bedroom. His? Delirious with antiquation. Pipe and slippers, the whole bit. It's a time machine. Sepia picture in a frame of an old man by the bed (the one with the pony downstairs surely, just much younger) with his arm about the lady of the house's shoulders when she was an adolescent. Probs does Poirot: father and daughter, old guy was infirm; bed's untouched. Must have snuffed it a while back. In his sleep, peaceful. She's bereaved. They were close, too close. She couldn't let go. His postulations on her life affect him more than he intends. She's tugging at his heartstrings. Maybe they could marry.

The day's brisk. He likes it. He's wearing one of the old man's ensembles, mothballs included: waste not, want not. Left one of the Vet's fountain pens on her pillow as suitable recompense. He locks the front door, replaces the key beneath the plant. Has his duffel bag and soiled clothes in a black bag. Won't make her do his laundry on top of everything.

.Someone walking by sees Probs on the steps. Probs stops. He's caught.

Man says cheerfully, 'Nice morning, isn't it?' and continues on down the sidewalk.

'Yes it is,' says Probs after a second, and then a jerky wave. Been a hell of a while since he got mistaken for a man who belongs.

17

Morning after the story broke

Buck's Good Food Place

10.35am

The sleep-on-it verdict: Theo's had his chance. Nelson Tarris is paying for breakfast. He said let's go somewhere. Costas comes here one or two Sundays a month. Coffee's world-class. If anyone calls the house for him, Emily gives them Buck's number.

Their chat's going better than Costas expected. Nelson, 33 - looking 25, talking 45 - digs for no tidbits and hasn't yet alluded to the King Lear story. The Chicago PD press conference an hour ago did include Costas' name, without his permission or prior notification, helpfully. Department mouthpiece haphazardly decried media suggestions of heavy-handedness and/or bungling on their part......doing what we can......Tribune's drumming up hysteria for the sake of sales......progress is being made......anxious to solve these awful killings...

'What made you change your mind about being interviewed?' Nelson asked him early, as they ordered.

'My brother convinced me to do it,' said Costas, pokerfaced. Nelson's only been at the Sun-Times 2 years. Doesn't know Theo from a hole in the wall. His manner is, in Costas' experience with journalists, atypical - their session's amounting to a one-on-one discourse as opposed to a dreaded run-of-the-mill Q&A. He makes Costas smile more than once - giving his own robust opinions on the root causes and possible ramifications of America's current political and social instabilities.

Pulsating mahogany, watery eyes; the just-out-of-bed look, whether intentional or no, lends Nelson an irresistible charm. Mark it: strikingly handsome, witty, informed, self-deprecating, friendly, relaxed, smart, upfront, even-handed, open-minded and brimming with lively non-sequiters. No wedding band stirs intrigue.

Nelson's father witnessed Will Brown's murder by a frothing mob in 1919 outside the Douglas County Courthouse in Omaha. Brown was beaten to death, body then hanged by the neck from a telephone pole, corpse then riddled with bullets, cut down, tied to the back of a car, dragged down the street and finally set alight.

'Old man vowed to fight after that. I've tried a thousand times to imagine what it was like to be there, to see such a remarkable thing. Couldn't but mark a 16 year old boy, I guess. Raised us strictly anti-segregation,' says Nelson proudly. Pause.

'Other men were hurt on the streets too. I don't know why they like me so much,' goes Costas, a jilted segueway of his own, referring to his pipeline medal. Nelson has nothing to say on that. Tells Costas though that there's an enquiry rumored to be in the offing vis-à-vis the CPD's actions during the previous week. Nelson fails to directly apportion blame. Confirms that he saw crazy shit go down on both sides in the riots. And by way of further explanation, he goes: 'It's the American way to confound every poor swinging dick with delusions of superiority, shove them all into a dark snake-pit, call it individualism, and whoever scratches out the most eyes takes the spoils.'

Seldom uses the notepad or pen on the table, a method taught him by a kindly professor - use brisk, single words as reminders. Listen, interact, don't take notes. Ran the University of Nebraska paper for a year. Lived a few blocks from Malcolm X. Covered the funeral for the Omaha World-Herald.

'Lots of good men went out there with the very best of intentions,' comes Costas regarding the riots. 'Every last one of us loves this country.'

Flash: that boy Costas thrashed six ways from Sunday. 'We stood up for a moral code,' sips coffee, trying to wash down moral code's aftertaste; continuing with, 'and faced opposition bravely.' Nelson's looking skeptical.

Costas got a personal call at 9am this morning from Superintendent Ralph Darling; it was sugary praise for his troubles - 'One man with courage is a majority, said Andrew Jackson. You have my full backing, the whole department and city's backing on this King Lear crap. We all need heroes to count on for quick results and you are one heck of a true hero by any stretch.'...to count on for quick results... Costas thanked him for his time.

Says Costas to Nelson, 'I am proud of what we achieved! Any honorable report will vindicate us,' at the crescendo of the venting, feeding the point to a child already fed.

That goddamn boy he thrashed.

Costas needs a breather.

They will empathize, won't they?

Uses the Gents'.

When the talk resumes: 'You get approval on the final article before we print,' goes Nelson, jotting down a word, 'that's how I do it.' He hasn't mentioned the arm, hasn't wondered after Costas' family's reaction to the accosting and - thank God \- so far he hasn't, in almost 45 minutes, used the word hero. Nelson's got a brother, an uncle and two cousins floating about SE Asia.

Unavoidably, Winston comes up: 'Your son, Detective, killed last November in Dak To - my sympathies firstly; if I may ask you -'

Oh no, here it comes: what's it like to lose your son?

Nelson says, 'With regard to where perhaps you feel the responsibility for his death lies: who is responsible?' Candor is disconcerting. Costas sees a squirrel scurrying up the tree outside their window out of sight. He likes sitting at this booth; he likes the closeness of the tree.

Bides his time; interprets, feels it - feels a strong straight question deserves a strong straight answer. So he gives it to Nelson, with no eye contact: 'I don't know, truthfully. But it seems to me that the more you fight It \- whatever It might be - the bigger It becomes.'

Nelson smiles, nods, goes, 'Every action has its equal and opposite reaction.'

'Times two. Times ten!' says Costas, sipping the divine coffee, searching in vain for that squirrel in the foliage.

'Can I quote you on that?' comes Nelson with a glint in his eye, noticing Costas' gazing. The busboy walks over to Costas suddenly and says, 'You a cop? George?'

Costas says, 'Yes.'

'Call for you.'

Costas excuses himself. Phone's off the hook in the corner. Nelson calls for the check, finishing his bagel.

Costas mostly listens on the phone, hangs up slowly. His big back is to the small world.

Returns to Nelson cautiously; eyes down, thinking, thinking, thinking. Nelson watches, detects the change, chews to a crawl. Costas is quiet, stays standing. Check comes. Nelson's eyes are on Costas like a rash.

'You got a car?' to Nelson.

'Yeah.'

'You know where St. Peter's church is?'

Nelson knows where, it's just been a while: 'West Madison?'

Costas nods, goes, 'I need a ride.'

Nelson doesn't need a second invitation. Leaves cash, hardly counts it, no jacket. 'Let's go.'

*

Nelson does well not to speak for the 10-minute drive. Senses the urgency.

Costas goes, 'Wait here,' and gets out when they stop. Walks/jogs to the church. Mass is nearly done, singsong. Stragglers begin the exodus.

Bustles inside. He stands at the back, tiptoes, looks everywhere, grazes dozens of departing faces. Keeps as best he can to the wings. Huge crowd. Takes time. Got him! Ten yards.

'Colin!' hushed yell. Colin looks up, many look up; he's cradling his old mother's elbow, helping her out. Costas beckons Colin fervently over heads. Crowd's too slow. Colin shakes his head at Costas, angered, embarrassed, his mother asks him who that man is. Costas speeds down an outer aisle, keeping with Colin's pace in the center, the width of a full pew between them.

'We gotta go!' he says louder to Colin.

Colin goes, 'Not in here!' indicating the presence of his mother. Costas sighs. Waits. 'Careful, Ma,' says Colin out the door, down the warm stone steps.

Costas follows quickly, 'Colin, listen to me --'

'I got my Ma here, Costas!'

'Who are you?' says Ma to Costas. Colin's shattered; worked like a dog on that status report through the night. He's gonna prove some things to a certain Unit Sergeant.

'We got number 4,' Costas whispers to him. Colin wants so badly to swear. Says instead, 'You kidding me?'

'Am I gonna kid?' comes Costas, agitated. Colin's got long-planned commitments today. Costas says, 'I got a car waiting to take us to O'Hare.'

Colin's eyes spurt to Nelson Tarris and his car off a ways, then back to Costas, with a crumpled brow, as Colin processes.

'O'Hare? Where the fuck's this guy taking us?'

'New Orleans.'

Meantime

Chicago Tribune

Gladys' face, from below the nose, is strangely pinched, like she sucks lemons as a hobby. She's intimidated by men from every strata you might care to mention and this makes her very popular among the 40+ single male demographic. She's left her switchboard position. Theo's request: Please check my mailbox while I'm out. She obliges; Theo is, after all, lead on King Lear. With the weekend, things are relatively stagnant in the office even with a mysterious, horrific killer of white men (follow-up react quote) stalking the streets.

There's one envelope in Theo's basket. She heads back to her station. Davy, 47, unattached for more good reasons than bad, the nighthawk janitor, with a constitution not dissimilar to the gargoyles adorning the front of this very building, replete with a clubfoot, wolf-whistles, 'When do I get that drink and some alone time, sweetheart?'

She keeps moving, head down, slight smile. Compliment's a compliment. Takes her seat, picks up the line. 'Theo?'

'Still here, Gladys,' he says pleasantly, relaxed.

'Just one thing, an envelope. Says FAO Mr. Theo George on it.'

'OK. Can you read it to me please?'

'What's FAO mean?'

'For the attention of.'

'Huh. OK,' she opens it up, reads: 'Please print this at your earliest convenience: FAO Mr. Ulysses Thompson: Dearest Sir, I wish to wholeheartedly apologize to you and your children for the most recent death of your wife Mary whom I know you love dearly.'

Gladys knits her brow, slows the reading. Continues, 'It was never my intention for her to die. Please be aware that I am sincerely heartbroken by the events that have transpired. I do hope that our friendly terms shall remain unaffected.'

'And that's all?' says Theo, not so level now.

'Yes,' she says. 'Is that from the k --'

'Is there a stamp on it, Gladys?' he's in a hurry in Wisconsin.

'No. What should I do with it?'

'Sit on it,' practically drops the phone.

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #14

(6 months ago)

Charlotte, North Carolina

Bought a packet of disposable razors and a bar of soap. This cock-of-the-walk feeling's lasting. He whistles in the steamy tub. Probs made a friend today in the Salvation Army soup kitchen.

Recap: Nat opens with, shunting himself next to Probs, 'I fought with Genghis Khan, who'd you ever fight with?' Probs wraps the strap of his duffel bag on the floor about his foot; automatic self-preservation safekeeping.

Nat's ancient, 70, gray hair slicked back hard, combed to within an inch of its life. Bushes of hair in his ears, knotted fingers like the roots of a deep-seated tree. Soupspoon does a dance in his grasp. He guzzles down that leek and potato goulash crap like there's no tomorrow. Turns Probs' insides out just looking at it.

Probs doesn't countenance crackpots in these kitchens generally – however, he feels like he may be one himself by now so he bites. 'What's he like?'

'What's who like?' goes Nat, slurping. He's casually dressed; dark pit stains on the gray T-shirt, a white headband and white shorts. Looks like he's been playing tennis. Weedy twigs for arms and legs.

'Khan, you loopy son of a bitch,' comes Probs with a grin.

Angered: 'That Mongol fucked my sister and cheated me outta 3 bucks.' Nat's rollercoaster speech echoes a spark. A bottomless pit's eaten away his sane mind. The old dwindler intricately stitches a map of incoherence, if such a thing can be done, in the name of autobiography. Once drank a bottle of disinfectant for the alcohol content. Probs enjoys the madness for a few hours. Nat lives with his niece, spouts the address and home phone number like Probs put a coin in him. Says it so frequently that Probs' could recite it himself. Says that Probs should come visit. Tonight's meatloaf.

'My niece's looking for a nice boy to have regular sex with,' is Nat's uncomplicated stab at closing the deal. Nat must fend for himself during the day, hence being here - prone to pawning off heirlooms if you catch his drift. Probs declines the invite apologetically.

'I must go get hammered,' he says to Nat. He's been easing up on the booze the last week. Vodka's substituted with rum. Finds it kinder to his colon.

*

Dime store's got a thing in the window: HELP WANTED. Probs licks his lips, holding the rum bottle. He sways on the spot. Puts the duffel bag down.

On the spot personal evaluation: clean(er), white, speaks English, doesn't smell too bad. Squints: open until 6.30pm.

HELL, YOU'LL NEVER GET IT, LOSER.

Finishes the rum, wandering. Attractive town.

Naps on a bench. Wakes with a tweak in his neck. Getting dark. A watch in a store window says that it's 6.15. Got a couple bucks left of the Vet's cash, no more. Liquor store's twenty yards to his right – Dime store's fifty to his left. Do or die. Trusts the coin toss.

*

Buys a pack of gum in the Dime. Doesn't feel inebriated. He works down in the far corner of the store on projecting self-confidence, poise, affability. Makes a selection of first impression faces in the reflective milk cooler doors. Tidy shirt and slacks. Bring it on.

'Hi,' he beams at the counter. She looks at him like he's direct sunlight.

'Hi,' she goes, straightens her slight body; leaves her magazine be, wary. He cracks a joke or two, introduction, self-effacement's a winner. She thaws.

Banter: 'I wish I had that beautiful Southern drawl.'

Inquisitive: 'Do you do your own hair?'

Informative: 'Searched a long time until I decided to stay in Charlotte. One thing's for sure, your town had my heart from day one. Oodles of charm.'

Evasive: 'Between careers. I'm working on my debut novel,' and her eyebrows lift in awe. Chews on his fingertips. She giggles, plays with her amulet. She doesn't ask about the missing teeth; the ponytail and goatee don't seem to faze her. She does, at one point, comment on his 'hippie' looks.

'I can assure you that I do not share any of their immature notions,' he says. Throws his eyes, 'Flakes.'

'Well, we got a couple people's lookin' for this job, Pat, so lemme take your phone number and I might give you a holler sometime tomorrow. Around 10 sound good?' she says.

A phone number? 'Yes, yes. I just got one today as it happens.'

*

This is it. He's verging on success. A job, then an apartment, a car, a woman; a completely new lie from nothing. Ahem: a completely new LIFE from nothing.

Nat's niece answers the door promptly. TV's implausibly loud somewhere back in the house's stomach. Gives his spiel on Nat etc. She's more than hospitable. About 45, big square glasses. Dressed in sloppy pajamas and tube socks. Furniture's covered in plastic. Cutlery's plastic. Windows at the back are barred. Someone's a flight risk it would seem.

Probs thought Nat could jaw but his niece's a champ - mostly queries into Probs' past. Probs does his best. And the woman can MAKE meatloaf. He can't finish - stomach's not used to such quantities.

'You got a place to lay your head?' says the niece, washing pots at the sink. Probs' drinks a small McAllan 12; uses every scintilla of his bedraggled self-restraint not to request that she bathe him in it. She refused to have him help her clean up.

'Oh, I'll find somewhere,' he says, honestly. She's done so much. He's no charity case. He might be a bum in the dictionary but he didn't start out a bum.

'Nonsense,' she goes, tugging the stopper loose, water begins to suck. She's already agreed to let him use her phone number for the morning. He explained the reason, didn't lie. Nat's screaming at Lawrence Welk in the adjacent room.

Hands on her hips, she pretends to be miffed: 'Stay here with us, now. Don't be a silly. Lord's funny world ain't so far gone a stranger can't help a stranger out of a itty-bitty jam.' Her rotten teeth and healthy snort have surely been called terrible things behind her back or to her face. She's really the most beautiful girl in town. What can Probs do but say thank you?

'Well, you're mighty welcome, sir,' she says rooting through the freezer. 'Sometimes an honest 'thank you' is just right. It ain't too proud and it ain't too humble neither.'

So a call comes the next morning at 10.10am and Probs doesn't get the job. The nice niece says better luck next time - Probs would like to die; the same bastard that keeps putting a plastic bag over his head has struck again.

Tells the niece that he'll pick up the few things she needs from the store, no trouble. A favor. Back in 20 minutes. Was gonna buy them dinner with his first paycheck.

Hitches a ride out of town instead: ashamed, humiliated inconsolably. Leaves the duffel bag behind; a continued new life of nothing.

18

O'Hare Airport, Chicago to New Orleans International Airport

1.05pm-3.30pm

...when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth... That's Sherlock Holmes. Would Holmes have been so erudite and self-confident with multiple homicides on his plate?

Costas once had 8 unrelated murders on his back. Many are easily, logically cracked - the philandering wife, the deceitful husband, the inept robber. More slip by.

How did they catch men like this before? Is there a rulebook somewhere he's not aware of?

Concentrates on the droning engines. He stares at nothing, thinks of less.

Beside him, Colin's asleep, had said, 'Just gonna rest my eyes,' after the beer. Out like a light.

Dark Mississippi down below keeps rolling along to the Gulf. Old Man River's last stop is theirs. Sgt. Infante's the only one in the department knows about this spontaneous expedition – he's the one took the initial call from the Big Easy. Urgency in Infante's voice: Updates, updates, updates, you hear me? Keep me posted.

Fruitcakes are out in force; 250+ men have come forward as the killer. City's on the boil. Worldwide picture of those sorrowful Thompson orphans has done nothing but torque public expectation.

Working up that memo he's got planned for Theo. It's in his head - concise, unambiguous. Unleash it tomorrow when he's citywide feted. Told Nelson not to worry about cabling him the article. 'I trust you,' he said on the blustering runway; the plane was held. Sent Nelson to Emily for a flavorsome picture, instructed Nelson also to inform her of Costas' departure - will call her from New Orleans. Nelson made fair enquiries into the King Lear case on the drive to O'Hare. Colin didn't like it and, frankly, he doesn't like the idea of Costas cosying up to another newspaperman. Costas only offered Nelson splinters, said to wait, to sit on it, Nelson's got his little birdie on the inside guaranteed. Costas couldn't guarantee though that the Sun-Times would have the jump on Department-line tapered-info-for-the-masses but Costas will hand him exclusive confirmations anonymously and on the record as he sees fit.

Feels extreme tiredness. Niggling pain in the shoulder, stewardesses very helpful. Scribbles a to-do list in his head. Wishes he had a pen. Descent's announced. Costas' stomach flips. Never enjoys flying.

*

Harvey Cadorette's 55, Louisiana born and bred, snappy dresser, about 6 feet, strong physique; got a toothpick in his mouth and a fair handshake to boot.

'Welcome to the South, Boys,' says the Detective, hitching his immaculately belted pants, 'They call me Caddy.' Speckled graying hair's crew-cut, got a military past is the vibe; above Harvey's left ear's a small hairless patch guided by a 4 inch arrow scar. Slug graze. Costas feels in good hands.

'Car's waitin',' comes Caddy, his wild and searching eyes creating the impression of time being of the essence. Wouldn't pick up on that necessity the way he moves.

*

Car trip's low-key, no talking shop. The Yankee duo doesn't lean on him; Louisiana's already tugging on their collars: Mellow, mon frere, life's good. Caddy's one laid-back driver. The place could sucker an outsider all right. Easy to forget that there's bodies in the closet.

St. Charles Avenue: marvelous lines of Southern Live Oak flank and enliven the Streetcar Line boulevard. 'Quercus virginiana,' softly-drawls Caddy, a self-professed weekend horticulturist when the Mrs. ain't around. Tongue-twiddling that toothpick, pulling into a parking spot, 'A particular source of Dixie pride,' he goes, meaning the trees. Getting out of the car, 'You're expected,' goes Caddy, holding the toothpick and pointing to the Pontchartrain Hotel across the street. 'Check in with White Horace. That ol' dog knows the score. Gonna get you gents a few toilet wants from the drugstore up the block.'

Colin and Costas do as they're told. Wiley White Horace looks 90, silver suit pressed to the limit. Brims with vim; a joy. He's a spinning jenny: you want yarns? Says he once did the Charleston with Dutch Schultz's moll in the Cotton Club and cut Erroll Flynn in a swordfight at Clark Gable's birthday party. Colin's more enchanted than Costas is; Costas interrupts, he's directed to the payphone in the lobby.

Caddy joins up with Colin shortly thereafter, small bag of accoutrements, arm about the shoulders, takes Colin to the bar. Costas can still see them from where he's standing. There's a TV in the lobby silently advertising Winston cigarettes. Phone's a 1912 fiddle back replica - mouthpiece protrudes from the wooden backing at average mouth level, separate handset hangs low to the left.

Costas starts chipping away at that to-do list:

1. Emily: he apologizes. She understands with a sigh....Not the first time, comes with the job... They call their mothers The Ladies. 'The Ladies aren't too impressed,' she says, keeping her voice low. 'She said that thing she says, you know, about you being a bad egg.' Costas understands; Emily means Kakoû kórakos kakòn ōón, a tired old Greek phrase literally translating to bad the crow, bad the egg, or more palatably, like father, like son. Rolls his eyes because his mother uses the phrase for good or bad: if he's late picking her up, when he brings her surprise gifts, when he graduated the academy. She was always on the fence about his Dad apparently.

'You know it means nothing,' goes Costas to his wife.

'I hope you're back soon, Georgie.' He says again that he's sorry because it's true. He pines for his wife most when they are apart. By the end of their 5 minutes, she's on his side, where she wants to be.

2. Casimir: We're here, he's taking us out there now, will call as quickly as I can.

'Good,' says his edgy superior, 'because the glacier's getting itchy.'

Colin tries a local cocktail at the bar. Sips and splutters, coughs. Caddy laughs and claps Colin's back, ordering the same for himself.

3. Dwayne: tentatively. Dwayne's playing second fiddle, could create issues.

a. Will you locate a copy of King Lear?

b. Will you show pictures of the 3 victims to family and friends of the 3 victims to see if anybody recognizes anybody?

c. Will you or Morella look into previous multiple killers like this for possible hints?

d. Will you put together transcripts for me of your original interviews with Thompson family and friends?

Costas meets no resistance. Dwayne's a receptive gopher. Even wishes them luck. Wonders never cease. Costas lets White Horace know there will be messages for him. Horace salutes. Costas joins Colin and Caddy.

*

Short ride out to Harahan, upscale suburb. Caddy offloads, no notes, memorized: 'Stiff's a James Branson. DOB 2/16/20. 48 years. Found by a neighbor lying in his own poolside deckchair on August 12th last. Happened about 7.45pm. I was off-duty, driving by, heading home, when the call came over dispatch. Neighbor was walking his dog - a terrier of some description - a very crisp night, I remember. Heard two gunshots, made his way towards Mr. Branson's abode and then saw a dark figure depart the scene on foot.'

The Detectives now stand where the witness says he heard the shots, taking in facts and surroundings. It's the first time that Costas feels a need to put himself into the shoes, the mindset of the killer; how to achieve that is another problem.

'Could he describe the figure, Harvey?' comes Colin.

Caddy sucks on his toothpick, points down the street and says, 'See that red convertible parked?'

'Yeah.'

'From here to there.' Colin steps forward, measures the distance from where he's standing \- on the other side of the street from the house, maybe a half block ahead.

'They have street lights here?' comes Costas, raising his sights.

Caddy says, raising his own, 'Summertime city doesn't turn them on till 8.

'Christ, that's got to be 80, 90 yards,' goes Colin, about the house-to-convertible.

'Buck-five actually,' goes Caddy, hands wedged in pockets. Three conspicuous men helping each other to crack a puzzle. There is something beautiful about it and dignified.

A car wants to take the corner, they're in the middle of the residential thoroughfare. Step aside. 'So no ID,' says Costas to Caddy.

'Fat, skinny, tall, short. Older, younger, walked away, ran away,' shrugs philosophical Caddy.

'Witness got baggage?' says Colin. Caddy's headed calmly for the Branson house and they with him.

'62 year old from a couple streets over. Rich, meek and a lifelong conservative. Former head of a short-lived neighborhood watch here. I wouldn't worry about him covering anything up.' They ascend winding stone steps to the Branson place, 111 Ferrara Drive, a FOR SALE sign staked into the lengthening front lawn.

'Some place,' goes Colin, 'what'd his guy do?' The case file's in the car; the information's delivery's preferred organic, in conversation; easier to digest.

'Owned, or, co-owned a hotspot on Basin Street,' says Caddy, trying the front door. Locked. Jimmies it in 20 seconds flat. House is cold despite the sunlight it receives. Cleared of personal items, wall to wall. Reminds Costas of a nightmare. Spacious rooms.

'Partner give up anything?' comes Costas; they're in the living room.

Replies Caddy, 'Nah. You could say that there's motive all right; around town it went that Branson and his business buddy, ah, Bowling's his name - they weren't seeing eye-to-eye for some time on various issues. The club was generally doing fine though; still is, maintains Bowling and his bookmen.'

They move into the kitchen, deathly quiet; just footsteps on tile. Colin goes to Caddy, 'What did you think?'

'Well,' says Caddy, leaning on the breakfast counter, extracting a pintsized flask from his coat pocket, swishing it, 'First thought in my head was the mob. Branson got busted in your parts a couple times for guns, drugs - ran Mickey Mouse numbers for Momo Giancana.' Swigs the flask. Offers it up. Colin tries.

Costas is surprised about the Giancana thing, interested, says to Caddy, 'Was Branson born in Chicago?' Colin can't handle the whisky, coughs it up. Costas is good, turns it down. Caddy smiles at Colin, lights a cigarette, goes to Costas, nodding, 'Lake Zurich.'

Colin looks at Costas and vice versa - our first meaningful connection?

'A bit player,' Caddy recommences, offers a cigarette to Colin and Colin leaps for it. Caddy obliges with a flame, comes, 'Ducked south when word spread that he wasn't paying up the rightful tribute to his employers. Came here with a skinny roll, got mixed up in a poker game he couldn't afford, cost him 10 Gs right there. Later his talents cost him 25% of Lagniappe, his club. And who did he lose that one-in-four to? Carlos Marcello.' Colin's gotta laugh. 'I don't think Bowling forgave him for that,' concludes Caddy. 'All moot either way; the Shakespeare stuff's definitely too highbrow for our Italian friends.'

Branson's tidy backyard: pool's drained, deckchairs piled up, painted fence, high trees. Lovely, peaceful spot. Caddy, straddles the concrete patio floor/grass borderline.

'A single man, Harvey?' asks Costas, feeling that Branson was probably single.

'Wannabe bon vivant,' says Caddy, flicking his cigarette into the empty figure8 pool. 'Threw around green he didn't have, loved dropping Marcello's name. If the trim was young and vulnerable then it was tailor-made. Vice had him up twice for stat rape; plea-bargained both times to contributing to the delinquency of a minor,' and he says the crime like a sarcastic movie title.

'With a felonious background?' says Colin, amazed and then amazed at himself for being amazed.

Caddy says, gives the sky a glance, 'Somebody up there liked him.'

'Marcello must've been satisfied with the way he ran things,' comes Costas.

'Seems likely which also further discounts a Marcello connection to the murder. Branson did have a girlfriend, if you could call her that – petite girl, hardcore junkie, 16 or so. She could not enlighten us,' Caddy says, like if she had said anything useful it would've been categorized as a miracle. Says more, 'Ex-wife's got a restraining order. She's in Missouri. Hadn't a kind word. His PO concurred. No kids. Sister's in Reno. She gave us nothing. We're combing, you know, coming up with zilch.' The men begin drifting back towards the house.

*

They repose at the Pontchartrain before dining. Colin needs a leak. Caddy's silk smooth giving an elderly dumpy bumpkin directions. They part in laughter. Costas calls Casimir; everything's the same, it's King Lear - no eyeballs, no prints, no clues. He's a ghost. All we have: he's sure got a grudge against middle-aged white men from Cook County.

Dwayne's been busy, left a message with White Horace: Dwayne's organizing the original Thompson reel-to-reel rather than transcripts of interviews. He's located a copy of King Lear. Morella's on top of researching killers. The Kites don't know the Thompsons. Neither do the Birches and the Birches don't know the Kites. The net's gotta be widened.

Calls Casimir back: get SI Darling on the horn, tell him to treat Dwayne as Costas' fully-trusted emissary while he's down here. More men, question more people, get pictures of vics in the paper, Sun-Times preferably, ask for Nelson Tarris. Step outside vics' family boundaries - colleagues, acquaintances etc.

7.10pm

Commander's Palace

1403 Washington Avenue, New Orleans

Caddy's a VIP. He skips the queue. 'It's comped,' he goes, answering the unasked question from Colin and Costas.

'How?' wonders smiling Costas as they sit. Caddy taps his nose, fingernails prim, and says nothing. Menus come. Caddy's on first names with the waitress - they're playful, introductions etc. Monique's her name, 35, bronzed, bronzy perm, skin and bone. Caddy's hand's close to her nonentity ass. Orders his usual - Crispy Soft-Shell Crab.

Very upmarket restaurant. Noisy with smells. Strict dress code. Gave up their coats to a cloakroom clerk. Burgundy walls, shag carpet. Strategic ambient lighting supports the interchangeable twosome of both romantic and shady overtures. Costas isn't crazy about sitting around here chatting. There's guilt. This is no vacation. They ought to be grafting, sweating. This is no working man's establishment in the hour of public need. There are stones going unturned, irretrievable man-hours have already been blown pussyfooting.

Lagniappe's open at 9. Fats Domino's playing tonight. 'Bowling's going nowhere, Chief,' Colin says, agreeing with Caddy's judgment that, 'a man's gotta eat, no?'

Colin takes forever in choosing the Grilled Porterhouse of Colorado Lamb; Costas' mouth waters at the prospect of Shrimp & Tasso Henican after Caddy fills him in on what constitutes the dish's contents. 'Easy eating single-handed,' Caddy surmises with a grin.

Caddy has Monique bring a good bottle of chilled wine. Colin loves it all, much entranced by Caddy's cool, confident, reasonable approach to things. He's learning that work and pleasure needn't be so disparate. Costas isn't fully settled; the decadence is completely alien, an ill-fitting shoe. Monique drops off their meals soon and says, 'Bon appetite,' a starter's pistol. The men tuck in.

'What about the wing?' goes Caddy, filling his face, pointing to Costas' arm.

'The riots,' says Costas, letting the shrimp's flavor engulf. Caddy nods knowingly: Say no more or I partly guessed. Colin's into his wine like a lapsed celibate. Thinks of the guy that injured Costas and goes happily, 'That cocksucker's gonna be getting his meals through a straw for longer than a little while.' Caddy snorts a laugh, his reaction not giving up approval necessarily. Costas is quiet. He would give anything to pause the rotating world. He's so far behind it - or he's always been behind and just never knew how big the gap was. How do we stay ahead of the game when we don't even know the rules?

'This investigation sounds like a wild animal, no?' says Caddy, stopping to lick his lips, scope the room, sip his drink.

A fine white woman enters the establishment on the arm of a well-dressed man - she's Coke-bottle curved, six feet easy, snowdrop gown to the floor, hair cascading red past the bare shoulders, smoke from the stiletto footsteps. Very nearly. Colin's transfixed as she passes, paying him no mind. Her scent, it clouds, it wafts, it marauds.

Pussy.

Costas is close to full-bellied, tries to ignore Colin's leering and returns to business with, 'You ever work on something like this Harvey?' to Caddy.

Caddy rests elbows on the table, takes another breath. 'No, sir, can't say's I have. I just get the boring murders, ya know? Straight killing. Bam. Money, sex, brawls-gone-wrong, property. Non compos mentis characters like your sweetie-pie make me shudder. I am but a simple law enforcement officer,' leaning back.

*

Colin's reached obnoxious in back, slurs, 'Oh, better check in with Daddy,' as Caddy pulls curbside to the Pontchartrain. Caddy's downed about the same amount as Colin – he is OK. Colin's spent the last 20 minutes bitterly, breathlessly amusing himself with detailed anecdotes espousing his ex-wife, Greta's, spectacular faults, why he left her - talk about frigid! - and it didn't go down like she told everybody it did, lying cunt.

'I won't be long,' goes Costas to Caddy, ignoring Colin, climbing out awkwardly. It's 9.15.

'I'm easy,' says nodding Caddy to Costas. Colin gets out and moves into the passenger seat, farts en route. Serious Caddy, toothpick in his mouth ever-present, goes to Colin, 'Listen. This is a shit-storm brewing, not a school-trip. You're making an ass of yourself. Shut your yap. For the badge if nothin' else.'

Colin fires up a Chesterfield, snorts contemptuously, hiding the lagging scintilla of sobriety that tells him Caddy's right; silent, just drags hard on the smoke and waits.

Inside the hotel: White Horace's aflutter when he sees Costas coming. Costas' craves bed. 'Mr. George, there's been fun and games while you been out,' Horace goes with no trace of humor, putting the desk phone under Costas' nose. 'Your friend done called ten times in the last half hour, askin' like crazy for you, soundin' more distressed each and every time.'

Costas is quick-dialing Dwayne, trying to stay calm.

Two rings: 'Chicago Homicide,' she says.

'Detective George for Detective Clooney,' Costas goes.

Two rings: 'Where've you been, George?' It's fiery Infante. Costas regroups.

'Sir, I'm sorry, we were about --'

'It doesn't matter,' says Casimir. He steadies himself, gulps a drink. 'Clooney's nearly in Milwaukee. We're trying to figure out how to get you up there tonight.'

Another one.

PROBS INTERLUDE #16

(5 months ago)

Appomattox, Virginia

2.20pm

Preposterous. Demented. Ludicrous.

Probs' walking stick, taller than he, a majestic accessory, gives his step a purpose, like he's a Sherpa (or Gandalf) leading an expedition into the unknown, no longer a dislocated bone. Can it be so simple - put something long and stiff into a man's hand and invincibility courses through him?

Hasn't felt a surge of redirected power similar to the past week for - well, since he became homeless - hold up, scratch that - it's been YEARS.

And speaking to himself of homeless, he's got this lecture practiced in his head for college students; you know, for whenever he's asked to give a talk on the subject. It's entitled: 'Does Having A Roof Over Your Head Mean That You're Not Homeless?' They will ooh and aah. A big-busted co-ed will call him 'sir' and 'brave.'

*

Pricks won't let him stay.

'Pricks!' he calls them.

'You stink, rummy,' goes One.

'No dogs allowed,' goes Two.

'This is a National Historical Site,' they say together; not for lice like you, the implication.

Probs fed a curmudgeonly junkyard bulldog in Lynchburg. Pooch stuck to his heels. Named him Pooch. Pants a lot, wears Probs' crucifix. Warms the cockles at night. Not the first time he's slept with a dog - ha ha.

*

New Year's day he scrambled like a scrapped fighter plane. The Vet hung from a branch of his treehouse by the neck. Tied to a shoelace was a note, read 'I am Justin McElwee, Lynchburg, VA.' Probs took everything he could grab from Justin. Cut him down first. Didn't bury the man. Prayed though.

Made a call to Georgia State Police when he'd left, heading for South Carolina; did what he could to describe the whereabouts of the body. Turned out the cops were aware of Justin, let him be mostly, roughed him up when he was looking for it.

Hitched a ride to Lynchburg from Nat and his niece in Charlotte. Woman driving said Probs ought to see Appomattox – 'sanctified,' 'serene,' 'special,' 'talks to you right down in your belly' was a good one; her voice was soothing Dixie.

Appomattox is where Lee surrendered to Grant in April, 1865.

Probs shrugged, never had much interest in that. Four Score and seven years ago, John Wilkes Booth, slaves freed - that's about the sum total of his schooling on the Civil War.

*

The clothes are filthy again, the beard's stormed back, the hair's long. Regression. He's got one roll of film left though, by some miracle. Clasps it.

So what would Ulysses S. Grant or Robert E. Lee say about this? An American citizen forbidden from learning more about his heritage because of his appearance/odor/deportment? We need another civil war! Emancipate the poor white folk!

He pings about the one-horse town. Refused entry to see the McLean house where the amnesty was signed. That's raised his ire. Suddenly he wants to know every fuckin detail about that war.

Little gift shop on the corner. Has a revolving rack of postcards on the sidewalk. Most have renderings relevant to the Civil War. One is interesting and Probs picks it out. The postcard's front is made up only of cursive handwriting: 'After four years of arduous service, marked by unsurpassed courage and fortitude, the Army of Northern Virginia has been compelled to yield to overwhelming numbers and resources. I need not tell the survivors of so many hard-fought battles who have remained steadfast to the last that I have consented to this result from no distrust of them; but feeling that valor and devotion could accomplish nothing that could compensate for the loss that would have attended the continuance of the contest, I determined to avoid the useless sacrifice of those whose past services have endeared them to their countrymen. By the terms of the agreement, officers and men can return to their homes and remain until exchanged. You may take with you the satisfaction that proceeds from the consciousness of duty faithfully performed, and I earnestly pray that a merciful God will extend to you his blessing and protection. With an unceasing admiration of your constancy and devotion to your country, and a grateful remembrance of your kind and generous consideration of myself, I bid you all an affectionate farewell. General Robert E. Lee.'

Takes him a long time to read it once. He walks away with it. Finds a bench, sits with Pooch, and reads Lee's words over and over and over. He wants to swim in them. Such beautiful, humble and heartfelt prose. He can feel Lee's disappointment and sincerity. This was a leader!

He is speaking to Probs here; beyond the grave, Lee stretches his skin, bends the Rulers, subsumes the hurt. Perhaps the South has not deserved its vilification. Probs' ignorance stabs.

CHANGE YOUR UNDERSTANDING. YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING.

There's something afoot here, inside him, in Virginia; something grand is happening in Appomattox. It's a convergence of forces; Probs is a pawn. The warring factions set down their weapons. Probs' negotiates favorable terms for himself with himself.

How will he do it? Who knows?

But it's decided: He's going home.

19

September 2nd, 1968

New Orleans to Milwaukee

Early Hours

Earliest Northbound flight they got him was to Atlanta Municipal. Left Colin and Caddy in a rush – Costas doesn't hold out much hope for Colin's interview with Trevor Bowling later on in Lagniappe re the murder of James Branson. Can't be helped for now.

Colin's staying in New Orleans tonight anyway, if for no other reason than to save him from the humiliation of arriving in Wisconsin drunk. At least Colin's face dropped when he learned of the new twist. Costas thanked Caddy, guaranteed we'll be in contact again, apologized for the abruptness of his leaving, no need, takes a cab. Colin's remorse - genuine, for sure - falls short of drawing sympathy from Costas.

'I swear I'm on the first plane out tomorrow,' Colin pleads. Flight flies at 10.35pm. The threatening heartburn's here. Costas' arm's acting up. Pills, pills, pills. The tiredness and tension plot their bloodless coup. Winston as John Wilkes Booth nightmare repeats.

At Atlanta, he scoots off the plane about midnight. Turbulence in the air, motion sickness, turbulence in the ribcage. He's too tired to care. What awaits me? Shakes the hand of a man introduced to him as Berry: first or last name? Unknown. Doesn't pry. It's ear-splitting loud on the runway. They waste no time getting airborne.

Berry's 50, Texan, white-haired, born-again, all smiles. He's horribly awake for the hour. Chicago shopped around maniacally for a local willing pilot in Atlanta while Costas was in-flight from Louisiana. Guy at Atlanta knew a guy who knows and roused Berry.

Berry's got a small twin-engine deal, spick-and-span, and according to him, he's got thousands of hours flight-time logged in. He's got business in Chicago on Wednesday - how could he say no to assisting when the urgency was relayed? Gets a kick out of it.

Berry says, over the noise of 20,000 feet of altitude, 'The old man was a cop for 40 years. I know what it's like. You guys always get the shit end of the stick.' Costas does what he can to chitchat, feels Berry deserves some sort of friendliness.

Berry asks a plethora of questions vis-à-vis King Lear (he's a self-confessed crime novel addict) and Costas plays the yes/no game as best he can. The 2 hours drip.

*

Mike Morella's waiting at O'Hare with Milwaukee Detective Cliff Dahmen. No reporters. It's 2.30am. Mike's hopped-up on caffeine, chatters updates like a shivering tickertape monkey. Car's stale-smelling. Costas can barely discern anything being said from where he is in back. He's up and down.

Cliff Dahmen's amplified intensity lends him a serious, unappealing air. Costas thinks he's mid 30s, sucking coolly on a Viceroy, wearing prescription glasses. Got a large wart on the left side of his widow's peak, a pair of hefty moles on his neck. Average Joe stamped on his forehead. Says little, he's the local primary on #5, raised the alarm, listens to Mike babble ardently.

Words, highway, words, highway, words, highway.

Travelling like a stuck turntable needle. Mike thinks he's manning a rocket. The sense Costas picks up on is one of virulent PANIC:...pediatric consultant......roadside......about 8 o'clock......how do we stop this guy......many departments involved...

Costas spies an all-night drugstore. Has Mike get over-the-counter sleeping and indigestion tablets. He can't think straight. Gets to Milwaukee for 4.20am. Mike slides round back of the downtown building on North James Lovell.

Cliff says, 'Goddamn it,' when he sees the small group of reporters waiting for them. The press spring into life when the car approaches.

'Don't you bastards sleep?!' shouts Mike as he slips past them, shunts into underground private parking. Mike and Cliff guide Costas into the rear of the building; it's cold and quiet as a graveyard - nothing said between them - until they hit the 3rd floor and the elevator opens to mostly darkness. Costas is a zombie. Are the sleeping pills and painkillers incompatible? He goes where he is taken. Mike starts talking comfort.

There's a room off the homicide bullpen; it's got discontented men inside it, a concentrated kind of nuclear chaos. Casimir Infante leaves that room behind him when he sees Costas coming. The men in the room stop moving and talking \- stare like a hungry herd at Costas through the windows: Dwayne Clooney, Superintendent Ralph Darling, Captain Buzz Renne are recognizable; the rest are new to him.

A huge amount of light comes from that room, no light elsewhere, like a bomb went off in there and it's still going off. There's a lone man seated off to the side of the Sanctus sanctorum; half-lit, strong profile, wearing the only dark suit amongst the crowd. He's a watcher, reading a case file. Uninvolved as yet. Costas smells a predator.

'You look bad,' says Casimir to Costas, concerned for his welfare. Casimir's in casuals.

'I'm OK,' says Costas, voice scratchy, clears his throat. Repeats I'm OK to convince.

'Are you up to it continuing?' says Casimir, wary of observers. He knows that no one's got a fuckin clue what's going on and he knows that Costas will be the fall guy if need be. Costas doesn't deserve that. The heroism cachet has a dwindling expiration date. Always had.

Costas nods, head a little droopy. He's fighting.

'I can give it to Clooney. Stakes are getting sky-high,' says Casimir, glancing back at the laser sights trained on them both.

Give it up? Yes!! I can't do this! I feel like I've been through a blender.

'No,' Costas comes firmly. Looks at Casimir and Casimir holds it for a prolonged second. Mike and Cliff wait. 'I'm on it,' says Costas. 'I need a nap. That's all.'

Casimir brings Costas into the lion's den. Mike Morella follows them and shuts the door behind him. Cliff Dahmen has darted off elsewhere. Casimir opens the office door again to allow air in. There's an air-conditioning whir. Smoke to the ceiling. Windows closed, blinds closed. Telltale vapors of takeout mooshoo pork and pepperoni pizza et al, evidenced by cartons strewn about, three boxes of pastries at various stages of emptiness.

Costas nods to Chicago worrywarts Darling and Renne, nods to Dwayne. Introduced to Wisconsin State's Attorney Dominic The Dominator Pounder (reputation precedes; his presence is a good indicator of the severity of the situation), Cliff Dahmen's immediate superior Homicide Sergeant Rick Horner and Milwaukee Police Chief Christopher Deurloo.

Costas accepts a cup of gelatinous coffee, rejects a pastry and sits in the corner's tatty tan sofa. Looks like everyone's a sardine, 9 men squirming in a tight spot - must be 5 of them smoking on/off at any one time. Costas feels like a dead frog, one that they're just waiting for the green light to dissect.

'Thanks for coming so quickly,' says his Captain Buzz Renne, 52, a bespectacled dwarf, with a gangrenous personality, most assuredly not famed for his compassion towards his fellow man. The big black maple leaf of his homeland on the front of the brown sweater's distended by the roundness of his midsection.

'New Orleans, Detective. What happened?' opens Casimir, to lull Costas into cognizance, to let him dictate for as long as possible.

Costas rubs his forehead, goes, 'Yes. A James Branson. Nightclub proprietor. Uh, our guy did it. Branson's middle-aged, white, divorced, and had a nickel-and-dime sheet. Mixed up with Marcello. No heavy hitter.' Feet shuffle, men consider.

'So there is or isn't a mob connection? To clarify,' goes Infante.

'The connection I would say is incidental,' replies Costas. Cliff Dahmen comes into the room quietly, hands a piece of paper to Chief Duerloo. Deurloo reads it. Rick Horner watches them. 'Born in the Greater Chicago Area. That's our only real connection so far between all the vics,' Costas says.

'When was Branson killed?' comes Darling. Cliff Dahmen whispers something to Deurloo and Duerloo nods. Cliff Dahmen looks at Rick Horner across the room, nods a confirmation. Cliff now listens to Costas. Costas has to find the fact for Darling: 'Evening of August 12th,' he says.

'That's before Elm Kite,' comes lightning Dwayne, backup.

'Right,' goes Costas.

'So he could be doing this for longer than we think,' says Rick Horner, starting on a banana, non-accusatory; a soft-spoken, thin man with a pockmarked face and deep-set, floating eyes that have probably secured scores of voluntary confessions. Phone rings on the desk beside him.

'Well, the MO's extremely striking. I would bet that Branson's the first,' says Costas. Phone rings. Rick Horner leans to it.

'Though you can't confirm that,' says Renne to Costas, more like typical Renne. Phone rings. Horner picks up. Listens.

'No,' says Costas to Renne. 'My partner's stayed there tonight to conduct further interviews.'

Horner says quietly into the phone, 'OK. Yeah. No. Not yet,' no rush, no raising his voice.

SI Darling's flipping through pages on the desk, one leg kneeling on the black leather swivel chair, gets sardonic, says, 'Your report, Detective, it's an innaresting read. Are we any nearer to solving this mess? I'm sure that you don't need me to tell an experienced man like yourself that this is a mess.'

Rick Horner hangs up. Returns to what's going on in here. 'Yes, sir, it hasn't gone as we would've hoped so far,' Costas struggles with Darling, 'circumstances have not been favorable.'

'To the outside world, it looks like we're chasing our tails. We look very, very stupid,' says Renne, arms crossed. Darling slams the heavy reading on the desk for emphasis and says to Costas, 'There isn't one material witness for five separate murders, four of which occurred on the vics' own property: is this what you would have us believe?'

'Autopsies concluded - this includes New Orleans from the primary detective's report - that there has been no indication of foreign substances being used to induce paralysis of any nature in the victims. Neither has there been any indication of physical restraints. Scenes have shown no sign of forced entry or physical struggle,' goes Costas, automaton of the hour, 'unless --' Renne butts in with, 'Mary Thompson's death notwithstanding.'

Costas says, 'Unless this killing here tonight is any different. Yes, Mrs. Thompson's death notwithstanding. However, we're happy that that was an anomaly.'

Darling slices cheaply with, 'I'm sure she's not so happy with the anomaly.'

Horner goes to Costas, 'Anomalous based on -- ' Interruption, from Darling; he's answerable to higher powers as well; '-- wait a second - you're saying Detective - excuse me, Sergeant,' to Horner who has no problem with it and Darling back to Costas, 'you're saying that, uh, that some guy's going around asking people to please hold still while I shoot you in the face?' Sarcasm's Darling's defense. All that shit from Upstairs is a mudslide - drowns the soldiers, musses the generals' boots and it's harder to replace a good pair of boots.

This isn't personal to Costas, there are specific roles here that need fulfilling - the protagonist must be antagonized and chain of command befits that requisite. Costas and SI Darling have never before been at loggerheads.

'No sir,' says exasperated Costas. 'We're sure that the killer knows these victims. The last thing they expect is to be --'

'I don't buy it. Call me crazy,' says Darling, 'Am I the only one here having trouble?'

Rick Horner tries again with, 'Thompson's wife, her death is anomalous based on what, Detective?' to Costas.

'Based on the MO, the facts, our experience and the logic,' comes Dwayne with force, tired of the abuse.

'You've successfully chased down how many men like this, Detective?' says rhetorical Darling to Dwayne. Silence.

Dwayne does what he can, steps in with, 'If anyone saw anything they haven't alerted us.'

'There was a man in New Orleans saw something. But nothing useful,' says Costas.

'You know who the fuck that is sitting out there?' bursts Darling again to Costas - pointing to the suited gentleman outside the room - Darling not quite the hero-worshipper of earlier, obviously - his yellow and red tracksuit still might have the price-tag on it.

Darling moves nearer to Costas - a distinctly boozy whiff off him. 'That's a Fed. And if we don't get fuckin moving on this thing, and I mean right now, Hoover and his minions are gonna gladly swoop in and have us for breakfast. And whatever we may look like now, when that happens, then we're gonna really look like a buncha cast-iron fucksticks.'

Renne says as icing, 'We got DefCon 1 breathing down our necks.'

Costas breathes, having predicted this kind of onslaught. Still, not easy to take.

Dominic Pounder chimes in finally. He's a tall, wiry man, 40's, young-looking for State's Attorney, good-looking relative to the current company. Father ran hooch for Arnold Rothstein in New York during Prohibition; that unfortunate inheritance meant that The Dominator had to work ten times as hard to get where he is today. His determination's a formidable, noteworthy achievement that he never uses for leverage. He's earned this clout aboveboard.

Only now does Costas see the seated boy, 8 or 9 years old, wrapped in a blanket catching Zs, behind Darling in the opposite corner beside Pounder.

Do it for both of us, kid.

'I've spoken with Chief Deurloo, Mr. George,' Pounder says soothingly. 'Rest assured that we will do everything in our power to help you and your people. Competition, I believe, is healthy in many aspects of life but in this scenario it's not in our vocabulary.' Clearly not everyone on the Wisconsin side is vehemently supportive of that line. The ensuing silence spells it out.

'I appreciate that, sir,' goes Costas, stealing a look at Detectives Rick Horner and Cliff Dahmen with their eyes to the ground. Sorry I missed that conversation.

Square-faced, mustachioed and unhappy Chief Christopher Deurloo, 49, says, 'I'm sure an amicable sharing of the plaudits can be discussed when the dust settles on this.'

SA Pounder doesn't like that one bit and Chief Deurloo refuses to meet his stabbing gaze. Deurloo scratches his mismatched toupee, making it dead-giveaway budge.

'SA Pounder's very open to cross-pollination. That is to say,' says Casimir, trying to keeps things from completely imploding, 'share and share alike - interviews, documentation etc. - for the sake of putting this to bed ASAP.'

'Yes,' says SA Pounder, pacing, hands in pockets like a practiced lawyer, 'it's vital that we keep information channels flowing back and forth between the departments. Tonight's murder's another piece in a puzzle that affects a lot of people. We've had a chance to see where things stand thus far from your report. Tomorrow this news is gonna shake the windows and rattle the walls of the country. Your death in New Orleans proves that he's unconfined to Chicago and that makes the job significantly more taxing. Those people in Louisiana must be willing to do what they can as well.'

By now, SI Darling's stood up again, at the unopened window, taking a peek at the media hanging about on the street, on the sidewalk, floors below. He plays with the ring on his left small finger. The agitated careerist whispers to them, 'Jackals.'

The Fed's face is stone on entering uninvited. Late 30s, he's the quintessentially joyless G-man. Steps aside, hands clasped at groin-level. People wait for him to talk and nothing comes.

Impatient Renne's got a close eye on Costas' injuries and goes, 'Maybe George's become unsuitable.' The sleeping kid moves, tiptoes tip the floor. Pounder – the father presumably - softly caresses the boy's dark, short hair.

Nobody steps forward to question Captain Renne's assessment of Costas. Costas wishes dearly that Colin were here, that dumb shit. Defends himself with, 'Give me a couple hours sleep and all the resources you have available. 72 hours and I'll bag this son of a bitch.'

Where did THAT come from?

Derisive laughter from certain quarters. Rick Horner echoes Renne's doubtful tone with different words to Costas, 'When's this supposed PR piece about you in the paper? The interview.'

And Casimir reads the spite and says, 'Few hours.' Silent exchanges in the room are audible, like drumming beats in Costas' brain. Move it or lose it.

'OK,' goes Costas, putting his untouched coffee on the table next to him, 'somebody tell me what's happened up here.'

*

The inner circle disbands. Costas instigates a discourse with the Fed, giving the Fed no leeway. 'What's your official role in this?' says Costas bluntly. The Fed doesn't mind.

'Observation,' he goes automatically. Dwayne stands there with Costas, wanting to punch the Fed in the face. Such sanctimony. FBI's stooges are renowned for it.

How high up the ladder is this guy? Is he a token presence? Is Hoover realistically concerned? Do this guy's relayed reports go right to the Director?

The look in the Fed's eyes - shady, irrefutable, borne of Hoover's meticulous standards, his chronically fanatical, tyrannical methodologies - gives Costas pause and a crystalline understanding that any and all resistance to a Fed being there would be pointless. In the background Ralph Darling's on the phone to someone with stripes in New Orleans PD.

'Stay clear,' Costas goes to the Fed and walks off. Another monkey added to the pile of monkeys on Costas' back. They've lit a fuse at the tip of his coattails. The last 12 hours remind him starkly of that hanging Sword of Damocles.

Five minutes later: greedy press is dealt with on the steps in Milwaukee by Captain Renne and SA Pounder (Darling wanted to handle it – was talked down by the rest on the basis of his emotional display upstairs minutes earlier):...cannot rule out that possibility......imprudent to confirm or deny that at this point......no comment......departments are enthusiastic to share information for the protection of......the FBI is here to liaise and assist in any way that they can......don't know who you're source on that is but it's untrue......yes, we suspect that it is the same perpetrator......cannot presume to speak for the people in New Orleans......utmost belief in Detective George's abilities...

Nelson Tarris comes to Costas afterward, calling the detective's name. Costas gets into the passenger seat of Dwayne's car. Dwayne pushes Nelson back.

Costas says it's OK. 'I haven't really got time, Nelson,' Costas goes.

'Just thought you should know that the piece is good,' Nelson's voice above the clamoring behind him.

'Good,' Costas says, forcing a smile.

'New Orleans, Detective? Confirmation?' says Nelson hopefully. Dwayne stokes the engine. Costas is in, slams the door. Flatfoots kept the yelping corps at bay. Flashes.

Costas doesn't roll down the window. Nelson watches him, chewing gum. Costas nods furtively for Nelson's benefit. Nelson gets it. Dwayne puts it in reverse. Out of sight.

Theo George sees that shit go down from afar. He's hopping mad: I'M the one broke the story! Inside track's gone.

Offered Dwayne a freshly-spiked coffee when Dwayne and Co. left the building to talk to the press. 'Twists and turns, Detective,' Theo said to him, forcing a grin. Dwayne didn't ignore Theo, he fuckin blanked him. Morella too. Theo got close to Costas, less than 5 yards and said, before and after the Q&A, politely: 'Costas, can I speak to you for a second?'

Costas was preoccupied or played it that way, shielded from the media, led off to his getaway vehicle with the others. He heard me all right. Concentration levels aren't THAT high.

Theo doesn't recognize Nelson Tarris. Steam's whistling out Theo's ears. This is bad medicine. Nelson strolls by, scribbling. 'Hey, who're you with?' after Theo catches up to Nelson. 'Tarris. Sun-Times,' says nonchalant Nelson, unstoppable, not stopping.

Theo's furious - who do these fuckin guys think they are, cutting me out?

6.45am

10 minutes west of Kenosha, Wisconsin.

The golden hour.

Landscape's simmering in royal orange; the light's cresting. The day's begun its ascent. It's a mirage, for better or worse. Labor Day. The ride south on I-94's peaceful. Stars and stripes sleep standing like sentries in front lawns and front windows. Costas is more alert up front, machinating. Nothing much is said. Dwayne drives, Mike's in back. Car in front's got Cliff Dahmen and Sergeant Rick Horner.

Milwaukee Police Commissioner Sidney Gordon's at Lake Elkhart. He says to Milwaukee PD don't give them bastards an inch regarding jurisdiction. He's back this evening. Hold your ground. Many are inclined to agree. The Dominator's got his work cut out.

Scene's clean: body's still under inspection at the morgue, evidence's been collated and currently logged, post-mortem results pending. Car's impounded, sweep for clues is underway. Cliff's partner Stan Tumicki's got it copacetic back at base.

Side of the highway: a drainage ditch to the left, runs south for miles Costas is told. Everyone's got a flashlight, just in case, save for Horner. A lot of Horner's time's spent staring off into the distance, impatient, practically perched like a raven on Cliff Dahmen's shoulder. He's not a happy camper with these Chicago space invaders.

Cherry lights flicker on the car roofs. Couple sawhorses and tired beat cops on the tarmac maintain a small buffer from the zipping cars and handful of occasional lollygaggers; some autos honk their horns as they pass, one guy speeds by with have a nice day pigs, woooo!

'Found dead here,' says Cliff Dahmen, unfettered by sentiment, pointing to a dry long-grass patch a couple yards in off the road. 'Right by the car. Passer-by called it in to county; they put it together, called us for help. King Lear quote in his shirt pocket. Bullet in each eye.' Dwayne and Mike've done the once-over thing here already. They're static now. It's Costas who's moving, surveying the lush land, filling his lungs.

'Seems to be just the one set of tread marks,' Costas says, pointing his light vaguely at the space immediately before them all. The tracks start on the grass and stop sharply at the verge of the road.

'He was found lying beside the car, driver's door open, right?' to Cliff.

Cliff nods and says, 'Hazards on too.'

There's a half-eaten sandwich hurled at them by a zooming driver.

Costas sees no homes or buildings nearby. The low light gives up a few miles in any direction - maybe one farmhouse or a barn to the SW. A water tower NE.

Costas goes, 'So he was maybe driven by the killer to this spot.'

'That's our thinking,' says Dwayne, smoking. A cow lows.

Why would he let someone else drive his car?

'The killer escaped on foot it seems,' says Cliff; he's become warmer, more approachable in 3 hours, a man less burdened.

'Tell me about the guy,' says Costas to anyone.

Cliff opens, 'Elmer Thorne. White male. 53 years old. Private pediatric consultant in Milwaukee. Wealthy. Uh, married for 33 years. One adult son Arnold, unmarried, living in Ohio, another son died of Scarlet Fever in '38 aged 2. Paying member of the NRA and Republican Party. Wife was understandably distressed. Took it OK, I guess. She's a little old lady. She said that Elmer spends Sunday evenings at his brother's in Kenosha, watching TV or whatever. Usually gets back around 9.30/10.'

Costas isn't sure if he was informed of this yet, says, 'And TOD?'

'Probably before 8pm. 7.30/8,' says Dwayne.

Costas says, 'Where is she now, Mrs. Thorne?'

'At her sister's in Racine,' says Dwayne.

'What did the brother have to say?' goes Costas to Cliff.

'Haven't been able to locate him,' says Cliff regretfully. 'Asked neighbors and they said that he's been gone for the past 4 days for the holidays. A resort someplace. Nobody knows the name. We're casing possible vacation spots in the tri-state area. There's a uniform posted at his place.'

'So our doctor's cover story's out of town,' says suspicious Costas, eyes to the floor. Cliff and Dwayne and Mike say nothing. Could this be something?

Costas groans to the skies, the groan a by-product of a good backstretch. He says, 'How long did Thorne live in Milwaukee?'

'Moved there in late '60,' says Cliff.

'From Chicago,' comes Costas, heading back towards their car, dragging his feet through the dewy grass.

'I'll have to check that,' goes Cliff.

Costas thinks hard for a few moments. 'Can you set up some sort of a research or investigation hub back home?' he says to Mike Morella. Costas is stuck for time, for options: Morella's not nearly his first choice but he hasn't done anything very stupid to this point.

Mike says, 'Absolutely,' relishing the opportunity and responsibility. One important nugget Casimir Infante offered Costas before Casimir left Milwaukee: don't feel inadequate when you're delegating. Do it with a leader's panache.

'Gather together what you can from the people, uh, here and in New Orleans. Talk to Harvey Cadorette. Try and make the case presentable. Coherent. See maybe what we're missing. Bring in whoever, everyone, Rod Blakely, I guess, Dick McShane or --'

'Ollis is back today, isn't he?' says Dwayne.

'Rudy Ollis, yes,' says Costas. 'You have those taped interviews for me still, Dwayne?' Throughout this debacle, Costas has hitherto personally interviewed only Grady Birch's wife, daughter and business partner.

Six murders. It's a startling fact for a primary detective.

Dwayne says with a nod about the interviews, 'In the trunk.' He's really coming to the fore here. The sweetest smell of newly-cut grass skims the air.

'I'll hear those,' says Costas. 'I want to speak with Mrs. Thorne.'

'You should,' says Dwayne, 'these cagey assholes refused to allow me sit in when they talked to her earlier.'

Costas says to Dwayne, looking at the Milwaukee cops chatting out of earshot, 'Yeah, well, that's not gonna happen again. Do what you can to help Mike. I need every good man I can get.'

'Man, what a weird week,' says Mike Morella, retrieving a loaded cardboard box from the trunk.

'You think 72 hours was a bit of a stretch as pitches go?' says Dwayne with a mischievous glint in his eye to Costas. .

So I DID say it aloud.

Mike stands holding the box, looking at Costas. 'Gotta live with it,' comes Costas with a shrug walking to Cliff and Rick. Mike follows him. They're ready to roll.

'Gentlemen,' Costas says to Cliff and Rick with no inferred ifs or buts, 'I'm going to return to Milwaukee with you.' They acquiesce, Cliff more willingly. Mike Morella puts the box of relevant case materiel in their trunk.

'Hey, George,' says Dwayne in his car, having maneuvered up next to the one Costas is about to climb into, rolling down his window, lighting another Camel, winks, 'Glad you got lead. You deserve it.' Gone. What's Costas gonna do but smile?

'How long's the Fed been here?' says Rick Horner. Costas slides painfully in behind him. The Fed starts his car - 50 yards distant - and creeps after Dwayne. Costas saw it a mile off.

8.38am

Must've dozed off getting back to Milwaukee; trip felt like 5 minutes. An interrogation room's been prepared for Costas on North James Lovell. Dwayne's box of goodies is on the table. Charitable Cliff Dahmen's setting up the reels. Costas slurps better coffee, enjoys a raspberry bear claw. Feels more attuned.

The surreal quietness in the office lends a fitting eerie quality to events. Every informed soul in the city's gonna be out scanning for King Lear. Vacations will be cut short. Smelling, darkening patch of sprawling mould in the NE top corner of the room.

He's read Nelson's Sun-Times article on him - somebody offered the newspaper, congratulated Costas, sympathized, said he'd top-off his coffee; Costas liked the writing mostly because Nelson kept his word. He added nothing.

Colin's redeye's landed at Mitchell, Costas is told. Should be here shortly. Nothing on Dr. Thorne's brother's return from holiday so far. Cliff says that the Ulysses Thompson interview playback's ready, 'Anything else, Detective?'

'No, Cliff. Thanks.'

Cliff smiles, 'Hope you find something,' zips up his jacket, about to go, 'I'm gonna go see how the lab's making out.'

Dominic Pounder's never off the phone. Deurloo's Pounder's shadow. Psychiatrist Costas' has requested is 60 year old Jordan Hargreaves - a good man, Costas knows him from a couple of his stranger Chicago homicides. This will be the first time they have teamed up to profile a suspect not in custody. The men share an interest in sports and European history. Hargreaves loves a good mystery; it goes some way to explaining his choice of career. Said he'd take a train up to Milwaukee, has a few educated guesses prepared. Costas wants lain before him whatever might help, anything to help; at the exact right moment, anyone's idea could be the crowbar.

Costas called Emily as soon as he got in. Apologized again. She didn't hear it too well. She just wants him home. He'll be home when he can be. She's less understanding. Has something irritating her left eye and she can't fish it out. She says it's driving her round the bend.

Was told that Infante's hanging around somewhere. Costas needs to talk to him. There's a 2way mirror facing Costas in here. He glances. Feels FBI hawks glued to him on the other side. Not certain if he didn't see a Fed #2 in the vicinity.

Starts to unpack Dwayne's box: case files and crime scene photos: Kite, Birch, Thompson. Cliff wrote out the main bullet points on a sheet of paper on Thorne; official file's not ready. No pictures. Branson info's with Colin.

Costas spreads out interview transcripts with Thompson family and friends, the bloody corpse photographs, encircles the recorder on the table. Takes a seat. The watched pot never boiling comes to mind. Wonders if King Lear's crying with laughter......notices Elm Kite's blood type on the coroner's report: A+. Ulysses Thompson's likewise. Wait a second...this could be something... Costas checks: Cliff didn't convey Thorne's blood type on the sheet. Shit. Costas jumps to Grady Birch, searching, searching, searching...O- Costas exhales with disappointment right as there's a knock on the door to his 6 o'clock. It's Rick Horner.

'These just came from your guys in Chicago,' says Rick, handing over Teletype pages. Costa takes them, 'Thank you.'

'Your partner's 10 minutes out.'

'OK,' says Costas, looking over what he's received with interest.

'Hey, I - ah - I read the paper,' says remorseful Rick. Costas half-turns back to him. Rick hesitates, knowing now Costas' sacrifice, embarrassed eyes to the floor, 'Well, if you need anything...' Shuts the door behind him. Funny how the respect must be earned and not given as a matter of courtesy to a fellow blueblood.

Costas looks at the pages. Mike Morella's done his best: sent up summary findings on famous/possibly pertinent deranged killers of the past: Ed Gein, Ed Kemper, The Boston Strangler, Carl Panzram, Charles Whitman, Charles Starkweather. Mike couldn't find any record of a killer who left notes behind a la Lear. Costas reads everything and writes in red at the bottom, No Good. Unapologetic killers with wildly different motivations, backgrounds, ages, MO, motives, targets. Little calculation, nothing personal. People acted as symbols of the murderer's rage. White males: that seems to generally be the case. Most disturbing point's on their eventual apprehension: accidental, or, at the very least, not as a result of any intelligent, intensive policing. He's sure the cops involved weren't stupid, they were probably just unaware of connections or, like him, ordinary men dealing with extraordinary men.

Costas settles back into his chair. Rubs that sore rib. Improvement. A creaking door from the Observation room opens beside Costas' and Fed #2 appears. Dressed as dourly, as conspicuously inconspicuous as Fed #1. He walks to the water cooler a few yards away. Pours a cup and sips, eyes to a noticeboard over the cooler. Pours a second Styrofoam cup. Carries both cups into the room he just left. Creaking door shuts. He knows I was watching him.

Comes a thought: Costas is not going to catch this psycho without a huge slice of luck. Somehow, that's a freeing conclusion; it radiates a brief internal respite. It is inescapable, however: there are lives at stake. Even within the infinitesimal range of Costas George's control over any meaningful portion of this topsy-turvy world there stands a responsibility about him to do what he can to maintain public order \- go further: to rise against any evil \- to the best of his given ability. It is what he has always expected of himself. A successful outcome is what he needs for himself.

Flash: that boy he thrashed in the riots.

And nature helps none: a man's got to prove his worth to the other men of that selfsame infinitesimal range. He cannot shirk the shark tank when he himself tempted fate by snuggling up to it. He has a reputation, he is trusted to achieve; there will be a legacy, there are judges, there are history pages being written and turning. And when time has eroded any significant aftertaste - sweet or bitter - in the silence of any of the rooms in which he will forever be alone, the mirror will never fail to reveal the true enemy. Who the Hell can collar King Lear?

There's a small commotion outside. Colin's arrived. He's chatting with Horner with his hand on the door handle. Pounder, Renne, Deurloo and another man conference energetically at the far end of the bullpen. Colin limps into Costas with a mug of Joe and a pasty, long face. The ubiquitous cigarette burns betwixt his fingers and the Branson case file's underarm.

'Morning, Chief,' Colin comes shadily, favoring his left leg, 'Don't get up.' Pulls a corner chair closer to Costas' center table.

'What happened?' says Costas, not amused, about Colin's leg.

'Honestly, I ain't too sure. Kinda blurry.' Colin sits with a thud, puts the file on the table, starts with, 'So where do we stand?' Costas changes his plan and works to standing, says to Colin, businesslike, 'Talk in the car.'

Colin's quick to his feet again and Costas opens the door, calls after Rick Horner – 20 yards away at most - who's reading at a desk, 'Sergeant, we need a car.'

Rick stands up promptly, says, 'Great,' making his way to Costas. 'You're going to Racine now?'

'Yes,' says Costas, Colin behind him, ready.

'I'll take you,' says Rick Horner.

'Directions and her address will do,' says Costas.

'I think it would be a good idea to bring someone along with local knowledge,' says Rick, mindful of his superior Deurloo's subtle presence somewhere. The Feds are coming out of the Observation room and Costas glances at them.

He says to Rick, 'OK. But Colin drives.'

'Absolutely,' says nodding Rick.

Costas says to the Feds, 'Hey,' walks the short distance to them. Has their full attention and they don't balk at his nearness. They're straight-necked.

Costas goes, evenly, 'You guys are planning to come with?'

'Yes, we are,' says Fed #1, buttoning his dark jacket.

'To observe or participate?' asks Costas.

'Observe,' says Fed #1, maybe unsheathing a glimmer of personality.

'OK,' says Costas, 'so let's drop the cloak and dagger. I'm Detective Costas George, this is my partner Detective Colin O'Meara and this man is Sergeant Rick Horner.'

Fed #2 cracks a smile. Fed #1 says, 'We know who you are.'

'And who are you?' says Costas, offering a hand to be shaken. Fed #1 bites, no problem, goes, 'Special Agent Fonda and this is Special Agent Capozzola,' with Capozzola shaking Costas' hand after the introduction.

'Thank you, Gentlemen,' says Costas and leaves.

10.33am

The Affordable Inn

Near Kenosha

Green mould skirts the top of the shower's pinkish tiling, where the wall and ceiling adjoin. Theo soaps up his body and face; it's indescribably good to get clean, to wash off two days. The nap was here and there. He brushes his teeth. Flosses. The phone rings in his room. The towel about his waist falls. He doesn't bother to pick it up.

Answers the phone: 'Hello?'

'It's Jim,' no pause, 'Did you see the Sun-Times?' Jim's aggravated. Theo sits down by his folded fresh clothes for the day.

'No.'

'Well, you should. Your brother gave an exclusive on his experience in the riots. Comes out squeaky clean.'

Theo's shocked, goes, 'He did what?'

'Why didn't he come to us, Theo?'

It's rhetorical.

'I don't – know, Jim. I –'

Plainly, voice raised: 'Are you fuckin around with me on this story?'

'No! What do you \--?'

'Why's your brother going to the Sun-Times with stories and not to you?'

Theo's hesitation's damning.

Jim goes on: 'And while we're on the subject, why's the Sun-Times the only paper to have confirmed that the New Orleans murder's related to ours?'

'They did? I have no –'

'It's the same writer too,' says Jim; he's flown the coop. 'Not too much of a stretch to guess who his source on the confirmation is.'

'I'm going to talk to Costas right now.'

'Could it be that this Nelson Tarris is our detective's new, preferred newsman and you're the one that has somehow fucked up the golden goose? Joe and I smell a big rat.'

Theo wishes he were in a room with Jim; he could be calm so that Jim could see him being calm. Benefit of long-distance of course is that Jim can't see Theo panicking.

Theo goes, 'Jim, I don't understand what's going on. Let me call you back. I have something big maybe in the pipeline –'

'No, no, no. None of that cryptic crap anymore. If you've got something, you lay it on me down this phone line.'

'Well,' comes Theo, trying to catch his breath, 'I can't confirm it yet, I wanted to speak to Costas about it first – yesterday,' with a sigh and a pause, 'I, ah, I got a note from the killer.' Jim's instinct is to laugh.

Theo goes, 'Hand delivered to my desk with my name on it. Nobody saw anyone come or go. I think –'

'Have you lied to me at any point during this debacle?'

'Jesus Jim, no! No.'

'Because I've trusted you on this based on past pieces we've done together; you've produced some excellent work.' Jim might be easing off.

'Jim, I swear I will fix this.'

'That and a quarter, Theo, huh? What's the note say?'

'In so many words, the killer –'

'Word for word.'

'Just a second,' says Theo, rooting in a pants pocket for the note. Reads quickly to Jim, 'Dearest Sir, I wish to wholeheartedly apologize to you and your children for the most recent death of your wife Mary whom I know you love dearly. It was never my intention for her to die. Please be aware that I am sincerely heartbroken by the events that have transpired. I do hope that our friendly terms shall remain unaffected.' Pause.

Jim sighs, 'Mad as a hatter. If it's real.' Continues, clearly, 'Take it to Costas. Be patient. He will want to authenticate it. You do not allow him to do so until he provides us with a written agreement giving us exclusive rights to publish the note whenever, if ever, it is published. Do not cut any other deals. Hear that. If he threatens to get clever, you call me. Ed Hawke's on his way to you. Should be in Milwaukee by noon. I want no complaints. And hear this Theo: whatever happens, you're coming back here to my office with Ed today for 5pm.'

Theo hears it, smells and tastes it.

Jim goes, 'Last time; is any of what you have told me or are telling me lies?'

'No. I will prove it to you, Jim,' goes Theo, trembling.

'I'll remember you said that,' and Jim hangs up.

Theo leaves so fast he forgets his watch.

Meantime

I-94 South - Milwaukee to Racine

Color's returning to Colin's face. He won't paint a picture of Mr. Trevor Bowling and any events at Lagniappe last night; he daubs it: Bowling's a smartass, admitted to his displeasure with James Branson, ain't no killer... Branson's girlfriend was all strung-out, ain't no killer – check on her with Harvey if you like... Fats Domino cancelled last minute...hotel bedsprings were damned uneven.

Costas is sure the answer doesn't lie below Mason-Dixon anyway: we don't have to press it. Let NOPD do their part. Colin's adamant, playing catch-up with his tight-lipped shame: he'll call Branson's ex-wife in Missouri today for anything more. He hates to disappoint Costas.

The stranger – Rick Horner – in the car with them doesn't help Colin's attempts to balance things with his partner. And what's Costas gonna do, chew Colin out? Friends don't do that – especially friends of similar station and, particularly, partners, practically living in each other's pockets, never mind the number of Colin's careless blunders Costas has let slide – look the other way sometimes to keep the machine moving and sometimes look the other way for the friendship. Colin gets more right than he gets wrong. There's a lot of cops out there know the book backward and forward but they won't live a case like Colin will. That's why Costas picks up the slack. There's no high moral ground permissible for the sake of the team. Finger wagging's the wife/mother/superior's prerogative.

Costas fills him in on the goings-on here in Milwaukee, the infiltrating federales, the waiting, waiting, waiting for Thorne's brother, for Dr. Hargreaves, for a miracle.

'You don't sound too upbeat about the state of play, Chief,' goes Colin, sneezes.

Costas shrugs, goes, 'We keep going.'

Rick says, perhaps to try and assuage feelings of inefficacy for Costas, 'I don't think any one of us has ever been involved in a case like this.'

'You know, I was thinking on the flight,' begins Colin, hacks up a wad and spits it out the window, 'and stop me if I'm making no sense. These people, right, from all over the country, different walks of life. The killer, how does he get into their homes? He can't be buddies with every one of them. So I was thinking – who are the people that people will let into their homes without really questioning? I mean, what kind of stranger, if this guy, uh, if this guy is a stranger to them – fuck, look, my point is uniforms. People trust them.'

'Like a doctor or a priest,' says Rick.

'Yes, yes,' says Colin, 'but I wasn't think–'

'He's one of us?' says Costas, feeling like a schmuck, his heart pumps. An interesting notion. Colin nods, consults his rear-view for the Feds, as if they could hear him and goes, 'See, here's what points to it, I think – he uses a .38 like we do, he knows how to clean up a scene, he pulls heavy surveillance, watches vics patiently for hours, probably for days. Uses his shield or uniform to get inside on some bullshit premise. Who's going to turn him out?'

Quiet. Welcome to Racine.

11am

Racine beat cops have arranged communications with the Milwaukee and Chicago PDs: anything on the wire from the cities is called into their local precinct, they radio it on dispatch to the prowler at Mrs. Elmer Thorne's house and the cops there relay that info to Costas or Colin inside.

Colin pulls up behind the parked Feds on the public side of the Thornes' picket fence, nudging the Fed back bumper for shits and giggles. Rick Horner gets out of the car.

Costas goes to Rick, jacket long ago dispensed with, 'Best not to crowd her,' and Rick says nothing and Rick's not pleased about being squeezed out. (Payback for excluding Dwayne from the initial interview; also, it's practical – 2 cops and 2 Feds is plenty.)

Cropped bungalow: mental institution serene-green, stately Mini Cooper in the open, side garage, weathercock on the roof; two ostentatious water-filled stone birdbaths and a flawless wooden birdfeeder are tactically triangulated on the pristine front lawn. The grass has been cut recently, at first light today maybe – Costas sweeps: there's not a single blade of pitched grass on the walkway to the door. Sign held in the beak of an ornate eagle on the front door reads Welcome Friends.

Hyacinth Lally, 51 years, welcomes the retinue without a smile. Her home inside is drab – the browns, the brooding creams accost the senses. The long corridor's enclosed, claustrophobic. Everything's carpeted and perfumed – no sound. Costas and Colin pass an open door to a room filled with lively, populated, newspaper-lined birdcages – name them: budgies, finches, warblers. The décor of that room – rosy reds and poppy pinks – is strikingly attractive. Costas feels like a caged bird in this house.

Hyacinth – with her facial features ending in points, pursed lips affecting the resemblance of a closed drawstring bag – leads them to the kitchen where Marigold sits facing the open fire. A man, her son, stands beside her.

Marigold Thorne was born in 1915. She's a slight woman, ashen face creviced as a wearying icecap, neatly dressed in a lavender overcoat; a chocolate, wartime dress, brown heavy-soled buckled shoes and an old pre-war hat. She reminds Costas of a Queen of England, of his grandmother. He's immediately protective. Her gentle face smiles and she stands and introductions are made. Nobody wanted to meet like this. Arnold Thorne, the dead man's son, drove near 400 miles from Cincinnati when he heard.

'I'm very sorry to do this to you, Mrs. Thorne,' says Costas, taking her proffered hands. They are icy despite the stifling heat.

She replies, so very tired, 'It would be worse if you weren't doing your best.' Hyacinth's husband, Drew Lally, he comes in through the back door. Removes his gardening gloves, excuses himself for interrupting, shakes hands with all. Drew's surprising; he looks half Hyacinth's age and appears to be a handsome, vital type: her antithesis.

Colin and Costas settle at the table – tea's all Hyacinth has in the house, accepted, delivered in English Bone China teacups along with dainty fresh cupcakes on a matching three-tier display. Arnold sits beside Marigold, holding his mother's hand. He creates the feeling that if he judged it to be to her advantage, he wouldn't hesitate to smother her. Stares a lot at Colin and Colin does what he can to forget it. Arnold's got a dopey look about him, a comb-over and eyeglasses too big for any average head. The Feds, Fonda and Capozzola, join the party late: Wallflowers. The room's unseasonably warm. Hyacinth stokes the fire.

Costas starts by splaying pictures of the first 4 King Lear casualties on the table for Marigold. 'Do you recognize any of these people, Mrs. Thorne?'

She scans Kite, Birch, Thompson and Branson minutely and says, 'I'm afraid not. Sorry.'

Gathering the pictures, Costas goes, 'Why don't you tell us about your husband?'

Marigold takes her time, looking at the tissue in her large hand. Drew holds Hyacinth in the corner. Everybody's sweating. Marigold says, 'Well, Elmer and I married in 1935. I was a June bride. He was fresh from medical school and I was working downtown as a seamstress.'

'Where was this, Chicago?' says Colin.

'Yes,' she says. 'We both grew up in the Ukrainian Village, only a few blocks apart. Kochurov's my family name.'

'What was your husband like, Mrs. Thorne?' says Costas.

'Oh a good man. A strong man. He loved children. We were always sorry not to have been blessed with more than Little Arnie,' looking to Arnold for a noticeable while, patting the back of his hand on the table. Cliff Dahmen said that the Thornes had had another kid die in infancy. She never got over it.

Costas goes, 'Your husband usually spends Sunday nights with his brother, is that correct?'

'Yes,' she says.

'But you are aware that his brother was not home this weekend.'

'Yes,' her head lowering.

'Do you think that your husband lied to you, Mrs. Thorne?'

'I don't know. It's not something Elmer would ever do to me.' It's hard to see a fragile woman like this distraught. She's a pawn in the whirlwind.

Colin tries with, 'Has he ever been in trouble that you are aware, Mrs. Thorne, personally or in his practice?'

'No, never anything like that,' she says firmly or defensively.

'What time did you last see Elmer?' says Costas. She replies, after a moment,

'Around 5.30pm.'

'And that was his regular time to go?'

She nods, 'Between 5 and 6 usually. After we eat.'

Colin: 'How did he seem leaving?'

'Oh, fine. Fine.'

Colin says, 'He wasn't, I don't know, angry, irritated or happy?'

Marigold goes, 'I am sorry, Detective. He seemed fine.' Marigold's shaking hand lifts her teacup to her mouth; the cup rattles against her teeth and, embarrassed, she snickers, flits her eyes to those across from her and returns the tea to the table without drinking.

Costas to Marigold: 'May I ask why you and your husband left Chicago?'

'Elmer got offered a job in Milwaukee, a pediatric position in the Children's Hospital. We thought a change of scenery would be nice. That was 1960 or so. The Fall of.'

'And did you return often? To Chicago,' goes Colin.

'Oh every now and again,' she shrugs, 'Funerals and weddings and things of that nature.'

On and on it goes: Pastimes? Passionate about guns and motorcycles. Costas could've scripted it himself. Any enemies? MY Elmer?

They even try: 'Did you notice any uniformed men around the neighborhood recently?'

'Uniformed men?' she says, like she's been asked the cubed route of a million.

'You know,' comes Colin, 'Doctors, policemen, military men. Anyone maybe approached you, asked you or your husband questions that seemed strange to you?'

She shakes her head, 'Elmo was a gunnery sergeant in the Far East during the War. Is that of any use?'

Interview's a bust. It's Sunday niceties. There's no penetration. Farewells and commiseration to the Thornes. The Detectives are wished good luck.

Costas and Colin rejoin prickly Rick. He's kicking a stone by the car. Rick says that there's been nothing on Thorne's brother yet. Dr. Jordan Hargreaves is waiting for them back at base. The Feds are nowhere to be seen.

Colin says, over the hood to Costas, 'The real fuckin issue's where do you direct these interviews when there's nothing to be even suspicious of?'

Costas says, climbing inside the car, 'Thorne lied to her about last night. Let's check his employment history for anything doubtful.' It's a halfhearted suggestion. Costas has to put professional logic above his personal feelings that they are just running like hamsters in a wheel.

Rick's in back again, says to Costas, 'You think you might have something?' Mrs. Thorne's solemn and dignified response to her terrible pain has left a mark on Costas. She's given him his first sense of any tangible, human loss from this whole melee. Louella Birch did a great grieving wife bit when she was interviewed; she was too loud and crass for Costas. It was, to his mind, a case of melodrama expected, melodrama performed. She made no dent in his sympathies.

How would Emily react to my dying?

Costas thinks on Rick's question, stares up at the sky, thinking about Mrs. Thorne, missing his wife so dearly, a lone cloud drifting towards the sun, a silver lining. This place is so damned innocent. Costas goes, reluctantly to Rick, 'No.'

Colin lights up a Chesterfield, starts back for Milwaukee and says, 'Could be the doc's just got a piece on the side.'

'Could be,' says Costas.

12.45pm

Jordan Hargreaves is pacing in the makeshift HQ on North Lovell, chewing a chocolate bar. Might be talking to himself. Possesses a fine head of black hair, his gray suits are forever creased along the wide back and his left eye's replacement glass – the result of a dispute at a cockfight when he was 18. Nobody's got a bad thing to say about him (no one's gonna call him a genius either) and he'll always greet you with a smile.

Colin and Costas head towards Jordan when Cliff Dahmen catches Costas' arm. Costas has Colin go on. Colin starts talking with Jordan.

Cliff says to Costas that Theo's been waiting to speak with him for the last hour. Costas sighs.

Cliff goes, 'He said that it's urgent.'

'Yeah,' says Costas, when isn't it with this guy?

'Where is he?'

'In the cafeteria,' says Cliff. 'I said I'd call him when you got in.'

'OK,' says Costas. 'Do me a favor, Cliff: wait 10 minutes, kick him out, and do not allow him into the building again.'

'And if he wants a reason for not seeing you?'

'He'll figure it out. Any update on Thorne?'

'Stan says there was nothing left behind on the car; not a hair, a print. Autopsy's being fast-tracked,' shrugs apologetically, 'Hunter Thorne remains AWOL.'

Rick Horner calls out, holding a phone receiver, 'Detective George. For you.'

Costas thanks Cliff and marches to take the phone from Rick.

'Where's my arrest?' is the first thing Ralph Darling says into his ear.

'Sir, we're doing what we can. It's very --'

Darling sounds boozier, goes, 'Don't give me it's very, it's not it's very, all right, you keepin up? You need to arrest someone, put his face on TV screens. I don't give a shit if it's the most circumstantial piece of evidence known to Man, even if we only keep the cocksucker overnight, you bring someone in, bring me a face and you do it soon or there's gonna be Hell to pay.'

'Sir, the problem is we don't have any – sir? Sir?' Costas kills the dead line, strangles the receiver. Rick's trying not to laugh.

Costas calls and talks briefly with Casimir. Costas has a little scheme. Makes a small request. Granted: Casimir will speak to Mike Morella to set things in motion.

*

No wonder Colin opened that window – the humidity's strengthening and the mould's stinking up the place. 'We oughtta complain,' says Colin, about the smell. The 5 victims' pictures are pinned to the wall. Colin and Costas and Jordan Hargreaves read over the transcripts of interviews orchestrated by Deputy Gilbert Morningstar with Burt, William and Millicent Kite, the children of the Flossmoor farmer. Gilbert spoke with Kite's ex-wife and a number of friends and acquaintances. Morningstar's interrogative methods were thorough if naïve. Still, there won't be much more to ask these people when Costas and Colin arrange a meet for tomorrow. Nothing leaps out at them.

When Colin comes back in with a table fan, he goes, 'What the fuck's driving him?' to Jordan.

Jordan goes, 'There's a definite compulsion. It strikes me as an instinctual need to kill. The motivations, at root, for anyone like this are pretty easily identified – self-loathing, anger, shame. On the surface, why leave these notes? Why shoot twice in each eye?'

'Why do you think it is?' says Costas. (Hargreaves had said to Costas, shaking hands, when they were alone for a second, 'Any Post-Traumatic Stress?' about Costas' injuries. Costas smiled – FLASH, the kid I thrashed \- and replied, 'Pleasure to see you as always, Jordan.')

Hargreaves: 'Well, first off, I would guess that your man's a homosexual. Now, why do I say that? Simply put, in my opinion, the eyes are what these men will see him with, obviously, but on a symbolic, irrational level, to our friend here, they are seeing deeper inside him than he can take. It's as if they're seeing right through him.'

'Like he's living a lie,' goes Costas.

'Right,' says Jordan, wiping his nose, 'or that he's afraid they know his secret and because it's men that he's killing, I am thinking that it's the shame of his latent homosexuality that's the real driving force.'

'But none of the dead men are homos,' says Colin, a little unsure of these postulations.

'I don't think that really matters to him,' says Jordan, 'they are symbols. What I mean is, he cannot accept who he is, apropos his sexual proclivities and this enrages him to the point that any man who might look at him, even if it's just a glance, becomes a misinterpretation. He sees their looks as an indictment of him. To our friend, these men are his self-disgust personified. They are not people. His perceptions are warped. Each one represents the hatred he feels for himself for being different and for being trapped for being different.'

Symbols: consistent with Mike Morella's research.

Costas says, 'Would you say he's trying to kill himself?'

'In a way, yes,' says Jordan, 'you could say that. Your next question is going to be how do we stop him or how does he choose his victims? That's something I really can't help you with. I would say that a man like this would probably aim for targets much younger than he as the onset of puberty would have been the likeliest beginning of his real struggles. And the boys of his own age that rejected him or that he feared would reject him would stay in his mind. Now, the men he kills are older, middle-aged, so if we go with the frustrated homosexuality angle, I can tell you that he's a sexually mature man just an angry one. The lack of semen at any of the scenes would corroborate that too, I think.'

Colin wrinkles his nose, says, 'Jesus Doc, I just ate.' Costas likes Jordan's ideas. They're very persuasive and thought-out. What else have we to go on?

'And what does him being sexually mature say about him?' says Costas.

'I would say that our friend's got a family – a wife and children. Friends and family would most likely say that he's a very calm and controlled individual. He may experience episodes, maybe grand mals, epilepsy, severe headaches – something like that – that would trigger his outbursts,' says Jordan.

'We believe him to be very methodical,' says Costas.

'The evidence does point to that, yes,' says Jordan with a sigh. 'I would still say however that the outbursts come, when they come, at the culmination of a process. The murders are very clean, no reason that the preceding events aren't likewise.'

Colin pipes up with, 'I don't know, Doc. This guy doesn't seem nuts. In that way, I mean.'

Costas agrees and says, 'What about the significance of King Lear?'

'Yes, interesting for a couple things, in my opinion: again, points to family and children. Gloucester in the play has 2 sons and learns too late that he has himself betrayed his king. This is shame and Lear's all about people losing their minds due to regretting inaction. But the quote our friend uses specifically talks about the randomness of life, of how none of us has any control over our lives, you see, we're all just here for the entertainment of our Creator or Creators. This would lead me to conclude that the men he's killing are chosen randomly outside of the obvious recurrences of age, skin color and birthplace.'

'You think he's from Chicago?' says Costas.

'I'd bet the house on it,' says Jordan.

And Costas goes, 'And you think he wants to be caught?'

'I do. That I would be confident of also. Shame makes him kill and afterward he's ashamed of taking a life. It's a vicious circle he can't escape. He wants us to stop the pain. However –'

Colin, 'So why not blow his brains out and save us all the trouble?'

'I was getting to that,' says Jordan, 'He feels that he is blowing his brains out in a matter of speaking. He sees his sexuality as a cancer, he may not even be aware that this is what's overwhelming him. Think of it as an operable brain tumor. Every murder is, if you like, self-surgery to our friend, it's supposed to cut out the tumor but it doesn't work, it keeps on growing back. Unfortunately, depending on whose mind you're dealing with – and the human mind is the most sophisticated mechanism we know of – suicide can mean one helluva lot of different things.' Jordan stretches his back, guzzles his Dr. Pepper.

'I can see where you're coming from, Doc. It's all a bit hard to take seriously, all due respect,' says Colin, glancing to Costas.

Costas says to Jordan, 'Colin thought maybe the killer uses a uniform to get inside people's homes.'

'Good theory, yes,' says Jordan nodding. 'Would suit the personality – neat dress, uncompromising, detailed.'

Costas goes, 'Could we be looking for a homosexual cop?'

Jordan shrugs, unwraps a new candy bar from his Lone Ranger lunchbox, 'Why not, if he's got a family, particularly if it's 2 boys, Caucasian and 40-60 years old. Good a bet as any.'

Costas thinks on Mike's earlier research again, goes, 'So you discount the chance of it being a Negro?'

Jordan shrugs, 'Overwhelming statistics put whites in the multiple killer brackets. Besides, Negroes, when they kill, tend not to step outside race and it's usually over something petty, a street-level dispute.'

Colin smiles, sits up, 'So you suggest that we just go round asking every cop in the city if they like it up the ass? Should be worth a few trips to the infirmary, eh Chief?'

Costas looks at Colin and Colin's confused, laughs and goes, 'What, am I wrong?'

1.25pm

Colin thinks Hargreaves' psychology's pretentious mumbo-jumbo. To him, it's a sort of bureaucracy without paperwork. Waste of time. He tunes out mostly - gets antsy when he feels men talking over his head. His helplessness sends him into flaps of barely-concealed rage.

Not that Colin doesn't appreciate the logic behind consulting a shrink either: Costas is afraid of looking bad when this case is dissected and analyzed in years to come. Nobody ever wants their efforts used in training manuals as an exemplar of How Not To Do Things. If it all goes to shit, the man can say that he did his best - I got shanghaied by exigent circumstances \- and if he did do his damnedest, the history books will bear him out.

Colin's getting ready to listen to Dwayne Clooney's recording of the Ulysses Thompson interviews. Jordan's demolishing a BLT on rye.

Rick Horner knocks and enters, says, looking for Costas, 'George?'

'Pitching a loaf,' says Colin, untying his tie. Horner hands Colin a folded note and says, 'Dropped in a minute ago.'

Colin thanks Rick and reads the handwritten note. It gives him a nice warm feeling.

Jordan's interested, goes, 'What's up?'

Colin yawns and stretches, 'Nothing.'

Costas is 25 more minutes. When he comes back in, Colin's pacing, Jordan's doing a crossword.

Colin goes to Costas, with warranted worry, 'You OK?'

'Yeah,' says Costas, appearing fine, eyes averted: fell asleep with his head against the toilet cubicle wall.

'Too much Southern Comfort,' comes Jordan with a grin.

Colin gives the handwritten note from Rick Horner to Costas and Costas reads it. His feelings ain't so warm and nice; his smile's gotta be a wry one though. It's gotta be a sense of humor about things or he's off to the nearest alehouse for the day: I've got it on good authority that Sheriff Coates is taking early retirement at the end of the month. I thought that that might brighten up your day. Tarris.

'Gotta love it, huh?' giggles Colin, watching Costas read. Costas' smile ebbs against his agitation's flow; can't crumple that note into a small enough ball, can't throw that ball far enough away.

'Hit the Play button,' Costas says.

Interview with Ulysses Thompson's sister, Margaret Chattel 8/27/68:

Dwayne Clooney:...not that you know?

Margaret Chattel: Uly had no enemies, no. He didn't get mixed-up in anything untoward. He partook of the Good Book many evenings.

Dwayne: He a violent man at all?

Margaret: He read the Bible, Detective. Did you not hear me?

Dwayne: Never saw him lash out at anyone?

Margaret: One time, when I was little, there was this boy picking on me. Uly punched him out. That's the only time I recall.

Dwayne: Drink or gamble any?

Margaret: Drank as much as any regular man. He did his best. He wasn't –

Dwayne: But he – I'm sorry, what were you going to say?

Margaret: That's all right. Just that he was no drunk if that's what you were thinking. He loved his family very much and knew well that alcohol affects your judgment. We had a couple mean and sorrowful drunkards in our family.

Interview with Ulysses Thompson's next-door neighbor, Anthony Med 8/27/68:

Dwayne Clooney:...ever see them?

Anthony Med: Oh sure I seen 'em. Buncha sets he's got. Got them mini people waiting at the station; telephone poles, fences, uh, farm animals, hills, a fake river – whole balla wax on this big, wide table; train'd go through a tunnel, come speeding out the other side. It ran real fast and professional. Came up with timetables even. I'll be damned if he couldn't make the thing whistle and smoke come out the top too.

Dwayne: You think he was an odd duck?

Anthony: Well, never met a man collected toys before if I understand your question right. Saying that, I never had no trouble with him and that's in near, whew, 7/8 years? Something like that. He done our pipes that winter they froze, um, '64; every darn place you could squeeze water, there was water. Boy, it was bad. Done a good job and charged a fair price.

Dwayne: See Mr. Thompson with his wife and kids often?

Anthony: Sure, sure. Saw nothing there neither. Good to them all, you ask me; ask Betty when you talk with her. She'd agree. The boy was a rascal all right, a real disrespectful boy, wouldn't heed a word from no one. Many a times I'd've taken my boot to him if he were mine.

Dwayne: Thompson ever hit the boy?

Anthony: If he did, it was inside the house and quiet as hell.

Interview with Ulysses Thompson's brother-in-law, John Belt 8/26/68:

John Belt:...grumpy on account of his legs. He had polio growing up and they ache pretty bad on occasion for no reason. Nearly killed him.

Dwayne Clooney: When was this? John: Oh he was 8 or 9 I think.

Dwayne: No, when was the last time you saw him alive?

John: Last Wednesday.

Dwayne: At his house?

John: At mine. Family visit.

Dwayne: He on anything for the pain?

John: I believe so.

Dwayne: You think he got maybe an addiction problem?

John: God, Ulysses Thompson's the last man I'd think of –

Dwayne: Their marriage seemed OK to you?

John: Solid as a rock, I'd say. Neither of them was the cheating kind.

Dwayne: And he wasn't anxious or angry that last time?

John: No, apart from the pain, like I said. But that wasn't out of the ordinary.

Costas stops the recording.

Jordan leans back and rubs the back of his neck. Colin puts down the rubber band he's been fiddling with the last 10 minutes.

Colin says to Costas, seeing Costas' disappointment, 'Let's take 5. What about a catnap, Chief? You look like you could use one.'

Costas shakes his head, 'How about black coffee?'

Colin notes the trouble coming before anyone; standing in a blink, goes, 'Heads up,' to Costas, tapping Costas' shoulder thrice quickly.

Theo George crashes in, no knock. Rick Horner's on his heels. Theo locks eyes with Colin. Colin's temper rockets. Costas turns around; doesn't get up.

Colin goes to Theo, 'You got some fuckin balls!'

Theo says to Colin, bravely, 'Back off.'

Colin goes for him. Takes Theo by the throat for the corner. Theo's back hits the wall hard. He takes a few lower body blows. Jordan Hargreaves hops to his feet, backs away, watches, eyes agape. Costas stands up slowly. Theo's no fighter, giving up 20 pounds to Colin, bear-hugs Colin to keep him from landing any meaty shots.

Rick Horner wants to stop the scuffle. Looks to Costas for a nod. Costas just watches his brother and partner fall to the floor. Rick takes it upon himself to break up the dustup: 'I gotta goddamn babysit you guys like this? Get up you stupid son of a bitch. Are you nuts, for -- get up!' managing to wrestle Colin to his feet and push him to the other side of the room.

Colin backs into the table, the recorder falls flat on its face, and pages float to the floor. Jordan's slow to pick them up. Colin's got a bloody lip and he mops it with a hand. Theo's hair's disheveled and he's out of breath. He holds his ribs, rising.

'Thanks for the help,' Theo says to Costas.

'Get the fuck out! You're not welcome here,' goes Colin to Theo, fighting off Rick Horner's prodding hands.

Costas is a monument of potential violence, says deliberately to Theo, 'What do you want?' Theo wants a lot of things. He straightens himself, tucks in the shirt.

'Well, I've been trying to get an audience with you,' he says, sarcasm thick enough to stand on its own two feet.

'What do you want?' says Costas, his anger in the wings, waiting for the call.

'I heard about your new friend,' says Theo about Nelson Tarris, composing, aware of spectators. Fixes his hair. 'How short your memory is.'

Costas shuts the door gently without having to take a step and then goes, 'I warned you.' Theo's sick of Costas' power over him and equally frightened of Jim Underwood's.

He says pointedly, 'Don't underestimate me, Costas.' Colin's cooled. He's smoking now, he's got laser beams on Theo and Theo can feel it.

Costas says to Theo, 'I can't trust you.'

Theo's menis – indignant rage – takes over; the heat's a bitch,

'Up yours, brother! And your high fuckin horse!'

Colin shouts back, corralled by Rick, 'Fuck you, Theo. Fuck you and your fuckin endless bullshit! Howdya like that?!'

Theo screams, 'And fuck you, Colin, you bit player. You sidekick. And you've got no place in the middle of this.'

Colin starts making poses, fists, like he's gonna go for Theo again, 'The fuck I don't! I'd take a bullet for that man and he'd take one for me!' meaning Costas.

Theo scoffs at Colin's remark, 'Please, you're embarrassing yourself.'

Colin's gonna need a leash soon, says, 'You wanna go Round 2, big man, huh?'

Theo's feeling braver all the time, he's drunk with it - says to Colin, 'When have you ever used your head to solve a problem? Any mook can knock a guy out.'

Colin's not done, goes, 'I'd love 2 fuckin minutes alone with this guy. Anyone got a stopwatch? Just 2!'

Costas has not budged an inch. Cliff Dahmen joins late the crowd looking in.

Theo flattens his feet, down off the tiptoes, says, 'So are you going to turn your back on me again or what?' to Costas, using a pulsing body that belies shaking bones.

Costas says, coolly, 'I have no reason to talk to you, Theo.'

'Oh I think I have a good reason for you to talk to me,' says Theo with a smirk.

Costas promptly opens the door again and says, 'We're working here. Please leave.'

'You fuckin cops!' goes intemperate, furious Theo, 'Where do you get off?!'

'It's called loyalty, dipshit,' says Colin, calmer, staring out the window, unable to help himself.

Theo's career's flashing before his eyes: got nothing new in the tank to turn the tide in his favor – all he's got's Old Faithful: quick draw desperation. 'I've got a note from the killer,' says Theo.

'Like hell you do!' slams Colin.

'It's real, Costas. I swear it is,' says Theo, stepping closer to Costas, inches now, entreating. Begging.

'Where's Dahmen?' says Colin. 'DAHMEN!'

'You're throwing the baby out with the bathwater, Costas,' says incredulous Theo, seeing that Costas is maybe hearing but certainly not listening.

Cliff Dahmen's quick in the door in response to Colin's yell and Theo glances at Cliff, senses the real need for urgency.

'Sorry, Detective,' Cliff says to Costas, 'I meant to --'

Theo to Costas, interjecting: 'It's in my bag downst --'

'Detective,' says Costas to Cliff, interjecting, 'Please show my brother the exit.' He pauses, taking in Theo's shock and then finishes with, 'By any means you deem necessary.'

Cliff hesitates. Theo's truly bowled over; the shakes are released through him in a torrent down the valley. He spares a peek at Colin and then says to Costas through gritted teeth, feeling untold humiliation: 'A man's loyalties are his choice and his privilege.'

And Costas looks through Theo, beyond him, inside him and Theo's not going to soon forget the eyes of this moment facing him when Costas earnestly replies, 'Yes they are.'

3.09pm

Costas felt an encroaching migraine like a battering ram. Colin took him to a free office and Costas fell asleep.

It's 1 ½ hours later that Colin nudges Costas awake, going gently, 'They're bringing in Thorne's brother.' First thing's the cigarette smell from Colin's breath. It helps to get Costas sitting. He's never liked tobacco; it does something to his insides.

'How long?' says Costas.

'Not long,' goes Colin. 'Might wanna freshen up.'

Costas stands and flexes his neck, heads for the restroom, forgets for a minute where he is, where it is, gets cold water on his face. Costas comes out.

Dominic Pounder's in another vacant office to Costas' right, all the way across from Costas' room, Pounder's back to everyone, with the door shut. It looks like The Dominator's arguing with himself in there, so Costas takes a couple steps sideways to reveal a very short man with a bull's face facing Pounder. The short man's voice is muffled; SA Pounder's is heard clearly, saying, 'Are you out of your mind, Gordon? Everything you people do pretrial can have a significant bearing on the strength of the prosecuting position.' Costas watches on from a distance with other onlookers.

Drama, drama, drama.

The short man – Sidney Gordon – replies calmly, inaudibly to Pounder; there's a ripe arrogance to his grin.

'I don't care,' comes Pounder, 'I don't care because – no, wait. Wait, will you? False charges now could hurt us later. When a judge – when a judge looks at this – when he – please stop interrupting me – any competent judge could well see through your little move and deem any of Thorne's testimony inadmissible. It's not worth the --'

Gordon says something to the point, unmoved by the State's Attorney's vigor. Colin opens the door to the room that he and Costas have been using - to Costas' left - to listen in.

Gordon's oddly dressed – baseball cap and sharp, tailored suit. Can't be an inch over 5 feet in height. Has a kinda Jimmy Cagney quickness in the shoulders.

'I appreciate that but it's still not worth the risk not to mention the immense humiliation you're going to cause the man!' goes Pounder to Gordon. Chief Deurloo's watching; Sgt. Rick Horner too – everything's on hiatus.

Costas and Colin exchange glances from 20 feet regarding this spectacle and Colin shrugs. Pounder's exasperated, finds a chair. Costas remembers that he's a large part of this thing too so he walks to them. He knocks on the door and half-enters.

'Yes?' says Gordon patiently.

'I'm Detective Costas George, Chicago PD,' says Costas, entering fully and closing the door behind him.

'You the guy with the kid bought himself a yellow toe tag?' says Gordon, hands in pockets, standing behind the desk that isn't his. Costas' teeth lock – ANOTHER asshole?

'And who are you?' says Costas.

'Police Commissioner Sidney Gordon,' says Gordon unequivocally, removing his cap, wiping his bald head and replacing the cap. Tufts of hair like graying cotton candy puff out the sides. Gordon's 53 and his years of being angry with everyone have left him ugly, block-headed, looking like Sterling Hayden after a bad night's drinking. Costas allows Gordon's substantial authority to dictate his own personal level of obeisance: chain of command.

'You got no jurisdiction here, George,' sings Gordon with bright eyes like it's a piece of great news for Costas. Before WW2, Gordon's bright eyes entranced. When he returned, any remaining sparkle became a lie. 'This is my area of operations,' Gordon continues, 'Mr. Pounder here's doing all in his power to rewrite my own playbook.'

'Your men have been very good to us so far,' says Costas, placating by reflex.

Fight back. Stand up to him. It worked on Lipton Coates, didn't it?

'They gave you too damn much wiggle room,' comes Gordon with an agreeing nod. Sidney Gordon came back from his first vacation as Commissioner to find his desk phone painted red and a note taped to it: Message from Bruce Wayne, sir. He tugged the phone from the wall and threw it out the window without first opening the window. Every officer on duty that day was questioned extensively and the only description anyone gave of a probable culprit was of a tall man in a black bat-suit seen sneaking around the office. Men were surprised to be suspended and Gordon enjoyed his last laugh for weeks.

'How's the case progressing?' Gordon asks Costas, knowing well enough that the case's frozen.

'Progress is slow,' says Costas.

'Progress is nil, Detective,' says Gordon loudly, kitty with a ball of twine. 'It's a big fat zero! Now I'm coming in to move things along. It's the charge of the Light Brigade! I'm going to help you out of your bind. Isn't that good of me?'

Costas is afraid to ask, says, 'How, sir?'

'The dead doctor's brother is on his way as we speak, arrested for perverting the course of justice and for withholding evidence,' says Gordon. Costas looks to Pounder and Pounder shrugs tiredly.

'Don't look to any lawyer for answers,' says Gordon, 'this is my call. Trouble is you boys are afraid to ruffle feathers. Offensively, ya gotta think offense, Detective George. How the hell's anything ever been done without fortitude and a mindset of attack? You tell me. Attack. Attack. Attack!'

When Gordon began as a Detective in Homicide, there was a colleague he hated. The feeling was mutual. The men's rivalry was famous within the department and came to a head at the Christmas party 1948. Someone suggested a once-and-for-all wager: a competition to see which of the two men could solve the most murders in 1949. The loser would formally request a demotion. A contract was squiggled by a drunken secretary under the mistletoe and both men gladly gave up their John Hancocks. Gordon lost fairly by a large margin, not because he was a lousy cop but because his vehemence to win clogged his ability to work well. The battle of wits and Gordon's subsequent demotion became legend. Three weeks afterwards, his opponent was pulled over one night and discovered to be carrying a concealed weapon in his glove box along with a quantity of heroin sufficient to warrant, in the eventuate, his dismissal in spite of an acquittal on all grounds. Gordon set him up, ruined him. Who could prove it? Gordon's star swiftly rose after that and if you ask anyone the name of the honest man he ruined they'll tell you that he's been long forgotten.

Costas swallows, goes for it, 'Commissioner, it's not necessary. With all due respect, I'm sure that Mr. Thorne will comply. The man's not even suspected of \--'

'Ever hear of Montecassino, Detective?' says Gordon, taking a step closer, taking off his jacket and wrapping it about the back of a chair. Costas sees that Gordon's wearing red and white sneakers, the left lace's untied.

'Italy,' nods Costas.

Dominic Pounder can take no more, says, 'I've got phone calls to make,' and leaves the room.

Gordon offers Pounder's unoccupied seat and Costas takes it. Gordon's close to the desk that's not his and most men would sit on its edge now – Gordon doesn't, his legs would dangle.

Gordon says, raising his right arm and pointing just below the right armpit, 'Took one for Uncle Sam there. Hospitalized 3 weeks,' and then points to the left of his bellybutton, 'took another one for Uncle Sam. Spent 5 weeks in bed that time. Septicemia. Barely made it. I bayoneted 5 Nazis at Anzio after recovering. Imagine running out of bullets with a team of screaming SS coming down your throat and all they want is your head on a stick. Hand to hand's absolutely brutal, nothing like it in this life.'

Sidney Gordon oozes delight in the regaling. He starts to move and stops himself, changes his mind perhaps. Or has another thought: 'Not to preach but war's a valiant enterprise; don't have any liberals muddying the waters for you on that score. They smell fear,' – meaning the liberals, big smile – 'It's a needful cleansing of the - the – purging of the evils. Look back through history. War is as natural as giving birth. The Greeks, everyone says they brought us civilization: merciless killers when it was called for. The Romans. The Dutch, the Spanish, the British. The United States. The Germans needed to be put in their place again and we took care of it, didn't we?' He doesn't take a breath, preparing a cigarette from his pocket, saying, 'You fight any, George?' Costas turns down a cigarette and knows that Gordon already knows the answer to his own query.

'No,' Costas says anyway.

'No,' comes Gordon, nodding mournfully.' Searches a coat pocket for matches and goes, 'Your boy fought though. He was mentioned in that -' his index finger swirls off towards nowhere, '— that thing, your article in the paper. Those yellow men over there are vicious; like rats - much worse than the Japs and that's saying something. Godless beasts – I mean what do they understand about life being a sacred thing? What does a Red care for? It's a goddamn mystery to me. And a slope Red?! Forget it.' Gordon lights and drags, glances out into the bullpen, people are busy again; shoves a pinky in his ear and twists. Leans on the desk. Thinks of something and laughs. 'I don't know you, Detective. I only know your kind. You like to talk up your heroism.' Costas moves to interject. 'Hey! It's no skin off my nose \- who am I to judge you? The spotlight's a real temptation, I get it. And those skinny kids with the painted faces waving their sticks sure did look pretty scary on TV, I must admit. I got my medal. That was enough recognition for me. There were too many for us all to be publicly praised, I understand that as well. We became one big wound. How do you deal with that? Collectively, I'm saying. Let the wound scatter, I suppose. That's what they did anyway,' lowering his voice with a shrug, eyes downcast; sounds rueful, hurt even. He pauses to cough. Costas can say nothing. He would just like Gordon to stop talking. The nap Costas took hasn't had any desired effect. Gordon's killing time; that's Costas' sense.

'I would be very grateful to have a few minutes to talk with Mr. Thorne,' says Costas.

Gordon's elsewhere, goes, 'Your son's a hero. I salute him, I do. I wish I could've met the lad. Sounds like a fine young man. Do you think he wanted to be like his father?' Being ignored stings Costas. He's never been treated like a child so frequently by men he would ordinarily admire. Registers the commissioner's question late: first time anyone ever asked it.

His reply is truthful, 'I couldn't really say.'

'That's a crying shame, right there. And I am sorry to hear it. I wanted to be like my father. People told me growing up that I looked like him. I walked like my grandfather apparently,' shrugging that off as possible wishful thinking, 'the three of us thought along similar lines. We believed in heroes and that a hero must take what he believes to be his destiny, you know, with all his heart. It can't come accidentally: dignified, humble; an unassuming person to outsiders but a man possessing a burning, fervid feeling of duty to his country, to his family and to himself. They told me that I would follow in my father's footsteps. I was advised to and, by god, knew I wanted it in my guts. Jesus, I tell you, I can feel it rising in me still. I wanted people's respect. My mother used to say that you ought to give people respect until they show you that they deserve to have it taken from them. I say you give nobody an ounce of respect until they prove that they're worth it.'

Christopher Deurloo waves for Gordon's attention behind Costas and Gordon nods. He moves to put on his jacket and extinguish the cigarette. He can't find an ashtray so uses a mug on a shelf.

'I understand – and it is reasonable - that you believe that I ought to respect you because you're heading the biggest criminal case in the country at the moment. My advice to you, George, is that you aim to follow in your boy's footsteps and if you can do that, then the respect you think you are entitled to will be forthcoming from men of my standing.'

Chief Deurloo pops his head in the door, holding spotless black shoes and a shoehorn, and goes to Gordon, 'Your shoes, Commissioner. Will you escort him from the car yourself?'

Gordon steps out of his sneakers, says about the shoes, 'Put them there,' pointing to an empty chair. Deurloo does so and says, 'Your hat's on the way,' and waits for the answer to his original question. Costas has a little difficulty rising and receives no aid from Gordon. Gordon's singing a TV ad, meet the Swinger, Polaroid Swinger, it's more than a camera -- checking himself in a small mirror in socked feet, and goes without looking, 'No need for a circus, Deurloo. I'll speak to the reporters after he's been brought inside.'

Fight back. .

Costas sees Colin not five yards outside the room. If he gave the word Colin would gladly shit in Gordon's hat. Gordon, in and out: it's more than a camera, it's almost alive; it's only 19 dollars and 95!

'May I at least fill you in on what we have?' asks Costas, in no combative state. Bright Eyes turns to Costas, shoeing himself and goes, 'I'm ready for battle.'

Costas walks out, sagged shoulders, taking Colin with him back towards their little room, and hears Gordon behind him – meet the Swinger, Polaroid Swinger \- shout jokingly to someone, 'Dammit Clancy, where are you? You got that dumb jingle stuck in my head!'

*

Costas heads for the water cooler, as far from Gordon as he can get. Colin's chomping heartily on beef jerky, holding a cup of coffee, and says, in passing, 'Nutty as squirrel shit,' probably regarding Gordon. Costas is distracted by Gordon's question. A thousand things he's considered a hundred times before - one that's very new to him - speed through his mind and he's resenting a lot of it for the first time: Do you think he wanted to be like his father?

The bullpen seems to have more bodies in it now, bringing an air of expectation, like actors and patrons before the commencement of a theatrical show.

'The thing with Theo, what if I –' Costas begins and Colin raises a hand and waits a second to swallow the end of his jerky.

'Don't even say it,' Colin says, grabbing the back of Costas' neck firmly and expanding on the point as best he can with, 'fuck him swinging. Am I right or am I right?'

In the sultry spring of 1934 during which Costas turned 10, his 85 year old grandfather beat 6 year-old Theo soundly. Theo's always been physically weaker and was easy prey at that age. Their grandfather, Nick, sometimes hit Theo for an infraction when Nick was a guest for Sunday dinner. Theo asked Costas once, his backside raw and tears dried, if Costas thought their grandfather scheduled visits simply to vent his anger on him. Theo, I should've stood up for you.

When their father, Rick, came home from work to find Theo weeping and bruised in 1934, Grandpa Nick couldn't recall why he'd lashed out specifically when questioned; put it down to Theo's general misbehavior. Rick told Theo to man up and accept what he probably had coming to him. Costas knew that it wasn't dementia that made the old bastard forget, the old bastard was sprightly and had 10 acidic years left in him; no, Nick forgot the reasons for the beating because he was indifferent. The power was enough justification for him. Costas learned something then, learned how much he wanted to live the opposite of his grandfather's life – punish a man for wrongdoing, yes, but be able to look that man in the eye and tell him why.

Cliff Dahmen appears at the floor's main entrance with Hunter Thorne, late 50s, in front of him, handcuffed. Thorne's eyes are earthbound. His grey hair's scanty and flustered. Average height, silver-suited. He comes in at Colin and Costas' 7 o'clock so they don't get a very good look at him initially. Costas' alertness is leaving something to be desired at this moment.

Horner opens Interrogation Room 1's door at the north side of the floor, steps aside and Thorne walks in like it's his bedroom of every night. A load of loose coins in Thorne's pants pocket breaks the watchful silence with a regular beat. Cliff accompanies him into the room and Rick Horner closes the door as soon as they're inside.

Costas never wanted to be like his father. Ricky let his old man walk all over him. Ricky had a job for years as a young boy at the fish market downtown until he was told one day to get a secure position working for the government. Ricky became a mailman. Ricky's stunted life bred unfaltering disappointment in everything his 2 boys tried to do. He did not hit them or their mother; he shouted a lot, garbled threats, gambled too much, a slob in many respects. His typical custody of affection towards Costas and Theo, as he himself had been treated, coupled with his own brand of passive-aggressive fatherly dissatisfaction was not a thing Costas wanted to pass on. That sort of parenting only puts a noose of guilt around a son not yet given the opportunity to shape himself.

Moments of chatter and gossip pass in Milwaukee's unmoving, anticipatory tone. Colin curses the beef stuck between his teeth. Sidney Gordon's relaxed in his frisky fedora (Costas drags himself back to eagle-eyed again, puts memories on hold) fixing sleeve cuffs and shaking out his ankles, like he's about to play a game of football.

Cliff Dahmen comes out of the Observation room, empty-handed, and shuts the door. He looks around, a lost child in search of parents, sees Costas and Colin a ways off. He stands where he is, giving nothing away in the face, giving it all away in the shoulders.

Winston kept things apolitical usually. Costas liked that and it made Winston's decision all the more confusing. Did he do it to please me? Because he thought I wanted him to do it?

There's a long fluorescent ceiling bulb flickering Morse code overhead. Chief Deurloo enters the Observation room with a mug of something and a lit cigarette and leaves the door open as an invitation. A smoking man, unidentified in a neat tangerine shirt and blue tie, enters the bullpen after saying a few words to Cliff Dahmen to which Cliff shakes his head. Cliff goes into the room after Deurloo along with the tangerine man, similar in age.

Colin says to Costas, 'We better head in there before they lock us out,' and starts for the filling room.

Gordon's made me a supporting cast member. I'm a toy. These so-called authority figures; can I see it now from the perspective of the young malcontents?

Costas feels that pull once more; seducing him to the exit, pushing him out of the building. Swallow it.

He moseys after Colin. Six men in that stuffy room's too many and everyone in there's likely thinking that. The investigation's fringe element – Deurloo and Horner – ain't budging; in fact, they've hijacked the only two chairs. There's a standing fan on full power in the corner, Costas stands at the back in front of it and it's (n)ice cold. Nobody says anything until the tangerine shirt man points at Thorne through the glass with his cigarette hand and says, 'Looks like for sure he's got a weight to carry.' State's Attorney Pounder's nowhere to be seen.

Hunter Thorne – retired librarian, Monday to Friday elementary school crossing guard – is seated and still handcuffed, the mirror and the men to his left. He holds his head in his hands, elbows on the table, ankles crossed underneath. He's wearing one white sock and one blue one. Hunter's got a hearing-aid in his left ear and his head's moving like he's silently weeping though he may not be.

Winston just walked in, this was as simple as it was, as Costas recalls, and said, 'I've joined army basic training and leave for South Carolina in a week.' Costas was reading the paper in his preferred armchair, the red one with daisies upholstered by his father-in-law. It's a hideous and comfortable piece of furniture.

Observation room 1: Just as Colin's about to ask Where is this guy? Sidney Gordon sweeps into the room, jacket unbuttoned to add to the sweep.

'Sorry I kept you, Mr. Thorne,' he says. Costas will be surprised if Gordon doesn't come out of this thing with nothing more than a round of applause.

'You realize there's a war on?' said Janine wisenheimer to Winston, watching TV. Emily allowed her sewing cushion to her lap and said, with a mother's concern, 'You didn't say anything to us about this.'

Hunter Thorne lifts his head slowly on foot of Gordon's arrival. Hunter's cherubic cheeks are dimpled (Costas works his way closer to the glass, trying to shake off his diversions like they're a dog on his heel) replete with a baby face and caring hazel eyes that rove, his head statuesque.

'So, Mr. Thorne,' says Gordon, the businessman, pulling up a chair, 'do you know why you're here?' Hunter sits up straight, eyes down and away, sniffs and glumly nods. Gordon stays back, goes, 'Your brother was murdered last night.' Hunter's still, hands clasped and squeezed between his thighs, he nods again. It's difficult to determine his level of awareness, of intelligence. Costas is still grappling with his memories, listening to the present whenever the past ceases its buzzing.

'What do you make of that?' says Gordon, the social worker, to Hunter.

'My heart's broken,' comes watery Hunter suddenly, with an almost shocking huskiness. The firm sound's discordant with the wavy picture. All observers readjust their assumptions on the fly.

Did he join up purely to follow in my footsteps?

Summertime: Costas said to Winston, hose in hand, nozzle dripping, car in the drive gleaming, 'Your mother, you know, she's scared about you going.'

Winston said, 'I know,' a full grocery bag cradled, washing detergent peering out over the top – how do I remember that detail? - wearing those nice corduroy slacks a girlfriend had bought him for church.

'I'm – I think you're doing the right thing,' said Costas and it wasn't a sentiment very sure of itself.

Winston said, 'I know that too, Dad.'

Gordon reseats himself in front of Hunter, untroubled by Hunter's emotion, maintains tack and tone with, 'You live alone, sir?'

'Yes,' says Hunter, taking a handkerchief from his inside coat pocket and blowing his nose, replacing the kerchief.

'Never married,' says Gordon, seeing no wedding band on Hunter's finger. Gordon's a believer in instinct, he knows Hunter's brother was killed by Lear and he knows that Hunter's his brother's infidelity cover story. After that, Sidney's wrangling's pretty much off-the-cuff.

'No,' says jittery Hunter, without tears. Grief's unquestionably real.

'You were close to your brother?'

'Yes. He was a good friend of mine,' says Hunter, heartfelt, and who wouldn't feel for him?

'Would you like a water or something?' says Gordon, the sympathizer.

'No. No thank you. Please – can you uncuff me? I am not a criminal,' says Hunter, his belief in that undoubted.

Nikos Georgiadis came to America via Ellis Island in 1899. This was nearly a year after his wife had died. His son and Costas' father, Hristos – changed to Ricky by the immigration authorities – was 3. Nikos was 50, a man unyielding as steel, a mechanic by trade and general handyman of no equal. He always took exception to having to leave Greece and never forgave the US for being his only hope.

Gordon's the boss in Interrogation Room 1, says, 'When did you last see him, Mr. Thorne?'

'I'm owed representation, am I not?' says Hunter.

'Am I to repeat myself, sir?' goes Gordon, patient. Been 15 years since he interviewed anyone like this – wouldn't know it from this assured display.

'Last night,' lies losing Hunter. He doesn't lie often. Since Gordon was old enough to land a punch he's not suffered liars and he slowly straightens himself.

'Mr. Thorne,' he begins, taking off his hat and putting it on the table like a weapon, 'you have just lied to me.'

Why am I thinking about all this NOW? Where's the correlation? I must concentrate!

'I have not,' says Hunter. 'I would like that water now please,' too quickly.

'You bought yourself no favors with me,' goes Gordon, along with a fresh gravity on his face and in his stare, a change in his manner that strikes in an instant – so fierce is it, indeed, that it turns the Commissioner a shade paler. 'You hearing that?'

Bile rose up through Costas the day Winston left for Basic. And Costas had no parting words of wisdom that last evening together and he will regret for the rest of his days that he only hugged and did not kiss his boy goodbye as his heart demanded.

Hunter's reaching for his kerchief again, his weakened resolve melting. Then, he spurts angrily, 'I come home to find a – a – a – I don't know what, a policeman of some description; he meets me at my door and he tells me that my brother's dead? I suppose you expect me to thank him for his bluntness; and after that I'm arrested for I – I don't know even what and hauled off to wherever this is and all these television cameras on the street and – where's it leading, I ask you? Where is the simple fairness in that, Detective? The American sense of – of – of –'

At the utterance of the word fairness, Gordon's eyebrows somersault and land heavily, 'Your simple sense of fairness is on the tip of my size 8 ½ and it's going right up your candy ass unless you start playing square with me, fellah.'

Hunter's ears have turned a spicy beetroot, 'I do not like to be talked to in such a way. I am an American citizen!' Hunter's coming across as a baby. Undecided observers begin siding with Commissioner Gordon.

Gordon slams the table – Hunter jumps, wide-eyed, disbelieving – and stands up, doesn't encroach but he's got every intention. 'I have an investigation to run, Mr. Thorne. Nobody here has time for the Bill of Rights today. Now, when did you last see your brother?'

Hunter's crying. Gordon steps back to the wall. Now the tangerine shirt man, standing beside Costas, puts out his hand to be shaken – cigarette gone somewhere – and whispers, smiling like they're attending a party, to Costas, 'Name's Stanley Tumicki: partners with Cliff here. You want a stick of gum?' Stanley's got short brown hair and a domineering nose that got broken sometime and wasn't set right. Costas never thinks of gum, so takes a stick and shakes hands because Tumicki's hand's not gone anywhere.

'I am going to sue this entire department for harassment and wrongful arrest!' says Hunter, slow on the uptake.

'If you make me ask you again,' says Gordon quietly, seething, 'I'll put you in a cell with as many homo rapists as I can find and burn down your house while you beg them to kill you.'

Hunter mops his eyes and seems to get the message in a minute, 'Last Sunday night.'

'What time did he get there?'

'About 5.45 I think.'

'And what time did he leave and don't you dare lie to me,' says Gordon, stepping forward and standing still.

'It was around 7.'

'Why so early?'

'That's when he always leaves.'

'What did you two do for that exhilarating 75 minutes?'

'I can't remember; we talked, listened to some of my records.'

'You a drinker, Mr. Thorne?' says Gordon, more evenhanded.

'Yes, uh – wines with meals.'

'You wouldn't be a casual drinker?'

'No.'

'What about Elmer?' 'Elmer liked beers. Sometimes he brought his own. Marigold didn't like him drinking in the house.'

'He drink every Sunday with you?'

'Most, I suppose.'

'Why'd he lie to his wife about being with you last night?'

'I couldn't say,' shaky/hesitant/obvious.

'He ever lie before to her, when you were out of town?'

'No. I don't go out of town much.'

'And he enjoyed his evenings with you?'

'Well, I think so. He said he looked forward to them.'

'And you say he left you every Sunday around 7?'

Hunter smiles oddly, hesitates again, 'Seven, eight. I'm not a clock-watcher.'

Gordon mimics the odd smile and it's a scary sight – begins the encroachment, 'Oh but I think you are a clock-watcher, Mr. Thorne. In fact, it's a feeling deep in my belly that that's exactly the kind of pathetic man you are.'

Hunter's rallying resolve slips back on its heels with Gordon coming close and lowering his face. 'You get much, Hunter?' asks Gordon, the operator.

'Much of what, Detective?'

Rick Horner laughs, shakes his head, looks to Deurloo beside him. Deurloo's shrug agrees with Rick's reaction: this is one sorry sack.

'Much in the bedroom,' continues Gordon.

Hunter shunts a snort, a grin, 'I don't really think that's any of your --'

Gordon pop-slaps Hunter's cheek. Deurloo delightedly goes, 'Ohhhhh!' stomps the ground once behind the mirror and petrified Hunter Thorne looks to where he hears the stomping sound only for Gordon to grab Hunter's face and pulls his eyes back to him.

'Are you a virgin, Hunter? You are, aren't you?' Hunter's so confused, rubs his cheek and even the tears dry up. His very bones rattle. Gordon gets to cocky pacing, as much as the room's unaccommodating size will permit. 'You've never seen a woman naked, Hunter. And you've never sucked a tit, you've never been brave enough to pinch a girl's sweet ass,' he gets low again, quickly, his voice too. 'Come on, it's OK. You can tell me. I'm a friend.' Pitiable Hunter's tears come gushing, his smacked cheek a mass of vaunted rouge,

'You are not a friend. Elmer was my friend.'

Gordon's relentless, 'Give it up, Hunter; spill on the snatch. It's nothing to be embarrassed about. LBJ's never had a piece. Ladybird's frigid, didn't you know that?'

Deurloo's in hysterics and he's the only one. Rick's grinning more from nerves than anything. Cliff's secretly disgusted. Hey, look, Costas George would be the first to admit that when the going's gotten rough he's not been afraid to throw his weight around where needed. He once hospitalized a pimp with a million words on the corner and none in the box. The men who run girls, man, for whatever reason, those cocksuckers really get to Costas. It's why his stint in vice didn't last 6 months in 1958/59. He could feel the depravity of it luring him into an early grave.

At the risk of sounding hypocritical, Sidney Gordon's dealing with Thorne feels overboard to Costas and Costas says to Colin, 'Should we step in?' Colin's brought in a lot of guys down the years for a casual talk with their faces already dented.

Colin shrugs, unbent, 'Maybe he's going somewhere with it.'

'May I go home if I answer your questions?' says Hunter to Gordon.

'Now that's a smart question, Hunter,' says Gordon, pulling his chair so close that his knee touches Hunter's knee when Gordon sits. 'Yes, you do for me and I shall gladly do for you. Hey, look at this,' he unlocks Hunter's cuffs. 'How's that for fairness?' Hunter looks at Gordon very suspiciously, caressing his wrists.

'There's a girl,' says Hunter.

'What's her name?' goes bloodhound Gordon.

'Marsha.' 'And where's Marsha live?' 'Uh – somewhere near Milwaukee. 'And where did you meet?'

'At the library.'

'She works there?' goes Gordon, going along with it.

'Yes. Yes, she works there.'

'And she's pretty, is she? Young?'

'Pretty. Oh very pretty. A little younger than me.'

'Elmer ever meet her?'

Hunter's poker face betrays him. He replies, 'Oh maybe the once.'

'On one of your Sunday evenings?'

'It may have been.'

'And he liked her?'

'Oh they got on like a house on fire,' says Hunter with a smile.

'Did your brother ever fuck around with other women?'

Hunter's stopped in his tracks again – he's an open book. 'Um, well, no. No. I am sure of that.'

Gordon snap-jabs Hunter's fleshy nose and Hunter's head jumps back and returns with blood trickling from the left nostril. He's dumbfounded. Gordon goes, like it didn't happen, 'Men lie to their wives for many reasons, few of them significant. The most common one is because they're seeing another woman. 25 years I'm in this game.'

Hunter says, pointlessly, 'You hit me again,' tasting blood, seeing it on the tip of his fingers. 'You cad!'

'Do you think that I wanted to do that? Tell me I'm right. He was banging a girl named Marsha every Sunday night. Be good to yourself, Hunter.'

Hunter tilts his head back and stems the bleeding with his kerchief. He nods, coughing a little blood. Gordon allows himself a wink at the men watching. Deurloo gives a thumbs-up that Gordon can't see. Colin whispers what a dickhead to Costas about Deurloo.

'Where's Marsha live, Hunter?'

'I don't know. She's a prostitute.' Gordon didn't expect that, rethinks.

'Did they have a regular rendezvous?'

'He picked her up every time, I don't know where. They usually went to the Affordable Inn on Durand Avenue.'

'That's probably the closest motel to where the body was found,' says Rick Horner to the room.

'What sort of girl was she, Hunter?' says Gordon, standing behind Hunter to help support Hunter's head. 'I mean, white, black, tall, older?'

'Please promise that you won't ever let Marigold find out that I knew,' says Hunter.

'Of course. Don't worry about that. I need a description.' Hunter folds his handkerchief and replaces it, pinching the bridge of his nose.

'She's a dark-skinned girl. From the Caribbean he said. Small. Petite. He never told me her age but I got the feeling that she was very young.'

Gordon walks out of the box and straight into the observers. He says with a smile to Cliff and Stanley, 'You guys still here?' Cliff and Stanley vacate to the Affordable Inn.

'I'll go with,' says Colin. Deurloo's gushing, claps, comes with, 'Expertly done, Commissioner.'

'Yes,' says humble Gordon, buttoning up his jacket, 'Well, I wish I hadn't had to hit him.'

'It was unavoidable given his hostility,' goes Rick Horner. To Deurloo and Rick Horner, Gordon goes, 'Take him home out the back. Do it tastefully, gentlemen. Drop all charges and tell him if anyone asks he got mugged or we leak that he spends his summers playing hide the salami in public playgrounds.' Deurloo laughs again and Rick says, 'Consider it done.' They leave Commissioner Gordon by the mirror looking on Hunter Thorne's crumpled frame. Gordon's a poem, ode to an urn – sleek exterior, bygone interior.

Costas stands still, that familiar bile rising, and hears Gordon say without ever once looking at Costas, 'I can do no more.' Gordon looks a thousand yards, hands in pockets, on Hunter like Costas imagines he probably looked a thousand yards on the smoking rubble of the Montecassino theater, if Gordon was even there, or out on the fictional Montecassino stitched together by Sidney Gordon's nightmares: with a steely sense of accomplishment in the name of good, tempered by an unassailable sadness that the duty was ever required in the first place.

Sidney Gordon leaves, the War pattering in his steps. Tonight the memories Gordon cannot outrun, the memories that fuel his days in the name of that same good, the unspeakable horrors that Costas couldn't ever dream about, Sidney Gordon will dream about.

Perhaps it's better that my son is dead.

Rick Horner and Christopher Duerloo escort Hunter Thorne out. Costas watches them alone through the glass. Practically drag him out. They leave the door to the box open a foot.

Winston could have come back a Sidney Gordon.

Costas feels compelled to shut the Interrogation Room door so he does shut it and the feeling is of nothing.

Meantime

Age 9: Theo wrote to Santa Claus asking for a red fire engine, the reddest one in the world, please. He prayed so hard to God to get him that truck, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. The truck didn't come and Theo never wrote Santa again. He was taught to believe that God worked in mysterious ways. God wasn't to blame.

Age 12: He begged his father for a baseball mitt for his birthday, one just like Frankie Crosetti's! With sugar on top! Theo prayed even harder to God to not be so mysterious. He got no mitt. His father Ricky said things like there's a war on in Europe and what kid from Chicago likes the Yankees? Theo's mother screamed at Ricky (in Greek when she was angry) when the boys were asleep, 'You gambled that money away!' Theo understood the reasons, his father was a good-for-nothing. It wasn't God's fault.

Age 17: Theo fell madly in love with Jackie Deisler. He'd never felt that way before. She said that she worshipped him. He prayed every night to God that she would one day marry him and make him the luckiest guy in the world. It shortly snowballed that Jackie was seen with a friend of Theo's, holding hands at the movies. Theo followed her one night and saw her making out with Jamie Lapp, the guy Theo'd given free clarinet lessons to because Jamie was such a fan of Theo's playing. 'I loved you,' he whispered in bed to God, his heart shattered. 'Why do you not love me?'

It's in his head. He says it today, first time for 23 years, remembered pat: Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

Ed Hawke's the driver, hasn't said anything. Doesn't have to, his delight in Theo's situation is so pervasive that it makes the air sticky. He collected Theo at the cop shop in Milwaukee after the bust-up with Costas. Theo could've killed Ed Hawke when he saw him first, waiting in the waiting area, reading and smoking, so calm.

Ed's a church-boy today for Jim Underwood so that Theo's fragments might fall at Jim's feet. Jim's going to have my head. If you want to make it up to me, Lord, I would be very grateful. I know that I am the one to blame this time. Chicago's city limits tremble.

'Just gimme 5 minutes,' says Theo to Ed.

'OK,' says Ed, what's he care? It's Theo's hammer, nails and coffin. They run into Chicago Homicide, up to the desk and Theo goes, 'I need to speak to Detective Dwayne Clooney right now.'

The duty sergeant looks Theo up and down, taking his time, place isn't crawling or anything.

'Can't do that,' he says. Ed's right there, fly on shit, and then Theo goes to the duty sergeant, 'Don't you know who I am?' The duty sergeant's heard that line once or twice before and it irks him every time he gets it. He pulls up a green sheet with a clean black picture of Theo on it and underneath's written DO NOT TRUST THIS JOURNALIST with thanks, Det. Costas George.

Ed's as astonished as Theo. Theo's eyes go to the sergeant, to the picture, to the sergeant, mouth hanging, and the sergeant says to Theo with a smile, 'You're famous, numbnuts.'

6pm

They begin walking in no particular direction and stumble across a dainty public park. It's busy with holidaymakers in the steadfast, lasting sunshine. The motley duo strolls – a broken arm on one and a pronounced limp on the other.

Costas had pasta while waiting for Colin to get back and it's proving cumbersome to digest. Called Emily twice and there was no answer.

Colin says to Costas, 'Shithole place, the Affordable Inn, gimme a fuckin break – showed the owner a picture of the doc and he said he only worked mornings so we said who was here last night and he said it was this kid Ernie and he gave us Ernie's address. Ernie was a stone's throw but he was a tough little shit and blanked us cold. Then Tumicki had the bright idea to bring Ernie to the motel and ask him the same questions in front of his boss. So under the gaze of his employer, sure enough, Ernie got spooked. The owner, ah, Buchanan was his name; he knew nothing about anything untoward, see. So I go, 'Do you recognize this man,' you know, to Ernie and Ernie says no but he slips, it's in the eyes. I know he's fuckin hoodwinking and Buchanan's on his shoulder like the Grim Reaper. It was kinda funny. 'Are you sure about that?' goes Tumicki to Ernie and – I mean, Ernie's no slouch either, you know? I respected him for that in a weird way. Looked like he'd been around, like he could handle himself even though he was young. Wouldn't be surprised if he did a stretch. Where was I?'

'Tumicki said, 'Are you sure about that?'' and Costas stops to sit on a bench beneath a tree. Colin does too.

'Right, right. Yeah. Oh yeah, yeah and Buchanan goes, and I nearly lost it here Chief, I swear, he goes, to Ernie, 'You're already fired so you might as well be truthful.' And then Dahmen jumped in with, 'We can always take this downtown,' a cheesy fuckin line but it got old Ernie moving and he sighs, Ernie does and he says, 'Yeah, Thorne comes here with this same girl every Sunday; signs in as Mr. & Mrs. Smith,' so original. Didn't know the girl's name and we pushed him on that, said he'd never heard Thorne refer to the girl by name and Marsha rang no bells but she fit the description the doc's brother gave – small, black, and very young. Ernie thought she was overage and when we said we could give a fuck what age she was he glances at Buchanan, still hovering, and Buchanan's face by now is priceless, eyes like fuckin saucers, and Ernie said that she was probably 13 or 14.'

Costas thinks of Janine in the same position and winces, goes, 'What about suspicious characters?' His broken arm's itchy and he can't get at it.

'Yeah, he said something like, 'this is a motel, dude, 90% of these fuckers are suspicious,' and then I asked him if he knew what ten dislocated fingers felt like which changed his tuned right quick and he said then that he'd seen nothing unusual. I believed him.'

Creaky Costas goes, 'So what's the next step for us?'

Colin takes out his pack of smokes and shrugs, 'What are we gonna do, scrub Milwaukee down for colored hookers? We'd probably be doing it till retirement. And I think we both know that all this proves is that Dr. Thorne was a sick fuck.'

Costas wants to see his wife and daughter terribly. He says, 'Could be worth talking to vice people up here.'

'Jesus, Chief, you really think that she could give us anything we could use? Honestly?'

There's a small girl and boy – neither 8 years old yet - playing catch in the center of the park; both of their noses having small white blobs of sunscreen on them. Their prostrate, broiled father on the grass laughs at something on the radio. Their barefoot mother on her knees calls out to them, 'Jess, honey. Kyle, I need to put more on your arms. We don't want to burn like last time, do we?' The kids ignore her, giggling in circles, the girl yelping as her brother's outstretched arms come close to nabbing her. The thrill of the chase.

When will the FBI step in and take over? They can kill me for their sport.

What a simple pleasure for those children and such a simple pleasure for Costas to watch them. I need there to be a point to all of this.

'No,' goes Costas.

6.15pm

Chicago Tribune

Jim returns to his office from the restroom, drying his hands on paper from the dispenser. Theo's seated in the electric chair he sat in a couple days before. A copy of that green poster of Theo – it reminds him of the old WANTED posters of the Wild West – sits on Jim's desk face up, upside-down.

Jim dumps the ball of used paper in a bin and says, shutting the door, moving fast and seating himself, 'Every precinct in the city's got one of those on its bulletin board,' meaning the poster. 'Your brother really wanted to sting you.' Theo swallows; his grip on the arms of the wooden chair would need two men to break it. The floor's quiet like a hospital ward, winding down. Half the place's darkened.

'Ed and Dan are working on your story now,' says Jim, emotionless, putting a few things away in his drawers, his day coming to a close. 'What's left of it at least. The note will be checked for authenticity by an expert in the morning. I will be calling the police in the meantime. Brass tacks, your days reporting crime in Chicago are probably numbered. At this paper or any other. That's a fact, I would say. I suggest that you take some vacation time, go somewhere if you need to, talk to your wife, and decide where you want to go from here. Options are limited and I'll do what I can for you. There's a spot maybe in sports opening up or you could resign.' Jim stands to put his jacket on. Continues, 'I really should fire you; Dan and Joe want you out. You lied to me. I always had a lot of time for you Theo, too much maybe; you're a good journalist, and this comes as a real surprise and disappointment to me. You really dropped the ball on this one,' and Jim looks at Theo clearly for the first time since coming back in.

Theo says weakly, 'They kill us for their sport, huh, Jim?' with a weak smile. Jim's knife can't be stopped. Either he heard what Theo just said and has ignored it or finds it not worth remarking on. Scoops up keys into his pocket off the desktop and moves adroitly to search for something else by his bookcase, putting himself behind Theo. Theo feels like a puddle and Jim won't fetch a mop.

Jim says, after a spell, 'You know what the word jejune means?'

'No.'

'Look it up.'

9.11pm

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

Emily greets them on the front step, sheered by headlights. The dimming daylight makes her a soft figurine. Colin pulls up, returns her wave from the car, and leaves the engine idle. Costas gets out of the shotgun side and says something to Colin before shutting the door. Colin pulls away with a honk of the horn. By now, Janine's by her mother and the women do not move to Costas. He smiles tiredly, walking as if dragging a shackled weight.

'Bathwater's running,' Emily says first, her eyes beginning to water. He stands on the step below her. Has she ever been more beautiful? Costas takes Emily's hands in his and Emily leads him inside.

Janine kisses his cheek and says, 'I guess you don't wanna talk about work.' Costas stands in the hallway, taking in the house like it's new to him. It's warm and quiet and a sight for sore eyes, lights off mostly, lamps on, dotted here and there throughout. Emily removes his jacket and hangs it up on the coat stand by the door. He hears the water gushing upstairs. He smells something wonderful in the oven.

Costas belatedly replies to Janine with a wink, 'You're right,' cupping her chin and she likes it like a kitten. Emily's in her pink robe and slippers; she needs heels to kiss him without tiptoes, so on tiptoes now she kisses him gently and she's looking at him with impossible love and it's the very same look she sometimes comes up with out of nowhere that always makes him curious as to why he ever leaves her side.

'Welcome home, Georgie.'

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #16

(4 months ago)

Alliance, Ohio

Probs flips a hat at his feet on cracked pavement, says, 'Roll up, roll up, meet the dog of a thousand impressions!' People stop and look at Pooch - bemused, intrigued, willing to go for the ride.

'What's he do, a thousand voices or something?'

'Yes sir, for just a nickel, he will dazzle you!' One woman said that Probs was worshipping a false god (Mammon, presumably) and doomed for a difficult eternity, to say the least. He appreciated her observation and informed the woman politely that it could surely prove no less unendurable than this current eternity.

Nickels and dimes are given more often than not. 'Thank you, kind sir. Very grateful, ma'am. Now, behold: Jack Nicklaus!' And Probs says to Pooch: 'Jack, that was one crooked drive. Now what's your ball lying in?' Pooch frequently ignores his cue and wanders off or licks his flabby undercarriage. Sometime he barks and it sounds like 'RUFF!'

Giggles. Frowns. Snorts. Can't predict. Still, for the amount of disgruntled patrons who snatch back their donation, their dissatisfaction is outweighed daily by others cutting Probs some slack. He makes sure to open wide his eyes so that they can see where the money's going.

*

Tonight, Pooch's on his back, wheezing, asleep soundly in the record shop doorway. Tonight Probs has kicked off his newspapers and cardboard covers; pumps the air with his leg like he's starting an invisible motorcycle. Whimpers through his psychotropic snoozing – in and out of it, up and down with it, inside out and chasing it; sopping, uncontrollable delirium sweat.

Boom: The bottom of his sparkling loafers are glued to a slow-moving black conveyor belt. Dressed to the 9s in a new suit – clean-shaven, teeth present and correct, holding himself up with the pride of Charlie Potatoes. Can't get his feet free, however; keeps smiling.

Slides by a row of open graves, headstones unmarked. Custer sits up in one, looking as he did on the day they first met, waves drearily. Probs reciprocates happily.

Next grave, the Vet sits up, looking as healthy as when Probs found him hanging, does nothing, death mask. Probs is chilled.

Clara, the black girl from Texas, holds that infant in her arms by a busted old tree in the thick, black background – it's a horror scene from Poe, forked lightning. Probs is doing what he can to be free of the shoes. He says something to Clara, it's inaudible – the delivery of it would seem to indicate some kind of entreaty. Clutches his chest above his heart, a red rose in his grasp.

He bends down to undo his laces; he has four hands, the task is tangling him up; there's immense panic; the conveyor belt's ending. A plunge into nothingness awaits. On the verge of falling, Probs shuts his eyes - a woman's hand grabs his collar; tugs him to safety.

Wakes. Gasps for breath in the record shop doorway. He remembers something, before his breathing sorts itself:

Dinner, in a restaurant. Busy spot, classy. Candace is with him; she laughs across the table, takes his hand. He remembers: My God, she's perfect. He picked her up outside her place. He gave her flowers. She put one in her hair, above the left ear, snapped the stem. Their first date: summer of 1956.

She goes, at the table, 'Tell me why you love me, Patrick.'

'Because of your unsurpassed courage and fortitude,' he says, unblinking, and kisses the back of her hand. Drinking aperitifs.

'You say the sweetest things,' Candace replies, bashful.

'We are the survivors of many hard-fought battles, aren't we?' goes Patrick.

'Yes, we are,' she says with the smile that breaks him in two while simultaneously repairing every ounce of damage done to him by other women.

'I'm so glad you finally chose me over him,' comes Probs, kissing the back of her hand.

'Here, with you tonight, Patrick, I have this sublime feeling that his valor and my devotion to him could accomplish nothing that could compensate for the loss that would have attended the continuance of the contest,' she says, honestly, mopping her lips with the napkin.

A plate in the kitchen smashes. A table of diners walks out of the building. Two more tables soon follow.

'Mine shall be a duty faithfully performed,' says Patrick. Everyone in the restaurant is gone. Staff are missing. It's only Probs and Candace.

They're walking home, Probs remembers this clear as day, walking her back home, and they stop at a TV storefront. Elvis is on The Milton Berle Show – devastatingly handsome in black and white. He sings 'Hound dog'. Probs and Candace boogie on the sidewalk. People take pictures of them, they clap at the end of it. Probs and Candace are cowering, appreciative – the couple is seen in the paper the next day.

At Candace's front steps he feels a tear coming – is it merely the light of a memory mocking him? – he kisses her cheek - so soft, so fragrant, an earnest prayer answered, a blessing from an infrequently merciful God.

She says, a hand to his cheek, 'With an unceasing admiration of your constancy and a great remembrance of your kind and generous consideration of myself, I bid you an affectionate farewell.'

How he recalls EVERY word of that salubrious night!

He's sitting up in that record shop doorway now, legs V'd, hands knuckle-down, shoulders sagging. Sunrise is further off.

21

Morning after Milwaukee

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

Emily's down on the floor tying Costas' second shoe. He shaved last night after the bath. He's going to be pretty late this morning. Breakfast was coffee (1 sugar,) 2 hardboiled eggs, pancakes and bacon bits with a dash of maple syrup. Surprised himself by eating it all.

'How are you feeling?' she asks for the 5th time, getting to her feet in her PJs. He's feeling revitalized. What a difference sleeping like a log one time can make. They didn't make love. She slung her legs across his in bed and slept diagonally like she used to.

'Good,' he says. There's an ominous rapping on the door. Emily's gonna drive him in. She looks to Costas to see if he's expecting someone and he shrugs. She leaves the room. Give Costas a minute to think of a list and he'd guess what's coming all right.

Few seconds later: Colin and Dwayne are in the doorway saying good morning to Costas. Colin's not in such bad shape. Dwayne looks like he's been up for a week and Costas is proud of that.

'Another one?' says Costas without standing, assuming the worst.

'No,' says Dwayne and he glances at Emily before saying to Costas, 'We'll tell you on the way.'

*

A restaurant none of these men have been to before halfway between Costas' place and Homicide: Dwayne orders a coffee with cream, 3 sugars and Colin gets coffee that may be tar and he sprinkles in a little holy water (Jameson whiskey) to keep the ancestors happy. Costas' pills make him nauseous. He orders nothing. He's reading the letter Theo got from King Lear.

Costas: 'Has Hargreaves seen this?'

Colin says, 'Not yet. We left messages.'

Dwayne goes, meaning King Lear, 'The guy's completely delusional.'

If we think we can catch him – he's not the only one who's deluded.

Dwayne's not done, says, 'How can a wacko like that be so good at getting away from us for this long?' Costas' first thought in the car, after they brought this up on the way, was: Theo was telling the truth about the note.

'Couldn't be authenticated as unique because the guy used a Remington model. Said that the Es dip a fraction but that's not uncommon. Which narrows our search down from tens of millions to a little less than that,' says Colin to Costas, without a hint of humor, rubbing his forehead.

Dwayne goes, to explain that point better, 'Trib called while you guys were coming back from Milwaukee. I spoke with Underwood there, the editor. Reasonable class of gent. Said he'd do us a favor, he'd take it over to this Heeb he knew was the best in the city for that kind of thing, comparisons etc. and I'd actually heard of him, the Heeb, uh,' – snaps his fingers twice to catch the name – 'um, Abramowitz on Printer's Row. We'd used him on something like this, a handwriting sample thing, a year ago maybe; anyway, he was good then so I thought there was no cause to bother you with it until the results came back. The little Jew's an early riser, I'll give him that, and he called me at home this morning.'

Costas puts the copy of the letter on the table, saying, 'And we get inconclusive?'

'All we got,' says Colin, 'is that this guy's worse than we thought; if it is him wrote this, I mean. He kills that Thompson woman and then writes her husband who he also killed an apology? Wow,' sipping his drink, cigarette tucked between fingers.

'It's him that wrote it. I feel it's him,' says Dwayne and a brave man would doubt Dwayne's confidence.

'And he wants publicity, to show that he's really a caring guy, deep down?' says Costas, shaking his head. 'Wouldn't make sense.'

Colin says, 'What makes sense to this guy, Chief? He writes this' – picking up the letter – 'like the man he's talking to's still alive!' Nobody says anything for a minute.

'Darling and Renne called. Renne came face-to-face last night,' says Dwayne.

'They're on the warpath. They want to see rolling heads.'

'Mine's first,' says Costas, no offence taken.

Colin's unimpressed, 'See how well they'd do with what we got going, limp-dicks.'

'You up to speed on Hargreaves' opinion?' says Costas to Dwayne.

'Our man's a fag? Horseshit,' goes Dwayne and Costas smiles because he's inclined to agree with Dwayne. He's not so sure today about the good doctor's educated guesswork yesterday.

Says Colin to Costas, 'I can't speak for all of us but this fuckin case's turning me into a paranoid whaddyacallit. Things I wouldn't believe before I sure as shit believe now.'

'And all we have to show for everything that we tried yesterday in Wisconsin is definitive proof that my brother didn't lie to us,' says Costas, with a smidgen of remorse.

'Hey,' Colin butts in, and in all seriousness says, 'yesterday he didn't lie to us. Don't go saying that that don't still make him a pain in the ass,' extinguishing the nub of his last cigarette. A second goes by and Dwayne starts laughing at what Colin's just said and then Costas loses it too and Colin quickly makes it a trifecta. It's infectious and needed.

11.55am

Chicago Homicide

Says the rookie jovially, 'Ted's probably afraid to walk outside the goddamn house,' standing outside Infante's office discussing the Kennedys with Casimir. Casimir's drinking Ovaltine and munching on a gingersnap cookie, trying to get away. Casimir said once that he'd vote for any of the Kennedys any day of the year. Well, except for poor Rose, of course.

Costas sits at his desk. Got that King Lear quote revolving about his circuitry: As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.

Hearing Kennedy-talk he thinks of the plan God might have that includes the murder of Bobby Kennedy and that thought brings him to the murder of Abraham Lincoln and that in turn brings him to the dream wherein Winston is John Wilkes Booth and so Costas stops thinking about God's plans.

Overhears the rookie go to Casimir, 'Oswald wasn't alone. That Arab neither.'

'Oh no?' says Casimir.

The rookie leans in, looks around for a second and goes, 'Niggers helped.'

They talked to Elm Kite's family an hour ago. The Kites came into the city and were most cooperative. Burt Kite gave Costas some grief over the lack of progress being made in catching the killer. Burt brought up CPD's questionable handling of the riots as well, layering his general sense of mistrust. His was understandable outrage up to that juncture in the meeting. Then, after that, for the detectives, Burt's protestations became signal interference.

Dwayne's typing at a snail's pace at his desk, 2 over from Costas. Casimir comes over to Costas and Dwayne, relatively cheerful, maybe because he's escaped the rookie, and says, 'Gentlemen.'

'Grow tired of your friend there, Sergeant?' says Dwayne, his back to Infante.

'Bag of laughs this guy,' says Casimir about the rookie. 'That letter of yours makes for interesting reading,' referring to the killer's note.

'What did Underwood say?' says Dwayne.

'He's killing it for now,' says Casimir, sipping. 'A newspaperman with a sense of civic responsibility,' goes Dwayne with a smirk, 'I've seen more four-leaf clovers.'

'And we didn't even have to ask nicely,' goes Infante, hand on hip, cookie devoured. Infante should be or could be busting balls and isn't. He's sometimes a good example of the extra stripe not having to make a man forget where he came from. 'Where's Morella?' he says.

'May be in later,' goes Dwayne, 'Sinusitis.'

'My wife gets that,' says Infante, 'a piddling condition. No excuse to be out,' walking back to his office, 'Get him in here.' He stops at his door and turns, going, 'And if it's not too much trouble, the man upstairs – both visible and invisible – would love to see an end to these murders. Today, if possible.'

'Thanks for dropping by,' mumbles Dwayne.

Costas phone rings by him. He picks up, 'Detective George speaking.'

'Costas. Harvey Cadorette. How are you?' Costas is surprised at how pleased he is to hear from Harvey.

'Harvey. How's Dixieland?'

'Hotter'n a popcorn fart. What's the temperature like up in your parts?'

'Rising all the time,' says Costas.

Dwayne stands and says to Costas, 'You want a coffee and donut?' Costas shakes his head to Dwayne and Dwayne's gone.

'I bet it is,' says Harvey with a laugh, 'Papers are loving it as usual.'

'Yeah, everyone's an expert overnight.'

'Comin out the woodwork coast to coast.'

'Tell me about it. So you got something for me, Harv?'

'Well, I do and I guess I don't, boss. You see what you can make of it. You recall Mr. Trevor Bowling, partner of James Branson?'

'Ran the club together, yes.'

'Right. Well, I don't know how much your buddy O'Meara there told you about our encounter with Mr. Bowling after you left.'

'Oh he was pretty tightlipped.'

'He was mighty loose-lipped in the club when we were looking for Bowling. I mean you knew he was liquored-up good going in but he saw this piece of tail working there and while we were waiting for Bowling to show his ugly face suddenly Mr. Saturday Night only got eyes for Little Miss Goodtime. Now, to me she's pretty as a mudfence but he forgot pretty quick what all he was there to do and, anyway, he chased her and she skedaddled and he ran clean into a table, dinging his leg real nice. Bowling came down a little after and Colin was in a bad way. We just spoke briefly to Bowling after that. It didn't go down exactly how I had hoped, I'm sure you can appreciate.'

Costas says, 'I'm embarrassed, Harvey. Jesus.'

'Don't be, Costas. No need to be. Yesterday then I spent the day with this itch, you know, and it was about Bowling. I kept thinking damn if there ain't something there that I'm missing so I paid him another visit last night and utilized my more ungentlemanly skills when he proved unwilling to give me what I wanted even though I didn't really know what it was I wanted. You've been there I'm sure.'

'Oh many a time,' says Costas, enjoying the story.

'We all been. So, after this and that it comes to light that James Branson was running girls for a captain of Carlos Marcello's. Seemed the little shit was low down on the food chain but important where it counted all the same. Bowling said that Branson treated the girls like crap and I said these were just girls off the street? and Bowling said that sure, some of them were, as far as he knew, a lot of them were easy prey, you know, vulnerable: homeless maybe, runaways. And it's amazing how you can sometimes get a guy to talk and this guy wouldn't shut up after a few minutes. I didn't have to keep pushing. He said that sometimes people would come into town, friends of Marcello, honored dignitaries as he put it or as he said Branson put it – uh, sportsmen, politicians, movie stars – glitterati in name and nothing else. And Marcello liked to comp their stays, no extravagance was too great, and part of that was girls, right? And only the best for Marcello's friends, of course, so the girls on the street didn't cut it. So Branson had a guy, a source, and Bowling swears that he only met the guy once when he was here on vacation with his wife if you can believe that. Generally the girls were shipped down by train from Milwaukee, all expenses paid, guaranteed to be clean and young and white.'

Costas gets wide-eyed, says, 'Elmer Thorne?'

'Uh-huh,' says Harvey. 'Bowling didn't know how the deals went down, the frequency, the money, or the numbers. The real nuts and bolts of it are in the dirt with Branson and Thorne. But I went a step further. This morning I spoke with Wharfedale, he's vice. I know him for years, very smart man. I talked to him about this and he wasn't too impressed by Branson's character, knew him to be a ruthless small-time crook too dumb to pour piss out of a boot. I asked him for files on girls they'd brought in the last couple years and I asked him how many of them, if any, he thought were from the North. He said that there were a few he could think of; the problem is that so many of the girls lie about their backgrounds. Still, Frank's been patrolling the streets for 40 years and he knows everyone and everything that's going on. He knows an accent too when he hears it. We checked up arrests and filtered as best we could and in my hand is a list of three names. I figured you'd give these to Milwaukee and check them against the names of girls gone missing in that city or runaways and/or girls who were patients of Dr. Thorne.'

Costas can hardly breathe with the excitement. He searches for a pen and can't find one. Dwayne's back in his chair. How long's he been back?

'Go ahead, Harvey,' says Costas, ready. Harvey says, 'Jill Meloserdoff, DOB 11/26/52, Eve McDavid, DOB 4/6/54 and Evelyn Beard, DOB 10/10/51. All Caucasian. Now, we think they're your best chance at making some useful headway. The next trick's figuring out how these 2 assholes, Branson and Thorne, are linked with the rest. Meantime, we're gonna keep sniffing around, see what's what.'

'Harvey, you're a saint,' says Costas.

'Buy me a drink when I see you,' and the grin's audible.

When Costas hangs up, Dwayne's all over him, 'What the hell's up?' Costas daren't say it. Colin appears at the top of the stairs in the middle of his sandwich and announces that word's coming in that there's likely been another murder.

12.25pm

Mrs. O'Leary's Cow Restaurant

1345 N. Kingsbury Street

Citizens interrupt their day to watch the show. Costas ducks under the tape at the sidewalk. Colin follows. They zip-line; the media hound them for answers. Costas wonders if Theo's in the cluster. He's wondering if he dealt too harshly with his brother.

The Cow's crawling with cops. One opens the front door for them and doesn't go in afterwards.

Dwayne's back at base calling Cliff Dahmen in Milwaukee, getting their asses moving on comparing Elmer Thorne's patients and Milwaukee Missing Persons files/ morgues for matches with Caddy's list of names. On the trip over here: So Thorne knew Branson – how did they meet? Hopefully Cliff Dahmen will understand that any doctor/patient confidentiality statutes are to be thrown to the wind.

Special Agent Fonda comes out from the back kitchen of the restaurant with great purpose towards Costas with a hand stuck out to keep the fire he's expecting from the cops peremptorily under control. There's photographic flashes from where Fonda's come. The main floor of the restaurant's been empty since last night.

Latticed wicker balls encase the hanging light fixtures; snappy napkins at the ready, tablecloths white and solid, still shots from famous movies produced in the locality starring Charlie Chaplin, Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant are framed and hung along the walls. The jukebox is unplugged. Orson Welles had the clam chowder here in the spring of 1961 goes the legend. Colin repeated the order the single time he ate here for a cousin's 40th because the guy Welles played in Touch of Evil reminded Colin so much of his own father.

'This is federal now,' comes Fonda, eyes softer, continuing surprisingly, 'The Director has written officially to your superiors and spoken directly to Mayor Daley. You can't stop it.'

Colin's disgusted and says, 'Just like that?'

'Just like that,' says Fonda; he's nicked his neck shaving. He looks at Costas almost exclusively. 'Now, before you -- ' restarts Fonda.

'We've busted out humps on this!' shouts Colin and Fonda sighs before saying to Costas, 'You are immediately relieved. Your commendation ceremony's been moved forward to tomorrow afternoon. For your actions in the riots. Officially, you're being removed on grounds of ill health. It is preferable that you play no further significant part in the case.'

Colin's laughing, 'Are you fuckin out of your mind?'

Costas listens, appreciating Fonda's position and frankness, curious as to why he or Colin weren't informed of this change in tack before departing Homicide.

Fonda keeps the reins, saying to him, 'My candor is purely out of respect for you, Detective. We don't by any means see your efforts as unsatisfactory, for what it's worth, given the cards you've been dealt and you treated us fairly when you could have burnt bridges.' Sudden dart of the head from Fonda: 'Will you be primary on this, Detective O'Meara?'

Colin's flabbergasted at the request, 'I thought you dickheads were running the show.'

'Our respective field offices here, in Milwaukee and New Orleans will co-ordinate, supervise and guide. For all intents and purposes, Chicago Homicide will be the face,' says Fonda.

'Right,' goes Colin, 'so that when things get fucked we take the hit and --'

'Will you do it?' says Fonda to Colin, with that hand pushing out again, holding his sunglasses.

'Take a fuckin hike,' says Colin, 'if you think I'm going to step in after you've kicked my partner in the balls. Forget it. I ain't a traitor and I ain't a fuckin sap either. You want it, you take it.'

'Would Detective Clooney take it?' Fonda asks Costas without missing a beat, like there's a list in his head he's ticking off as he goes down it.

'He may,' says Costas, suspicious, and Colin blurts out to Fonda, 'Are you deaf too, pal? Clooney's not gonna do it.'

'He may, Colin,' says Costas, looking tightly at Colin. Colin's astounded, goes, 'Chief, come on!'

Costas goes, 'It was bound to happen. In this situation, we are not one man and another man, we are police.' He heard that somewhere and liked how it sounded. He's never used it before and he's not sure if he buys into it all the way. He does, probably.

Fonda says to Costas, 'You must also let Detective Clooney know that he will not be revealed to the press as primary. It cannot be done like that. Michael Morella is the lead in print.'

Costas doesn't understand, 'What's the point in complicating it so much?'

'Morella's got fuckin clout and Dwayne's rep's dirty, that's why,' says Colin. 'For Christ sake, it's turned into a goddamn free-for-all,' and he takes a seat on a stool by the sleek counter.

Fonda wants to move things along so he goes, 'This is the finalized agreement. I do not have any more information for you other than that but --' Colin snorts with a shake of the head, reaching for a menu from a pile of menus. And Fonda doesn't stop talking 'Morella does have friends in high places, as I understand, and I've seen a picture: he's younger, he's quite photogenic.'

When is too much bullshit too much bullshit?

Ask yourself that.

Costas has no intention of abandoning this. He's confident that if the bosses can obfuscate the chain of the command – so many years have I worshipped at its altar! – for their own benefit, well, he can do likewise with as much aplomb. This temptation to rebel is a beautiful adrenaline. Get Dwayne to play lead and Costas will pull the strings behind the scenes from his sickbed. He can do covert too, by god. It can't be left trailing. They may have stumbled upon a real chance now with Harvey's forsaken prostitutes.

Rebellion: within the limits of the rulebook and limitlessly within the spirited man. My little secret. He'd love to tell Renne and Darling and Gordon and Hoover that there is a breaking point around the corner, fellahs, and if they want to play it dirty, oh man...

'Dwayne will do it,' Costas says to Special Agent Fonda. 'And we got a guy we need checked out nationwide for any sexually-related arrests. The Milwaukee doctor.'

Fonda says he's on it and then takes them to the kitchen to see 45yr old Franklin Fox, the co-proprietor of this restaurant by the river, and latest victim. The solitary sound is of men's footsteps. Never was a chaos so peaceful.

*

'Can I say something, Chief?' this is from Colin, driving back from The Cow.

'Yeah?'

'You're letting too many things slide. In my view.'

Costas wishes he could explain himself, pass on his ideas, his intentions to Colin. Somehow, the words are stuck. They're forever stuck. There seems to be no time where it's different. It's got a lot to do with Costas' personal insecurities.

Costas goes, 'Is that a fact?'

'Not to be an asshole or nothing. Just, you know, one minute we're in charge, the next minute we're out on our asses and you don't bat an eyelid. Makes me feel, uh, I mean why don't you fuckin stand up for yourself like you used to, is my point?' Colin wants to say it was those goddamn riots changed you, wasn't it?! And that's a first: Colin questioning Costas' what? – Efficiency? Stamina? Honesty? His very fuckin insides? Uncharted territory. Costas wants to say you wouldn't change losing your only boy?!

'You have to trust me,' says Costas, calmly, and Colin replies, fidgety now in his seat, 'You can see what they did, can't you? They cut some kind of deal with the feds. How could they take over so fast? They probably said after Thorne, next body means we're stepping in and our glorious leaders said sure, no problem and, by the way, let Special Agent Fucknuts there break it to them.'

Before they left Fonda, Costas called Dwayne and gave him the 411 on the Feds stepping up. Dwayne didn't seem too astonished by it and laughed when he was told that Mike's the face. Dwayne said the Feds wouldn't be so sure if they saw Morella's face this morning: he came in 10 minutes ago bulbous, feverish, and feeble. Dwayne said he'd do lead behind closed doors alright even though the entire thing's a crock of shit, pulling Costas etc. 'I assume you're not actually going to leave us,' said Dwayne and Costas smiled because he felt that Dwayne understood Costas' thinking on the situation perfectly.

*

'Did you even fight for us?' Dwayne says to Infante in Infante's office and Infante doesn't take kindly to the inference.

Infante: 'What could I do? In stone this is written. I don't like it either but we have to suck it up.'

Colin's standing next to Casimir; smoking. Costas is seated. Mike Morella's seated. Mike said he doesn't mind being the face. Dwayne's standing by the door.

'This is all so cheap,' says Colin, not really to anyone, scratching his cheek.

'Nevertheless, it is what it is and I expect no slacking from any of you. Whatever goes on in here cannot affect how we work out there,' says Infante, grandly. 'A press release will be issued soon stating the changes and Morella, you're up in front of the cameras at 3 to answer questions,' holding a sheet out for Mike to take, which he does take, 'this is expressly what you do and do not say.'

Colin's bitterness won't shy: 'Compliments of the Fuckin Bullshit of Investigation.'

'You realize that you are a federal pawn,' Costas had irresistibly said to Mike Morella 10 minutes ago, a minute after Mike'd accepted the lead post. Mike said to Costas in return, with as much outward self-confidence as he could put up for sale, 'It's no big deal,' and Mike looks here now in Infante's office at the helpful list of FBI constraints and clears his throat, meeting Costas' gaze for a blink. Mike can't hide his newfound frame of mind on the matter.

'So, we go on as we always do,' says Infante. 'You have family to notify, we've got people to talk to, interviews to conduct. Let's give them no cause to doubt what we can bring to the table.'

'Sarge, they could give a fuck what we bring to the table,' says Colin. 'Renne and Darling and every last one of them to the very top of this pile of shit department,' wrapping his fist around the doorknob, 'It's fuckin sickening the way we're caving,' and he walks out of the room.

Costas rises and so does Mike. Dwayne starts to go and Infante moves around the back of his desk, saying, 'Dwayne, a word?' Costas pauses and Infante says for everyone's benefit, 'Privately.'

Costas turns for the door, Mike opens it for him and Dwayne says, 'I got no secrets.' Infante sits down, looks up at Dwayne. 'I would much prefer talking to you in private in the first instance,' says the Sergeant. Dwayne sits where Mike Morella was sitting, crosses his legs and smiles, going, 'I got no secrets from these men.' Infante huffs, says to Mike and Costas, 'Detective Clooney will be with you in a moment.'

'Hey, goddamn it,' starts Dwayne, 'we're not children. Mike, shut the door,' and Dwayne gets a kick out of Infante's annoyance.

'On your own head be it,' says Infante having weighed up the moment and Dwayne goes, 'Ain't it always?'

Mike Morella shuts the door and stands where he stands with Costas close by. Costas' arm throbs. The rib's got ticklish pain too.

'I got a call a couple weeks ago, from a buddy of mine, about a complaint made at the 17th against you,' says Infante, seated. So the room cools a fraction.

'What'd I do this time?' says dynamo Dwayne. Infante gives a glance to Costas and leans into his desk, fingers interlaced in front of him and says, 'Anna Sugarbaker.'

Costas reads Dwayne: Dwayne doesn't know the name.

Dwayne goes, 'Who's that?'

'Ms. Sugarbaker claims that you knocked out 2 of her teeth in August,' says cucumber-cool Infante.

Dwayne: 'Well, Ms. Sugarbaker's got her head up her ass.'

Costas reads Dwayne: Dwayne's not impervious to jitters.

'My buddy also tells me that another hooker in Skokie made a complaint about a cop pushing her around, said that he was coming around regularly harassing her, looking to roll on her for cash. April that was. She couldn't name the guy, gave a description OK. My buddy's got the sketch.' Dwayne laughs nervously, gives Costas his eyes.

Costas reads Dwayne: Guilty.

Costas sees Dwayne striking Janine, sees him punching Emily. Costas swallows.

'You got your parents near Skokie, right?' says Infante, turning the screw expertly.

Dwayne says, 'Fuck you, sir. The girl's a liar.'

'Now's the time, Detective,' says Infante. Infante doesn't revel. Leans back. OK, so he revels a little. Dwayne's got nothing.

'What I can do is bury this until later,' says Infante.

'A freak, one complaint; two, that's a pattern. With your track record, I could pick up the phone, have IA show an interest.'

'You take a whore's word over mine?' says Dwayne, 'Twice?'

Infante goes, with a shrug, 'Law of averages. You get burned.'

Dwayne says, 'Funny you not bringing this up until this morning.'

'Everyone's out to get you, Clooney, huh?' says Infante, arrogant now maybe. 'Darling knows. He asked me if I thought it a mistake giving you primary, he gave me the choice and I'm choosing to exercise that prerogative and put Morella at the helm.'

Mike's amazed. The face just turned into the body. Dwayne goes to Infante, on his way out, 'I'll beat anything you throw at me,' a shade darker.

What a time to allow spite dictate terms, Infante. Christ.

Costas says to Infante, 'I can still do this thing.'

Infante shakes his head, 'They don't want you. It's too much pressure,' and Costas wonders if Infante's not playing some kind of game here, like he's got more sway with Upstairs than he pretends. It feels like certain factions are using King Lear as an opportunity. Costas gets the feeling that none of the bosses think King Lear can be stopped. It's fish or cut bait: there's groundwork being laid for a successful aftermath on the upper floors no matter what the outcome on the street. It's a form of preemptive looting.

'Rest up, George,' says Infante, preparing to recommence paperwork. 'Believe me; this messiness takes its toll on everyone. Mike's the man for the job. He'll play ball,' with eyes evasive.

*

Morale's in the basement.

Both Dwayne and Colin are MIA for a time. Mike Morella's sweating from his illness. He's not taking the responsibility lightly. He makes phone calls. He gives things to Rudy Ollis and to Rod Blakely. Costas' coffee ain't half bad. Mike's eager for updates, files, status reports. He seems nerdish and prudish; clicks his fingers to indicate the hurry he's in. Costas knows he's got no real respect coming to him. Mike's harmless, he's cute, he's angry-at-being-ignored-white-working-class-suburbia in a necktie; a limited edition by any other name, a young man not prone to leadership and prone to tantrums. He's a Darling, a Gordon, a riser through black tie affairs, a politician's gopher. He's a cop that washes his hands after touching a body. He's, he's, he's – Jesus, they want to give me a medal!

It's imploding. We're imploding. Costas considers going home. That would be nice as hell. Give this, all of this stupid shit, a rest, climb down and land softly.

Colin marches up to Costas – from where? - with a face wadded. He says, 'You got that stuff on Fox?'

Costas picks up the sheets they got from Fonda to get moving on murder #6 to show Colin that he has them. He wonders if Colin's aware of Dwayne's sandbagging. He probably is. Mike's not far away, talking to someone. He sees Colin. He doesn't approach.

And Colin glances at Mike, says to Costas, 'So let's just do what we're paid for.'

Meantime

St. Genevieve's

It's a rush job. She never even thought to call ahead. Back of the Yards Mama called this morning about 10, just as Emily was beginning her second cup of coffee, with dirty pots and pans piled, with the radio on. She was wherever it is she goes sometimes, when the phone rang. She hasn't thrown out Winton's weed. It's a keepsake, tucked. Today she wants to curl up in bed forever. Tonight: tonight she and Janine are going to clean. That's the promise: an overhaul. Janine suggested it. She said we should get rid of Winston's things or we should go through Winston's things. The phrasing, Emily's not sure how Jan put it. It will be sacrificial, cathartic. Emily's rigid with fear......focus, now: the phone call: Wonder Mama'd gotten a hold of Chuck Weteling's information. Rephrase: Mama's husband knew that Chuck teaches 4th grade Math and English at St. Genevieve's. Emily couldn't thank her enough and didn't.

Now she's inside the school. She'd driven 8 or 10 blocks before remembering to bring the envelope with her. She nearly forgot the whole point. The trip's been blurry. Like she simply thought of the school and that was sufficient to get her there; the rabbit getting stuffed back inside the hat. She didn't think twice about going. She dropped her morning like a hot potato; sweet revenge. She's regretting one or two things in the labyrinth, on her way to finding Chuck's room, directions given at the front desk by a plump old Irish dear with a pioneer pin. The old dear agreed to jab one of Emily's yard sale posters to the bulletin board.

Emily's not dressed appropriately by any means to meet anyone, in her own opinion – no makeup to speak of; at times like this, a cute ensemble's a suit of armor and she's been skinned alive. Brushed her hair quickly all right and still looks like she lost a fight with a lawnmower. Her heels make a terrible racket through the empty corridors, knocking out syllables of doubt. Such silliness.

Why do this to myself?

There's a mirror in the students' bathroom and, boy, is it unforgiving. Some foundation. No tougher hide than that of an average-looking woman when looks enter the equation and looks are forever entering the equation. She's thinking about leaving now, here, due to her shoddy aspect, those baggy eyes like luggage; like excess baggage. If she paused for breath, she'd wonder as to which path her youth has taken through the yellow wood. That would make all the difference. For this exact and no other introspective instant she forgets why she's here, now, and the school bell rings, sculpting her walls with the blast, and she's back from wherever she goes sometimes and Winston whispers encouragement.

Emily George needs help, in a nutshell, only a hand, an encouraging whisper, and perhaps one day she'll get it when she admits that she needs it. In the meantime, she thinks of her mother, (her reflection,) of roads not taken, the words echoing from her mother's saddled lips and burdened breast and the pen of Robert Frost. Emily's mother – addressed as Mrs. Klick by her siblings and husband - homeschooled her children for an extra hour every day after school. She pounded into them that which she believed to be the most essential element of a notable education and sorely lacking in the prescribed mandate of the schooling system: genuine classics. Looking back, having gained perspective through the wiles of the Outer World, Emily sees now, here, that Mrs. Klick's parenting wasn't particularly – what would she say? – good. Caring. Mrs. Klick's words were economical in the extreme and if she did speak to her offspring – criticism (usually, with pity), praise (rarely, with caveat), joy (never, ever) - the point generally came forth in the guise of a scholarly quotation. And she loved to use Frost.

'Not for this chickadee,' says Emily as honestly as she can and opens that goddamn elementary bathroom door with purpose. Children abound. She's suddenly Gulliver. It's a sea of protons and neutrons, game theory unwashed behind the ears needing teddy bears and story time and independence and lights left on to sleep. She was in that place once.

Emily braces herself and wiggles upstream towards room 13H, that of Mr. Charles Weteling. He's wiping down his blackboard in a strong blue shirt and darker blue tie. He's got a full head of brown hair. He's 40s – this is her lightning summary from behind him in the doorway – and a trim man. She guesses he likes fitness and knocks on his door.

Chuck Weteling turns and says, 'Hello,' with a grabbing smile. She never had a crush on any of her teachers. Emily's thoughts are unfounded and protrusive - Charlene Weteling's white.

'Hi, you're Mr. Weteling?' she says, stepping a few feet closer.

'I am,' he says, his board clean, his aura dusty in buttery half-light, putting down the duster and facing Emily, wiping his hands free of chalk in a move that contains more habit than practical necessity. His face is wide open and he's annoyingly handsome. On first inspection, he's the actor Martin Chance's long lost twin. 'What can I do for you?' and he's not afraid to get close either, offering a hand and an unbroken smile. Emily feels like shutting up shop, recalling the unfurled petals. His light is a blanket.

'My name is Emily George and – uh, hm, I actually don't know how to start explaining myself.'

'Would you care to try over lunch?'

So forward!!

He starts for the door and smiles, 'It's OK, Mrs. George. Everybody does it.'

*

She buys a sandwich and tea from the cafeteria. Chuck tells her to avoid the fresh food. He brought a turkey salad from home, whipped it up myself from leftovers. He goes, 'The stuff they make here in the mornings that's wrapped is consumable. Everything else is roulette. Trust me.'

She explains to him how she got his personal details. There's a bench off the school premises – a block east - of which Chuck's an inconsistent habitué. It's got a beautiful silver birch overhanging that provides sweet scents and shade. Bees are bumbling on springy flower tops. Idle exhausts putter and pollute.

'They have a choir,' says Chuck, pointing to another, all-girl school behind them that's out of sight on the other side of high hedgerows; Emily ducks to catch a glimpse of the red brick corner building to which he refers. Chuck goes, 'Sometimes I'll bring a book out here and read but if they're practicing, which they may be today' – consults his watch – 'we have missed them today, I think. Anyway, I love to just sit and listen.'

So friendly!!

Emily's thinking it's as if Chuck were expecting her to call on him all along he's so forthcoming. 'So, Mrs. George, do I need to be worried by your visit?' says smiley Chuck, eating his food and sipping his soda.

'Oh no!' says Emily. Emily's got a piñata of questions so she closes her eyes and swings: 'Do you have a daughter?'

'Yes I do.'

'Is her name Charlene?'

'It is.'

'I have a son. Winston.' She fiddles with telling Chuck about Winston being dead like she's rewiring a wireless and then realizes that he has to be told.

'I see,' says Chuck, a little more cautiously, after Emily's thoughts stutter.

'Winston is dead,' Emily goes and it's a loaded sentence. It's the first time she's said it aloud and it bangs the heart slowly; as it will, as it will. As it will.

'Oh,' goes Chuck, the standard. And so that she can't hear any I'm sorry for your loss she jumps in with, 'I think maybe your daughter and my son, you know, were seeing each other.'

Chuck's quiet. She takes the unopened envelope from her pocket and holds it out for Chuck to take. 'I found this in his belongings.' Chuck reads back and front and contemplates a moment. Emily says, hopefully, 'Am I right?'

Chuck goes, 'I don't know. I don't remember any boys by that name.'

'I brought some pictures too,' Emily says, handing photographs to Chuck and Chuck wipes a hand against his pants before taking them to look through, 'in case perhaps your daughter is in any of them.'

'This is your son?' comes Chuck pointing at one of Winston's friends. Emily corrects him. Chuck says Charlene's in none of the shots. Chuck looks pensively at the plump envelope again. The all-girl choir starts Haydn's Stabat Mater.

Oh sweet sounds!

Emily listens for a time and the swelling voices seem to perfectly juxtapose her imagery from Vietnam. The piece scores her unique movie of the War: knitted together with scraps of elephant grass whooshed sideways by ascending/descending rotator blade winds on TV, spectacular magazine pictures of lonesome, weeping GIs and Emily's ubiquitous, clinging nightmares.

'Please make sure that she gets it,' says Emily.

'I will,' says Chuck sincerely. Emily's slow to look at him, slow to talk, it seems that she's gone somewhere and he's not certain if their conversation is over.

'Do you think that I could maybe meet Charlene?' says Emily, brittle.

'She just left a couple days ago to go back to Atlanta.'

'She lives down there.'

'Studying sociology at Moorehouse. 2nd year. She works 2 jobs,' he goes proudly/superfluously. Emily was always superfluous describing Winston.

Emily watches a fluttering butterfly and says, 'It's very important to me, Mr. Weteling, that your daughter get that envelope,' every fiber of her fighting tears. 'I feel like I've kept none of the promises I ever made to my son.'

And miles to go before she sleeps.

Meantime

Costas' understanding is that resting up is an option. And he's choosing to decline the offer. He will gladly, however, play second fiddle to Colin and 3rd or 4th fiddle to Master Morella (as Colin has taken to calling Mike in the last 30 minutes.)

Colin's not saying much, driving, and Costas reads aloud to Colin what he's reading – namely, the FBI's thrown-together file on Franklin Fox that boggles the mind both with its minute detail and lifeless prose.

File as is: - along with color commentary from the detectives as they feel required - OK, Franklin Fox (DOB 1/13/23) was married to Agnes Carothers on 10/11/46; a father of 5 children, 4 boys and a girl. All college grads, the youngest's attending his final year majoring in archaeology at Cornell. Fox declared bankruptcy as a young man in Seattle in 1948: electrical wholesalers that his trusted partner was embezzling from. The accounts were only checked 2 days after the partner didn't show up for work one Wednesday and couldn't be located, landing Mr. Fox in impossible mountains of debt. Moved every last wisp of his family – 9 month old twin boys included - to Chicago to do what is ingrained in him to do by his culture whenever personal strife strikes at the heart: seek out new terrain. Took many menial jobs to keep his head above water in the beginning and then found his niche, rather unexpectedly, in the culinary arts. That is to say, he saw an ad for a fry cook in a paper and the chef of the joint was a 3rd generation Norwegian xenophobe to his bones and said that he only hired white, honest Americans and all day he'd seen Chinks and Spics. So Frank got the spot by default. He moved up the ladder incrementally. In one upscale kitchen downtown: met 29 year old Heinrich Hank Ottenstroer, an amiable Austrian immigrant with a mesmerizing string of lovers and serious ambition at the forefront of his every intention. His wise parents saw over the horizon and escaped Hitler's Anschluss when Hank was 5 and Frank and Hank - those dispossessed twins with the common affliction of having their hometowns forcibly lost to them - got along fine.

Hank's ideas for making millions were catching and made Frank think, during cigarette breaks by dumpsters in alleys and smelling of foods that they themselves couldn't afford, that something good financially may come out of this friendship. The pair worked like dogs and in 1957 had saved up enough money to qualify for a loan to buy and remodel a dilapidated bakery overlooking the Chicago River on its eastern bank. They bled the place during construction and became closer, close as brothers by then, particularly during the tougher periods when it seemed that the restaurant, when it launched, might not survive the first 12 months.

In the end, the fates conspired and the entrepreneurs, the American Dreamers, enjoyed a rip-roaring success thanks to their tireless endeavoring. In time they could afford cigars and fine clothes, to send their children to any school in the country, to live in the cleaner parts of the city. End of profile.

Mike Morella wanted to interview Fox's widow along with Dwayne Clooney except that nobody could find Dwayne. So Mike's gone with Rudy Ollis. Colin and Costas are on their way to talk to Hank Ottenstroer. Feds are watching. Colin said he saw #3 skulking. It all seems pointless, really. The murder scene in O'Leary's Cow's kitchen was clean as a whistle. Not a microscopic fiber to be had. Again. Two in the eye, a note in the breast pocket, no struggle, no witnesses.

What's gonna happen? They ask this guy and –

'What's gonna happen?' says Colin, pulling up to the curb by Ottenstroer's stagey apartment building ten minutes walk west of the Shedd Aquarium, 'we ask this guy, are you by any chance the mad asshole blowing men to hell and he's gonna put his wrists out and say, funny you should bring that up and we all go home to bed?'

The building's elevator's out of order and Colin says, 'Fuck.' He cranes his neck, goes, 'What floor is it?'

Costas says, 'Seventh.' Colin taps the bottom of a fresh pack of cigarettes and says, 'Fuck.'

Every step up the seven flights Colin says Fuck. They get to Hank's door out of breath and Costas says, lightly, before knocking, 'I hope he's home after that.'

'If he ain't I'll kick down the goddamn door and shit on his pillow,' says Colin the chimney, adjusting his crotch. Hank's home. Hank's 38 – looks twice that opening the door, practically bald, few gray pushed-back strands, with sagging, once-pudgy cheeks, horn-rimmed glasses and a downward gaze. He's in a string vest with a hole near the left armpit, gray slacks and barefoot. He is more than hospitable without the smiles. He's either taken Fox's death hard or he's got a lot of shit on his plate. He doesn't look like the co-owner of one of the city's top 5 annual turnover eateries. Apartment's a slob's two-thumbs-up.

Hank married a Hungarian girl on the night of his 25th birthday. They knew each other 4 days, he mostly dared himself; that lasted 6 years, they divorced amicably, he spent years following her around, it broke him, everyone saw it, and she took pity on love. They remarried and 8 days later she moved back to her village 15 miles north of Budapest. That was 4 years ago. He badly needs a woman to fix him. None will come near because he badly needs fixing. Paradox.

Costas is reluctant to take a seat, as offered. The guy's a hoarder: stacks and stacks of newspapers blocking the TV, unused birthday cards, innumerable twofer coupons, old food containers everywhere, and empty cigarette boxes seemingly boxed and categorized by brand and color. The nose is bombarded by a cacophony of grime and tobacco and staleness. There are spiders having a ball in the upper corners. Hank's making tea in the cubby kitchen.

Something moves under the couch beneath Colin and Colin jumps. Is it a rat? Nothing further. Colin's OK standing. They both are. Hank's not talking. Makes the tea scrupulously. They didn't ask and he didn't offer. He puffs on his pipe and drops a cup that smashes on the tile. He doesn't pick up the pieces. Colin's flick of the eyebrows says to Costas, hey, maybe this IS our guy.

Costas eyes a dusty black and white photograph in a black gilt frame on the wall. Happier times. Hank's got his hair and his smile, dressed to the nines for the party that sneaks into the frame behind him, a pretty, mystery girl on his arm. Early 60s. Hank's beside Franklin Fox, Frank grinning widely, a brimming champagne flute in his hand arisen in presumed toast, eyes right in on the camera.

Hank comes back in with one cup. Gives it to Colin. Hank doesn't apologize for not giving anything to Costas. 'I found him,' says Hank, like he's talking about the weather, sitting in a chair with bird-watching magazines on it. He doesn't move them. There's a chessboard ready to roll by his right arm. The black rook's got web connections with the bishop.

Hank takes out his pipe and thumbs the black mess in the wooden bowl with great concentration. Colin's got hot water and a teabag with a string. He holds the saucer tightly and that's enough. The detectives await a continuance from Hank.

When none comes, Costas goes, 'Do you know why the alarm was not raised when Mr. Fox did not come home last night?' Doc put the TOD at midnight or 1am due to the body's lividity and temperature. Hank called the cops about 9am.

Hank says easily, 'Marriage problems.' The detectives wait. Hank's happy with his bowl and starts to stuff it with tobacco.

Colin goes, 'The Foxes were having marriage trouble, Mr. Ottenstroer?'

'Sometimes,' says Hank, eyes to his jaundiced fingernails. He could be construed as arrogant. Colin and Costas trade looks.

Costas goes to Hank, 'And did \--'

Hank goes, 'And poker.' The detectives wait. Agitation rising.

Colin says, 'What about poker, Mr. Ottenstroer?'

'He played it late at night,' says Hank, 'with friends,' sounding like Hank wasn't one of those friends and wanted to be.

'Anyone want to kill your partner?' says Colin, putting his untouched tea on a pile of books on a table beside the couch. He's wary of scurrying creatures.

'Oh, Frank's got enemies,' says Hank, no worries.

'Like who?' asks Costas, staying patient for the sake of advancement.

Hanks shrugs, goes, 'People.'

'What people, for Christ's sake?' blurts Colin.

'Tike Ralph,' goes Hank, with a twitch. 'Tike Ralph did it.'

Colin and Costas trade looks again, Colin's fingers ain't too far from his holstered standard if needed.

'And who is Tike Ralph?' says Costas, wondering if Hank's not leading them down a garden path. The unstable ones can do and have done that before. Costas has experienced plenty of no-go tips from nuts.

'Tike Ralph's a bad egg. Frank owed him cash,' says Hank.

'How much?' says Colin.

'Does it matter?' goes Hank with a sharp stab, flinging his pipe across the room, 'my best friend is dead. Killed by that bastard.'

Costas moves closer, voice is low and careful, 'Don't you want us to find Tike Ralph and make him pay for what he did to your best friend?' Hank reminds Costas of Hunter Thorne, the way he nods like a child. He's wearing his wedding ring.

Costas: 'So help us. Where does he live, Mr. Ottenstroer?' Hank controls himself, eyes watering and he goes, 'Burma.'

'Are you sure about that now?' says Costas, more certain now that Hank's for the birds. The reasons could be many.

'Forget this, Chief,' says Colin with a sigh.

'Yes,' says Hank, eyes to Costas. 'Over 2 measly bucks.'

Colin: 'Come on, the fuck's this screwball talking about?!'

Costas has a thought - play along \- and goes, 'Mr. Ottenstroer, when did Mr. Fox incur that debt?'

'9th grade,' goes Hank, straightforward. 'That kid's a bad egg,' his lower lip wobbling.

Costas asides quietly to Colin, 'This man needs a doctor.'

Colin replies, 'He needs a fuckin padded cell.'

'Mr. Ottenstroer,' says Costas, 'when you came into the restaurant this morning and found Mr. Fox, did you see anyone or anything unusual?'

Hank says, 'No.'

'Was the door locked or unlocked, can you remember?'

'Locked,' says Hank and now he appears quite lucid.

Colin asides to Costas, 'That accounts for Fox's missing keys. Killer took them.'

Hank says, 'You think that King Lear man did it?'

'Yes,' says Costas, 'we do. What do you think?'

'I think you'll never catch that man. He's one bad egg,' says Hank, rising and heading for the bathroom.

Colin, with head shaking, goes, 'Jesus. I hope Master Morella's having more fun.' Costas thinks about what else Hank might provide them with. 'We go? This place's is creeping me out,' says Colin.

'You think this is just a wild goose chase?' says Costas to Colin.

Colin shrugs, 'The overtime's paying for my kid's teeth.'

Costas smiles and sees Colin's point: Does it matter?

Hank flushes and reemerges, vigorously excavating his nostrils with a hunk of toilet paper.

Costas says, moving to the front door, 'Thank you, Mr. Ottenstroer, we will be in touch if we need any more from you.' Hank ignores Costas seemingly and goes into the kitchen, begins preparing vegetables. Colin's hot on Costas' heels. Costas opens the front door and disturbs a mountain of magazines that come crashing to the floor, fanning out everywhere. Costas says, 'Shit,' and considers picking them up. They look to the kitchen and Hank's not budged - his back's to them.

Colin goes, 'Quick, he didn't hear it. Go!' So they go. A few seconds later, Costas returns, opens the door again, peeks back inside. Hank's not moved and so the magazines are still strewn about. He checks the publications on the floor again – furniture, sports, classic cars, lifestyle, cookery, weather almanacs, you name it; falls on bended knee and picks one up specifically. The Model Railroader: Issue Jan. '68.

Costas stands up with the magazine in his hand and heads over to Hank. Colin stands by the door, watching, not sure what's up exactly. Hank's still got his back to Costas, slicing zucchini loudly, and Costas enters the kitchen.

He says softly, heart racing, 'Mr. Ottenstroer, do you or did you ever collect model trains?'

Hank stops chopping and says, 'No. Never.' The air's still. Hank starts chopping again. Costas hangs his head: Worth a shot. Strange: can't say why, but that felt so right to pursue.

Costas starts to leave, comes with, 'Sorry to have bothered you again.'

And Hank says, without turning, 'I don't collect them, Detective.' Costas stops, doesn't turn. Hank turns his head and says, 'But Frank did.'

2pm

OK, OK. So back to Homicide. Mike's there, pulling his hair out. He's naked before the world media in an hour and shitting a brick about it. A couple Feds school him in the corner.

Detective Rudy Ollis' appendix burst 2 weeks ago. Emergency was hasty and successful. He's started calling Costas Mr. Column Inches. Chews on a wet stogie, informing Mr. Column Inches that Agnes Fox, the widow, is incommunicado, too distressed to even give them her name. She apparently fainted on the spot in front of Mike and Rudy when told of what had happened to her Franklin. Costas has Rudy call Hank Ottenstroer to see if Hank can furnish them with any names of Fox's poker pals. Thanks.

Dwayne's returned to Homicide in the meantime. He answered a call from Stan Tumicki in Milwaukee 15 minutes back. Nobody asks if Dwayne's OK about Infante giving him the boot, that's not how it's done. Dwayne says that Tumicki said that they got to Elmer Thorne's office – lights off, no one around, boxes sealed and piled. They were going through things when a woman – presumably a staff member - came upon them, a middle-aged census number, and she wondered as to what they thought they were doing. They sprung badges and she got antsy and mentioned warrants etc. and the guys didn't know the law exactly on dead doctors and their records. Then came a little spur of the moment ingenuity: Tumicki saw in the woman's handbag a small diary and he started in on how he kept a journal and how he wasn't sure if it was very manly to do that and please don't tell anyone about it. Anyway, it was a diversion and Dahmen searched in the meanwhile for files and came up roses with one of the girls: Jill Meloserdoff.

'So she was a patient with him,' says Colin, listening to Dwayne's retelling avidly.

'Right,' goes Dwayne, evidently unaffected by Infante's earlier rebuff, 'She first came to him at 13, with her father – the mother's dead – went for, uh, for an abortion. No account of who the father of the child was but Thorne, as Tumicki quoted him, at the time wrote' – and Dwayne reads from his pad – '12 weeks along, no signs of danger to her or baby. Timorous girl, controlled obsessively by father and in need of caring older male figure; will refer her on. Father has consented.

'No name for the referral,' goes Costas.

'No name,' says Dwayne predictably. 'She's down as having visited Thorne 5 more times in the next 6 months after the procedure – nothing about seeing an actual gynecologist – and each time she saw him, Thorne became more and more pleased with her' – reading again – 'adherence to my requests to stay away from boys and Jill's growing admiration of my opinions.'

'Any idea when --?' starts Colin.

Dwayne holds up a hand, says, 'In two of the last updates he has written a man's name in each: Dr. Branson,' and Dwayne allows that sink in. Colin wants to throw up. Dwayne rolls on, with less punch, going, 'The quote I have reads she is an ideal subject candidate for my colleague's continuing psychological studies in Louisiana.

Costas can stomach no more and starts off to his desk. Colin sighs through his nose, hangs his head, left fist to left hip, turns away, scuffs the floor with the sole of his shoe kicking something imaginary.

And with Costas well out of earshot now, Colin says to Dwayne, 'Any idea when he shipped her south?'

'Last record's summer of 1966. July. After that it's blank,' goes Dwayne.

Colin: 'Can we speak to the father? He must have suspected or known.'

Dwayne: 'Father's doing 25 to life for beating to death a neighbor with a hockey stick.'

'Naturally. Where's she from originally?' asks Colin.

'Ah, Milwaukee. Just outside,' says Dwayne. Thorne and Branson were doing this for YEARS.

'So we got nothing, am I right?' asks Colin.

'Zilch I'd say,' says Dwayne, hands between legs, pad flopping in his hands, seated on a swivel stool with the foam peering out from under the leather where the stitching's burst.

'Maybe Caddy can throw us a Hail Mary,' comes Colin, glancing to Mike Morella in the spreading distance, leaving Dwayne to his own devices. Dwayne leaves a message for Harvey in New Orleans regarding the Meloserdoff discovery.

Mike Morella's flanked by overbearing men in suits and looking to the ceiling, presumably for an escape hatch.

*

And it's Square 1 to a degree: Costas calls on Mrs. Franklin Fox, falls on deaf ears, her brother Edison's there watching over her and he's sympathetic to the police's plight but his sister's welfare's got to be his main concern.

Meantime: Colin's on the line to Margaret Chattel, Ulysses Thompson's sister: Does she recognize the name Franklin Fox? Did she ever see other men talking to Ulysses about trains or going to Ulysses' basement to see his trains? Not that she's aware.

Meantime: Dwayne's calling John Belt, Mary Thompson's brother, and Dwayne says after the name Franklin Fox rings no bells, 'Could they have been in a club together, Fox and your brother-in-law?'

'Maybe,' says John Belt, 'Maybe. Ulysses was in some kind of a group like that. Trains.'

'Any names or addresses, Mr. Belt? The model train club's name maybe or any of Mr. Thompson's associates that you might have encountered.'

'Oh Lord, no. Head like a sieve. If he ever told me the address I couldn't recall now.'

'Remember, Mr. Belt, nothing is too small. Any piece of information could help us.'

'Well, there's a place I know could help you, I suppose. Ulysses took me there one time; a toy railroad store, you know, where collectors go.'

'The name of the store, sir?'

'Not the foggiest but it's on W65th. I remember that because it was around the corner from my son's judo class.'

Dwayne starts furiously waving Costas and Colin over to him.

*

Hurry, hurry: Costas shows pictures of Franklin Fox and Ulysses Thompson to Randy, the 34-year-old, ponytailed cashier of Train Tracks at 3909 W 65th Street.

Randy says, 'I know him,' meaning Franklin. There's a number of huge HO model railroad layouts in perfect working condition and amazing detail behind and around Costas and Colin. Trains pulling out and pulling in and pushing on automatically.

'Not the other guy? Take a good look,' says Colin to Randy, pushing the picture of Ulysses Thompson.

'No. Not him,' goes Randy, chewing a toffee, 'He comes in pretty regularly. Chatty sort,' meaning Franklin Fox. 'Always buys something, always got a project on the boil.'

Costas: 'We're trying to link these two men. Do you know much about the city's clubs? Is that the best place to meet likeminded people?'

'Yeah, I guess it is,' says Randy.

'So you know of any clubs in the city we could talk to?' says Colin, wishing Randy would help speed things up.

Randy goes, 'Well, I know of one. On Ashland. But lemme call Bernie,' moving to the phone on his right, 'He owns this place and used to run swap meets outta here, I think.' He picks up the receiver, 'It's his day off but he never goes anywhere.'

The detectives wait, definitely feeling a momentum fighting its way forward. The cruelest temptation of any is to be hopeful. Colin gets to eyelevel with an oncoming freight train (is there a dozing hobo figurine in one of the carriages?) and it takes a sharp turn tidily; dashing by a forested area, headed for a quaint, 1950s Midwestern town replete with operating crossing lights, a bus stop, a train depot, traffic, a church, a gas station, a public park, a five and dime and a garage. He touches a hilltop softly. Everything's so lifelike. He finds it all strangely intriguing.

Randy gets a pick-up, immediately raises his voice to the person on the other end, 'Bernie? Yeah, Randy. Yeah, uh, I got a couple cops here wanna know some stuff – I GOT A COUPLE POLICEMEN WANNA KNOW ABOUT RAIL MODEL CLUBS.' Shortly, Randy's writing things.

*

Costas pips for Downtown RailRoads first because it's on Randolph – geographically the closest, of the 3 choices he's been given by Randy, to the homes of Fox and Thompson. Speaks to a pleasant old lady. She says that she doesn't recognize the names but her husband's the club founder, he'd probably know.

Simon Schnelle, wheezy, comes on the line, and the first thing he says is, 'Is this about Frankie?'

Costas got it in one. He says, 'Mr. Fox, sir. Yes. We're investigating his murder. You were friends?'

'For a good many years, yes. He was an excellent man. Excellent. I heard it on the radio 10 minutes ago. It makes me sick, frankly. And so soon after Ulysses. My goodness, these are terrible, terrible things to live with. Good friends, those boys,' goes Simon Schnelle, his words deliberate and angry. 'When did this madness start in America?'

'They knew each other, sir?' says Costas, maintaining focus.

'Oh yes. Two excellent men. All-rounders. Never saw a man like Thompson to fashion scenery as he did.'

'Do you have any idea why they were chosen by the killer?'

'Oh none whatsoever. What do you mean? You believe the killer thought they deserved it?'

'No, sir. We are still not fully sure of the motives.'

'Well, I suggest you get a move on. The one of you in charge on the news earlier didn't seem to know one end of himself from the other.' Morella's press conference.

Costas: 'How long's your club in operation, Mr. Schnelle?'

'Since 1945. December 1st.'

'And how many members do you have?'

'At our height, oh say, 150 mainstays. Now it's 100 ins and outs – lots of clubs have sprung up since, and say, now how many we got? Oh god, say, 30 diehards? About that, yes.'

'And you would class Mr. Thompson and Mr. Fox as diehards, would you?'

'Certainly. A keen pair through the years.'

'And when did Mr. Thompson and Mr. Fox become members?'

'I'd have to check my records on that.'

'Ballpark will do, Mr. Schnelle.'

'Let me see. Uh, sometime in 1959 I would guess. I should check that. My memory's not the well-oiled machine it used to be.'

'Both of them in 1959, you would say? Roughly.'

'Yes. Well, whatever the date, they did join together. I remember that much.'

'They joined on the same day?'

'I'm saying that they arrived together and signed up. Yes.'

'So they were acquainted beforehand?'

'Yes.'

Hold your breath. Big question: 'And do you know how they were acquainted?'

Big answer: 'Gosh, Detective. I don't think it ever came up.'

Son of a bitch.

*

Back at base: Mike's been forcibly remanded. His uncle, the ex-divisional head's been and gone. Mike's a carnival attraction, 2 bits a shot.

Costas and Colin get the lowdown from Rod Blakely on Mike. Blakely says that Mike shit his pants in front of the whole world. Mike was mumbling and stuttering and the reporters ate him alive. They were like starved wolves.

Isn't it true that the FBI have taken control of this case?

Isn't it true that CPD were unhappy with the investigation's progress and that's why they demoted Detective George?

Why do you think that they chose you to pick up the slack?

Best bit, according to Blakely, stinking of booze as usual and giddy as a goat, 'was when the Boston Globe guy got Morella down, Jesus, he just kept pounding him into the mattress: Why ain't there been no significant arrests up to this point? And Morella's checking with his papers like a goddamn chimp and I guess he couldn't find what he was looking for so he said Look, we're doing our best. Why don't you guys lay off? Like a goddamn, wipe-my-ass, wa-wa baby!' And Blakely's retelling stops there as he chokes on his laughter and has to take a seat, hacking up who-knows-what.

Fonda's in there with Mike and Mike can't really be seen behind the blinds. Agent Capozzola marches into Fonda and Mike and slams the door behind him. Agent Capozzola's not wearing his jacket anymore.

Costas feels something for Mike akin to empathy and then Colin says, accurately, 'You build low ceilings you bump your head.'

Costas gives Colin a slanted look, goes, 'Where'd you pick that one up?'

Colin says, 'What? The Irishman can't be an original wit sometimes?'

Costas watches the room that Mike and the Feds are in from a safe vantage point and says, 'Any credibility we had is shot.' And Colin snorts, sitting with a bang next to Rudy Ollis, going through the paper bag of boiled candies on Rudy's desk, 'We get thanks for being superhuman in the riots and then hammered for being regular humans behind closed doors. Credibility comes in waves,' popping a hard sweet in his mouth. Rudy Ollis nods in mute agreement. Rudy says that he's called Agnes Fox 5 more times since Costas and Colin left for the model shop and on the last occasion Agnes' brother, her keeper, Edison, threatened Rudy with a harassment suit if he didn't stop ringing. Rudy says with a shrug, 'So I stopped.'

Elmer Thorne's linked to James Branson. Ulysses Thompson's linked to Franklin Fox. Join the 4 dots... Agnes Fox is the key. Then think of the farmer Elm Kite and the accountant Grady Birch – are they an item too?

Are Harvey's girls really worth anything to this investigation?

Costas watches the ticking clock. Heads up: SI Darling and Captain Renne are coming down with Sgt. Infante and the air about them glistens with frost. They pack themselves into Mike Morella's torture chamber.

'Fuck me,' says Rudy Ollis, feet up, in slacks too short, showing sky blue socks, thumbing a stain on his lapel, 'someone should go in there and find out what Morella wants for his last meal.'

*

By 4.15pm mummified Mike Morella's shell-shocked and punch-drunk from the day. He's silently burning the afternoon oil at his desk, his shift officially over. There's a sphere about him, one that probably would physically hurt him if anyone approached.

Governor Shapiro phoned, it's rumored. He spoke to Mike personally. Superintendent Darling had some choice words for the crew before leaving to go home earlier. Lapdog Renne skipped behind him. Nobody recalls what Darling said. Nobody heard an apology for covertly allowing the FBI usurp power. Everybody knows that they can whistle for even an explanation.

Infante says goodnight all and the next watch begins. Dick Terry arrives, chats to Rudy and Colin about things. Mike's display for the press is the hottest topic. It's fast becoming legend. Dick wants updates on the reaction to it from Upstairs. He's 42 next birthday; kid's got a heart murmur; wife #2's threatening a walkout. His brother in Tuscaloosa's got a prospering cattle ranch and there's always room for one more. Southern heat makes Dick break out in a rash. A small price maybe. Dick thinks sometimes that becoming a cop was a very stupid idea and he's too scared to start afresh.

Costas goes over to Dwayne at his desk. Dwayne's on the phone, saying, 'Make it 50 then. On the Sox. OK,' and hangs up.

Costas says, 'Coming to Crawford's? Rudy's insisting.'

Dwayne says, 'Sure. Hey, we still got nothing from the Fox broad?'

Costas shakes his head. God, his legs are so tired. The room's beginning to really fill up. Feels like the day's just starting and that's a bad feeling. Count the Feds in here on one hand.

Dwayne picks up his phone again and Mike Morella violently hollers for Dick Terry's attention. Dick obeys. Dwayne says to Costas, dialing, 'Let's put a kitty among the pigeons.' Someone answers and Dwayne affects a slight change in his voice, 'Hello; is this Mr. Edison Caruthers?'

'Yes it is. Who is this?'

Dwayne gives Costas a wink and Costas grins, not sure what the plan is.

Dwayne: 'Mr. Caruthers, this is Casimir Infante of the Chicago Police Department and I \--'

Vitriol from Edison: 'Dear Lord, haven't you people bothered us enough today?'

'Yes sir, I believe we have and that is the very reason I'm calling. You see, I understand that my men have treated you poorly today and I wish simply to apologize to you, uh, for that.'

'Yes, well, that's good of you, Mr. Infant, but not necessary.'

'You can appreciate the pressure the men are under to produce results.'

'Yes, yes,' with a sigh.

'I will see to it that we all pitch in and buy you and your sister a nice basket of foodstuffs for your trouble.' Costas is stifling hard laughter and Colin comes over to listen in. Rudy's struggling with the jacket that's too small for him in the background.

Edison Caruthers: 'That's really not needed though I do thank you for the gesture.'

Dwayne: 'And perhaps Mrs. Fox will be in better spirits tomorrow to help my men discover how her husband became friends with Ulysses Thompson.'

'That's what they want to know?'

'Yes. Yes. I am reliably informed that that single piece of information could break the case wide open. And there would be no requirement to pester you or Mrs. Fox further.'

'Well, Agnes is asleep at the moment. I cannot make any promises that she will be improved by the morning.'

'Nor should you, sir, nor should you. And she's a very fortunate woman to have you with her in such a time of personal distress.'

'I must go now, Mr. Infant. Please have your men not call again.'

'Absolutely. Good evening, Mr. Caruthers.' Dwayne hangs up and Colin goes to him, 'You got some balls, my friend.'

Costas shakes his head in disbelief. Dwayne shrugs, 'Nothing to lose, right?'

Rudy comes from behind, big unlit cigar in his hand, fedora on his head, and goes, 'What the hell are we waiting for, children?'

*

Crawford's is a sort of spooky haunt. Cops have been coming here for donkey's years. It's got cold clippety-clop stone flooring. It's reminiscent of a medieval tavern and they've got a blazing open fire to boot. Kathy runs the place with her sister and nephew. Been in their family forever. She's got a wonderful hosting style and her sister's got a superlative rack, which amounts to the same thing in the eyes of many. Rudy likes to propose marriage to the girls, ask them to run away with him and it's fun when the girls are in the mood for it. When they're not, it's best to look away.

Rudy's by the fire with his shoes off, usual spot, flicking and stretching his toes. Costas nurses a beer; really he's just glad to be off his feet. Colin's gotten himself a big bowl of piping hot stew. Dwayne seems antsy and yawns a lot.

Costas remembers one phrase Darling said this afternoon: dope on the table, meaning that Darling wants something he can put out in front of the people, something or someone concrete under their noses. Costas wonders about this pressure they're under. Is John Q so fearfully concerned about this thing? Is it just the monstrous fizz of newspaper sales and politicos sucking citizens in? After all, who declares, dictates and reports the public's level of interest but the newspapers and politicos? Darling's a friggin dope.

Rudy's so loud, his voice reverberates; he's packed in half a pitcher of booze already, regaling as is his wont: 'Hey, what do they call a Negro nuclear physicist in Alabama?' Wait for it... 'Nigger!'

Dwayne and Colin love it. Costas smiles.

Another one: 'How do you start a Jewish marathon? Roll a penny down a hill.'

Colin and Dwayne love it. Costas chuckles. 'One for you, Paddy,' he says to Colin, 'And I say this from personal experience: what's the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish wake? One less drunk.'

More laughter. Colin loves it. Rudy's face is turning crimson from laughing. His repertoire's limited and some out-of-towners give the men looks. Kathy tolerates the off-color stuff because her grandfather, a cousin, 2 uncles and a 2nd cousin were and are blue bloods.

Kathy's nephew comes to Costas and says that there's someone on the phone for him. Costas thanks him. He stands and so does Dwayne. Dwayne says he needs to get home and Rudy calls him pussywhipped and Dwayne says, 'At least I get some,' and Colin laughs harder because Rudy's not been laid since his wife died 7 years ago. Rudy's sanity secret: call-girls.

The phone's in a small alcove and Costas picks it up. It's pleasantly cool. They're seated too close to the fire. It's Dick Terry on the line.

'Yes, Dick?' Dick says that Harvey Cadorette just called to say that the McDavid girl's vanished, can't find hide nor hair of her in New Orleans and that's with the help of trusted CIs. On top of that, Evelyn Beard's a goner for sure, bit the dust a month ago. Overdosed on bad shit. 'He says sorry for the bad news but they're gonna keep after the Meloserdoff kid,' finishes Dick.

9.10pm

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

Costas is in his pajamas in the doorway staring in at Winston's empty room. The girls have done a bang-up job. He had given the clean-up venture his blessing. It seemed the right thing to do. The yard sale was his idea. Boxes and bags are packed with clothes and gadgets and books, scores of records neatly stacked in the corner, the bed's stripped, the carpet's vacuumed, the presses are shining. It's now nobody's room, it is space reclaimed and that's sad and Costas gets to thinking about how space is always just being filled by people. For now, Winston's things will fill the space in the basement.

There was a discussion about whether it would be nice or not for each of them to keep a single item of Winston's. Tentatively, an agreement was made and so Emily has kept her boy's beloved chess set. Costas chooses, under duress, a striped tie still in its packing and Janine picks her bro's junior cycling trophies.

Emily's folding laundry, ready to hit the sack. Costas knocks on Janine's bedroom door and she bids him entry. She's cross-legged on her bed, back against the wall, cotton bunny PJs, flowery pink socks, worn Winnie the Pooh rug, and working on a dark pastel. She's got black sketches – ravens mostly now (he remembers rainbows and flowers bigger than the sun being foisted on him not too many years ago) on the bed and floor around her. Her hair is washed and dried and tied back. It makes her look old before her time; a cross still for some to bear, even those of the breakaway generation.

Up on the wall behind Janine is the map of the world that was stuck to the kitchen wall until Winston died. After that, Emily couldn't bear to think the world so big anymore, that her child had died without her, so far away from her in fact that she once dreamed meeting Winston in Heaven and he didn't recognize her. She folded the damn thing up and stuck it in a drawer. Angelica Hadsall came across the map one day after school, she and Janine used it for geography homework and then Janine gave it a new home. She's scribbled out Vietnam and written: Winstonia. She's scribbled out United States of America and written Rome. Costas is divided on the sentiments and lets sleeping dogs lie. He's got bite marks.

She says neutrally, 'Hi Dad.'

'Hi, honey. How are you doing?'

'No Reds under here, I promise.' He ignores that and sees a Jimi Hendrix LP with others on the floor, leaning against the wall on her small bureau and says, 'Nice pictures,' meaning her drawings.

'Thanks.' He sniffs the air and notices a thin streak of smoke emanating from atop her bedside locker by the Winnie the Pooh lamp and goes, 'Is there something burning?'

'It's Nag Champa, Dad. Indian incense,' says Janine. He's sorry he asked and asks, 'Could you do me a favor?'

'What is it?' He bends down beneath her tinkling butterfly wind chime to pick up the Hendrix album and goes,

'Could you put this on for me?'

'Don't you hate Jimi Hendrix?'

'Wasn't this what Winston listened to a lot?'

'Yeah. And you hated it.'

'Please put it on for me.'

Janine sighs and begins to get off the bed, 'OK.' Costas takes a seat in the living room and Emily comes in from the kitchen carrying her book.

'What's up?' she goes.

'Dad's hip,' says Jan with a smile and an unintelligible look to her father, placing the needle on the groove. It crackles and Emily sits by Costas. He puts an arm around his wife and kisses her forehead. Janine sits on the arm of the couch. Hendrix sings Are You Experienced?

Costas' ears are slow to adjust to the sounds. He may hear it but the words are strange. He likes Perry Como. Or a dramatic bouzouki performance. Emily shakes her shoulders to the rhythm playfully – ambivalent to Hendrix's output \- and gives Costas a wink. Hendrix goes solo and Janine begins to dance to it and she's all arms and she's eyes closed, head back, slow, dreamy, floating movements and Costas sees what he believes to be his own daughter accurately simulating a young person's faculties being altered by a degenerative substance. The mother and daughter giggle.

Why should I be made to feel the fool for wanting my child to be safe? In my own house. How can I be the Bad Guy?

Costas watches Janine with his heart speeding up, anger reddening his face. He recalls the slap to Janine's face. His lower and upper teeth don't part for the rest of the song.

'So whaddya think, old man?' says playful Janine, lifting the needle. 'Jimi make you reconsider the mysteries of the universe?'

Costas swallows it: 'I prefer poetry, I think.'

'Jesus, that is poetry, Dad,' says touchy Janine; stuck record vs. stuck record.

Costas starts to rise with the aid of his wife and says, 'Not to me it isn't.'

'So if it's not poetry to you, it's not poetry?' goes Janine, looking to pick a fight it would appear. Costas and Emily shuffle off towards the stairs.

Emily says to Janine, 'Enjoy your camp out, honey. Stay wrapped up.' Angelica Hadsall's coming over with her boyfriend and her boyfriend's friend. They've got smores and tents, sleeping bags, a guitar maybe, truth or dare; and there'll be a warm fire in the backyard and it's gonna be sunshine and lollipops. Janine's taken a liking to Angie's boyfriend's friend. He knows his way around a mouth organ. Costas had the birds and the bees dive-bombing his brain when he heard about it.

'And no music like that,' says Costas to Janine about Hendrix. 'We got neighbors.'

'Are you gonna make me get rid of the album?' asks concerned Janine, not following them out of the room. Costas pauses at the bottom of the stairs and looks to Emily and she shrugs, says to him, rather unhelpfully, 'You're the man of the house.'

He thinks in thanks: Selective parenting. Costas looks back the significant distance to where his child stands waiting on him to give what he probably can never give her and says none of the things that run through his mind.

Rest.

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #17

(3 months ago)

Purgatory?

Bright, white light. Approaching footsteps - stop.

So Probs is dead. Apparently. And not a moment too soon.

Seeps in, audio: 'They got the goon that did it at long last,' a grave woman; she cannot be seen, a white curtain surrounds Probs' bed. His right hand's white-bandaged at the wrist. There's an IV stuck in the back of his left hand.

He's happy to be dead, taking it in at a leisurely pace. Very warm in here. Ceiling's white, his gown's white. His hair's been cut, his beard's a fashionable goatee.

'He was courting disaster doing what he was doing,' says the woman after a breath.

Is she talking to herself?

Do you need a drink in heaven? He really needs a drink.

'Poor Bobby. Mom was right. All those children left behind. And Ethel,' she bemoans. 'I mean, what can you say in the end? That family's cursed.'

Who's Bobby?

Those footsteps again. 5/6 steps and then - stops. A bulbous, freckled woman, 20-25, dressed as a nurse, pushes her way to him from behind the curtain. She's got the face of a bad boxer and the figure of an overstuffed potato sack.

Oh. He's not dead. Relief?

She rattles a thermometer into his mouth. 'Under the tongue,' she goes, catching his unhurt wrist, consults her watch fob. Juggernaut medicine.

Maybe it's hell: an unattractive, lumpy, bossy woman monitoring his temperature for all eternity.

Grave woman whispers, Probs thinks that she's to his right, 'James Earl Ray's his name. White man. Racist, of course,' she says. Blows her nose.

Nurse springs the thermometer free from Probs' mouth, looks at it. Disappears from whence she came.

Footsteps. Getting louder? Soft-soled sandals. St. Peter's doing the morning rounds, introducing himself: 'So,' St. Peter will say with a wink, 'how're they treating you?' St. Funny Guy.

Another woman, older, 50's, enters, also dressed as a nurse - inexplicably white. She's got a compact frame, small wrinkled cleavage, blond hair high up. She says hello, smiles, leans in, plumps his pillow, says she's going to change his bandages.

'A beautiful day,' she comes, fiddling with the IV bag. She smells incredible, soaring blue eyes, chiseled cheekbones. Ketchup stain on her breast. She rests her tender hand on his bare forearm. Instant erection. He's ashamed to look at her.

This is hell: unattainable heaven-s(c)ent beauty monitoring his IV for all eternity.

'Can I do anything for you?' her voice is that of an angel's.

Screams it: UNDRESS FOR ME, PLEASE. I NEEDN'T TOUCH YOU. YOUR NAKED BODY WILL SAVE MY SOUL! I'M HITCHED TO A WANDERING STAR AND NEITHER OF US KNOWS WHERE WE'RE GOING! He says nothing.

Those footsteps - traces of a lasting hallucination?

Grave woman again: says, 'You wonder why, don't you? How can life be such a - - a mystery?'

'Who's Bobby?' he says to the attractive woman dressed as a nurse. She's tucking in his sheets.

'Bobby Kennedy,' she says sadly. 'He was going to be president.' Probs remembers him.

'Did the racist kill him?' says Probs.

'I don't know if he's a racist, honey,' she comes, assuming Probs is emotionally unstable if her face is anything to go by.

'How did I die?' Probs asks, matter-of-fact. Looks like someone freshly dipped her in pity. She says to him gently, 'I'll be back shortly.'

He's alone for a minute. That bandaged wrist really hurts, man. Footsteps - loudest. He listens carefully. There's a blurring to his hearing. Footsteps stop right on the other side of the curtains.

'Sir,' says Probs, wary of the worst, 'I am not ready to meet my Maker.'

A man pulls back the curtain - a shot of light catches Probs. He shields.

'I'm sorry,' says the man about the light, a hint above a rustle; he's tall, comes around the side. Probs' eyes are to the ground, sees the man's big bare feet in red sandals first.

'My name's Kirk McDonald. What's yours?' Probs sees red knee-length shorts, the left knee in a sports brace, a crisp white long-sleeved, collared shirt, buttons aligned smoothly, and a large outstretched hand, a watch on that wrist. There's a vigorously happy smile, a startlingly handsome face, and sandy blonde hair, hardly a step above a dusting. Cropped.

Probs looks at the man, maybe late 20s, pull up a chair and sit, hands clasped, leaning in, legs widened, elbows on thighs.

'Probs,' says Probs.

'That's your street name. What's the name you were given?'

Probs finds it hard to lie to this man, does anyway. 'Justin. McElwee,' goes Probs, swallowing. Throat's funky.

'Pleasure to meet you. People call me Mac but I like my closest friends to call me Kirk. So will you do that for me?'

Probs nods and doesn't know it. Kirk leans back, the chair creaks, folds his muscular arms with authority, effortless confidence. The grave Bobby Kennedy woman's quieted.

Coincidental?

'You had a nasty spill, Justin. A kind lady called the paramedics when she saw you fall. Your blood pressure crashed.'

Wow. Didn't expect that.

An instant of plunging clarity blasts into life: This is the famed rock bottom. Here, in what must be his hospital bed. Probs is Hades - King and, by association, Slave of the Underground. He can reach no lower, dig no deeper, cover himself in no more dirt or disgrace. The circle's complete. Frozen infinity. His life is permanently futile. It is confirmed: the longwinded riposte to a tailspin legacy: Hell, my boy, is on Earth. Didn't anybody tell you? The dress rehearsal's a gag reel.

Kirk says neatly, easing his arms, 'Try and see it as a rebirth, Justin. You are unwell and far from alone in that. You are not beyond redemption.'

Probs roughly dries his tears and says, 'It's no use. It's just end to end. There's no beginning.'

Kirk's imperturbable. Says with a grin, 'Let me buy you breakfast. All-you-can-eat on me and a little more besides.' Probs's body re-emerges. The pitch of white noise has regressed. There is no floating feeling, no weightlessness. This is far from Heaven.

'Where am I?'

'Alliance, Ohio,' says Kirk, 'or more correctly, you could say that you're at a crossroads. There is such electricity in the air!' hands clawed up high like he's cradling the power. 'Can you not feel it? The changes coming? And you have the unbelievable chance now, with us, to be part of those amazing changes!'

Probs's listening. He wiggles his toes under the blanket. The second woman dressed as a nurse returns with the bandages. Of course, she is a nurse, that's why she's dressed like one. It was no dream, inasmuch as life cannot be dreamed.

Kirk sees her and stands up, though she says that he's welcome to stay. He puts a hand on Probs's crown and goes, 'I'll leave you to it. I'll be back in a few hours to take you with me. We can get better acquainted then.' The nurse prepares.

Kirk seems reluctant to go. 'I feel so good this morning,' fills his chest, mini-Tarzan fist pumps to the chest. The nurse smiles too. Probs is confused by them. 'Hey, you know what?' comes Kirk, halting his steps, 'I have a friend that I think would like to meet you, Justin. He's one of the world's most famous people. You'll find him very interesting.'

'Who is it?' Probs says, filled suddenly with potential and infectious positivism.

Kirk shuts his eyes, audibly breathes, makes faces for a few seconds of utmost pleasure, stretches on tiptoes, up and down, flexing fingers like he's about to cast a spell or strangle somebody.

Says candidly, eyes still shut, 'In the world you will have trouble but take courage for I have conquered the world.'

22

Following morning

Chicago Homicide

7.03am

Mike gets in early, hardly slept. He's still sick from the sinusitis and hasn't changed his clothes. Yesterday was the single longest and worst day of his life. Hours and hours of rhetorical questions from faces that were, at first, familiar and then became so numbered and askew that they melded into one grand visage from a Francis Bacon painting:

How could you be so retarded?

What were you thinking?

Don't you know how this makes us look?

Are we to regret putting you up front?

Do you realize the damage you've done to the department?

Should we remove you from this case altogether?

Where are your balls, son?

Do you understand what I say when I say laughing stock?

Are you smart enough to see what's going on here?

You know where nancy-talk gets you?

You think your uncle's gonna save you every time?

When you gonna learn to stand on your own two feet, kid?

You not interested in promotion?

Why didn't you just stick to what we told you?

Are you ignoring me, Morella?

What were you expecting?

He was cannon-fodder. Their bombs whistled from on high. He was Dresdenized.

He sat at his desk and everyone went home. He stared at various nothings until 1.15am. He drove to that girl's apartment and knocked on the door of her building a hundred times calling out her name. She wouldn't answer and he saw her light go out. They have a casual thing going and he needed a warm woman to stop him crashing. Last night, he felt lonely. Goddamn it, his heart wanted love.

He fell asleep on her stoop and woke again about 10 minutes later with an atrocious headache. He coughed and sweated into a diner across the street, drank 4 cups of coffee. He thought about flirting with the waitress with a nose like a falcon. He drove back to his freezing flat - veering across the road, getting lost, cranking the gears like nails on a chalkboard – the heating in his building's supposed to have been fixed weeks ago and it was so cold that he didn't want to undress. His muscles begged for a shower. The silence throttled him. He got into bed, leaving everything on, and he willed himself to sleep and consciousness doggedly held on. He masturbated halfheartedly to a Playboy. He got up to make toast. He tried to remember that girl's phone number. He thought he'd written it down. He scavenged his wallet, emptied it for nothing. He drank some bourbon and finally wept and that was enough to send him to the Sandman on the floor at the foot of his bed, surrounded by the scattering of his life.

Mike woke again about an hour later and the sun was up. His head was aflame and the taste in his mouth couldn't have been described. He gargled with bourbon dregs and showered. He made warm milk. Food turned his stomach. He vomited. With his face over the bowl, he liked the idea of getting into his car and driving to Mexico or Canada.

The morning was slow to heat. Beautiful day coming. He was dizzy walking up the Homicide steps. What can be up for today? It couldn't be worse. It could be just as bad.

Mike's woken with a start at his desk at 7.55am by the ringing phone. A janitor's disgorging wastepaper baskets. There's no one else around really. 8 am shift people are closing in.

Mike peels a document from his cheek. He yawns, wipes away drool, rubs an eye and answers. He stretches and checks the big wall clock. His uninspiring homicide detective record's a banshee: 35 arrests, 14 indictments, 3 solid convictions.

'Yeah?'

'I'm looking for Detective Michael Morella, please? Or Detective George maybe?'

'Yeah, I'm Morella.'

Happy: 'Good morning Detective, this is Edison Caruthers.'

Mike's brain hops onto the trampoline of recent names and his brain shrugs at him.

Edison says, 'Agnes Fox's brother. You came to see her yesterday.'

'Right, yes. Of course. I'm sorry. What's wrong?' he yawns.

'Well, my sister had a rough night as you can imagine. She didn't sleep very well, nor did I. We stayed up talking for a good deal of the time and your investigation came up and she asked me some questions about it and said that she doesn't feel up to seeing anyone.'

Mike's not surprise, why should he get a break? 'OK, Mr. Caruthers. Fantastic,' preparing to hang up.

'I asked her the question you wanted answered, however.'

'We had quite a few questions to ask, sir.'

'I mean the most important one, the one your superior called about last night.'

'My superior? Who?' Infante arrives, heads into his office. Rudy Ollis chats with Dick McShane, cigar smoke typically around Rudy. Nobody can hear Mike's conversation and Mike wants to keep it that way for now.

Edison continues, 'Mr. Infant.'

'Oh yes. I forgot,' says Mike. 'Please go on.'

'OK, well, in regard to that question and the promises made to me by Mr. Infant, my sister hopes that this will help you and perhaps keep us out of the spotlight from now on.'

Mike's clueless, goes, 'I'm sure that it, ah, that it will, Mr. Caruthers.'

'Agnes says that her brother Franklin met Ulysses Thompson on a jury. They served on it together.' Mike looks back for Infante. Infante's making a cup of Ovaltine in his office. Edison says, 'Hello?'

Mike gets secretive: 'I'm here, Mr. Caruthers. I'm here. I'm sorry. A jury. Go on, please.'

'She said that she didn't know too much. It was a death penalty case.'

'When was this?'

'She didn't say but probably 8 years or more I would guess. I remember hearing something about it from Franklin a long time ago. It was a young black boy, she said. He murdered a white girl in the city somewhere.'

Mike recalls reading a few months back or hearing about a black man being executed at Stateville and he goes to Edison, 'Do you have a name for him, sir?'

'I'm afraid not, Detective,' says Edison, his tone sharpening, like he's being undervalued.

'Thank you very much,' says Mike, slamming down the phone, heart bulleting.

He thinks, thinks, thinks.

Tell Infante. He stands up.

Tell the Feds. He sits down.

Tell no one. He exits the building.

'Stateville Penitentiary,' says the young man on the other end of the line, chewing gum. Mike's at a payphone around the corner from prying Homicide eyes.

'I'm looking for the man in charge,' goes Mike.

'Who may I say is calling and what the call is in relation to?'

'Detective Mike Morella of the Chicago PD and it is to do with a police matter of great urgency.'

Bored: 'Please hold.'

Mike holds and then a large-sounding man says, 'Hello?' with a yawn.

'Are you in charge?'

'Right now I am; who are you, sir?' he says patiently.

'I'm heading the investigation into the King Lear murders.'

'I see,' says the Stateville man, 'the guy from the news?'

Mike blushes, bites his tongue and goes, 'What's your name and position at that prison, sir?'

Perky: 'Name's Josh Andrade and I'm the Night Relief Warden.'

'I need some questions answered, Mr. Andrade.'

'This is highly unusual, Detective. We don't like giving out sensitive information over the phone.'

'Don't worry about that now. Time is against me. Was there a Negro executed in your prison this year?'

'Yes there was. Springtime. March,' perkiness sustained.

'Do you recall his name?'

'Cole. First name, oh jeez, now what the heck was it again? Something like Teddy or Timothy. I think it was a T name. You remember him?' Andrade asks someone in the room with him. 'No Detective, we can't get it. Cole's the family name. That I recall because I thought it was funny a Negro being named Cole.'

'You know when his trial was?' says Mike.

Did I ask Edison Caruthers if the man was still alive or not? Jesus, what an oversight!

'Oh heck, wouldn't know that, Detective. He was there when I came first and that was 1962, so sometime before that I guess. If you call back in a few hours, Warden Norton will be --'

'No, no. How many Negroes do you have on death row there?'

'Eighteen or nineteen.'

'Jesus Christ!'

'It's a cruel world, Detective.'

'How many for murder?'

'Well, all of them,' and Andrade's suppressing a giggle. Dumb question.

'How many for killing a white woman?'

'Maybe half, I'd say,' says Andrade and Mike's getting hip to Andrade's seemingly enjoying Mike's desperation.

'How many of their trials would've been 10 years ago?'

'Not many.'

'How many, for Christ's sakes? Two? Three? Four?'

'I can't say, Detective. Three; maybe four. Their files are on the 2nd floor.'

Mike's throat is really pained. He drinks and it makes things drier. He could fuckin rip this phone up. 'And how long would it take to provide me with the names I need?'

'Oh jeez, a while. 45 minutes.'

Mike drinks 2 more Dr. Pepper's and calls in 15 minutes. Still working on it. He buys gum and a Coke. Calls again in 10 minutes. Be patient.

20 minutes further along: Andrade coughs up a list of 4 names: William Henry, Peter Jackson, Leon Harrison & Sean Cleveland. Andrade says, 'Scratch the last guy, you want guys whose trials were about 10 years back, right?'

'Yes.'

'He's only 19.'

*

He puts the pedal to the metal.

Henry, Jackson, Harrison.

Henry, Jackson, Harrison.

Don't forget it.

Henry, Jackson, Harrison.

Keep saying it.

And Cole.

This is how he redeems himself. This is how he answers all those rhetorical questions. This is how he'll shout go fuck yourselves to the press louder than if he yelled it at them through an amplified bullhorn.

Cook County Criminal Building: Mike screeches the car to a halt curbside outside. Traffic's been a bitch lately: roadwork on the Eisenhower Expressway. Will that road ever be completed?

He pauses to catch his breath, perspiring. Checks his watch. Didn't think to wonder if the building was open at this hour: 9.11am. He's on a leap of faith mission. Sees a janitor inside mopping a floor. Mike gets out of the car. Slams the door shut.

Machineguns the glass double-doors with his knuckles to get the attention of the lanky Negro floor cleaner. The Negro's in black overalls, a filthy rag jutting out of his back pocket. He mops in jerks, his movements limited by some unclear physical problem. He ignores Mike's fast rapping. Mike machineguns longer, harder: Fortune favors the bold.

The Negro turns as slowly as an elephant to Mike and Mike shouts, 'Open up, I'm a cop,' to which the Negro lazily hacks up a wad of phlegm and spits into his mop bucket, returning to his slothful chore.

Mike's set to boiling so he takes out his badge and slaps it facefront against the door, holding it in place there; then palm-thumps the door until the Negro turns again and looks Mike up and down. The janitor starts slovenly towards the door. Unlocks it. Mike meantime pockets his badge. When the door opens, the nonplussed janitor steps aside and Mike sprints by him. The janitor locks the door.

3rd floor's Records. Mike takes two and three step-bounds up the stairs. Big wooden doors are locked when he gets there. Shit, man, you're gonna work for this.

Clock on the wall says 9:16am. Runs down to the janitor and says when do they get here and he says in about 10 minutes. So, more waiting.

9:36am: a neat, monochrome yellow dress sense, nervous, mousy woman meets Mike at the door, jangling her keys. He frightens her, says he needs help finding a jury list, they're public record, right? She's frozen, paler, and Mike rethinks the approach and explains that he's a cop, shows his badge. He uses that master key - King Lear – and she gets rolling. Her name's Kristen; bucktoothed, pearl necklace, she's 35 and never married, has this thing about pushing her glasses up her nose.

She turns on the lights and Mike's bewildered by the rows and rows and shelves and shelves of boxes, boxes, boxes. The room's Cold War greens and browns. He has a weird thought: this looks like it could be the inside of a Soviet's head.

Kristen has regrouped and she's quick to find out what's needed. Kristen: 'May I ask as to when the trial was?'

'I don't know. Maybe late 50s, early 60s.'

'And do you know who the presiding judge was?'

'I have no idea.'

She's very sympathetic, says, 'Do you have a filing number?'

'No, I don't. Look, don't you alphabetize them by defendant or something?'

'No, Detective,' she smiles, 'I'm sorry to say that that wouldn't work.' They stand in silence for a moment and then she says, 'Can you tell me anything else about it?'

Mike rattles his brain and goes, 'A black kid got death for killing a white girl and I got four names could make it: Henry, Jackson, Harrison. And Cole.'

'Death penalty cases are separate,' says Kristen and she sets off somewhere into the belly of the giant, musty room with Mike swift on her heels. 'Those cases are still filed by case number, presiding judge or date but it does narrow it down.'

She bends down low for a box about 2 feet by 2 feet by 2 feet and puts it on the floor, removing the cardboard top. Squashed paperwork.

Mike points and goes, 'That's it?'

'It's 1950-1969,' she toes the black marker writing 50-69 on the side of the box. 'There used to be two boxes but I thought it made it easier to make it one.'

Mike's on his knees faster than a Catholic, rummaging. In 3 minutes: Henry, William Evander: sentenced to death in 1953. Mike compares that list of juror's names with those on King Lear's hit list. No good.

'The records don't differentiate between color or verdict. I'm sorry about that,' says Kristen. 8 minutes in: Kristen discovers Harrison, Leon James: sentenced to death in 1964. Again, Mike checks against his list: Kite, Birch, Thompson, Branson, Thorne and Fox – the damn names don't match.

Four minutes later: Mike sees the name Cole, Tucker Reginald: sentenced to death in 1958, and he compares the names of the 12 jurors. Though he hardly believes it, it's a match. Something must be said at times like this so Mike keeps it simple with a quiet, 'Eureka.'

His hands shake. The stars in his eyes show his stripes of the future.

*

Mike asks where the nearest phone is and Kristen says it's on her desk so he runs and dials Homicide, extension 989 – direct, unofficial line to the FBI ear in a cloakroom somewhere near the basement. Yesterday Fonda teased Mike with a possibility: paraphrase, 'Feed us first, if and when you hit on something, and we'll see what strings we can pull when this is over,' and the obvious ambiguity of the deal's wording was of no immediate importance to Mike. He interpreted it as a kind word in a series of unkind words, a fully functional lighthouse beacon.

Agent Capozzola picks up and explains that Fonda's delayed and Mike thinks of how happy Fonda's gonna be when he gets the news. Capozzola says to him after Mike says he's got the Big One, 'You let us judge how big it is, OK?' Mike starts in on his story.

Captain Buzz Renne's eyes light up like 4th of July sparklers. He passes it on to Ralph Darling and Darling says he'll fire it to the Mayor. Mayor's speech on Lear's due at 1pm. Darling's gonna tell them to move it to 11.30/noon. Let Boss Daley break the news! Give him the spotlight.

Hear Daley and Darling's back-scratching orgy.

*

Around 10.35am, Fonda calls everyone into the Homicide debriefing room. He's broken the thing by now to Infante and Infante's sense of self in this macabre ballet helps Fonda to corral the troops. There's shuffling and creaking, complaining, and chatting, footsteps and donuts left hanging. Fonda's on the small dais, centralized, jacket off; no tie. Cappozzola's behind him with Mike Morella and Infante to the side. It's cramped and it's ominous. The room's occupied to the gills. There's 6 more fresh-faced Feds in attendance. The sight of these new men surprises many a detective and flatfoot alike.

Colin reiterates to Dwayne on entering, having swiftly seen the expanded federal presence, about how much he hates the FBI and Dwayne responds evenly, analyzing the scene smartly, matter of fact, look how Infante's giving the floor to Fonda. This is Federal now, all the way, better not delude ourselves.

Standing room only. Windows are open. Shepherd Infante's on their cases, let's get moving, people; time's wasting. Come on! Hey, come on for goodness sake! Move it, there's plenty of room up front.

And a guy in the crowd goes, 'Don't like the fishy smell up there,' and the laughter's pretty loud. Colin stands defiantly by the door and Rudy Ollis stands next to him; Dwayne's close by and Costas had Emily call in earlier to say that he'd be late because of a nasty migraine. He puts the discomfort down to thoughts of his medal ceremony due to go live at 4pm.

Dick Terry takes a seat beside Dick McShane and Rod Blakely stays out of the room, listening in shakily. Pictures of the 6 dead men stand prominently on the wall behind Fonda. Fonda's got a lot of hostility looking up at him.

Nevertheless: 'Written information on this will be provided at the close,' begins Fonda, not waiting for the hubbub to die down. He does lift his voice slightly and as he continues, the room slowly becomes silent. Fonda: 'In the summer of 1958, Tucker Reginald Cole was tried and convicted of 1st degree murder in this city and sentenced to be executed. On March 15th of this year, that declaration was carried out. The six men that have so far been murdered by the so-called King Lear Killer all served on that jury.' The men react with mumbles and glances. Fonda goes, 'Therefore we must find the remaining men on that list ASAP and supply them and their families with 24 hour protection until the killer is apprehended.' Extraordinary silence. Fonda's comfortable up there and comes with more: 'Teams will be dispatched this morning to locate and bring in these people and needless to say that time is very much of the essence.'

Someone pipes up with, 'So we pick 'em out of a hat or what?'

Fonda says, 'I do not like having to repeat myself but for that individual hard of hearing, I will' – that hard of hearing comment has some men schoolboy-oohing as if Fonda's looking for a fight and some cuties even go to Fonda What was that? Say that again please – 'Please, hey, come on for Christ's sakes, can we try and be a little more mature here?' annoyed, gesturing to the 6 powerful reasons behind him that has precipitated their meeting. The faces implore for a 2nd chance. It's a truthful, manipulative move that quiets the rabble.

Fonda goes, after a steadying pause, 'I will say again, for the benefit of all, that written information explaining the precise breakdown of each group's responsibilities will be provided at the close.' Everyone's listening, most of them grudgingly. Fonda sips water. Mike Morella's beaming, feet on hot coals. Infante's staring at the floor.

'OK, Team 1,' says Fonda, 'will consist of myself and Detective Morella. Team 2 will consist of Detective George and Special Agent Capozzola.' Groans and 'Bow down to our new masters, boys,' comes a voice that may be Colin's. Fonda bites his tongue and marches on, 'Team 3 will consist of Detective Clooney and Special Agent Mulstein.' More groans.

'Total baloney,' from somewhere.

Fonda, 'Team 4 will consist of Detective O'Meara and Special Agent Katschmar.' Disgruntlement. Infante shushes passionately with little effect. Colin walks out in disgust.

'It's a goddamn coup d'état!' from Rudy Ollis with a smoky chortle.

Fonda says, 'Team 5 will consist of Detective Ollis and Special Agent Layfield.' None of the cops know where to look, what to say. Teams 6, 7 and 8 can hardly be heard over the chatter.

'Who figured it out?' says Dick Terry to Fonda. Recall: Dick Terry arrested Tucker Cole in 1958. Others back up his query, Yeah. Yeah! Who? How?

Fonda folds up his page and says without any trimming, 'You can thank Detective Morella,' and Mike's a bright shining star. Dwayne walks out.

Fonda says, 'Each team has been assigned a number of lower-ranking police in addition. Remember, hey, listen up! Everyone involved in that trial is a potential suspect or victim. And for the sake of not appearing unprepared for all eventualities, we are to also gather up as many of the players from the trial as possible. For this reason, I am --'

'Can we go now please?' says an upstart and you can stick a fork in Special Agent Fonda. He screams, 'You motherfuckers better respect these orders because you think those badges are sacrosanct? You think your pensions and your overtime can't be touched? You think on that again because if you wanna act like animals with me then I'm gonna treat you that way and if it wasn't for your unimpressive, lackadaisical approach to these murders we wouldn't have to have been sent here to save your hides in the first place. Think on that too. So you be grateful for what we bring to the party, you shits, and know that I can so easily bring a world of hurt down on any one of you any goddamn time of the day or night with one phone call. Get it through your skulls, I play in the big leagues and these men with me from Quantico do likewise. This started out small and you let it get beyond your control. Make no mistakes: we are the best of the best and we demand perfect results from ourselves and we will get what we need when we need it, that's a guarantee, and if you think that your pride or your masculinity's going to have an issue with this sort of regime then I suggest you take a desk job. This is not the real world anymore and it isn't TV and it's no comic strip either. This is my fuckin universe you've stepped into with your hands tied and it's a lonely place when you fuck over the boss,' steps down, huffing and puffing and dry-mouthed.

Astonished people dribble out of the room quietly. Dwayne and Colin stand together by Dwayne's desk. They heard every word of Fonda's chum-in-the-water from there. Colin's beside himself puffing on a new Chesterfield.

Dwayne goes, with a wry shake of the head, 'Government man's got the bit between his teeth.' Colin's waiting for Mike Morella to emerge. Rudy's coming out, chatting with Dick McShane, holding an apple, demonstrating how best to hold a baseball for the optimum sinker.

McShane's no stranger to benefits-in-kind policing. One night, one week after passing his detective's exam, drunk-driving Dick spied headlights in the long grass close to the turnpike in the rainy dusk. Turned out there was this guy, Reeves, in his 20s, trying to get fresh with a girl in the backseat, about the same age, and she was putting up a fight – catclawed the guy's neck deeply - so by the time Dick broke it up, she was screaming attempted rape and that's what it looked like to Dick. Dick cuffed Reeves and Reeves wasted no time calmly throwing figures about – struck Dick that Reeves was no virgin to this kind of scenario - and the figures escalated quite rapidly. Dick called Reeves a lying asshole and Reeves explained that one call to his father would square-away the problem. Suddenly Dick's definition of the word rape came up for scrutiny. Dick hauled the pair to ostensibly verify their stories and Reeves came back honest and she came back dirty – couple minor shoplifting beefs. Reeves' old man worked in the Brill Building in New York City's Tin Pan Alley. Wrote a series of hit songs for many of the industry's biggest groups and solo artists including the Billboard Number 1s Here's The Chance (We've Waited For) by Diane & The Rentals and The Only Word Is Yes by The Sharpettes. Shit, Dick was impressed. He knew those songs. 'What sort of arrangement can we come to on this?' said Reeves' father and Dick thought about money and then said, 'Gimme writing credit on your next song.' And whenever Shape Your Love To Fit Around My Finger comes on the radio now, a lot of people believe Dick when he says that he co-wrote that toe-tapper because his name's in the album liner notes and nobody has yet dared to call Dick's bluff by checking with the big heads in Manhattan.

Mike Morella's one of the last out of the briefing, conversing gainfully with Infante, with cooling flustered Fonda and his new Feds. Colin sees how much Master Morella loves being seriously included in the golden circle.

Colin goes, 'That fuck sold us out.' After all we put into this fuckin thing?

An officer approaches Dwayne saying, 'I'm with you, Detective.' Dwayne says,

'What's your name?'

'Groombridge.' Groombridge is young, 21 and lanky.

'Alright, Groombridge,' says Dwayne, sipping a coffee, 'I'm Clooney. Who'd we draw?'

'Special Agent Mulstein,' says Groombridge, handing a memo to Dwayne.

'Figures,' goes Dwayne, because Mulstein's a Jewish name, scanning the document he's been handed, 'You excited about this?'

Groombridge's eyes dart around, 'I guess so.'

'Well, you should be. Timothy Carling,' the name of the man they must look for.

Colin's glowering across at Mike Morella, ignoring Groombridge. Morella gets the kudos?

Officer Womark comes up to Colin with a nervy smile. Womark's 30, hangdog eyes, and certainly looking forward to duties above and beyond his regular call-sheet.

Mike Morella shakes hands with Fonda and the heavy-hitting group disperses.

'Glad to be working with ya, Detective O'Meara,' says Womark, hand out for a shake. Colin's not interested. Colin marches up to Mike Morella and says to him – this is in the middle of the room, bodies everywhere - 'You went to the Feds before your partners.'

Mike goes, carefree, 'And this is unacceptable to you, is it?'

Colin says, 'You never heard of loyalty, Morella?'

Mike says, 'How about you grow up, O'Meara, alright?' swiveling dismissively.

Colin catches Mike's shoulder and brings him round nicely. Colin socks Mike with a right-cross in the nose/eye. Mike's shot back and his crashing into a desk alerts the room to an incident. Mike's nose pumps, he leans on the desk for support, shocked, one knee grounded.

Colin drops his cigarette, tamps it with a toe and says, 'Stand up,' to Mike. Infante's out of his office suddenly with Fonda in tow. 'What the hell's going on?' Infante goes and just before he gets to Colin, Colin lunges for Mike again. Mike falls to the floor and Special Agent Katschmar jumps in to protect him. He pinions Colin's arms and some of the cops take umbrage, attacking Katschmar, peeling him free from Colin and Infante's trying to catch Colin and the other Feds join in and in no time there's a melee: FBI v CPD.

Shouting. Scuffing feet. Shoving. Falling bodies and name-calling; the screech of sharply-shifted furniture. Agent Capozzola takes a random blow to the breadbasket. Dwayne lands a fist to the back of someone's head. Colin head-butts a bespectacled man. A big CPD guy gores another Agent. Agent Bowman, a big guy, tries wrestling a baton free of a CPD infidel. It's much ado about nothing. Fonda watches from Infante's doorway, his animals comment satisfyingly brought to bear before his eyes. He seems unaware of his own men's participation in his judgment's manifestation. Infante takes an elbow to his chest in the fracas. Mike gets outta there, finishes up next to Dwayne and goes, 'You see what that asshole did to me?' Dwayne's got a scratch on his chin and an undone shoelace, out of breath, replies calmly, 'Morella, I didn't think you were an idiot, but you really are an idiot.' Dwayne sees a new chance and grabs a Fed by the shirt and they bang to the floor together.

Costas walks into the room. It's an interesting sight.

Last night he felt something big was coming, maybe this battle royal was it. The fight's begun and done in less than a minute. Men breathe again, dust themselves off, check damage, fuck yous abound, help each other up, halfhearted reprisals promised; forget how and why the violence broke out. Infante's tie-knot's ripped open. He holds his left cheekbone and breathlessly storms off back to his room, past Fonda.

'O'Meara, you get in here right now!' Costas needs a catch-up on proceedings and Dwayne lays it on the line, blow by blow, noticing that the face of his watch is cracked. Colin's got no problem following Infante into Infante's office. He practically runs. Slams the door behind so hard that it bounces back open and everyone in the bullpen can hear and see the action uncensored.

Fonda's in there already, standing back, letting fireworks fizzle, letting the children wear themselves out. He has 4 at home. Infante's at his desk writing something furiously, clasping his injury still, hands trembling with anger and aftershock.

'What are you writing?' goes Colin to Casimir, full steam ahead. Colin's hair's spiky, a middle button's popped, his right hand's hot red and throbbing, his heart's going hammer and tongs.

'You could probably guess,' comes Fonda. Colin shunts a finger in Fonda's direction but doesn't look at him, going, 'I was not talking to you. Sarge, goddamn it, what are you writing?'

Infante looks up, even the voice is tremulous, and says, 'It's a recommendation for Upstairs, in the strongest possible language, advising your immediate and indefinite suspension.'

'Morella's a two-faced prick and he's got no place among men like these,' says Colin.

Fonda stokes the fire with, 'You're jealous that he made the breakthrough.'

Colin makes a fist, bites his lip and stamps the ground once, addressing Fonda without looking at him, 'If you talk again, you're going through that fuckin window!'

Infante keeps writing, says, 'You're consistently disruptive, ego-ego-egomaniacal, coming into work drunk...insolent...'

Colin goes, 'That was once I was drunk, once! And six months ago! And you said nothing about it...Insolent?! This cocksucker over here' – meaning Fonda – 'has your balls in his back-pocket and you're loving every minute of it! How can you allow him to talk to us the way he just did?'

Infante rises to leaning on his desk, booms, 'I am your superior officer, O'Meara, you do not talk to me in that manner, especially given...' aware of the eyes and ears prying.

'That you're superior in rank only, yes,' retorts Colin.

Infante goes saucer-eyes, says, 'You're outta my unit, O'Meara. For good!'

'You're no cop anymore,' says Colin derisively to Infante, 'you're a fuckin bloodsucker with a tie-pin, like everyone else in this fuckin world.'

Infante, unequivocally: 'Get out, Detective O'Meara!'

Colin spits on the floor in disgust, finishing things off with, 'Thanks for nothin.' And he's out of there. Colin marches to his desk, head down, everyone stock-still and eyes glued. He throws his badge and gun loudly into the trash. He catches his jacket, shouts back to Infante and Fonda, 'A man's got his limits!' Colin starts for the exit and Costas catches his arm and says, 'Hold on.'

A man's got his limits!

For Winston.

Or for Colin.

Colin whimpers, 'I gotta get outta here, Chief.' Costas gazes at Infante's room and then looks hard at Colin, squeezing his arm in support.

'Hold on,' he says.

A man's got his limits!

For the boy I thrashed.

Or for Emily.

Costas marches across the floor and into Infante's office. Infante and Fonda shoot their eyes to him and Costas looks strictly at Infante. He firmly goes, 'You suspend him, I walk.'

Fonda and Infante know that Costas George is a very big Domino. Dwayne's in fast after Costas and goes to Infante, 'Count me out too.'

For me.

*

All hands to the pump: with no consultation, Chicago welcomes with open arms these cherry red mag-mounts and sirens blaring, unmarked cars sallying forth to save the world in all directions.

Ask anyone: the blood is pumping, pumping, pumping.

PROBS FLASHBACK INTERLUDE #19

(Last month)

Alliance, Ohio

11.20am

They have shakes on the bus: Freddy's got banana, Probs's got strawberry and lime. He can suck it through the straw with his teeth clenched. On the way to Maple Ridge. Missed their regular AA meeting on Glamorgan Street. They've been going twice a week at a minimum. Stayed up late listening to Lenny Bruce's 'Let The Buyer Beware'. Freddy uses the LP whenever he can to perfectly illustrate the social decay of America. The segment of the recording entitled 'How To Relax Your Colored Friends at Parties' has plowed itself into Probs's craw: the deplorable language, the irresponsible ideas, the unmitigated lack of probity.

Freddy's a Negro, late 20s, Probs' sponsor, shy for the most part because of his gulps-of-air stammer. Began drinking at 8, was a binge drinker by 12. He's not had a drink in 8 months and 6 days. Got him a good stable woman which helps – met her through Fr. Kirk's ministry. Loves to dress well. Wears a blood red bowtie rain or shine.

Freddy doesn't share at the meeting in Maple Ridge. Probs does: talks about how he was homeless for a time and how he saw a homeless man scrounging for change the other night. Said that the man's misfortune only helped to galvanize his own renewed feelings of strength. He spoke at length about God's uncompromising love and the terrible need for change in the way people lead their lives. That homeless man - Probs presumed - had landed on hard times, as he had himself, because of godlessness, his immoral and indulgent lifestyle and weakness in the face of Satan's revelry.

'Y-y-you talked a lot of s-s-sense in there, Justin,' Freddy goes, afterwards. Fr. Kirk's back from New Orleans in the evening. He is speaking fast over his soup, tearing and dipping thick Italian bread ravenously, making a pig of himself. Was down there 5 days, linking up with a parish that he hoped to have good relations with in the future; working in unison to spread the Word, helping the needy through the love of Jesus.

'Fr. Don will visit us here in the New Year. He's incredibly enthusiastic about the possibilities of a co-operative,' beams Kirk. Probs and Freddy and the other disciples are excited too. 'We're moving on up!'

'Praise Jesus!'

Around 8 o'clock, Probs is on the back porch workmanlike-reading Scriptures. The night and words are a balm to his burning mind - nobody knows where young Theresa's disappeared to or why she left so suddenly. Kirk's showered, smelling of the cologne a grandmother gave him for Saving her grandson. He never wears formal attire, dog collar's a big no-no, Kirk says that people are naturally judgmental, 'appearance befriends preconception'. Disarm them is the motto.

'Justin,' says Fr. Kirk, seeing the Bible and pausing, 'should I come back?'

'Don't be silly,' says Probs, glad to be distracted. He's feeling diffident. His teeth remain an issue. Kirk's got a basketball in his hands and goes, 'Let's shoot some hoops.'

*

The community (w)rec(k) center's 4 blocks over. Their hoop got bent by inconsiderate dunkers, had to be pulled off the backboard in the end. Temporary solution: a bottomless milk crate.

'Richard Nixon,' says Kirk, dribbling, avoiding invisible opponents, turning on the balls of his feet and missing a 3, 'do you have an opinion on him?'

Probs feels funny in donation shorts. Retrieves the ball. Says honestly, 'Not really.' Passes to Kirk. Kirk passes back. 'No, you.'

Probs stands at the free-throw line nervously. Hasn't fully shaken shaky DT hands. Bounces a couple times.

Kirk says, 'Do you think he would make a good president?'

Probs throws, around-the-world makes it and says, 'Can't be worse than what's there now.' Gets the ball back for Kirk.

Kirk grins, catches the ball, holds it, spins it, 'I would agree. Well, in fact, I would go even further and say that I think Richard Nixon's going to play a pivotal role in determining the future path of the nation's virtue. More so than any leader for a generation.' Shoots for three, backboard-first. Misses. He laments, 'Man, I'm throwing bricks tonight.'

Probs sees a passion in Kirk for Nixon. It's worth listening to intently. Probs walks to the rolling ball. 'He promises to de-escalate Vietnam,' Kirk goes, grabbing an ankle, pulling it to his rear to work the thigh.

'That's a good start,' replies Probs, juggling the ball on the spot.

'And he's going to take on the narcotics dealers head-on,' Kirk says.

'Wow. Even better!' says Probs, glowing, passing.

'I feel God is pushing me to help get him elected. So I'm going to start doing just that next week,' goes Kirk. Runs for a lay-up, scores. Passes. 'I have friends who suggested I join up, organizing voting drives and the like. I wondered if you'd be interested in coming along with me? It's such important history.'

Probs has got no reason to say no to Kirk. Walks back 2 yards to the edge of the key. Kirk just quickly adds, 'I couldn't see myself doing it without you if I'm honest. A good man is hard to find.'

Did he just say that I'm indispensable?

'You know that I will follow you anywhere,' says Probs, heartfelt, tears in the throat, shoots wildly, without thought, way short.

'Fantastic. I knew you wouldn't let me down,' Kirk goes, coming closer to Probs, forgetting the play for a moment.

'Onward Christian soldiers,' goes Probs, levitating, smiling. Kirk smiles too, gives a thumbs-up. 'What about a little one-on-one action?' says Kirk. 'To Seven.'

'You'll cream me!' laughs Probs.

'Maybe not,' is the reply, hands to knees in preparation. 'Miracles happen all the time.'

'Loser makes dinner.'

'Oh you're on.' Probs has the grace of a rhino. Fitness is shot. Backs into Kirk, trying to find a route to the bucket. Trips over himself, falls. Kirk takes the ball, rushes in for an easy deuce.

'Foul!' laughs Probs. Kirk laughs back, 'I can already taste those enchiladas.'

Kirk wipes him out: 7-1.

On the walk back, Kirk's invigorated and Probs is beat, coughing sporadically.

'So this campaign work's gonna be based here?' asks Probs.

Kirk yawns, says, 'No. Chicago.'

Bang: can Probs believe it?

Trust in Him and He will point the way.

Chicago.

Home.

23

Team 1

Mike Morella called up Cheeks, Cheeks & Assoc., the minnow law firm employing Thomas Cole on Madison. (Brother of executed Tucker Reginald Cole.) Cole's an unnamed partner. The Cheeks are praised around neo-liberal muckety-muck tables for acting so responsibly in giving a Negro a chance and acting with a real modern sense of community. The Caucasian Cheeks Brothers themselves, personally, wouldn't touch Negro cases with a ten-foot pole. There's not a penny to be made helping niggers that refuse to help themselves. The PR's mostly why they hired Tom Cole. He is the water-carrier of the perception. He is the pro bono man. He is prevented from defending whites in open court but he can do their paperwork into the small hours. He's bothered by the disingenuousness of it. The Catch-22 lies in that he does end up helping people of his own skin.

The eyes that they bring with them into his office, the mothers of wayward sons in particular, the fires long since gone, call out to him. Oh sure, Thomas has requested in writing that he represent whites, just to broaden my portfolio; he's roundabout questioned if he's only at the place to do the dirty darkie work. His wife said to him once, 'You got a cheek to your left and one to your right, Tom, so what's that make you?' The asshole.

He's had nightmares of self-immolation. Andrew Cheeks, Thomas' junior by a couple years and a senior partner, always says with a smile, 'Tommy Boy, you know where the door is.'

Thomas Cole agreed on the phone to come into Homicide and bring his mother and sister with him. He said to Morella, 'What is it in relation to?' and Morella said, 'It's for your own safety.'

They've been on the horn regarding Thomas' other brother, Jesse Cole: Spoke with Jesse Cole's Parole Officer, Morris Puckett and Puckett called Cole a piece of shit without first being asked for a characterization and then said that Cole's either at work flipping burgers on Pershing Road or he's at home in that Robert Taylor hellhole.

Fonda's got a feeling about Jesse. Jesse's got bad juju written all over his info. They speed to Pershing; peewee manager says it's Jesse's day off; they speed to the Taylor projects. Girls jump rope and do their hair in the plant-potted plaza. Mike's got his purpling nose bandaged up and his trigger finger's itchy.

33rd floor, apartment 303 is the destination. Fonda leads the way, brashly walking, feeling like the grinder mincing the meat. The corridors are filthy, darkened, freezing, dirty, graffiti-tagged. Residents stick their noses out into the embalmed air from behind closed doors. There's a baby carriage standing alone outside 305. Fonda sidles up to 303. Cole's got Coltrane blaring. Fonda cracks a succession of knocks.

The woman from 307 opens her door in response and knows a cop because she sees them daily: 'Whatchoo doin to that boy?' and Mike shouts at her, 'Police business!' She ain't no shrinking violet and Fonda knocks on Jesse Cole's door again, bellowing, 'It's the police, Cole. Open up!'

The woman in 307, mid 50s; slippers, gown, curlers, goes to Mike, 'Leave that boy alone! Y'ain't nothin but bullies!' Mike draws his gun, preparing for Cole, ignoring the old lady and now she's on a verbal tirade about Whitey injustice and where was they when them white boys come runnin round breaking windows and botherin them little girls that don't do no harm to nobody?

And there's something of an audience of a sudden in the hall and Fonda nods to Mike and Mike doesn't think twice about ramming the door full fuckin blown, his standard issue in a double grip.

'You can't do that!' says the 307 woman and Fonda catches her wrists and pushes her back inside her apartment, slamming the door. She yelps like a squeezed puppy in there. 'Do it again,' he orders Mike. Mike bangs the door hard a second time. It doesn't give and Fonda yells at the gawkers to get inside! Fonda considers simply lighting up the lock. Very messy. Now Coltrane's turned off and everything's quiet.

Mike, with heavy breathing, looks to Fonda and Fonda waits. Fonda: 'Cole, you gonna come quietly?' Nothing.

Fonda nods and Mike holsters his gun and takes a run up to the door. The door's opened slowly from the inside. Mike makes contact with the door at that second. He careens into the room and Jesse Cole's head takes the door like a heavyweight's haymaker: knocked out clean. He's wearing only socks and underwear.

Sweet Caucasian slice, 18/19, emerges from the bathroom in just her panties, mouthful tits. She sees Jesse flat and Mike on his way to standing and she runs back out of sight. Fonda has cuffs.

Go.

Team 3

'So that's it?' say Groombridge to Dwayne Clooney, pulling into traffic.

'That's it,' says Dwayne, 'One down.' Grumpy Agent Mulstein's in back. It took 5 minutes for them to find Timothy Carling's death certificate in the City Hall records. His daughter Philomena said he'd died in his sleep. Coroner concurred on natural death. DOD: 10/11/1963. He was 69. Heading back to base; Dwayne reaches into his pocket to double-check the odds on his Saratoga Springs filly maiden due off at 4.05pm.

He goes, 'Hey Mulstein, the rod up your boss' ass,' Dwayne's' dabbing the pen tip on his tongue, 'I hope it's at least good American steel,' with a winking grin to Groombridge. Mulstein's unmoved, chewing his gum ceaselessly, eyes out the window. 'You a smoker, Groombridge?' says Dwayne.

Groombridge starts for his packet.

Go.

*

Candace opened her front door. She barely recognized the face. She couldn't believe it to be true. She called herself a liar. 'Patrick?' This was 2 weeks ago.

Team 2

Officer Fred Syson, 30, chauffeurs. Costas George's happy with the silence and Capozzola – sporting a lovable cheek bruise - gives the impression that he's got no intention of making nice. The earlier donnybrook's brought the enmity between the camps to fever pitch.

Capozzola speaks once, to Syson: 'Hurry the fuck up.' It's become a whirlwind. They were nowhere, now they're somewhere – or headed somewhere anyway.

Costas ain't so burned about what Morella did. It wasn't out of character. It's easier for Costas to take because Morella's retroactively predictable.

It was on that relatively cool summer day that Patrick said to Candace, the love of his other life, 'How've you been?' He was so happy to see her. She reminded him of a poem he'd forgotten.

On Maxwell, Costas and Capozzola find a widow living at number 88. 'Is this the home of Mr. Patrick Caplan?'

Plain old lady talk: 'Never met the man.' Plan B: the ex on South Des Plaines Street, house number 13. The home of Candace & Gerald Axworthy. Candace and Patrick divorced in 1964. She remarried 8 months ago.

'Where have you been?' Candace asked Patrick Caplan, her feet glued to the doorstep.

'Ma'am, do you know the whereabouts of your ex-husband?' says Costas on Candace's front porch. Candace has got a real dishy figure, Marilyn Monroe curvy. She's a delicate, emotional type with darkly plumed eyes.

'Why?' she says, dark eyes darting.

Capozzola, no mercy: 'Can we come inside, Mrs. Axworthy?'

Patrick wondered if she had time for a chat and maybe tea or coffee. She invited him in. Gerald was in Denver. He sells real estate. By the look of the place, Gerald does alright at it. Patrick heard her mention a husband. Didn't really register. She smelled of lemons. God, their home always smelled of lemons. He stupidly hated it.

'Yes, of course,' she says to Costas and Capozzola, leading them down the plush corridor to the living room. It smells pleasantly of lemon. 'Has Patrick done something wrong?' she goes.

Officer Syson stays in the car, happy to do so. Costas says to Candace, 'We believe that his life may be in danger.'

'Why would that be?' she's incredulous.

'I haven't heard from you in so long,' Candace said. 'I haven't been in Chicago for a long time. I've been moving around,' Patrick said and it was a blatant lie or the best kind of truth for deathbeds.

Costas is about to explain about King Lear to Candace when Capozzola snaps at her, 'Do you know where he is or not?'

She goes, 'No, I don't. You could ask the Nixon people.'

'Richard Nixon?' says Costas.

'Are you working?' Candace questioned Patrick.

'Well, not as such. I'm volunteering on the Nixon campaign.'

'When did you last see him?' asks Costas. She plays with the small crucifix around her neck, a nervous thing and says, 'About 2 weeks ago. 10 days.'

'You're still on friendly terms with him,' goes Costas. Candace thinks, 'It was the first time I'd seen him in two years. It was totally out of nowhere.'

'And you don't know where he is now?' goes Capozzola, the battering ram. Capozzola's manner is chafing at Costas.

'He never said,' Candace says.

'I've spent so much time being angry with you about everything that went wrong with us. I wanted you to know that I forgive you for it,' Patrick had said. 'And for the terrible way I used to be, God has forgiven me.'

She's explaining to them about that last time she'd spoken to him in 1966: 'He said some very hurtful things. He was drunk as usual,' with a shake of the head that seems reserved for thoughts to do solely with her ex-husband. 'He was going to Bakersfield.'

'Why?' says Costas. 'Oh, he's got an old girlfriend out there. He thought she'd maybe take him back,' and a roll of the eyes.

Capozzola's ready to write in a small pad, 'And her name?'

'Carol Clinton.'

'An address or phone number?'

'I don't know. She may not even live there anymore.'

Costas: 'Any living parents?'

Candace, shakes her head, 'Mother's dead. Mr. Caplan's in a home upstate. Alzheimer's.' The cop and the agent don't sit.

Costas: 'You think he lied about not being in Chicago while you were out of touch?'

'Remember the plans we made?' Patrick said.

She shakes her head again, sitting, close to tears. Suddenly, her good looks harden beneath the burden of her past. She says with all the sincere heartache imaginably, 'He's moved on.' Capozzola's ready to roll.

Costas goes, 'Wait,' and Capozzola huffs, 'For what?' and Costas replies precisely with a furrowed brow, 'We're not done here.' The Fed surrenders and leaves the house.

Patrick said to Candace, 'Carol can be such a cruel person. Over and over and over I just stood there and took it. I've learned that a hurt woman and an empty bottle often give you the same answer.'

She's quiet. Costas is of a mind to leave her to herself now. 'Why is his life in danger?' says Candace.

Costas feels she deserves facts: 'He's a target for the King Lear killer.' Candace computes. She's not giving much away.

'You look different. Happier I mean, I think,' she'd said to Patrick at the door, time up naturally.

'The self-recrimination chapter's closed. And you've never looked lovelier.'

Costas says, 'It's not his fault. He didn't do anything wrong.'

Candace stands up and says, 'There was a private detective came to me,' rooting around in her handbag over the fireplace. 'Two days back; 3rd time in a month. He's been looking for Patrick too,' she hands the PI's card to Costas. He reads the name BRIAN CANNING and says, 'Did he say what it was in relation to?'

She replies, 'He's vague. Says he can't say. It's on behalf of a man who wants to talk to Patrick about some deal they made.'

'I want you to have it,' Patrick told her, handing her that one photograph left of him when he was homeless and picking up every piece of trash along the way.

'What did you tell him?' goes Costas, about Canning. She shakes the head again, differently this time, defiantly: 'Nothing. I didn't trust him.'

'He seem more urgent to you on each visit? Like time was a factor?' wonders Costas.

'I guess,' she says, ambivalent. 'He did say that there was money in it for me if I helped. I told him to get lost,' with a mild, affected shudder.

Costas says, as convincingly as he can, 'If you hear from him again, please let us know. We will do a better job of protecting Mr. Caplan than you will.' She hears him.

'I'm sorry,' Patrick whispered to Candace and kissed her cheek.

Costas requests any good photographs of Patrick. Candace Axworthy goes one step further and produces quality, black and white 16mm home movies. She mentions the thing about Patrick's teeth.

Go.

Team 5

Humphrey Willis, the greengrocer, is dead. Rudy Ollis and Special Agent Layfield got Officer Bustin on his knees in there going through cabinets for the death certificate. Willis' son said that Old Hump got hit by a bus. Rudy and Layfield are chatting in the sun on a bench outside City Hall, Rudy puffing on a cigar. Layfield offered to pay for coffee and donuts on the way over - a much-appreciated olive branch - and Rudy said that he liked Layfield's style. A similarity in age as well as being cut from the same roughshod aspect helps grease the pairing's relationship. Layfield's under a year from retirement and that freedom gives him license to be casual. He sees Fonda. He sees Fonda's a grabber.

Layfield had been pitching a stiff loaf when the Homicide fight went down this morning and missed it. He was sorry he had, he'd boxed in high school and had a rep for chewing guys' ears in the ring. He noticed that Morella's were ripe.

Officer Bustin's 40 and heavy. He's sweated his way to Humphrey Willis' DOD: 3/17/1967 and now clops down the steps to Rudy Ollis and Layfield. His knees won't thank him.

'Was it like the son said?' says Rudy to Bustin, sipping his coffee.

'Yes,' says nodding Bustin, wiping his brow with a kerchief. Nobody offered him any snacks. Layfield licks donut raspberry jam off his bottom lip and stands up.

Go.

Team 6

Thomas Martin's 44; an undertaker in Roselle. He's got a permanent astigmatism and corrective eyeglasses for it. Dick Terry and Special Agent Dreyer march into Martin's place of business, interrupting a low-toned conversation Martin's having with a grieving widow and her 14 year old son on a tan leather couch.

'Excuse me, I was talking to that lady!' says Martin, bushy eyebrows, quick to his feet. Terry's to the point, flashing his badge, 'Sir, you have to come with us.' Dreyer and Officer Vess – the only Negro involved in this clean sweep - catch Martin and begin to escort him out of the building.

Martin's flailing, 'How do I know that you're - there is no need to manhandle me! What's going on here!?'

'It's for your own safety, Mr. Martin,' says Officer Vess sweetly and Agent Dreyer just tells Thomas Martin to shut the fuck up. Dick Terry apologizes to the widow. Nobody locks up afterwards.

Go.

Team 8

Nobody home in Oak Park. A passing neighbor goes to Special Agent Brazee, standing on Judge Hogue Mallard's front step, 'The judge's on vacation.'

Rod Blakely's listening to the radio in the car. Officer Ditripani's staying close to Agent Brazee as Brazee demanded. Brazee loathes Blakely.

'Where?' says Brazee curtly to the neighbor, a middle-aged man in shorts walking with a boy in shorts. The boy's sucking on a strawberry Popsicle. 'He's in Ireland.'

'The country?'

'Yeah.'

'Where specifically?' says Brazee, skipping down to the neighbor. Neighbor shrugs, 'Good question.' Brazee calls in for next of kin. Ditripani swore that he brought the personal information file given to him at the station. Can't find it now. Feels like a premo tool and Brazee's no amateur when it comes to the icy stare. Blakely's worse than useless. They wait on Dispatch. Brazee asks Rod Blakely how the fuck a filthy rummy like he is hasn't had his ass canned long ago and Blakely cites fuckin Brazee's mother on a regular basis as a significant determining factor in that.

Quickly: Mallard's got 4 brothers: Jared, Harold, Steven and William and a son, Fillmore. William's dead 20 years. The rest are still above ground. Jared's geographically closest. Brazee decides to hit him first. They purloin addresses and phone numbers.

First: Jared Mallard's not at home. Second: He's out of the office too. He's out doing a feasibility study for the city about the possible construction of a new prison 30 minutes South. Third, a switcheroo: Hogue's son, Fillmore's law firm ain't too far off. They call in: he's out of town too; giving a charity keynote to ground workers on how the law can help augment and ameliorate the social conditions of Detroit's inner city. Back tomorrow.

Fillmore's girl offers up a phone number. Brazee and Ditripani need to fill up on gas. Blakely's dozing. They find Judge Mallard's youngest brother Jared with a group of 3 other men standing in a giant open field and pull him to one side. Jared doesn't ask any questions, he gives them whatever they need.

Brazee: 'How long is he gone?'

'Oh it's almost 3 weeks. I don't know when he's coming back.'

'Do you have a number for him?'

'No, I don't.'

Brazee pauses, 'How do we reach him?'

'Hogue's incommunicado on purpose, Mr. Brazee. You must understand that my brother has had a very troubling year; more than that, a very tough few years. His wife died very slowly and painfully. He did a lot of fundraising for the Kennedys and Robert's murder hit him extremely hard. Harder than the average man, I dare say.'

Special Agent Brazee could give a rat's ass about the tearjerker, goes, 'What part of Ireland is he in? Do you know?'

'Well, he usually goes to a place in the Southwest. By that I mean he likes to go there every summer for a stretch. It's a place called Waterville.'

Ditripani goes, sun in his eyes, thumbs in the belt: 'That a theme park?'

Jared keeps going, 'There's a hotel there that Charlie Chaplin stays in all the time. The Butler Arms. Hogue has a getaway cottage outside the village.'

Rod Blakely gets out of the car behind them, stretches and takes a piss on the grass. 'How many years has he repaired there?' says Brazee.

Jared says, 'Twenty five or more.'

'And in all that time he has never furnished you with any contact information in case of emergency?'

Jared shakes his head, has a habit of producing a series of lightning blinks with his eyelids before speaking, 'I mean, I have sent him the occasional letter care of the Butler Arms.'

'But that's it?'

'There has never been cause for alarm. My brother is a man who enjoys his seclusion.'

And brusque Brazee could give a rat's ass about what his brother enjoys and says, 'Mr. Mallard, it is key that I find him.'

'I'm sorry, Mr. Brazee,' says Jared with a taut chuckle, 'I appreciate your position but there's not any speedy resolution to this that I am aware of.'

'What about your other brothers or your nephew?'

'Try them,' says Jared with an unimpressive shrug, 'I can't see who would be able to do any more for you.'

The thing that annoys Brazee more than anything about the FBI is when it is forced, or when he and his colleagues are expected, to clean up the messes of less formidable, less able law enforcers. He didn't join 3 years ago to be a cog in the country's massive janitorial scheme.

Rod Blakely complains about everything and does nothing and Officer Ditripani's level of ability is a half-step above neophyte. Brazee got into the Colin O'Meara-instigated folderol at Homicide this morning wholeheartedly. He got hammered and he nailed.

Brazee buys Blakeley and Ditripani coffees and donuts so that they'll leave him alone. He goes through his list of numbers at a west street corner payphone. An inconveniently placed jackhammer down the block attacks Brazee's brain more entirely than the concrete of its objective.

Harold Mallard (a dentist downstate) and Steven Mallard (an oncologist in the Loop) provide nothing new. Neither sound too enamored of Hogue either. Fillmore picks up on the 7th try in Detroit. Between calls Brazee's had a toilet break; called in a status report to Fonda; had a shouting match with a guy who bumped into him and stained his shirt with Cool-Aid; engaged in another shouting match with Rod Blakely because Blakely wondered if Brazee had a couple bucks to spare for a titty mag.

Fillmore sounds truly perturbed, the first one today that has done so in Brazee's opinion, and the Judge's son's concern helps Brazee reflect that a man's life is potentially on the line, not to mention how it's going to make Brazee look in the eyes that matter if he can't land the fish. What can Fillmore do? The answer's nothing.

Fuck.

Go.

Team 7

The woman behind the desk at City Hall with the stern face and peanut figure furrows her brow and says, 'Another one?' She's been serving the city's finest certs all morning it feels like.

Detective Dick McShane and Special Agent Bowman are looking for the death certificate of juror Lincoln Elliott, DOB 2/7/13, with young Officer Soehner.

Elliott's wife and niece said that the pharmacologist and father of 2 took a 4th story header last summer; most likely as a result of his beyond the pale casino dealings with the Outfit.

McShane and Soehner catch Boss Daley's public announcement on the radio in the Records Room about the break in the case. Daley calls it a significant turn of events. He gives up no specifics, for reasons necessary to maintain the investigation's potency and to avoid undue public panic.

McShane goes to Officer Soehner, 'Can you hear that?' Dick McShane's got 2 boys in uniform just like Soehner. They look like fresh meat and so does Soehner.

'Hear what?' says squeaky Soehner. McShane despises politicians – especially Daley; always giving the Kennedys head in public - and goes, referring to Daley with no satisfaction, 'The dumb smile.'

Daley's statement is short. He takes questions: The Guardian representative from London again suggests that the FBI is firmly in control of proceedings. Mayor Daley sharply shoots that down with a supercilious grunt by saying, 'The FBI and Chicago PD and a number of other police departments in New Orleans and, uh, Wisconsin are working in tandem. And if I -- and I find it patently irresponsible of the media, uh, to stir up trouble where there is none.'

Special Agent Bowman's got his sights locked on peanut lady sifting through records with her 2 assistants. Dick McShane's got hands on hips, shaking his head at Daley's talk.

On the radio: 'Nelson Tarris, Chicago Sun-Times; Mr. Mayor, can you perhaps enlighten us as to the connection between this case and the recent execution of a young Negro carried out under your administration?'

McShane's shocked and Daley's flummoxed. McShane smiles, goes, 'Somebody leaked.' Daley trips up on his answer before saying I don't know what you're referring to; then, I cannot comment upon that and finally he suggests that Mr. Tarris might want to reconsider the veracity of his sources before leveling such promiscuous accusations.

Soehner's not certain that the Governor used the word promiscuous in the correct context. He says nothing. He trusts the leader before he trusts his doubts. That's what he's been taught.

McShane goes, about Daley, with much satisfaction, 'That was 3 different answers.' Peanut lady says, 'Got it,' handing the Elliott death certificate to Bowman. Bowman's a no-nonsense bulldog with a shaven head, gets to reading straight away. Put-out Peanut lady sarcastically says to the Agent, 'You're welcome,' and walks away.

So, Lincoln Elliott's a bucket-kicking confirmation and crossed off the list. Bowman's off like a shot out of the building. Dick McShane's buoyed by Mayor Daley's flip-flopping display. He knows that the Mayor's greasy smile's been wiped clean.

'What are you smiling for, Detective?' asks Soehner. They're walking out after Bowman. Hands in pockets McShane goes, 'I like balance, kid. I like balance.'

Go.

Team 4

This gets off to a bad start. Special Agent Katschmar says, with his hand out, 'Gimme the keys,' to Colin O'Meara. Officer Womark watches. It's embarrassing. This is on the public sidewalk outside Homicide. The 7 other teams dispatched are gone. Colin plows on, 'Get out of my way,' past standing Katschmar, a short, physically passable sort with a squinting gaze, patchy baldness and above average crooked teeth.

Katschmar keeps after him, says, 'I want to drive, Detective.' He's cool.

Womark says, 'I thought I was supposed to be the one to drive,' and nobody hears him. He follows them in any case. Colin goes to Katschmar, sticking the key in the driver's door, 'Where you from?'

Katschmar goes, 'What difference does that make?'

'Do you fuckers have to answer everything with a question? Where are you from?'

Katschmar says, angrily, 'I'm from Fuck You, North Dakota, how about that?'

Colin laughs, a definitive mania in his eyes, goes, 'Grrrr!' and continues laughing before handing the keys to the puzzled Federal agent. Katschmar, on another day, for that North Dakota remark, could easily be on his way to the ER. Luckily, Colin's in a walk-away mood after Costas and Dwayne had his back with Infante. Their support's jazzed him. He was even touched by it, especially coming from Costas. It's like the old days. His lungs are fat and there's a bad guy to catch. When Colin gets like this, whomever it is that he's searching to apprehend, no matter the circumstances, he makes it personal to drive him on, and no matter how many men he might be on the case with, if he can, he likes to make it feel like one-on-one.

Colin says, laughing still, 'Fuck you, North Dakota: I like that,' getting into the back of their car. Colin's got no love for these sticky suits sticking their thumbs in every pie - he'll be goddamned if he didn't enjoy that earlier dustup, it was so very needed – but the wind's picked up and there's nothing quite like a mountain to climb.

Katschmar and Colin and Womark get to Ray Simpson's place in Cicero around noon. Simpson's regular shift at the bus station doesn't start until 6 tonight. Mrs. Simpson – a frumpy, flatfaced woman with dark complexion, the type with a dishtowel ubiquitous – says that Ray's down at the dog-track and what's this all about?

Colin looks at Katschmar and Katschmar returns it. There are shared visions of a dead bus driver found with a bullet in each eye at Hawthorne racetrack and two law enforcement agents standing over the body with their pants around their ankles. And they're off.

Katschmar goes, moving fast to the car, 'Where is it?' meaning the track and Colin says, striding/jogging, 'I know where,' so Katschmar throws the keys to Colin and in ten seconds they're screeching west with Womark barely keeping up and not nearly remembered. Colin's got a need for speed. The practical necessity for it matches his adrenaline requirements. He feels like he's in a movie, sometimes there's that joyful manic look – probably James Dean's final face - when he almost hits something. He crazily takes corners like a stockcar boy, like there ain't no such thing yet invented even close to a corner worth a second thought.

They've got one photograph of Simpson; they left the wife bawling into her dishtowel on her stoop. The track's dead as a doornail. Can't be too hard to find the guy, is the consensus. Womark suggests putting it out over the PA. Colin says do it. They eat Womark's dust. Colin and Katschmar search high and low – Colin goes high into the bleachers and Katschmar stays low at ringside. Searching, searching, searching... The PA guy requests that Mr. Raymond Simpson meet Officer Womark at Betting Counter #15 urgently. Repeat, Mr. Raymond... Womark's at Betting Counter #15 before the lamb's tail goes a second time, feet tapping nervously to an unconsciously ingrained rhythm lingering from preadolescent tap-dancing classes. Colin clatters down steps towards Womark, inspecting all the while for Simpson.

Special Agent Katschmar checks the Men's restroom, scoots beneath the track barrier, across the track before a race, into the middle of the arena where trainers and owners loll with their emaciated greyhounds waiting to go.

'You see him?' says Colin to Womark at the betting counter. Womark says no and Colin rests his hands on his knees, quite out of breath. They look and look and look.

Colin: 'Stay here,' and he heads for the parking lot. An average Joe walks up to Officer Womark, smoking a cigarette with a folded newspaper tucked under his left arm. Average Joe says evenly, 'Are you Officer Womark?'

Womark takes in Ray Simpson, about as average a Joe as there ever was born, and goes, 'You Simpson?'

'I am.'

Probs

(5 days ago)

The Chicago River

Her name's Abigail and Abigail's got an ant on her bare knee by the river in the sunshine. She calls the ant Roberta because that was the name of the aunt she despised most – the one that never shared her candies and was fat and ugly for that reason. She flattens Roberta with her hand and Patrick Caplan looks at the corpse, ignoring up till now Abigail's incessant gibberish.

Abigail's 45 and attractive to a desperate man. The pair is closer recently. They met through Fr. Kirk from whom all good things come. They have sex intermittently. The earth moves sometimes. It tends to be messy. Patrick steps out of himself and looks at them, bone-naked and skinny-twisted, and thinks that their honest efforts are not too photogenic. Freddy said watch out, Justin, that girl's trouble.

Abigail snorts a laugh, wiping the crushed bug from her skin. She's got chubby legs in the warmth, barefoot, sandals slumped nearby on the grass. She says that the flowing water sings to her. Patrick's working on his eighth beer. He's soused. She's an enabler of a sort: she doesn't drink alcohol and she doesn't buy alcohol but in her company Patrick tastes a need for alcohol. That's what he likes so much about Abigail. It's also why he hates the fact that his own self-disgust's the single thing in this life that he's sure of.

She's nuts. Certifiable. He doesn't care. She says that the government kidnapped her when she was a teenager. She lost her parents when a building collapsed on them and she lived a vagabond's life in and out of the foster system. Eventually she ran for the hills and was picked up by men outside a diner. They offered her food and money in exchange for her cooperation.

'Did I know cooperation meant hooking me up to experiments? Did I heck!'

She was subjected to, according to her, rigorous testing in the area of eugenics and was used to examine, among other things, at what point a sufficient dose of carbon monoxide and/or carbon dioxide begins to fatally poison a person.

'It was all the CIA. The Roswell cover-up people. Those guys. They kicked me out onto the street again when they were done with me,' she explained when Patrick first met her. She's an open book with lots of spelling errors and no contents index.

'Yeah,' she continued, that first time, licking the milk moustache disguising her hairy one, 'I dunno how I ever got here with half my brain fried.'

And who knows? Maybe she's right. Generally Patrick's too stupefied from drinking to fully understand what it is she's talking about. Her rambles can go uninterrupted for hours – the pitch rising and falling like a fork dragged along a dinner plate. Her buzzing's soothing, it's tempering.

(Todd's this string of piss epileptic from Maine, about Patrick's age, and he'd said to Patrick when they were setting up a picnic table a couple weeks back, 'She's cracked, man,' meaning Abigail. At the time Todd said that, Abigail was off somewhere naming blades of grass. Patrick smiled and said to Todd, 'By whose definition is she cracked?' and Todd said, 'Shit, by everyone's!')

'I know you don't love me, Justin,' she says over the tinkling river current and he catches it.

'Why do you say that?' Patrick says, hurt by her comment despite it's absolute truth. (Unless the mystery of love is: kinda loving someone is the same as truly loving them.)

'Because I am this tree,' she goes, looking up at the tree that they're propped up against, touching the bark lightly with the back of her hand. It's a deceptively sensual gesture. She's done it to Patrick's thighs.

'Oh yeah?' he goes, sinking into her madness like a soapy bath. The feeling of superiority massages his weary bones. She says nothing for a moment, lost as she can get, in time, undressing the tree with her eyes.

Patrick could blame Fr. Kirk for him falling off the wagon. It was a chain reaction. He stepped out of God's light. He's been avoiding everyone. He knows people know. He should just fuck off out of their hair. What good is a supreme and chronic lush to a presidential hopeful? Not to mention the shame and embarrassment he's probably causing and would cause Fr. Kirk and his friends. He wants to go, to leave it all behind him. They deserve better. Nobody deserves to have their good love throw back in their face.

Ah, but it's the fear that holds him, the fear itself, the shrieking fear of the highways. Endless ribbons of road and at every turn: monsters. Coast to coast magpies are lining their nests with pieces of his heart. If those pieces can remain scattered he will sacrifice his eternal happiness in favor of his fundamental survival. Perhaps that's the greatest lesson that he's learned. He is a good student.

'Surprise,' said Fr. Kirk, holding an envelope out to Patrick, 'Happy birthday, Justin.' They stood alone a few weeks ago in Fr. Kirk's room. Kirk's staying in the spare bedroom of a married couple of rabid Nixon people close to Lake Shore Drive. Patrick got to sleep on their floor.

'What's this?' Patrick asked with a smile, emptying the envelope.

Kirk went, 'I found a roll on the floor under your bed. I had it developed for you.' Patrick thought he'd lost all the photographs.

1st instinct: Weep. Hold it in check.

2nd instinct: Shame. Has he seen these?

'I haven't looked at them. I hope they bring you some kind of peace, Justin,' said Fr. Kirk and he walked out, a kind hand to Patrick's shoulder as he went.

Abigail: 'You're a tree too,' with a sweeping hand and spidery fingers, 'Whether you like the idea or not. And this river is your consciousness.' He's not looking but he's listening.

She stands up, careful to maintain her decency under the rippling red and white polka dot summer dress that's baggy at the bust and bursting at the hips. The back of her neck is red burnt. She floated her straw hat into a lake yesterday. She thought nothing of it. Neither of them's been back to base in 2 ½ days.

Abigail sits down on the edge of the riverbank, her toes able to play in the rushing water. Her legs dangle, she's childlike in wonder. She falls back onto the flat of her back and shouts to him behind her, 'The leaves are your memories!'

Leaves.

When Kirk left Patrick alone with those photographs, Patrick sat down on Kirk's bed with squeaky springs and rifled through the pictures with a trembling hand. He found himself needing to gather his breath. They were all shots taken by strangers of strangers: a handsome young Caucasian couple camping and having fun, hiking and kissing and in the background of one shot there was a jeep. He remembered that jeep, the one that he robbed in Louisiana on a scented day. He felt so regretful for doing that. He set the pictures down on the bed and took out his rosary beads. He said a prayer for forgiveness.

The last photograph, when it came, was a self-portrait. Or it was of a ghost of him, a shell, an attic biography. Toothless. (Read: Horrible) It was Probs. Bearded. (Read: Pathetic) It was return-to-sender Patrick Caplan. Greasy. (Read: Useless) It was out-to-lunch Patrick Caplan. Blurry. (Read: Disgusting) It was a UFO – an unidentifiable fuckin object.

Forget about him! The framed man didn't do it. He was a symbol, a metaphor, a character, a cause for concern, punched into line, a man of his era, a time unraveling, time-travelling gentleman of the sewers.

It's not me! It's not me! It's not me!

So who else are you?

He thinks that Abigail may be about to jump into the river. He wonders if he should stop her or help her. His memories are like the leaves. He gets metaphors, OK? His memories move quickly, erratically, bobbing wholesale without an anchor. He's a tree, rotten, rooted; leaves freefalling like teardrops into the water. He can't reach out to his thoughts. He cannot touch his memories. Yet water sloshes about his head. He's a vessel for experience. He is to be experienced. He cannot access the experience.

He binned the photographs except for the one of himself. He carried it with him in his pocket for most of a week. He couldn't say why. The image of himself at such low ebb gave him a severe case of Candace-on-the-brain. He knew they were in the same city together again. He wanted desperately to see her. Satan told him that she would be able to smell failure off him.

He saw Kirk's gift as a shove from God to make amends and went to her because there was no one around and they chatted and it was the most painful thing he's ever done. She was upright and elegant. In fantasies, when he couldn't remember how she looked, Candace was skin-pure and pearl-naked, sugar-perfumed and semi-curved with that upturned, blunted sickle-smile. She lay back on a couch, available for him to play with, to talk to, to cry for; she arrived on flying horseback, wind filling her hair. She held Patrick to her breast in his dreams and when he spent an hour with her in her home in Chicago for the first time in 2 years, he realized that his dreams had all been, in fact, factual. She was the angel he had lost. And that fact broke Patrick as they said goodbye.

He immediately went into a bar and got drunk. He had been dry for months. He binged. It was spectacular. It was Haley's Comet in fake alligator loafers. He vanished off the face of the earth. He was reborn. He was reborn as the same thing.

Patrick and Abigail stroll hand in hand along the streets of Chicago's Near South Side. It's night-time and they're both quiet. The city's abuzz with a city's pulse. Patrick's itchy for a drink. Abigail starts renaming city streets after characters from Sense & Sensibility.

They come upon a residential house fire and pause to watch. Awed Abigail says that it's magnificent. An ambulance on the street loads a body on a gurney in great haste. One of the paramedics straddles the body, furiously performing CPR.

The fire rises into the night looking like an exodus of spirits to Heaven, and people gather to squint and point and bemoan and to be grateful that it's not them. The firemen work studiously, a couple of them, well-equipped, worm their way into the inferno. The flames reflect off Abigail's glasses. She eyes the scene with a characteristic detachment.

'I wish I could name every one of those goddamned flames,' she says sadly with a huge smile.

A woman screams upstairs, 'Help us! For god sake, help me! My baby's in here!'

The heat from the blaze is amazing. Probs stands there in the front yard. The heat is loud. He wants to walk into it. It hypnotizes him.

After a while, the woman stops her shouting and Probs is melted, gone.

Patrick Caplan turns to Abigail, walking away from the fire so bright, and says, 'You're wrong, Abby, about me not loving you.'

'Is that a fact?' she goes.

24

Back to the Present

Chicago Homicide

Oh baby, Homicide's got a party going and everyone's invited or forced to appear. Windows are open. Fans are flying. The place is black with movement; phones ringing, sweaty men talking, lists being discussed, withdrawn, revised, reconsidered; whiteout boards being written on, pointed at, dismissed; corkboards being plucked and pinned; men walking, doors and filing cabinets opening and closing. There's no room for error, no room for hesitation, no room unoccupied. It's disarray on a grand scale in a miniscule environment and each element is a silken, fragile strand. Can anyone make the strands into a net? The unofficial waiting area is wherever you see people waiting.

Outside, the press is gnawing at each other's legs. They're cordoned-off from the front of Homicide by parked prowlers and unmarkeds, the Detectives given 15 yards grace to breathe. It's no subtle move from the police, it only adds to the furor, in fact, to the intrigue. Ralph Darling's gone in, city detectives are running wild, backdoors, side doors, fire escapes used; Captain Renne's around somewhere – it's a summit, the meaningful FBI presence can't be concealed.

The newspapermen gotta get into that Hall of Montezuma somehow. Everyone in CPD got the blanket memo from Upstairs: do not talk to the media in any way, shape or form. They cannot be trusted. Images of Theo George gush. No comment from people fighting the throng to get inside fuels the imagination. Scuttlebutt soars. Nelson Tarris, Chicago Sun-Times, is famished amid the heaving pack. Costas is hard to get close to and he's playing it Marcel Marceau. Nelson gets Costas being shrewd with breadcrumbs. Costas is respected in the line. Mr. George's gotta choose his moments like everybody else.

Nelson loved skewering Daley today at the Mayor's press conference. Got a fine tip from a girl inside City Hall on all the police activity in there this morning. Nelson calls that simple young thing from time to time, takes her out to dinner, and buys her chocolates to keep her yo-yoing to him. Her eyelids flutter because he's the most handsome man to have ever made love to her. Nelson believes no harm, no foul – she gets attentive affection, he gets fresh-baked insiders. She's not the only girl he's got.

Ed Hawke, Chicago Tribune, dithers and pouts and smells of deadline angst. He wants a peek at the good stuff, what rug did Tarris find that Negro execution under? Share and share alike, man.

Nelson's smiling punum is padlocked.

*

Fonda and Morella are on the phone to Jesse Cole's ex-wife Becky. Brotherly Love PD worked fast to help find her. Fonda's got muscular Jesse Cole in a free cell next to the drunk tank-with an ice-pack to his forehead downstairs. Nobody stopped Fonda having the cell locked. Jesse can wait his turn. Orders are orders. A uniform stands watch.

Jesse says nothing, feels everything. He's thinking habeas corpus. Sits like Buddha if Buddha were sure that he was on the verge of having his life fucked over again for no good reason.

'And he was bitter about your leaving him?' says Fonda, leader of the pack, to Becky on the phone. Her betrothed, Dante Bial, is at work in a steel factory back in Philly.

'Very,' she says, a small child goofing off in the background somewhere.

Fonda: 'Would you categorize him as an angry person?'

Morella said he'd interview Christina Cole (Tucker Cole's sister) to save time, two birds/one stone. Fonda said not without me you don't. Listen in, learn something.

Becky says, 'I don't know exactly. There are a lot of things that get under his skin, I guess.' She's aloof to a point (i.e. examples of Jesse's violent temper, if any) and evasive on certain topics (i.e. Tucker's trial etc.) – Whitey knows that Whitey breeds distrust in the minorities but Fonda's a wily campaigner.

He delves into Jesse's evident disillusionment with America. A young Negro male in 1968 extremely unhappy with the state of the nation is hardly sufficient motivational grounds for Jesse Cole to be fingered as the culprit in this instance. It does, however, work as another piece of information in pushing forth a stream of constant validations favoring Fonda's every early suspicion that Jesse Cole is King Lear. Doesn't need details on it, only generalities. Brushstrokes are all that's required right now – any colors on the canvas - borders, shapes and construing the form comes later. Cole works as an ideal 2D cookie-cutter for the day – all length and breadth and no depth. Fonda dangles Cole out in front of the country and says he's our guy, Mr. & Mrs. White Socks are gonna see that blinking light go off, the failsafe: seen one, seen 'em all. It's clear-cut – Negroes are not abandoned or forsaken, they're genetically predisposed to self-destruction (who tells him to get as many girls pregnant as he can and then end up in jail as most of them do?) and clear-cut keeps America ticking.

Sure, Fonda can see an argument for the possible complexities that lay behind the reasons for the Negro's stunted place in the United States. However, in the years that he has lived and breathed as a quiet, unfussy believer in his God-given right as a white man to protect, guide and supersede, not many arguments hold water with more piss and vinegar than the one that presupposes the American-African to be – in comparison to his Aryan brother - just plain inferior.

Becky's gotta go. Special Agent Fonda says thanks. Fonda thinks. Opportunity fits: Cole's been in Chicago when the killings occurred. He could've snuck down to New Orleans too. Done that in a day easy. And Milwaukee's a stone's throw. Fonda tells Morella to write down on his spiral pad beneath the bulbous MOTIVE the words disillusionment, brother's trial and execution, bitter divorce, jail time.

Twinkly Morella says to Fonda, 'So he's got a major beef with the system.' Fonda senses more is coming on Cole. He smiles tightly, goes, 'For pertinent characteristics or traits write down no education and no, uneducated sounds better, ah,' – standing – 'and something like typically underprivileged childhood and previous arrests.'

Christina Cole, down on the 2nd floor, is spiky and refuses to leave her ailing mother alone to be interviewed. She goes to Mike Morella, 'You got us in here, waitin for you and my mother's an old lady with all her men dead and dyin and she got nothin to say to you motherfuckers anyhow. Y'ain't got shit on Jesse and you just pullin the same shit you always be pullin: nigger's guilty until you say otherwise.'

Morella tells Fonda about Christina's, ahem, unwavering manner and Fonda laughs upstairs. Fonda says, 'Did the brother hear her?'

Morella's busted nose really hurts and his sinuses are all out of whack and he goes, 'He did.'

'And how did he react?' wonders Fonda. Morella says that Thomas Cole apologized on behalf of the family for Christina's crudeness. Fonda hoped for something like that and goes, meaning Thomas Cole, 'Bring him up to me. The sister and mother can go home.'

Fonda goes into Infante's office – populated very recently by Captain Buzz Renne with no Infante - so that the 2 heads can be better than one. Thomas Cole's a breeze. A law Negro with more passionate belief in the system that pins his collar than in himself is the kind of source for dirt worth tapping.

Fonda machineguns Thomas with questions and Cole gives up countless useful nuggets: their father more than flirted with Communism for a short while; Jesse's been a hard-nosed political radical, done time for it even. Jesse's a frustrated man (recurring theme), he's had limited experience with firearms – not uncommon in the slums, argues Thomas Cole. Anyway, Jesse's most recent stint inside was overlong in Thomas' opinion. His 2 cents runs into an explanation: Jesse drank too much on the back of his father's surprise death (not unreasonable Fonda and Morella agree), held up a rural gas station, spur of the moment, using a gun with no firing pin and got scot-free for 6 miles with $33.

'The sentence was rather onerous,' Tom concludes dispassionately and he starts digressing into the injustice served to his other brother Tucker and Fonda stops him with a buttery thank you for your time.

Fonda enjoys a steamy burger for lunch in the cafeteria. He'd said to Morella that he felt very good about how things were going. Morella comes into him suddenly and apologizes for interrupting Fonda's meal.

Fonda says, 'You cops apologize a lot for a buncha hardliners. What is it?'

Morella has done well. He's noticed that Jesse Cole was paroled on June 18th last. This was 3 months after Tucker Cole's execution. Morella checked the paperwork. Came to the understanding that Jesse Cole was due to be released last January: Becky Cole had mentioned something about that in passing on the phone, how Jesse hadn't visited his brother in prison. Due to a clerical error along the way, a document wasn't correctly filed and Jesse had to stay incarcerated after his initially scheduled release date and so – 'And so he missed the chance to speak to his brother and attend the execution,' says Fonda, remembering that Thomas Cole had said that Tucker and Jesse had been inseparable for many of their formative years. Something doesn't spring to Fonda's mind: Circumstantial. Something does spring to Fonda's mind: Mother lode. In one fell swoop, the entire case against Jesse Cole becomes a very easy sell. Revenge.

*

One of the storage rooms has been reclaimed. Costas' 16mm movies of Patrick Caplan – realistically, just 4 ½ minutes of it's usable – are playing. The blinds are screwed down. There's someone in there to keep it going if anyone wants to drop in and watch. Costas told Renne about what he'd gotten from the ex-wife and Renne blared shut your goddamn pie holes for a second and announced that he wanted everyone to look at the footage at their earliest convenience. Translation: Now!

Costas and Capozzola share one phone-line, two receivers, huddled over Costas' desk. Costas has an index finger plugging his right ear to keep background static to a minimum. The pair's on with Carol Clinton of Bakersfield. She took some finding and it's going like this:

Costas: 'And that was the last time you saw him, Christmas Eve of that year?'

Carol: '1966. Yes, Detective.' Her recollections come wrapped in palpable emotion. This is not something I've talked about before, she'd said.

Capozzola: 'And he hasn't been in touch with you once since then?'

Carol: 'No. Though I wish he had.'

Costas: 'Why, Ms. Clinton?' He's trying his level best to remain patient and sensitive.

Carol: 'Oh God, I don't know, for many reasons. Too many.'

Costas: 'You said that your final fight that night was about money; was it a topic that often raised its head between you?'

Carol Clinton hesitates and says, 'Well, it's hard to, ah,' and she kind of trails off and Costas goes, 'Ms. Clinton? Hello?'

Carol goes, 'Yes, yes,' wow, gargantuan sigh, 'I'm still here. This is so hard.'

Costas says, 'It's OK. Take your time.'

Carol says, 'It was the drinking I hated him for. We did fight about money a lot. He said that I flushed it on clothes and jewelry which was absolutely untrue, Detective, because when he got paid every Friday, he drank every dollar before Monday, you see? We couldn't pay bills. And he'd get mean too, calling me names and saying I wasn't half the woman Candace was, all that kinda hurtful stuff. He usedta get real personal and the neighbors could hear every word.'

Capozzola's writing this down in studious shorthand. Costas says when she pauses, 'Life with him became difficult.'

'Oh very difficult.'

'And what did he do for a living?'

'He was a freelance photographer for newspapers, you know, and magazines. He was good at it.'

Capozzola looks to Costas and Costas shrugs. Capozzola says to Carol Clinton, 'Is there anything else you could tell us that might help to find him?'

Carol sighs again, deeply, and goes, 'Yes, I suppose I ought to tell you that I had an abortion.'

Eyebrows rise and Costas goes gently, 'Go on.'

'Well, he got me pregnant,' and the tears come, delaying: 'and I thought about bringing up a baby with a lousy drunk as a father and I didn't want to do it. I just didn't, I couldn't. My father was a drunk. It was just so hard living with Patrick by then. I can't sleep some nights when I think, when I dream about it. Sometimes, oh god, sometimes I'm never so regretful as when it's the middle of the night and I can only hear myself breathing and thinking about being a mother. I would've been a good mother to that child.'

Both men are rather disgusted with her. Costas slides in carefully, 'Killing his child was what drove him away.'

Carol says, incapable of stopping the waterworks, 'Yes. It was, I suppose. He left me for doing that and I know that he'll never forgive me. I wish I could've made him happy. I did love him. I hope with all my heart that you save him.'

When they hang up, Special Agent Capozzola calls Clinton a snooty bitch and a waste of any man's time. Mike Morella's coming over.

*

Dwayne had nothing specific on his plate, with his juror Timothy Carling already worm food and all, so Costas asked him if he would maybe head down to Nixon election HQ on South Indiana ASAP to see if there were any leads on Caplan's whereabouts there, after he watches the Caplan film.

Dwayne agreed, no problem, as long as he could wear gloves and a gasmask. Dwayne could attack a person more readily for calling him a Nixonite than a son of a bitch. There's no sign of partner-for-a-day Agent Mulstein and Dwayne's not about to give that bastard a leg up. He quickly pours a coffee and grabs a Twinkie. Heads down the corridor. There's a couple men watching the black and white film in the remodeled (everything's been shoved over and piled up) storage closet, one guy standing by the projector. Only room for 4 chairs. Dwayne stays standing. After about 20 seconds, the film's over and the viewers depart silently. While it's being set up again, Dwayne takes a back row seat.

Handheld, grainy, amateurish: Dwayne sucks in the visuals, no sound save for the clicking roll of the projector. Dwayne drinks his coffee and never removes his eyes from the screen for 4 ½ minutes.

Patrick Caplan's birthday party: It's a lower-middle class back yard, manicured green lawn. Birthday cake.

Next: A curvy broad smiles in a kitchen, holding the cake proudly – she probably made it – she says something to the camera operator and it jumps back outside.

Next: Caplan's in jeans and a shirt, skinny guy. Mid 30s. Clean-shaven. Very happy looking. Wrestling with a Labrador. Sun-drenched, idyllic day. Dwayne thinks of this shit playing coast to coast if they go down the public APB route. Caplan's got potential to be a real puller of heartstrings. A man encapsulated for a nation by a few seconds of jolly scraps can become a movement.

Next: There's a family meal, random shots.

Next: Singing and dancing.

Next: A young boy shoves cake into his fat face, waving to camera.

Next: The camera pans along the available desserts of the day.

Next: Shots of an old man seated chatting with an older woman and when they realize that they're being filmed he smiles awkwardly, moving off, while the old woman looks stern and pushes the camera aside.

Next: Everybody runs inside from a rainstorm. People laugh. Caplan kisses the curvy broad and she whispers something to him and he cracks a joke that tickles her.

Next: Outside once more. Moonlight. The frame rests on Caplan, off in the distance, at the far corner of the yard, casually holding a drink, stills camera hanging from round his neck, listening to a contemporary male talk in this group of 3 men. The camera operator zooms in rather than approaches and the focus goes to pot for a second. Now, sharply, Caplan's a perfect picture, his face the whole composition, and Dwayne gets a nice look at what he decrees a sad man. Caplan's chewing on his fingers; it's something Dwayne saw him do earlier in the recording. Caplan must see the camera on him. He gives it a big smile and a wink.

Wham, it cuts out. The cop on standby duly winds the stock again. Special Agent Fonda sticks his head in the door looking for someone. He says nothing. Ducks back out. Dwayne's gonna hang on for a few more minutes, 4 ½ maybe.

*

It's going nowhere, after everything. Colin and Katschmar are questioning Ray Simpson at Colin's desk, taking notes as best they can. They've explained the gravity of it to him; he's a target for a phantom killer and Ray's on edge, chain-smoking Lucky Strikes. His thoughts have become muddled. He doesn't remember fraternizing with the other jurors. Names and faces ring no bells.

'Why'd you vote that way?' says Katschmar to him.

'He did it,' shrugs Simpson, meaning Tucker Cole, 'We all knew that he'd killed that little girl,' with rare assuredness.

'And did anyone involved in the trial strike you as unstable or capable of what's going on now?' asks Colin.

'Jesus, no. I mean, how do you guess who's gonna go around shooting people ten years later?' Colin and Katschmar have agreed that this whole thing's gotta hinge in some way on the execution. That's the trigger.

Pertinent: Who's going to be worst affected by the death of Tucker Cole?

Pertinent: Family.

Everyone knows that Fonda/Morella has the spotlight on Jesse Cole and that smells like the likeliest place to hang their hat to Colin and Katschmar. It's a growing rumor ripple.

Ray Simpson says, 'It's a shine probably,' putting his cigarette pack on the desk, 'It makes sense to me anyway. All these damn niggers harping on about this and that discrimination done to them and the liberals've been cocking an ear to that drumbeat for too long. I know I'm sick and tired of it, all of that crap. I know a lot of people who are,' stomping out his cigarette, suddenly bullish, 'And it don't make them racist neither. Go around the city, here's what I'd do – get out there and roundup a hundred of 'em, male coloreds I mean, and do it randomly, and see if your man ain't in that bunch and if he ain't, one of 'em's gonna know him.'

Colin sees the man's point, grins, and isn't going to contradict. Colin says to Katschmar, 'OK?' and Katschmar nods, and finishes furiously writing Simpson's words. He takes those pages to Renne/Fonda in Infante's office. There's a steady stream now of informants in and out of that room.

For procedure: they showed Ray Simpson Jesse Cole in lockup and Simpson said he'd never before seen the man in his life. They don't consider Raymond Simpson a potential murderer. He's a million miles from the type. Jordan Hargreaves' homo hypothesis blinks. Ray Simpson's no homo. He's no sophisticated killer. Still, Katschmar insists that they check. Colin doesn't know where Katschmar heard about Hargreaves' crazy guessing games. But Colin's game; he can do thorough. He knows the narky Feds can whip-up a life on paper in record time. Bet the house on Simpson having credible alibis. Ray's already said he sometimes works 50/60 hours a week: 40 hours at least driving a city bus and sometimes 10-20 extra at his daughter-in-laws' flower shop. But why's he work a second job when he's got no great financial need to do it?

Ray shrugged and said, 'The flowers are a distraction.'

Colin says to Ray now, 'Mr. Simpson, I've been instructed to inform you that 3 uniformed Chicago policemen are to be assigned immediately to your family home and are to provide you and your wife with 24 hour protection until we have caught the man responsible for these murders. I will personally check in with you at least twice a day.'

'What about my job?' says Simpson, a little like his original self: jangled.

'The city will remunerate you.'

Simpson goes, sarcastically, 'Comforting,' and Colin smiles again; hey, what can he say? He likes Simpson. Colin then goes to Ray, nodding to nearby Officer Womark, 'Officer Womark will escort you home.'

Ray Simpson stands and says with honest trepidation, 'You will stop this guy, right?' He takes in the commotion surrounding him for a second, continues with, 'God, I didn't do a thing wrong, did I, in all my life? Every day, I been straight as a dice. Honest, Detective. Ask anyone,' and Colin picks up Ray's pack of Lucky Strikes with 3 left and Ray goes, 'I don't want 'em.'

Colin says in all sincerity, calmly sliding the Luckies box into his own breast pocket, 'Mr. Simpson, believe me, you are in good hands.' Ray Simpson might just believe that. Womark leads him off.

Costas comes over to Colin with documentation in hand. Colin goes, sipping cold coffee, 'Are we having fun?'

Costas says, 'How is it?' Colin shrugs, lights a better-than-nothing Lucky, gestures to the departing Ray Simpson, 'We got our man on lockdown. Lear's gonna have to use a grenade launcher to get to him.'

Costas says, 'You know we're having trouble with our guy's twenty. Caplan.' Colin nods and Costas goes, 'Well, I got this PI uptown I gotta see right now.'

'You want me to come with?'

Costas goes, 'If you think your end is done.'

Colin's ready, 'For now, absolutely. Lead the way, Chief. Brief me en route.' Costas and Colin start for the exit until Capozzola sees them over his coffee dregs and calls out, moving closer, 'Where are you two going?'

Costas had hoped to ditch him and says, 'To see the Caplan PI.'

'You trying to fuckin ditch me on this?' says angered Capozzola.

Colin goes, utterly devoid of sympathy, to Capozzola, 'You need to be needed, big man?'

Capozzola ignores him, says to Costas firmly, 'This investigation does not belong to Chicago anymore.'

Colin replies tartly, 'Hey, King Kong asshole! We've put up with – '

Costas is gone. He's thinking of an old Lieutenant. The old Lieutenant used to say: take the opportunity to move your ass when those around you are squabbling, so that by the time they're done taking a shit; you're busy getting shit done.

*

Layfield made the call: 'Where's ADA Fairbanks?' Agent Layfield and Rudy Ollis told Officer Bustin to take a load off and do a nice write-up on their juror, Humphrey Willis, RIP. Oh, and track down J W Strange. They've got this one covered. Since Willis is pushing up daisies, they've been redirected: pick up and interview the Tucker Cole prosecutor (District Attorney Mundane) and his 2nd chair (Assistant DA Fairbanks), as well as Tucker Cole's original defense attorney (Jason Waldo Strange.)

So they're downtown, headed up the elevator to Fairbanks. Rudy and Special Agent Layfield arrive like cowboys new in town and the ADA's girl takes one look at them – both men smoking strong Dominicans - and she buzzes Fairbanks without asking them anything.

Fairbanks says charily, 'Let them in,' and Rudy and Layfield enter his office. Fairbanks is standing to attention behind his desk. They produce IDs on request. The FBI man's presence is a shock to Fairbanks.

Rudy goes, 'Sir, we need to take you to the station immediately.'

'OK,' says Fairbanks, plucking his coat and hat from the hat stand beside him, 'Can you explain why?'

'On the way,' says Layfield, holding the ADA's coat so that he can sink his arms into the sleeves.

'Where's District Attorney Mundane?' says Rudy Ollis to Fairbanks.

*

Abraham Mundane's sharing a Jacuzzi with a couple JP Morgan execs and a Congressional tobacco lobbyist on Wabash. It's a weekly get-together for note comparison.

'Sir?' says a pool boy to clean-shaven Mundane in the steamy mist, 'there are 2 policemen to see you.'

The quick-witted younger JP Morgan cat comes with, 'They finally got you, Abe.'

The older cigar-chomping JP guy chortles, 'Use the 5th, old man. It's a peach.'

Mundane goes gruffly to the pool boy, 'My towel,' and the boy hops to it. The tobacco lobbyist – not wanting to feel omitted from the banter - says, as Mundane climbs out of the water, 'Don't worry, Abe, I'll gladly accept the nomination to replace you!' And Mundane smiles, the 3 in the tub laugh.

He leaves the room brusquely to talk to Layfield and Rudy Ollis. He's dripping everywhere, pushing his hair back in the tiled corridor. 'What is this about?' says Mundane. Layfield and Rudy are enjoying each other's company immensely and every time they share a glance they want to laugh like school chums on the make, wholly inappropriate though it may be to do so.

Layfield bites his cheek and says to Mundane, 'Sir, we need you to get dressed.'

'I'm busy,' Mundane spouts impatiently. He's a lot squatter in person, flabby chest folds.

Says Rudy, hand in pockets, to Mundane, 'We have Fairbanks in the back of our car, sir. This,' nodding to the street, 'is busy.'

Mundane's worried suddenly and says, 'Why do you have Fairbanks?'

'So that you don't make us wait much longer,' says Rudy.

*

Detective Dick Terry's found an empty Homicide interrogation room and he's got Thomas Martin in here with him. The mortician's pissed about how he's being treated. He's meowing for 45 minutes, like a goddamn geyser on hyperdrive.

Special Agent Dreyer's just come back in with a mug of something cold to lower the heat to catch Martin saying, '-- not the way to go about it! I have a livelihood to consider.'

They brought Thomas Martin to take a look at Jesse Cole in his cell and Martin didn't recognize him at all; didn't know him from Adam or Eve, for that matter. He said that he vaguely recalled the face of Grady Birch when shown snaps of victims. Dreyer combs his perfectly slick, benumbed hair. Habit.

'Mr. Martin,' says Dick Terry, 'we have to be careful.'

'Yes, yes,' barks Martin, 'you've said that enough. Ten times I've heard it.'

Dreyer's cool, he goes, 'You like the idea of being on one of your slabs in the not too distant future, Mr. Martin?'

'Tucker Cole,' says Detective Terry with a sigh, trying to keep his anxieties assuaged.

'Yes, Tucker Cole. What about Tucker Cole?' goes miffed Martin.

Terry: 'You had him executed.'

'Sure, yes, I played my part in that thing in '58. I did my civil duty or whatever you'd call it. Am I to say sorry now? Is this because some lunatic thinks that we dished out some sort of injustice? Is it? So what if we did, you know? Huh? So what? What do I care? I run a small business, I have a family and I don't like to live in the past.'

Dreyer sips and stabs: 'Been visited by anybody related to that trial recently? Anyone you wouldn't have seen since that time?'

'No. Nobody,' snaps Martin.

Dick Terry: 'Haven't seen or felt anything unusual or threatening?'

'No, I haven't. All right? For Christ's sake.'

'You know, Detective, I'm not so sure I could give a fuck if this man lives or dies,' goes Dreyer.' Dreyer's behind Martin and Martin doesn't turn to him. 'Hilarious. Very droll,' says Martin to Dreyer. 'Very mature.'

Dick Terry sits down close to Thomas Martin. He says forcefully, after a moment's failure to get Thomas Martin to look at him at all, 'Mr. Martin, you served on a jury 10 years ago and 6 of the men that served on that jury with you – that's half of them - have been murdered by the same man in rapid-fire succession. Murdered! Think carefully on the lifeless faces that you see daily. Multiply each face by those left behind to mourn. Now, we cannot force you to be reasonable, whether you are or not doesn't matter truthfully because we will do what we must do to protect you regardless, but you must try to understand that this is your life in the balance. Your life and your death and this man will kill you and others if we do not stop him. He is very capable. This is no time to fuckin act childishly. I myself may be a target as I was Cole's arresting officer!'

Dick's not all that concerned for his own wellbeing, it's just a reliable manipulator remark to get the dam cracked. Thomas Martin squeezes his hands together into a ball. He opens and closes his eyes, breathing deeply and quickly to slow his heart.

'OK?' says Dick to him. 'You'll give us a break for your own sake?' Martin nods and says, with eyes to the table, 'OK.' Sometimes Dick sees why he's undeniably an urbanite cop at heart. Deep down, he ain't never gonna be a ranch hand.

Special Agent Dreyer mutely raises his mug to Detective Terry's efforts. Within 30 minutes they're done and dusted and they get nothing. Thomas Martin's taken home by 3 uniforms. They're ordered not to let Mr. & Mrs. Martin out of their sight. Dick Terry goes to write it up. Special Agent Dreyer attends an exclusive FBI operatives meeting chaired by Fonda.

*

Dick McShane's all over the city. In fact, he, Officer Soehner and Special Agent Bowman have taken 3 separate cars with extra officers along for the ride. They're rounding up the smaller individuals in the saga now: the Cole trial stenographers, bailiffs, court clerks, the Homicide Detective that indicted Cole and Cole's 1st appeals attorney, John McGregor, (Rudy and Layfield passed McGregor on when their Fairbanks/Mundane interviews ran over.) It seems like overkill to McShane, bringing in so many nobodies. Though it's still preferable to be out in the sunshine as opposed to being shacked up in a hot, stuffy building. He's got Rod Blakely shotgun. Dick's spent many a cold night with Rod on the job and things went down on some of those nights that he and Rod will take to their graves. Rod was donated by Team Brazee. (Rod calls him Mr. Breezy with boundless relish.) Everyone McShane, Soehner and Bowman search for is alive and everyone's accommodating. Everyone's heard of King Lear. Interviews are conducted in people's homes unless something fishy crops up. Homicide's getting too fat for thin slices. Outsiders like these bit players in the Cole debacle are granted one street cop stationed at their home and told to be vigilant until further notice.

*

Special Agent Brazee's left temple's feeling the pressure.

Fonda just asked him about Judge Mallard's whereabouts and Brazee replied that he's working on it and Fonda asked if Brazee maybe needed another agent to help him cope with his difficulties in locating the judge and Brazee, through gritted teeth, politely declined the offer.

'Why the fuck's nobody answering the phone?' shouts Brazee from Rod Blakely's desk. He's been calling Ireland long-distance to no avail.

Dick Terry walks by, notes Brazee's redhead and says, 'Who're you calling?'

Brazee's never seen Dick Terry in his life and goes, 'Dublin. Our embassy there.'

'Who you looking for?'

'The Judge.'

'Oh,' says Dick, paperwork in hand, and he glances at the wall clock and then his own watch to confirm. 'You know it's 2 o'clock.'

'So what?' 'Well, did you factor in the time difference?'

Brazee doesn't know what Terry's talking about. He looks up at the clock on the wall as if it's gonna give him answers. 2:02pm.

'Ireland's gotta be 4/5 hours ahead,' says Dick. Brazee's brain juggles, goes, 'You mean it's 6 or 7 over there?' Brazee's fists are well used, his passport is not.

Dick nods, 'You know, Greenwich meantime.' Brazee's blood boils. The embassy in Dublin's closed. Dick says without much hope, 'Could try a telegram.'

Dick Terry now returns to whatever he was doing and Brazee decides to try and send a telegram to the Butler Arms in Ireland. He attempted calling the hotel directly but the operator had no number listed. And it takes time for him to figure how to go about sending a telegram to Ireland. Anyway, by the time he figures it out, the local provincial Post Office in Waterville that doubles as the village telegram office is shut for the evening.

'Goddamn stupid lazy Irish fuckin bastards,' sums it up.

*

Officer Bustin's good. He's found Jason Waldo Strange. Strange is down in Florida. Deep background: he didn't make much green practicing private law and with a new wife and kid to think about and college loans not decreasing by 1962, Strange took up his father-in-law's timely invitation to try moving property.

Eventually, that enterprise ballooned and JW 86'd Lady Justice and her slipping blindfold. It's not something he's sorry about. He's very wealthy.

'It was complicated how?' says Rudy Ollis to Strange, long-distance. Layfield's on the extension line.

'No, the trial wasn't complicated. The trial was open and shut,' replies J W Strange.

Rudy: 'How so?'

Strange says, 'The legal profession's a very tightly-knit world, Detective, it's incestuous and nepotistic, egotistical and violently, uh, well – and egomaniacal sometimes. Competitive's what I mean. Every courtroom's an uncharted continent and every prosecutor or defender's a conquistador. Each victory is precious booty. One boring Negro case isn't going to set the world on fire outside the halls of justice. Within the halls, a conviction or a save can be a declaration of war to other attorneys. And many attorneys think of themselves as kings when they're, naturally, simply men and men already with power or with power in their sights see tests of their manhood around every corner. The highfalutin rhetoric they sell to people reaches for the same nebulous American sense of our history as conjured by Paul Bunyon or Davy Crockett.'

Rudy covers his mouthpiece and says to Layfield, making the yapping gesture with his free hand, 'No wonder he's in real estate.'

Layfield covers his own mouthpiece and responds with, 'Did I fall asleep and miss an answer to your question?'

Rudy laughs hard. Layfield smiles and says to Strange, 'You called Judge Mallard a disgrace at one point,' with transcripts at his fingertips.

Strange laughs a little, 'Yes, got a contempt citation for that. That was important.'

Rudy: 'How important?'

Strange: 'It certainly didn't help my sophomoric career. I stand by it though, even looking back.'

Layfield looks around for a donut, finds none: 'What made you say it?'

Strange hesitates, arranging, 'How do I say this? It was a fix. Plainly. Mallard had Tucker as the One in his mind from the start and of course, yes, maybe I was naïve and too arrogant to see – I mean, look, if I regret anything \- I did do my level best for the man; having said that, if, ah, I suppose if I were to - the one thing I really should've done was had Tucker take a plea. It would've saved his life. Well, it may have.'

Rudy Ollis sucks a hard sweet and goes, 'Did you advise him not to plead guilty?'

'That's not strictly how it went,' says Strange, 'it was more like – OK, I said to Tucker, I explained it to him, if he went to trial and was convicted – which was highly probable - he'd get death row and if he went with a guilty plea off the bat he'd get life and he didn't see the difference. And how can anyone blame the guy? My God, he was 19 or something like that. I was 25. I'd never fought for any man's life before and I saw him as a great challenge, I won't lie. I saw the neon lights heralding his miraculous acquittal thanks to me. But I did push at first for him to throw in the towel and he didn't want to, he was adamant; that was a young man's pride and fear of shame etc. and he believed in the system and all that came with it, and I think that I started to buy into it too. And, as I said, I was arrogant and thought well, shit, if he thinks he can get off then I'm the one to do it. Worlds collide kinda mentality. A ridiculous mentality. I should've grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and said that he was going to say that he was guilty and that was that. By the end of the thing, the case had long left me behind and I couldn't catch up with it and I probably allowed the idea of the trial being rigged cloud my own deepening sense of inadequacy. It was likely a combination of the two and that's being as candid as I can be. My overriding point is that Tucker hadn't a snowball's chance with the system or with me.'

Rudy says, 'Do you think anyone from that trial's capable of killing 6 jury members in cold blood?'

J W Strange laughs heartily this time and goes, 'I suggest you pick the brains of a more cerebral legal mind than my own, Detective, for that one. What's going on here is not nearly in my ballpark anymore.'

Safe side: one of Florida's finest's sent to take care of Mr. Strange. Jason Waldo Strange talks a lot and it's opinions and it's of little use and Rudy's frustrated. Layfield comments sincerely on the weight of the frustration that everyone's feeling. He asks Rudy what Rudy reckons about the notion floating around the place that Tucker Cole's brother is the one. Rudy's beginning to like that idea very much. It's plausible. It would mean an early night.

*

Nixon's The One – huge white banner, striking blue font, blue inset border - hangs above the shop front entrance. Flutters in the breeze. The sun's on the other side of South Indiana Avenue. Dwayne looks up at it from the sidewalk. He says to Groombridge beside him, 'You vote, Groombridge?'

Groombridge says, 'Sometimes.'

'You voting this time round?'

'Haven't decided. Are you?'

Dwayne's kept his eyes on the banner, 'Washing my hair all day,' turns to Groombridge, 'Now, howdya like that for bad luck?' Groombridge smiles and Dwayne starts for the door.

A skinny woman with three other skinny women exit and he holds the door for them. They have reams of campaign papers, posters, jacket pins and no pep. Dwayne enters with Groombridge and the joint's abuzz with activity. Volunteers from top to bottom, many young Republicans presumably, 99% white (no, 100%, she's going into the bathroom with a mop and bucket) and 50% good-looking. Dwayne's always thought Democrats are more attractive. He wants a scientist to do a study: what's the correlation between unattractiveness and stupidity? The only person he'd forgive for having rightwing sympathies is Raquel Welch.

He sneaked out while Agent Mulstein was in a meeting. He was gonna do this thing solo but came across Groombridge and thought Groombridge would benefit from time with a true blue. There are 10 desks in a mess banked in the center of the room. Each has a phone; each is manned by floaters. Nobody seems to be in charge. Two young men are trying to re-stick the limp corner of a poster of happy Tricky Dickie on the south wall. There's a curly-headed woman with big glasses wielding a clipboard. A cheery blonde with blue eyes and a serious overbite comes up to Dwayne and goes, 'Would you like a pin?'

Dwayne hooks a thumb to Groombridge and says to her, 'That's your man right there.' The blonde hops to Groombridge and Dwayne walks forward, taking in the scene. Groombridge says no to the blonde and she skips on, disappointed. Dwayne spies no better leads so he nabs the woman with the clipboard.

'Excuse me,' he says and she turns to see his badge, 'who's running this thing?' It's only now that he sees her handwritten, half-peeled nametag: Doreen.

'I am,' goes Doreen, late 40s with a sour face and a puckered mouth. Groombridge steps aside to let a gaggle of 12 chattering 20somethings weighed down with propaganda leaflets barge out in unison, organizing as they go who's going to travel in whose car and where they ought to meet up when the work's done.

'We're looking for someone,' says Dwayne to Doreen.

'Yes?' she hugs the clipboard to her frame for dear life, her back as straight as a principle.

'Patrick Caplan,' says Dwayne, retrieving a picture of Patrick pre-homeless. 'He may have a goatee now and is probably missing his 2 front teeth.'

Doreen takes the picture and examines it, tilting it, scrunching her nose. 'I don't recognize him. What's it about?' she says handing back the photo to Dwayne.

'You get many in here?'

'Hundreds,' she goes and he can see that she's not going to give up what she doesn't have to give up.

'You run this thing long?'

'Since its inception.'

'Which was when?'

'A month ago.'

'And the volunteers, they're generally pretty casual? By that I mean they are free to come and go.'

'It is the nature of voluntary work, Detective.'

Dwayne bites his lip: 'You have no records of who comes and goes.'

'We couldn't possibly.'

'Do you know many by name?'

'Not many. The regulars.'

'Do you have a list of those names? Of your regulars.'

'I'm very busy as you can see.'

'Yes, I can,' says Dwayne, turning it on, 'Dick's a shoe-in with people like you pulling for him. I just hope it's not déjà vu all over again in Illinois,' with a mock-frightened look. Doreen gives him an icy look.

She says, 'I'll have a list put together for you.'

'Thanks, doll.'

Doreen returns to them 15 fifteen minutes later. Dwayne and Groombridge stand and she says, 'Here you go,' giving a fresh sheet of paper to Dwayne and Dwayne looks it over quickly. 'That's 9 good people.'

Six of the nine names have phone numbers. Dwayne goes, 'Three numbers missing here,' pointing to it.

Doreen says, 'That's all I have.'

Dwayne says, 'Any around now, Doreen?'

She shakes her head. 'Everyone's out, doing their bit for change, Detective,' says Doreen, a joy, no doubt, for Mr. Doreen should such a misfortunate exist.

'Ain't we all?' Dwayne folds the page and slips it into his coat pocket.

*

Brian Canning became a cop to please his father. His father walked out on the family when Brian was 6. Brian Canning married to please his mother. He took bribes to please his buddies at the 9th. He had children to please his wife. He moved into an unaffordable house with a glassy lawn and picket fence and a sprinkler system that cost him his Johnny Walker money to please America. He got shot in the right elbow when he was 49. A kid from next door was fooling around with his old man's Smith & Wesson on a luminous Fall afternoon. It went off when Brian was mowing the lawn and the injury brought Brian early retirement. He didn't sue. The lad's Dad offered Brian some out-of-court cash instead. Brian Canning was grateful to the young lad. Brian Canning never rose above a beat cop; failed the detective's exam twice. He was a desk jockey and that was OK because getting out there meant having to do things he didn't want to. Brian Canning didn't thank god for a second bite at the cherry.

Instead, he said the hell with it and started drinking again. By that first night home from the hospital, he hadn't touched a drop of booze for nigh on a year – for her, for the children, for appearances - and he shouted at her, 'Use a watering can if you care so much about the goddamn grass!' He was tired of coming second to the yard. She'd put her foot down and he'd put his fist up. Their intentions met head-on. His coat got snagged in the slamming screen door on the way out; the nail he was supposed to sort out for weeks. She switched on the back porch light and that blew his receding marching shadow out of all proportion. The moths went crazy for an escape from the evening shade. She turned off the light again when he wasn't coming back and the neighbors turned theirs on and poked a nose for scraps. The moths knew no devotion.

So, move it along to Spring, 1960 – 2 years after he got shot, 2 years of six-nights-a-week barhopping; 2 years without getting laid, and 2 years of reprioritized discretionary expenditure leaning heavily towards his own devices. 2 months since the end of a 60-day stretch inside for continuous nonsupport: much strife.

Brian Canning was approached by a private detective in a seedy Chicago PD watering hole eastside. The PI shocked Brian; he'd said, 'Look, your wife thinks you're balling women every night but I been on your ass the past 3 weeks and I seen more skirt in the Men's Department at Macy's. I thought you should know that she's blowing some major green on this escapade, pal, and seein' as you're just a sorry stiff stuck in a hole like most of us, the guilt's eatin me and I ain't gonna do it no more. Pardon me but, in my opinion, your wife's a paranoid nut.'

Brian guffawed and said thanks a lot and bought the PI a drink. They talked through the night. Upon a musty sunrise, Brian knew all there was to know about private investigation. He decided to make a change. The guy said over and over: it ain't easy street, bud.

Brian said, 'If I remember this decision when I'm sober, I'm gonna stick to it!'

Today, neat script on the door: Brian Canning, Private Investigator.

Colin and Costas and Capozzola had to climb 2 flights of stairs beginning beside and curling up above a ladies' salon. The heat's something else and none of these agents of justice are much in the mood for mercy.

Colin knocks and goes, 'You in there, Canning?' Costas waits a second and then opens the door when there's no response. Canning's seated on a windowsill with his back to the open window. He's got his phone in his left hand and the receiver tucked under his chin, talking to someone. He's 59 and trim. He can't bend his right arm anymore as a consequence of the shooting. Life's been better to him in the latter half of the 1960s. He's got pictures of his 2nd wife and stepchildren on the desk. He gave his first wife the house. His daughter talks to him, his son doesn't. He's shed 100 lbs easy. He plays on an over 50s softball team. He wears tailored shirts. He hasn't had a drink on his own for 5 years. He could afford a girl but he's got his own detailed filing system. Brian's found his niche.

Brian lifts his chin; he's not taken aback by 3 big men bursting into his clean office. He smiles and goes, 'Gentlemen.'

'Hang up the phone,' goes Colin, master of the unceremonious. Last in Capozzola shuts the door behind him. Place is very tidy. Costas reads a hand-woven wall hanging: We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts, we make the world. Buddha. He rolls his eyes.

Another hippie.

Worse: a soft liberal of an age to know better. 'Okey-dokey,' goes Brian Canning to Colin's demand and he says, 'I'll call you back,' to the person on the other end of the line and hangs up serenely. He holds the phone simply, unmoving from the sill. 'Now, what can I do for you men?' he says to them with a welcoming shrug.

Costas flashes his badge: 'CPD,' and points to Capozzola, going, 'FBI. The name Candace Axworthy ring any bells?' Brian nods, starts to move to his desk.

He goes, cleanly, 'Yes.' He sets his phone on the desk slowly and takes a seat. 'I know her.'

Costas goes, 'Who's paying you to find Patrick Caplan?'

'And any of that's-between-me-and-my-client bullshit,' from Colin, 'and there'll be hell to pay.'

'OK, OK,' says Brian Canning with a giggle, his hands raised in mock surrender, 'I get the picture.'

'And where does your uncle live?' Canning had said to Dustin Bentley. Dustin stuttered, 'I don't know exactly.'

'He sat in that very chair,' says Canning, pointing to the empty chair across from him.

'Do you have a last known address?' said Canning, taking notes.

'88 Maxwell,' said Dustin, looking at a scrap of paper.

Canning to Costas: 'He was scrawny. White. Late 20s. A serious pothead. Maybe heroin. Dressed that way to me, at least. My eldest boy's got a drug problem. I thought the guy was kidding really, like he was dared into doing it.'

Canning put his pen down and leaned back. His eyes roamed over Dustin and Dustin Bentley got nervy, looking around. Canning said to him, 'What's this about, in reality, Mr. Bentley?'

Costas: 'He gave up his real name?' Canning nods.

'I just need to find him, man,' said Dustin. 'I've got money for you. Upfront greens.'

'And he practically rammed this big envelope down my throat,' recounts Brian Canning with the same surprised laugh he gave to Dustin Bentley that day. 'I counted it.

'300 bucks upfront?' I said.'

Dustin spurted, legs a-goin', 'Sure, Pops, ain't that enough gravy for you to run a check or something?'

Capozzola says to Canning: 'And I bet you didn't ask where an asshole like that got his hands on that kind of money, did you?'

Canning – unperturbed - to Capozzola: 'No, now, we're not all of a certain type. I pressed the boy.'

'Who's paying you?' And Dustin got upset and went, 'Fuck, man, can't you just look for this cat, huh? And get back to me. That's what you do, right?'

'Who recommended me to you?'

'Jesus, what's with all the fuckin questions, man?!'

'That's what I do, right?'

Costas says, 'What sort of arrangement did you come to?'

Canning goes, 'I was told that he would contact me and it wouldn't be the other way around and that money was not an object to this man, whomever he is, that wants Patrick Caplan badly.'

Colin says, 'Did you dig up much on him?'

Canning goes, with a shrug, with a so-so face, 'You spoken with the girl out in California?' Costas says yes and Canning says that that's where the trail ended for him too. 'Caplan could be anywhere,' continues the PI, 'In my experience, there can be a thin line between a man whistling down the street and a man whistling off a bridge.'

Capozzola goes, 'You got a number for this Dustin Bentley?'

Canning rises with a shake of the head, moves to his nearby filing cabinet. Says, 'No, but I made a call, out of interest more than anything,' – looking through his alphabetized files – 'to an old cohort of mine still in circulation and he came back with' – finds what he wants, opens it – 'with some, ah, information on Bentley. I thought he'd likely have a sheet.'

Costas and Colin are impressed. Canning saves them a trip down a fork in the road. Canning tilts the file to the light coming in the window and surmises, 'Bentley's on parole for minor drugs offences, paperhanging, burglary. Living at a place on Roosevelt according to this,' offering the shut file to Colin, saying, 'PO's name and everything's in there.'

Colin takes it, opens it and goes, 'When'd he come to you?' Canning says that it must've been 5 or 6 weeks ago. And Costas says to Canning, 'And you haven't seen Bentley since?'

'Neither a hide nor a hair,' says Canning, loosening his belt a further hole, 'but the money's still coming. Last Wednesday. Slips it under the door there.'

Costas goes, 'You got one of the envelopes?'

'Sure,' says the PI, and he pulls an empty one out of his B section. Gives it to Colin and shows it to Costas. It's just got FAO: Mr. Brian Canning typewritten on it. Colin folds and pockets it.

Costas says, 'I'm gonna use your phone,' to Canning and he picks up the receiver as Canning says, 'By all means.' Costas has Colin call out Bentley's PO's number and Costas talks to the guy briefly.

The PO says that Bentley's about as low as you can get, lost 3 jobs in a month and he's not been checking in and hasn't been home both times that the PO's called on him. Dumb fuck only had to walk the line 6 months and he was free. There's a warrant out for his arrest since Monday.

'This about the King Lear jury deal? Caplan your suspect or your next victim?' goes canny Canning, eyes sparkling.

'Where'd you get that baloney?' says Colin, covering up.

'Chicago's a small town in many respects,' winks Brian Canning.

They're thundering down the stairs and into their car. Who is Dustin Bentley and where the hell is he?

Colin says, popping gum into his mouth, 'I fuckin hate it when it's riding on a junkie.'

*

It's pandemonium to her untrained eye.

The street's quiet – newshounds lounge about waiting, 4 squad cars parked out on the street to bulk up the perimeter - push the door into the stationhouse and a noise bomb goes off.

She shrinks. She asks someone at the desk if she can see Costas George and he asks who she is - it's family only because of the ruckus – and she says that she's his sister-in-law and the uniform says upstairs someplace, that's the best he can do.

Myra George mounts the stairs, regretting ever coming down here. She steels her steps for her husband. She knows Theo would lose the plot if he knew she was here.

It's no better on the 1st floor. It's labyrinthine, except that, making matters worse, the maze is persistently moving. She feels very short and thin – everyone seems too big and broad. They seem to embody her quintessential truck driver or lumberjack image. She wants to shelter her body from the bodies. She turns to go back down, to get away, and, to her amazement, it would appear that someone's shifted the stairway.

'You look lost, Miss,' says Dick McShane, disrupting his return trip from the toilet to an important interview because he noticed that Myra George's got a second-to-none cleavage and an open-neck chiffon blouse.

'Yes,' she says, 'Are you a policeman?'

'I am,' he says, thieving a glance here and there.

'Do you know Detective Costas George?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Is he here right now?'

'No. No, he's out right now. Can I, ah, help you?'

'Would you know how long he will be?'

McShane shrugs, wondering what it's like in the Playboy mansion, 'Could be anytime really.'

'Can I wait for him?'

'Sure. Oh sure you can. Would you like a cup of anything?'

Special Agent Bowman sticks his head out of a room down the hall and bellows, 'McShane!'

'No,' says Myra and McShane starts towards Bowman. Bowman's gone back inside the room. 'OK, well, if you need anything at all, my name's McShane.'

'Thank you,' Myra comes and he manfully goes about his business.

Myra wanders, deciding to wait 10 minutes, 15 maximum, for Costas. She stumbles across a little dark room with a film projector in it. It's playing movies of some kind. She figures this is as good a way to pass the time as any. Nobody stops her. The cop in there asks who she is and she says she's Costas George's sister-in-law, she's waiting for him. He doffs his cap and wishes the room were brighter. Myra lights a cigarette and watches a stranger's birthday party.

*

Steamy gathering. Chicago people exclusively. Zero Feds. Rudy Ollis is the last into Infante's office. He just said goodbye to ADA Fairbanks and DA Mundane. They've got extra protection as mandated. Infante's standing behind his desk.

Everyone's in there, starting from Infante's left: Dick McShane, Costas George, Colin O'Meara, Rudy Ollis, Dick Terry, Mike Morella & Dwayne Clooney. Turbo hurricane.

'Alright gentlemen, I've had snippets from Quantico, now I wanna hear it from Chicago,' goes Casimir, sipping his Ovaltine, plopping painkillers for the ride. His bald patch's shiny. He's tired and his tie's gone – unheard-of for the Sergeant.

Morella opens his mouth and Costas begins, 'Sir, we started in search of 6 men and have found that 3 are dead. We have retrieved 2 of the remaining 3.'

Infante goes, 'Who found who?'

Morella goes, expecting to be addressed directly, 'I'm primary.'

Infante repeats, shooting Morella down, 'Who found who?'

Colin keeps the laughter tied down. Morella wants Renne. Renne'd show 'em who's boss.

Dick Terry puts a hand in the air from inside his pocket and when he's got Infante's attention, he slides it back in, going, 'I got one, sir. Thomas Martin.'

'Opinion on Martin, Detective?' says Infante. 'Opinion is that he's got nothing to offer,' pointing to his own write-up on Martin on Infante's desk.

'And you instructed him not to talk to the media?'

'Yes. Absolutely. '

'OK, and, uh, O'Meara, you got the other one?' says Casimir, trying to find a page in a stack of messy pages.

'Yup, we did. Down at the track.'

'And what of him?' says Infante.

'Nothing either.'

'OK,' goes Infante with a sigh, a lifetime of sighing in a week, searching still for something on his desk, 'this Fonda character, he takes bites out of everyone and everything.'

Costas says, 'As for the \--'

'Hold on a second, George,' goes Infante, ringleader, having rings run round him, 'Ollis, what about the District Attorney?'

Rudy's on the ball, 'Fairbanks is only guilty of being a nancy boy and Mundane lives up to the name,' and the room rolls with laughter.

'Thank you for that analysis, Detective,' goes Infante, giving up looking for whatever he's looking for. He rubs his forehead. He goes, 'Anyone else before I go to George again?'

Morella opens his mouth and Dick McShane clears his throat, beginning to say, 'Well, we've checked with the more trivial players – stenographers, bailiffs, Cole's attorneys and the like. I think you would say that we got bubkiss from them, Sarge. They knew about as much as a newborn's smacked ass,' finishes McShane, a comment which heralds a few more laughs from the men.

Casimir's not laughing and says, 'Stop wisecracking! We're not at the picturehouse, gentlemen. Time is our enemy. The Judge, George. Mallard. Where is he?'

Costas goes, 'He's unaccounted for so far. My understanding from a brief discussion with Agent Brazee is that Judge Mallard's in Ireland and cannot be contacted directly.'

Morella butts in, 'Hey, they said I'm primary. I should be the one talking.'

Casimir slowly turns to Morella, giving it all the Infante pragmatic oomph when he says, 'You work alone now, Detective, do you? You think you are crowning yourself in glory today with this behavior?'

Slowly Casimir drags his eyes away from scolded Morella back to Costas and goes, about Mallard, 'And why can't he be contacted indirectly?'

Colin O'Meara makes a mental note to buy Casimir Infante a Cadillac whenever the opportunity might present itself. That shit between him and Casimir a few hours back's water under the bridge as far as Colin's concerned. Passion overcomes men in their moments. They've butted heads before. In the end, Msrs. Infante and O'Meara know that they're on the same road, maybe just facing opposite directions at times and a man looking down the road in the direction that you're not looking is sometimes in the optimum position to watch your back. Chalk it up to experience.

'Something to do with the time zones in Europe,' says Costas in response to Casimir's question. 'Well, that's not what I want to hear. Get on it. Find him. Did Brazee get pictures of Mallard to Ireland?'

Costas: 'I don't know. He tried sending a telegram.'

Casimir Infante rolls his eyes to Heaven and goes, 'Why me, Lord?' and then, 'Your juror, George, he's the last one missing, yes?'

Costas says yes and explains Patrick Caplan's background, goes into the fresh Dustin Bentley thing, how he and Capozzola and Colin went to Bentley's supposed abode and found nada. They've got CIs combing.

'You have all seen this film of the man?' Infante asks the room and the room says yes. Dwayne takes the mic at Costas' request and says that his visit to Nixonville on South Indiana proved fruitless, even after returning for the volunteers' meeting. Dwayne concludes, 'I spoke to a lot of people in there. The name and face registered zero.'

'A false lead, would you say?' goes Infante.

Dwayne shrugs, 'Maybe Caplan's ex misheard him but I don't see why she'd lie to us about it. People down there know we're on the lookout for him.'

Infante says, sitting with a creak in his voice, 'So we're down a judge and a juror and what about this Negro you've got in stir, Morella? Fonda, he smiles at the thought, I think, no?'

Mike smiles too. Mike's waited and he's proud to be the one to be unleashing the best news. He goes, 'I think that Tucker Cole's brother is our number one suspect.'

'What are you basing that on?' says Infante. Everyone in here's heard the conjecture. Infante's spoken to the FBI about it. Colin wants to have Mike Morella banished on the grounds that he's nothing but a goddamn spy for the Feds.

'Didn't Agent Fonda tell you?' asks Mike.

'I want your opinion,' says Infante. Mike's slow, takes a step forward like he's about to recite something, hands behind back and lists the bases: Jesse's underprivileged, delinquent childhood; his communist ties, his political radicalism, his various previous arrests, his familiarity with guns, the anger over his failed marriage, his typical Negro feelings of disinheritance and oppression; and the nail, to Mike's mind, in the coffin: missing his brother Tucker's execution because of a filing mistake.

Mike says, 'He's out to get revenge on Uncle Sam. He wants to punish the system that he believes has ruined his life. He had opportunity and motive and he's not got one alibi for the six murders.'

'What was he like in the interview?' queries Costas. Unnamed parties in this room side with Mike Morella. His points all sound completely plausible and logical.

'Oh he hasn't been interviewed yet,' replies Mike, no problem.

Costas is surprised: 'I thought you had.'

Morella: 'No. We've spent the time researching him first.'

'Opportunity and motive I buy, with a leap. But how do you know he's got no alibis without talking to him?' goes Costas.

Mike wobbles a smile, aware of the room tightening, 'That is to say that we haven't found any yet and – we're confident that we won't.'

Colin wrinkles his brow and goes, 'I get opportunity too insofar as the guy lives in Chicago. But King Lear knows his victims, they let him into their homes, how'd you explain that with a Negro?' Colin still likes his uniform-wearing hypothesis so far. Maybe the killer posed as a door-to-door salesman. Colin can't prove he's right but nobody's disproved it either. Unnamed parties in this room refuse to side with Mike Morella. He's a racist, a toady, feathering his own nest, no musketeer when the chips are down.

Mike says to Colin, total stab in the dark, 'You think an unstable Negro on your doorstep with a .38 in your face ain't suddenly everyone's best friend?' That's a point that gives the room pause and Dick McShane has no opinion on Morella either way in spite of what's gone on so he goes, 'That's not impossible.' Mike's bought himself some rope.

Infante's phone rings and he answers it. Costas says to Mike, 'Maybe I could observe that interview if you and Agent Fonda don't mind,' suddenly staring Mike Morella down and Morella's least likely to balk in a room full of men like this at a time like this.

Mike says, 'That's no problem.'

Dwayne Clooney puffs smoke, pipes up with, 'It sounds kinda weak without witnesses and ballistics. Circumstantial.'

Mike opens his mouth to rebut and Infante hangs up the phone, interrupting with, 'George, you gotta go get that medal.'

Colin says, in disbelief, 'Now?'

'That was Darling,' says Casimir. 'They're waiting.'

A few guys check their watches including Costas and Costas goes, 'Sergeant, I wanted to --' Infante holds up his hands, 'Morella, when're you doing this dance with Cole?'

Morella says, 'Now, sir. Five minutes.'

Infante says, 'OK George, you gotta miss it. Grab someone to drive you. Ears, gentlemen, open them,' and Infante steadies himself to be sure that he meets every man's eye as he speaks, 'I want this Bentley nebbish brought in, get his name out there. Make sure every cop in this town knows who he is. I want you to make him the most famous addict in Chicago. Go.'

Unnamed parties in the room want to side with Mike Morella. A Negro avenger in these fucked-up days makes perfect sense. On the other hand, Morella's lack of natural aptitude does not promote confidence in his deductions.

Costas is frozen. He doesn't want to go to a stupid fuckin commemoration so that Upstairs can look competent. Costas almost says but I don't wanna go.

What about that boy I thrashed?

Colin to Infante: 'What about an APB on Caplan? Take it to the networks, the papers?' Infante starts for the exit and says to Colin, 'Maybe. That's not my call,' and he brushes past Costas, saying, 'You still here, George?'

*

Jejune: juvenile, immature, childish.

Taylor struts her stuff: black and white hound's-tooth jacket, matching leather handbag, matching striped 3inch heels, swaying chessboard skirt, bulky shades, hair like Superman: up, up and away; the red necklace gives the only touch of striking color and it draws the viewer to her beaming décolletage. So many working girls give the game away with their shoddy efforts at dress. In her vanity mirror, Taylor makes a point of being fantastical to give the pretenses credibility: she's Audrey Hepburn reworked. She's Ava Gardner's sexier sister, she's the woman that tempted Bogie from Bacall, it's rumored that Steve McQueen's asked to star with her in his next picture. She gets jealous, abusive calls at all hours from Natalie Wood.

She takes the elevator.

Daydreaming: Oh, but Mr. McQueen, ain't you a married man?

First floor: You're so beautiful, Taylor, so elegant and witty. I must have you.

Second floor: Steve, now, please! I am a lady! Will you not take me to dinner first?

Getting out: I cannot bear the wait to hold your luscious writhing body beneath mine!

It helps a lot to grease the wheels when the guy she's looking up at is a blubbery, hairy oaf. She knocks and Theo opens.

Jejune: juvenile, immature, childish.

He looks awful and she says as much when he closes the door. He's gaunt and hasn't showered or shaved for 2 days. The TV's off and he offers her a drink without saying hello or thanks for coming at such short notice. She slips out of her heels and likes the carpet. He crumples to the edge of his bed and she starts pouring. Smells like he's been drinking since dawn.

Ava, there is no need for you to be like that. You are just as pretty.

She sips, not sure yet if she feels for the guy or not. He looks like he's been crying or about to let a load flow. She puts down her glass and takes off her jacket. It's warm in here.

Taylor peeks out through the long curtains and says, 'Why the long face, Daddy?'

'My life's a fuckin disaster,' Theo says, leaving his eyes on the floor. He's barefoot, long toenails. She whines an empathetic sadness, seeing money on the cabinet by the TV, unzipping the back of her dress and letting it hang at the midriff to free her arms, 'That for me?' He glances at the cash that she's already got in her hands and nods softly. She snuggles it into her purse without delay and says, 'Wanna get it off your chest?' stepping out of the dress. She's wearing apricot silk panties and a matching negligee. Takes her drink and sits down by Theo and slides her vacant hand to his thigh, moving it back and forth from inner to outer.

Jejune: juvenile, immature, childish.

He's been thinking about quitting the Tribune. Theo can't handle the indignity of working bottom-rung soft news again. He spent so many years hating it. Fuck Jim Underwood and his jejune. Like he's some sorta fuckin saint. Myra said that she was worried for Theo. She told him to go for a walk, that always helps her and he'd said that it didn't help him and he just needed space and she said that she understood but she still wouldn't leave him be, all (s)mothering anxiety and driving him insane with her campaign trail promises: darkest hour before dawn, this too shall pass, when God shuts a door He opens a window.

Costas is getting a fuckin medal from the city this afternoon – Well done, Detective. You're a credit to your calling \- smiles, handshakes, compliments, bullshit.

Theo's hitting dire straits. Yet another pat on the back for Big Brother while baby Theo's lone voice is left echoing. Theo needs to get laid. Period. And Myra's on her period. He went shopping, picked up a couple things they didn't need and he kept avoiding, but constantly finding, this smoking hot chick doing her thing. She didn't know he was alive. Everything she bought was on the lowest shelf. For fuck sake. She was 21 with a body intrinsically tailored to his penchants. Those sirens wailed. Theo spirited to the nearest payphone. When Taylor walked in he wanted to walk out. He's never been unfaithful.

He falls slowly to sitting on the floor off the bed. If Myra could see him now she'd lose the plot! Sweetest Myra.

Jejune: juvenile, immature, childish.

'I'm so ashamed,' he says and Taylor allows her foot to rest on his shoulder. He's quiet for a while and takes her foot in his hand admiringly, complimenting her on it. She says thank you and he declares that he thinks that this was a bad idea. Taylor's used to talking men off this particular ledge. Maybe 3 in 10 jobs end with payment for conversation only.

'That fuckin brother of mine,' he says and Theo suddenly stands up. Pushes his way in between her legs. Taylor puts down her drink and begins undoing his belt with a knowing smirk. He doesn't stop her. Theo's spent long enough drowning in self-loathing and where's it getting him? The blame and the solution lie elsewhere and the first port of call in redirecting his anger comes quickly. Theo says that he's sick of his brother's need to dominate his life, to overshadow him, to prove his worth at the expense of Theo. He's getting melodramatic in his stupor. Since we were boys! Someday he'll get Costas back for this.

'Some day, I'll outshine him,' and the words actually breathe life into his lagging determination. With a sensuous woman here to help confirm to Theo that he is still a man, first and foremost – one entitled to respect, Theo's need for release hits DefCon1. She wasn't sure if Theo could make it but his stunning hatred's put a 5inch-railroad spike in her hand. He shoves her back onto her back forcefully. He's a little dangerous now and Taylor kinda likes that if offered a preference. She unhooks her bra.

'What can I do for you, baby?' she purrs, pulling his pants down and cupping his balls, as if answering her own question, and he goes, on all 4s above her on the bed, so very grandly, 'Is this my destiny?'

Jejune: juvenile, immature, childish.

'Oh,' she chuckles like only the most natural stress reliever could, fingers on his belly inside the undershirt, 'You gotta start slow with me, honey.'

He shuts his eyes. The pleasure's digging trenches. Theo grunts and says, 'Do I really have no control?'

Taylor's no philosopher or shrink. She learned a long time ago that mosta the shit you want's just outta reach. She stares up at Theo. The answer to everything's on the tip of her tongue.

Meantime

Chicago Homicide

Infante gets comfortable.

Agents Katschmar, Bowman and Capozzola stand in the observation room with him. They study Jesse Cole through the glass. Cole sits staring into space. Nobody says anything. Infante's got an empty chair beside him. Infante would say that Cole's troubled, capable of outstanding violence. He looks like a beaten man, a coiled snake.

Cole's elbows rest on the table and his head is hunched. He's lean and muscular and he flexes his right hand sometimes. That move makes Infante think of boxers he's seen. He can't see Cole's eyes and Cole's breathing's very shallow and calm. He could spring on Fonda and kill him. Let's see what happens.

Wisconsin State's Attorney Dominic Pounder is aware of what's going on here. He'll drop everything and come running if Cole proves worthy of further scrutiny. As will one of the US Attorney's office deputies. Given DA Abraham Mundane's compromised position in the case, his input does not come into the equation. He bears no grudge.

Fonda enters the Box with Morella in tow with the door squeaking on opening and closing. The Special Agent wordlessly sits himself down across from Jesse Cole. Cole's not flickered any recognition. Mike Morella stays back in the bleachers. This is the hottest interrogation room in the building. It gets no air. It leans hard on a guilty man.

Fonda's got a dossier. He starts the reels rolling. He introduces himself and Morella and gives the time and date and name of the interviewee. Earlier, Casimir Infante gave Fonda the suspected King Lear letter that Theo was sent. Fonda slides that across the table now to Jesse Cole.

Fonda: 'Have you ever seen this before?' Cole says nothing. He's a solid block. Infante sees a child holding it together inside Cole. He wants Cole to grow up. If Cole doesn't answer these questions, Infante's gonna have lingering doubts about Jesse's innocence and he fuckin hates lingering doubts because some of them stay to the grave.

Fonda waits and goes, 'This is just a conversation, Mr. Cole. Have you ever seen this note before?' Cole says nothing. Infante shifts. Fonda nods to Morella and Morella moves to uncuff Cole. Jesse doesn't stop anything. He doesn't help. Fonda hits the stop button on the recording. These are techniques to seduce. Morella returns to his corner. Jesse plants himself back into the same posture. He's got a plush gash over his eye. Fonda's cool. Infante's waiting for Fonda to explode.

Casimir had family fight at Ypres and the Somme. He imagines those WWI tunnel rats laying dynamite under Fonda's skin. Fonda pulls the letter back into his folder. He leans back, crosses his legs and says to Jesse, clearly, 'Have you ever been to New Orleans?' Nothing.

'Were you there on the night of August 12th last?' Nothing.

'What about Milwaukee? Ever been there?' Nothing. Fonda's waiting. Infante's heart's beginning to burn with pace. The more unmoving Cole remains, the more loaded the spring's becoming. Infante's chewing on his lip. He's got a sweating brow.

'Ever fire a weapon?' says Fonda, uncrossing his legs. Nothing.

Fonda goes, 'Do you hate me? Do you miss your brother?' Now that one's a firecracker. Infante's sure Cole's gonna fly. He doesn't. Casimir's clenched fist wants Jesse Cole to show some goddamn life!

'You don't miss your dead brother? Wow, and I was told you kids were tight,' says Fonda. Cole flexes his right hand. Everyone sees him do it.

'Are you angry with America, Mr. Cole? You feel shortchanged maybe? Are you thinking, What was the use of all that marching and protesting and We Shall Overcome crap when it didn't save my brother?' Cole does nothing. It's a remarkable sight. Infante's wrestling with fury and admiration.

Fonda to Morella: 'Detective, would you like to ask a question?' Morella's not expecting that. He goes to Jesse, after a beat in the silence, 'Were you ever in prison for armed robbery, Mr. Cole?' Everyone stares at Cole. Jesse's mute.

Morella says, 'Mr. Cole, we're trying to establish facts. It is in your best interest to answer these questions to the best of your abilities.' Fonda starts drumming the table with his fingers. Cole must feel the eyes on him.

'Where were you on Thursday 22nd of August?' says Morella. 'Is there anybody who can corroborate your whereabouts on any of these dates,' – consulting the file in hand – 'Sunday August 18th or Sunday August 25th of this year?' Nothing.

Fonda says, 'Ever met a man named Grady Birch? Or Franklin Fox?' Nothing.

There's something here, in this moment, for Infante, a pinch. It's kinda like they're asking things for the sake of it, so that they can say, if asked, that they were unequivocally thorough and professional. Nobody by now surely, given Cole's display, can realistically expect Cole to just up and confess.

Suddenly Cole's to his feet and the speed of it throws Morella back and Fonda's to his feet. They keep their distance. Jesse Cole starts throwing punches, smart jabs and big hooks and juddering haymakers. He's light on his feet, consciously carefree with his guard, giving loud nasal exhalations when landing a punch to the air. He's sparring.

He's dancing and quoting Ali: 'Cole comes out to meet Liston and Liston starts to retreat,' bouncing on the spot, arms raised in triumph, encroaching a little on the cops – no harm - and then falling back, fists in and out all the while, 'If Liston goes back an inch farther he'll end up in a ringside seat. Cole swings with a left,' – and he does, 'Cole swings with a right,' - and he does, 'Just look at young Jesse carry the fight. Liston keeps backing but there's not enough room; it's a matter of time until Cole lowers the boom.'

Fonda grins and leaves the room. Mike Morella's quick to do likewise. Jesse Cole's not stopping, in a world of his own, 'Then Cole lands with a right, what a beautiful swing, and the punch raises the Bear clear out of the ring.'

Capozzola and Bowman follow Fonda. Infante's glued to Cole. Jesse's unstoppable, a mad flurry of short punches, going, 'Liston still rising and the ref wears a frown,' - pointing to the sky - 'But he can't start counting until Sonny comes down. The crowd did not dream, when they laid down their money, that they would see a total eclipse of Sonny.'

Katschmar leaves the room. Jesse slows his breathing, sits down again, his manic episode over. It's like nothing happened. Jesse and Casimir are alone.

Jesse whispers, 'I shook up the world.' Infante opens the observation room door. Where's Fonda?

Dwayne Clooney from a distance sees Infante flushed. Rudy Ollis, on his way out, sees Infante too. Fonda's in Casimir's office on the phone.

Casimir dashes in and says to him, 'What are you going to do?' Capozzola and Bowman and Katschmar circle Fonda. No cauldron?

Fonda makes Infante wait and coolly wraps up his chat with a Yes, sir, and hangs up. He says to Casimir, like Casimir's a child who will never grasp it, 'We're gonna get the right people down here, we're gonna read Cole his rights, bring in an attorney, have Morella interview him again on the record and then, with any luck, Morella's gonna charge Jesse Cole with 6 counts of first degree murder and 1 count in the 2nd degree.'

Infante's shocked, 'On that performance? You don't have anything. Not to mention he's not competent!'

FBI eyes hit Infante like a half dozen Tommy guns. 'Better men have met their maker for less, Sergeant. And you don't think that mental instability shouldn't be on our list of this perp's prerequisites? Please have Detective Morella come in here,' says Fonda. 'It's unfortunate that you do not agree with this course of action. You can have your say when the time comes.'

Something new here: Casimir Infante's regretting one or two things.

Meantime

City Hall

Captain Buzz Renne and Superintendent Ralph Darling are on hot coals. Darling's drunk a gallon of water. He keeps asking Renne if the buttoned top button of his shirt's making his neck look fat. Renne's patient with Darling. Renne's own uniform hat's a size too small. He doesn't ask the Superintendent if his head looks fat. Renne's 8-year-old daughter told him he had a fat head yesterday and that's lasting.

Someone suggested taking the ceremony outside given the fine weather. First thing Darling thought was that he's gonna be sweating on camera.

'Whaddya say, Superintendent?' Oh Darling lays on a pearly one, 'Let's do it!'

The podium's out at City Hall's entrance. TV, radio and paper people shift about. Boss Daley's late. Costas George's 10 minutes out. There are 7 men being honored today. There's a small band of grouchy timewasters chanting anti-authority slogans and waving placards below them on the main sidewalk. A wall of cops keeps them at a reasonable enough distance to mostly stump their disruptive intentions.

'This is positive,' says Darling to Renne on the steps. Translate: This will buy us some time.

Senator Daniel Walker's report's been commissioned and the investigation will be launched shortly. The CPD are gonna be under severe scrutiny from him vis-à-vis the riots. Darling's not looking forward to it. Things could get hairy. Daley's promised that any criticisms of the police will be solely on paper. He'll push his weight around to keep names out of the published document. Squeezable Walker's beholden to someone at the end of the day too. Daley's not gonna slap any wrists. There will be no sanctions. Daley says that CPD did its city proud. He's not gonna allow good men hang for patriotic bravery. Lefty's shortsighted revisionism can rot in hell.

The ceremony goes off without a hitch. Daley says a few predictable words about pride and bravery and American ideals and nobody claps when he's done. Then Darling speaks at length about bravery and pride and the founding fathers and people are checking if their watches have stopped. Uniformed men are given medals and their hands are pumped. Daley says a few pleasantries to each individual about patriotism and pride as he makes his way right to left and Costas nods where appropriate. Group and single photographs are taken. Costas is sidled into a sandwich between rotund Renne and sweaty Darling. The shutterbugs eat up the broken arm.

Isn't receiving this medal bittersweet given the trauma you've been through?

Costas makes sure to keep his replies monosyllabic. Winston comes up: Do you believe heroism's hereditary? Costas could throw up. The heat of the day's attacking. His arm's acting up. He makes no comments when asked about King Lear. The papers' sweet tooth goes gaga for father/son's individual fighting-and-dying-for-freedom story conglomeration: Has your opinion of US involvement in Vietnam changed since your son's death?

Costas doesn't pay attention to the hippies below. His stomach's a nauseous, oddly welcome distraction. It's done in a half-hour. Costas gets back into the car he arrived in around the corner and half a block down from City Hall. The press peters out. He breathes and loosens his tie. His driver's Officer Vess. Vess, sitting beside him, says, 'Congratulations again, Detective,' and Costas smiles without knowing what to say. He's never known how to take praise. He downs a pill. Can't remember if it's time for the blue or the green.

9pm

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

Costas slaps Colin's hood twice and Colin reverses out of the George driveway, headlight streams bobbling. Costas is bone weary.

The house looks peaceful. Kitchen light's the only one on. He walks through to the light. All he wants now is a nice meal, a cold drink, a kiss from his wife and his eiderdown.

Myra's sitting at the dining table with Emily. Both hug mugs.

Emily rises to her feet and goes to Costas, 'Hi honey.'

Myra looks at Costas like she's a stray puppy. Hell, he'll cut his losses: the drink, the kiss and the eiderdown will be fine. Emily takes his jacket, kisses him (one down) and says that there's pork in the oven. Myra fiddles with her wedding band and gives a lifeless hello. She's scarcely dressed; always one to flaunt it, a white T-shirt with a big red heart on the front, denim shorts and moccasins. Costas sees that she's been weeping. This means emotional complications. Theo's done something stupid.

OK, I got the kiss. I'll skip the drink. That's no problem. Bed it is.

'Nice to see you, Myra,' Costas goes and then to Emily, hand about her waist, 'I'm not hungry.' I want a drink so badly. You'll live without it!

'Are you sure?' Emily says to him. Costas starts shuffling towards the stairs and says, 'Yeah.'

'Hard day at the office, Costas?' asks Myra.

Costas doesn't stop to chat and comes back with, 'Yeah.'

Emily looks to Myra and says to Costas, 'Honey, are you going to bed?'

Keep moving.

Costas: 'It's been a real long day. Shalom, ladies.' He gets a foot onto the bottom step and a hand on the banister when Emily catches his forearm softly. Myra's out of earshot. He says, without looking at Emily, 'I need to lie down. My arm.'

She says, 'I know and I'm sorry. Did you guys get any further? A lot of people are saying that you've got him.'

Costas doesn't want to discuss it.

*

After Costas' medal ceremony earlier: Things were cooled down in Homicide. It wasn't so bunched. Casimir Infante was staring quietly out his window: usually a bad sign.

Casimir went, 'This has been the longest day of my life.' Costas searched for Feds. Place was clean and he said to Infante, 'What about Cole? Where is he?' Infante was slow to talk. It was a chore, the last thing he wanted to do.

Casimir: 'Interview's done. Doing a polygraph,' with a flick of the finger to a room somewhere, 'State's Attorney Pounder made the suggestion.'

Colin was in there with Costas and went, 'He's here?'

Casimir nodded, yawned and went, 'Mundane's compromised as a prosecutor. Singletary showed up.'

'The fuck's Singletary?' asked Colin.

'Singletary's an Illinois assistant state's attorney,' replied Casimir. He was looking outside this whole time. 'US Attorney deputy's on his way.'

Costas went to Infante, 'What did Cole say in the interview?'

Casimir said, 'Not word one.'

Colin: 'Has he been read his rights?'

Casimir nodded, 'They'll charge him with it, is my understanding.'

Costas went, 'Who's Cole's lawyer? PD's office?'

'No public defender,' said Casimir, 'It's Clive Potts of Paterniti, Krauss, Ober and Potts. His card's on the desk.'

Colin said, 'They sound like heavy-hitters,' picking up the lawyer's card and feeling the embossed script with his thumb.

Casimir shifted, stretched, said, 'Jesse Cole's a publicity hound's Holy Grail. Never did I see a hundred-dollar-shirt-man like Potts so happy working for free.'

Casimir went to Costas, reaching for his jacket, 'I think I'm going home. I would like to watch the sunset from my backyard with my grandson.'

He passed Colin and Costas. Costas could practically hear the creaking joints and Casimir said, 'Shalom, boys.'

*

'Congratulations on the medal by the way,' comes Myra in the background. Costas isn't moved by that.

'It's important you hear her out,' Emily says at the foot of the stairs tonight.

Costas goes, 'I want no drama, Emily.'

'Five minutes. I promise you.' Costas relents with tremendous strain and sits down at the table. Emily takes back her seat and Myra's eyes are on the sugar bowl.

Emily's serious and goes to Myra, 'It's OK.' Myra takes her time and Costas yawns. Emily nudges his shin with her toe in disgust and he shrugs: I can't be tired in my own home?

Myra says, 'Theo thinks Em and I went to the movies. He'd send me to the moon if he knew I was here.'

Costas says to Emily, 'I think I'll have that pork.'

Emily hops to it. Myra delays. Costas wants her to get on with it. He's got an inkling that she's lying and that Theo sent her over here to apologize for him. She would do it. And he would ask. Throughout their lives, Costas could count on one hand the apologies he's received from Theo.

'Theo's very sorry for what's happened,' Myra goes, glumly. Emily's putting ketchup on Costas' plate and she says, 'And a beer, Georgie?'

'Yes,' he replies. To Myra, no prisoners: 'He couldn't come himself?'

Myra shakes her head, 'He's too proud but I know that he's hurting very badly.'

Emily puts the food before Costas, pork cut up for him, and gives him a fork and another kiss. She sits down.

Costas says to Myra, 'You want me to say that I accept his apology?' tucking into the steaming broccoli.

'Well,' Myra goes, 'maybe, you know, I don't know – I was thinking that you could call him, I mean, talk to him first; make the first move, I'm saying.'

'My beer?' Costas says to Emily and she goes to the fridge with a big apology. Costas goes to Myra, 'It ain't happening,' and Emily opens a cold one for Costas and puts it by his hand on the table.

She sits again, saying, 'I think Myra's talking about somebody taking the initiative for a reconciliation.'

'Yes,' agrees Myra, 'that's what I mean.'

'And why can't Theo do that?' says Costas, the bubbly, freezing drink so good plunging down that it grates.

'Oh,' Myra begins, 'you know how he gets. He's so stubborn.'

Costas is ravenous and says after a while, 'Where's Janine?'

'Out with friends,' goes Emily.

'You give her a time?'

'Nine.'

He says, 'Is that all, Myra?' Myra sees the writing on the wall and says that this is the best she can do. She's trying. Costas feels his meal's been tainted. He guzzles the beer.

He says, 'Myra, my shoulder's in pain,' standing up, 'A good wife knows where her boundaries are. I'm going to bed.' And the women don't stop him.

*

Casimir Infante said Shalom, boys, leaving Colin and Costas behind in his office and Jordan Hargreaves stepped out of the Homicide Observation room, coming towards Infante's office, and Costas stepped out of Infante's office to catch him.

'Jordan, what's going on in there?' in relation to the ongoing Jesse Cole polygraph/interview etc.

Hargreaves looked beat and went, 'The guy's not budging,' with a shrug, 'either he knows he's done-for or his self-righteousness has deluded him so completely that he'd rather take the blame to make a point. It's hard to know until they assess him one-to-one.'

Colin stood at the door of Infante's office, arms crossed, listening to Jordan. He went to Jordan, 'And when's that?'

'Well, they're announcing the charges in a few hours so he'll be seen in the morning sometime.'

Costas: 'They're going to charge him before a psyche evaluation?'

Jordan: 'My prelim checkup gave them a good idea of his character.'

Costas couldn't believe everyone's apparent nonchalance. He said to Hargreaves, 'And in your opinion could Cole be the killer?'

Special Agent Fonda exited the Interrogation room down the hall. He moved to a telephone nearby. Hargreaves scratched his chin and said, 'Anything's possible, I suppose. He sure has got a lot stacked against him and the silent martyr treatment's only making it appear worse.'

Colin said, 'But is he capable of this?'

Jordan said, 'I would say that he is, yes.'

Costas was peeved: 'So you abandon your closet homosexual-with-a-family theory?'

Mike Morella left the Interrogation room that stood behind Jordan. Clive Potts was in close attendance. Fonda was off the phone by then. The three joined up for a whispered conversation. Costas ogled from 20 paces.

Hargreaves smiled at Costas and headed off to the restrooms: 'Hey, I've been wrong before.'

*

Emily helps Costas to disrobe in their bedroom and put on his pajamas by their bed. She waited until Myra went home to come up. She says nothing to him and he picks up on her dissatisfaction.

She has always expected too much of him. She's said for years that he's a wonderful man and imperfect, like us all, but imperfection is perfection when it comes to human beings. We cannot be beautiful if we are flawless. Flowery garbage.

She peels back their quilt and he says, 'Will you be coming to bed?'

'Shortly. I have laundry to finish,' she goes flatly. It's not Myra's business.

He lays down blissfully and she says, 'Would you like a warm milk and cookie?' covering him up. Quit making this YOUR business, Myra.

'Yes,' he says. She gathers his day's clothes and starts for the door. He tunes his radio to what's considered a prehistoric station by today's insane barometer: Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald and Connie Francis et al. Costas' anger is no match for the sweet sounds of Mr. Tony Bennett.

Costas decides that this is the finest bed he has ever lain in. The comfort is spectacular. He can almost see the pain flowing from his body down, down, down into the mattress, through the floor, rolling down through the living room and into the earth beneath the foundations. The pain skips like an electrical current along the street and up the pole of a streetlight. The power surge blows the bulb and the terminal crackle sheaths lighted Costas in shadows.

He wakes up to, 'Here we go,' and Emily propping his pillow, helping Costas to sit. There's a cookie on a plate and a glass of milk on the nightstand. Radio's ditched Tony B for Bing Crosby.

'How's that? OK?' says Emily, stepping back. Costas nods, pulling himself up. 'Can you reach the milk from there?'

He nods. Is five minutes to myself too much to ask?

She has his medal in her hand and says, 'Where should I put this?'

I know where.

He bites into the cookie and says, 'I will find somewhere for it tomorrow.'

'What about we hang it above the mantle? I can hammer it in.'

He puts up a hand to shush her. Bing's gone and there's a breaking bulletin. It's Mike Morella live with a CPD/FBI joint statement. He says that Jesse Cole's been charged as the King Lear Killer.

She smells the milk and says that it seems fine to her. Costas says that he doesn't want it anymore. It's turned sour.

*

When Jordan Hargreaves was gone to the restroom, Colin said to Costas in Homicide, 'Fuck me, what a time to admit that he may have been way off base.'

Costas saw Dominic Pounder and Illinois ASA Singletary emerge from the Observation room.

Morella and Fonda returned to Cole's polygraph.

Singletary laughed at something one of them said and got a coffee for himself. He was in no hurry. Those men looked calm and satisfied.

Costas remembered Pounder's frustration with that old war-horse Sidney Gordon in Milwaukee. He felt Pounder overreacted to Gordon's antics – but look, anyone can snap for any given reason on any given day – which created the impression of Pounder being at least a man of integrity.

Singletary passed Pounder to go into Jesse Cole again. Didn't look like Pounder and the ASA were too cozy together.

Colin continued bitching about Hargreaves, impersonating Hargreaves, with, Well, I'm the expert and I think the killer's probably either a married white queer mad at himself or it could also be a mad-as-hell-at-America nigger loner. 'Gee, thanks Doc for that. Really. So specific. Asshole.'

Pounder can't be buying this. Colin said to Costas, 'I say we get drunk. Leave the circus to the clowns for today; am I right or am I right?' Costas asked Colin to wait up a sec and he walked up to Pounder.

Pounder was perturbed, 'Detective, how are you?' pumped Costas' operating hand. Costas decided that The Dominator's got a face that belies his strategic and deliberate mind. His eyes get wide, his eyebrows are unkempt, and his lips are big.

Costas said, 'Has he said nothing?'

Pounder went, with disappointment, 'He's refusing. He's ignoring counsel.'

Costas: 'What do you think he's doing?'

Pounder replied with a bemused shake of the head, 'He doesn't care it seems to me. Crazy as it sounds. I mean, I don't know what he's thinking.'

The sun was getting orange and sleepy. There was hardly anyone around.

Costas: 'You think he's innocent?' It was as if everyone said that it was game over and just went home.

Pounder went, 'It's a hard call.' Their voices became low. It wasn't conscious. It was self-preservation. It was preservation of the other side of the coin. Pounder continued, 'They seem ready to throw this guy to the wolves. I just don't know if it's solid enough to stand up.'

'It feels premature to me.'

Pounder nodded, 'Must be said that the inculpatory evidence fits the bill. Cole's got plenty of motive. No alibis.'

'And no witnesses. Have they looked in-depth into him?'

'I've been furnished with nothing that would fit that description if they have but that Fonda character's got his sights set. Is your friend Morella aware of the way he's being played?'

'I think he likes it,' said Costas.

'Goddamn FBI have this thing sewn-up and when you've got federal deadlines coming into play people begin to lose their heads.'

'Is Jesse Cole smart enough to do this?'

'He's not a moron. Far from it, in my opinion. But if he doesn't open his fuckin mouth how can we know anymore?'

'Do you know when they plan to announce it?'

'In the morning is what I've been told.'

'Dr. Hargreaves says it's in a few hours.'

Pounder said, 'Dr. Hargreaves, yes. Between you and me I think our Mr. Hargreaves isn't the most reliable pigeon.'

Costas said, 'Why?' Dominic glanced past Costas' shoulder to Hargreaves coming out of the bathroom down the hall and went, 'Let's just say that his opinions don't hold my interest.'

Costas saw the glint in Dominic's eyes and liked it and went, 'Is there anything you suggest we try?'

The Dominator shrugged: 'Wait. Well, whatever way you cut it, Detective, you've got no meaningful authority and I've got no jurisdiction. Even if Wisconsin doesn't pursue him for Elmer Thorne, Cole's facing 5 life sentences. Right now I would have to say that only Jesse Cole could save Jesse Cole.'

*

Emily's beside herself in her pink robe and keylime facial mudpack in the living room now. She's pacing a rut downstairs. She's called around. She's vacuumed. She's sitting on the front door step, breath visible. Janine's missing.

Costas said, 'Come inside.' Emily's sucking coffee. It's 10.24pm. Costas is Grand Canyon-style awake upstairs: wide, baby. He's going to snap Janine in two. He's entered a dazzling arena of exhaustion. His body's laughing at him. He fantasizes about grounding Janine for 20 years.

'Costas!' shouts Emily. He's been on the can long enough now for it to be kinda nice. His thoughts are blank. 'COSTAS! She's back!'

Costas rises, wipes his ass, flushes. He's methodical. He starts downstairs and suddenly the immensity of his tiredness and pain colludes to render him past anger. He wants to get his wife and daughter into bed so that he can go to sleep. He would give anyone $1000 to let him sleep.

When he gets close to the front door, there's shouting coming towards him like a gust of wind and Emily bursts in. She's crying and whining and fighting and dragging Janine by the arm, dusting for a prince, and Janine's giving it back, Bambi legs, long hair, skinny arms, a real paleface. Pretty if she'd let the meat stay on her bones.

A lamp's in the firing line. Family photographs hold their breath. Janine's flailing and she's loud and she's swearing and clawing and 'She's drunk, Costas!'

'I am not drunk!'

Emily: 'And she was brought home by some boy in a race car!' Emily slams the front door, to keep the neighbors ignorant as best she can and to exclaim her point of disgust. Janine rips the arm loose and marches to get past Costas and he catches her other arm and she screams, 'Let me go!' and he can see that she's got too much makeup on, the commingled product of inexperience and lack of finesse. Janine smells of booze. Costas weighs up his daughter's disposition quickly. She's tugging against him and going nowhere. Emily turns on the ceramic lamp in the corner and collapses into an armchair, an emotional wreck. She'd consider herself a liberal second, a mother first.

'Let me go, you bastard!' Janine yells, her feet dug in, scrunching up the rug.

'You smell of beer,' says Costas to Janine, with conscious calm in his voice. (Though the venom in her bastard is unprecedented.)

Emily weeps, 'He just screeched off when I came up to him. I didn't even see his --'

'You think you could crank up the drama, Mom, you're --'

I am proud to be a Chicago cop!

Costas yanks Janine to tune her in, goes, 'I asked you a question, Janine!'

'It was a party Dad, for fuck sake. You know, it's what people with lives do. Don't get your dick in a knot,' and she laughs at that. Costas is so unsettled by this bombardment of swearing that he lets Janine go.

Any medals up for grabs at this riot?

'You don't talk to your father that way!' says Emily, sobbing. (This scene's hardly reinventing the wheel.)

'I could give a fuck, Mom,' says Janine, with a little cock to her walk, a little taunting flavor. Costas knows that Janine's daring him to explode and he's so tempted to give her what she wants that it's making his fingertips tingle.

It would've killed them to make a courtesy call before announcing Cole to the world?

Janine stomps out of the room into the kitchen, presumably to go upstairs: 'And it's not just a racecar! It's a customized T-Bird.'

Do I console my wife or do I go straight to kicking my daughter's ass?

Is it possible to do both? Everybody's in this for themselves!

Emily slows the crying, with green cream on her hands, in her hair, on her robe, her face a slobbery mess of distress and goes, 'What are we going to do with her, Georgie?' and before Costas can reply he hears Janine talking to someone in the adjacent room.

He rushes into the kitchen and is dumbfounded to find Janine chatting on the phone. She doesn't see him.

Who is this selfish, young woman?

She is MY flesh and blood?

He snatches the handset and crashes it so hard into the cradle that it bounces back out onto the floor. It kicks at clouds at the end of his rope.

'Hey, what's your fuckin problem?!' Janine goes.

It's farcical the way I'm treated.

Costas fumes a step closer to her. He looms and that gives Janine pause. She goes, 'Angie wanted me to call when I got home.'

'You were expected at 9.' Janine's looking for a way out. He's got her cornered.

'Back off, man, all right? I had a good time.'

'You were out late. You were drinking underage. I was awarded a medal today. Do you care about nothing, Janine? Have you no respect for your mother?'

The hell with those goddamn FBI snakes in the grass!

Janine, no signs of inebriation: 'I care for too many things, Costas! But you wouldn't be able to see that with your black and white panorama vision. This world's in color now, man, we're showing its true colors, all the lies and the corruption and hypocrisies and it ain't gonna stop anytime soon!'

She's never looked so like her mother.

Janine, chest heaving: 'The shit's gonna hit the fan till that big fat machine stops whirring, y'dig? We're gonna take back the power, people are rising to take back our control and it's gonna be so sweet when the house of cards falls, man; shit, we'll make up for all your generation's bullshit and killing! And if you're not gonna lend a hand then get outta the way because it's here and it's now and it's real and you can't call us all cranks. We got professors and poets and real cool cats on our side, cats that are using their brains, man. You got sucked in Costas!' She's never called me Costas before.

Emily's in the living room, listening intently. She can't see Janine. No matter, Janine's words splash and coat the walls like the Colorado River's pushing them along with unspeakable force, 'Like all the others that bought the government's line. You left your brains with the hatcheck girl. I wish you could see it. Those Pentagon motherfuckers, the same Nazis you work for, they killed my brother and you just go around like Winston never mattered a damn to you!'

And Costas lets rip a bellow and a fist that pummels the light switch to his right and it shatters easily; his hand takes plaster with it, breaks wood. The kitchen light goes out.

Janine gets the fright of her life and shouts, 'THAT'S ALL YOU'RE GOOD FOR!' and tears off up to her room, slamming the door.

Emily's into Costas like Speedy Gonzales. She wears sympathy and sadness like a billboard, the only way she knows how. Costas doesn't want to look Emily in the eye but, at the same time, he wants her to know that he's unflinching, that his resolve's merely strengthening against this fuckin series of catastrophes that some might call a life. He doesn't want her to know that Janine's opinions on the old ways ain't a million miles from what he believes himself may be the truth.

And then again, what is the truth? Here's one: Whaddya call a cop who finds the truth difficult to trace after years of walking around with it in his back pocket?

Don't give me that shit!

Wait, the punch-line's a sweetheart deal...

Get outta my face!

I'll tell you some truths that are self-evident!

Truth: Chicago PD proves that the cream doesn't always rise to the top!

Truth: My son's never coming back to me!

25

Following Morning

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Theo George

The paperboy leaves the Washington Post on the stoop every morning. The milkman leaves a bottle of fresh milk. Theo takes them both in right now and enjoys his cereal. He bins the Post. He treats the dailies and magazines now like they're diseased. He's in the process of winding down numerous subscriptions. He's showering upstairs.

Myra comes downstairs, jeans and a halter. She's asked Theo not to throw out the papers. Shakes her head and fishes the Post out of the trash. She's not a heavy reader, not committed. It's not a ritual or a sacrilege or anything. She browses over toast and coffee for something to do. Usually checks for stories related to women's health; reports on women in the workplace, on women achieving in male-dominated fields. She's especially glued when the writer's a woman.

Myra'd flirted in her early teens with the possibility of becoming some kinda bare-knuckle journalist. She wrote angst-ridden poetry and short stories with grouchy sweetheart protagonists. They used their extensive, fantastical abilities to escape armies of ugly creatures in pursuit of lands where, once, only peace reigned. Frequently, beautiful, sleek white horses with long golden manes made cameos. She burned her entire notebook one cold night. She was alone, in as many senses – barring physically - as she could have counted, aged 16. She was fanatical about symbolism then; and that single act of destruction, she believed it was a cleansing of the writer's palate, a refresher course, a brusque farewell to the mediocre, to the immature life she was tired of and a sharp here I am to the world. For all the good a defiant statement like that ever did her. That it ever does anyone. She opines those lost stories. She is burnt along with them.

Myra tucks her left foot underneath her at the kitchen table. Checks the mail. Gas bill's wrong again. Overcharged. She'll have to call. Post's front-page banner's a headache: NEGRO CHARGED WITH KING LEAR SLAYINGS. The opening 4 pages are dedicated to the story, a grinding and overwrought piece. Myra's disgusted, disinterested, glued.

On page 3 there's a grouping of large black and white close-up photographs (ranging from grainy as hell to clear as day) of the 12 jurors involved – 6 murdered, 2 safely in protective custody, 3 already dead and 1 missing.

Myra takes a second look at the missing one. He's familiar somehow.

26

Conrad Hilton Hotel, Chicago

12.16pm

Clive Potts, attorney-at-law, resigned this morning. He won't be representing Jesse Cole. It's been less than 24 hours. His decision's sent shockwaves. Another bizarre twist in the King Lear case, they're calling it.

'Mr. Potts! Mr. Potts,' they all shuffled and crammed and poked and ducked and dived and spat and Potts shielded his face with a hand and shielded his disgust with a smile out the door. It wasn't the most dignified exit in history. (The consensus was that even such a preeminent litigant finally grasped what he had bitten and decided that he'd probably be chewing it until doomsday plus one. It was one step of bravado too far.)

'Why are you leaving?'

Potts: 'Difference of opinion, that's all.' An extraordinary statement from a man with 20 years expertise in defense law. What kind of Negro makes Clive Potts scurry?

Three hours later: Defendant's brother, Thomas Cole, steps up to a podium in a set-aside conference room. There's a deluge of photographs. Cameras are rolling. This is live, people. This is coast to coast. Scandal-mag moguls dab the drool.

Thomas smiles and says hello to the audience. He clears his throat and sips water. He holds himself well in the spotlight. He adjusts his tie-knot and goes into the microphone, 'My brother Jesse Cole has been indicted for murder 4 times in the first degree and once in the 2nd degree by the state of Illinois. A further two indictments from the Wisconsin and Louisiana State's Attorneys' Offices will be shortly forthcoming. He shall likely stand trial for these crimes. As of approximately one hour ago, I shall from now on, at my brother's request, represent him in all matters legal pertaining to his defense. The premature departure of Mr. Clive Potts earlier today came about as a direct result of irreconcilable disagreements on very specific and crucial constituents of the case between Mr. Potts and my brother. Jesse Cole has thus far refused to answer any questions put to him about the so-called King Lear killings by the authorities. I shall now read to you a prepared statement penned by Jesse Cole. For my part, I stand by his words though have not in any way influenced them.' Thomas Cole reads. Listeners are a fresco.

'I have been neglected. As have you. I have lied. As have you. I have tortured a body. As have you. I have made a person bleed. As have you. I have put down good ideas. As have you. I have feared and I have hated. As have you. I have killed and I have been taught to kill. As have you. I have changed and I have spurned. As have you. I will forgive for what I've done. As will you. Before these walls, I am imprisoned. As are you. I will float and I will sing. Will you? I will see the treetops and the sunlight. Will you? I will fly someday and die someday. Will you? I have been my brother's keeper. As have you. I have slept alone in a town of millions. As have you. I will share the bread. Will you? I will taste the sweetness. Will you? I will have the hour. Will you? I will crush the stone into powder. Will you? I have crushed the man to powder. As have you. I will answer the questions. Will you?'

Last night, late, Jesse Cole said to Clive Potts, 'Gimme 20 minutes.' It was the first words he gave to the lawyer. Clive stayed up all night trying to figure this guy out, trying to get Jesse to say something to him. Clive wanted to get this guy off. It would be the coup of his career. Potts skipped out for a cigarette, a breath of fresh air, splashed water on his face, made a phone call to his wife. Jesse wrote a statement. Mr. Potts told Mrs. Potts that Jesse Cole passed his polygraph with flying colors. Cole handed Potts a neatly scrawled page when Potts came back in and said, 'Read this to them.' Potts read, assimilated, guffawed, assumed that Cole was a prankster and said, 'I'll be back in the morning, Jesse.'

Potts' appointed shrink was unpacking his briefcase, Rorschach at the ready, when Clive screamed at Jesse Cole, 'You're fuckin serious with this?' at 8 this morning, his usual blank expression furnaced by incredulity. The shrink wanted dearly to sit. His back's a perennial problem. The walls shook. The shrink stayed standing. Potts pushed and Jesse wasn't bothered. Potts unequivocally told Jesse that this enigmatic mystique persona you're pursuing, for sympathy or whatever, this – this I don't-give-a-rat's-ass game's gonna get you life without, my friend. You wanna be a fuckin martyr, be my guest!

The shrink said, 'I'll try him out,' and Clive said he could give a shit, out the door. He was through. The shrink did his tests - and Jesse gave up nothing. Diagnosis: Jesse Cole is in denial about his situation. However, his behavior appears absolutely calculated and so he is more than suitable to take the stand on his own behalf, if called, and at the very least any pleas for insanity would simply hold no water with any competent judge.

Thomas Cole looks up from Jesse's statement, standing at that podium, still as a still-life. It feels like hours. He hasn't looked up the entire time. The room's rapt. They don't know if he's finished. They wait. There are eyeballs popping. And pins dropping like flies. Thomas Cole says, 'Thank you, gentlemen.'

27

September 7th, 1968

Following Day

Shopping Mall

11.37am

Vicky George slips her foot into a flip-flop sandal. It's got a bouquet mould at the toe joint. Her collarbone isn't 100% yet. She needs help balancing when putting the foot in. She uses Mom. Myra's holding both of their ice creams.

The store's got air-conditioning. Vicky's loaded with bags. She's a trinket-collecting machine. She sucks up that garbage. Mom and daughter love the weather. The summer's been good to their browned skin. Myra likes the look of the clerk. She's got 15/20 years on him and she's confident that she'd rock his fuckin world. The clerk's checking her out too. He's asked her how she's doing today and she's doing just fine.

And don't think she's skimping on herself! She's got bags too. There're red marks right in the crooks of the elbows. There's this little blue number in a boutique upstairs she's had her eye on for weeks and today, it looks like, is pay-day. Vicky's of that age of indecision; so much thought goes into the detail: it's too small, it pinches, it's clunky, it doesn't go with this or that, it's the wrong color, the wrong material.

Myra wonders if Vicky attracts wicked-eyed boys like the clerk. Myra steps out of the store and into the maelstrom of the shopping mall. She lifts her shades a sec. She's having fun. This is a neat distraction. Theo's such a gloomy Gus. She's talking to him every day, trying to keep his attitude upbeat. It's no mean feat – wait... There's that guy again: the one from the police birthday party film, the one from the newspaper picture.

Is it him?

She's stealthy. She cozies up to the lookalike. He's got buddies with him. She's five yards away. They're holding Nixon/Agnew placards, sporting Nixon's The One Ts, chatting to passers-by, trying to rope in support, handing out flyers. The guy's got a small beard, not like in the film or the newspaper photograph as far she can recall. He's skinnier too, he's lost weight. The T's real baggy. He's not much of a looker. He seems happy though. It's not him.

Should she go and ask him outright? If it's him, why's he standing around here in broad daylight? She keeps staring and nobody notices. It's busy in here.

'Mom!' Vicky's stuck her head out of the store. Can't find Myra. Myra's Nixon flyer guy's consorting with a few girls carrying surfboards. He laughs at what one says and bites on his fingernails.

It's him.

It can't be. Vicky, barefoot, mortified, 'Mom, what are you doing? I need you to pay for these!' turning Myra around with her hand.

'Sorry, honey,' Myra says, headed back into the store, twisting her head for one last look at the man who isn't who she thinks he is. Or may be. Looks like her Nixon guy and his Republican friends are moving off. He waves goodbye to the surfer girls.

'That's 7.99,' smiles the clerk, bagging the sandals. Myra's distracted. 'You ladies found everything you wanted?' Chest hairs plume gently over the top of his open collar. That's usually a turn-on. Muddling Myra digs out $10.

Vicky goes to the clerk, 'We did, yes.' The clerk takes the money, rings it up, holds out Myra's change and Vicky, mortified, says, 'Mom?!' and Myra snaps out of it. Myra takes her bills and thanks the clerk. His arms have the hair she likes – not too thin or thick or patchy.

'Come back and see us soon,' he says. Vicky takes her ice cream from Mom and comes with a flirty smile to him, 'We will.'

They exit the store and Vicky says to Myra, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, 'Where to now?' Myra searches for her Nixon guy. He's vanished.

It's him.

Meantime

Chicago Homicide

Rudy Ollis and Dick McShane are practicing their Vince Lombardi impressions at Rudy's desk. Rudy's good, using Lombardi's patented, Fatigue makes cowards of us all. He's got the crew cut to go with it. Dick's laughing saying Rudy's pretty good.

A short, wrinkled man in his 60s, with a kind face, approaches them. He's all in black with a short-sleeved shirt and wearing a fedora and black-rimmed glasses not unlike Lombardi's as it happens. 'Excuse me, Detectives,' he says politely. Rudy and Dick look at the man and give him no signal. The man smiles.

Rudy goes, 'What can we do for you?' Dick sees the tall Hispanic standing beside the little man. The Spic's got tattoos, big, bold tattoos. He works out. His hair's past the shoulders, jet black and slick. Blade stance. He's got his lower jaw stuck out to appear fearsome. It works. The eyes are black holes, purely vulnerable.

An odd pair, Pastor and associate. Dick's real wary of the wetback. A Martinez kid was half an inch from taking Dick's eye in 1959. Dick never forgets. Dick stands up. The old man goes to them, 'My name is Pastor Derek Enkhorn and this is my friend Sergio,' meaning the Hispanic dude. The old man produces a hardback book from under his arm and continues, 'We are here with regard to Jesse Cole.'

Rudy's still sitting, goes, 'Yeah. What about him?'

'Well,' says the Pastor, calm and unhurried, 'I believe that we can provide him with an alibi. More than one, in fact.' Dick McShane's gaze is on Sergio like a cheap suit. Sergio's not doing anything.

Dick says, 'Is that so?'

'Yes,' says the Pastor, more animated suddenly, opening his black hardback and, uninvited, setting it down on Rudy's desk at a marked page. 'I run Easy Change halfway house over in DuPage. We are supported solely by good-natured, local Lutherans. We take in many men who have nowhere to go when they're released from prison. Sergio here is a former convicted criminal who has stayed with us on a number of occasions.'

Rudy and Dick are not shocked to learn that – if they are to understand the Pastor correctly – Sergio's done a couple separate stretches inside. Sergio's face tells of a dogfight life.

'Anyway,' says the Pastor, 'to cut a long story short, Jesse Cole stayed with us for a good spell after his release last June. He was comfortable there and we were only too glad to oblige in assisting him with his transition, finding digs and employment etc., addiction issues, ah, reuniting with loved ones and so on. Jesse had a kind of a difficult time finding his feet compared to a lot of first-timers. He was standoffish,' shrugs, 'some men are like that. But, as I'm sure you men know, uh, patience is a Christian virtue.' The grinning Pastor looks for Dick and Rudy to back him upon that.

Rudy says, 'Keep your word, Pastor: cut a long story short.'

The Pastor's unblinking, goes, 'We have a book, for roll-call, you know?' pointing to the black book before him, 'We don't try to hold the men, they are free to come and go unless they are parolees. The majority's parolees.'

Dick McShane picks up the black book and peruses it. Pastor Derek's OK with that, he says, 'We help parole officers and the like to keep tabs. The book's simply a means of accounting for numbers. I like to be organized, to keep my records up to snuff.'

Dick says, pointing to a line on a page, 'I see Cole's signed here. On August 18th.'

'Yes, and that's why we're here. That was his last night with us.' Dick shows the book to Rudy and Dick goes, 'How often you do roll call?' Rudy yawns and reads.

'Three times a day,' says the Pastor, holding up confirmation fingers. They're talking to him now, so he puts on a serious furrow and continues, '8am, 1pm and 7pm. As you can see, Cole was present at each for that day, the day I understand the farmer in Flossmoor, ah, um, passed away.'

Rudy goes, 'So what? Couldn't he sign in and go out to kill a man?' closing the book and putting on the desk. 'You watch these cons 24 hours a day?'

The Pastor says, 'Jesse Cole had no car, no bus money.'

Rudy: 'He's got a thumb, ain't he?' using his own as if hitchhiking.

Sergio, bullish flat: 'To commit a murder?' Neither Rudy nor Dick like the Hispanic piping up.

Derek: 'Detectives, I don't know how much weight the opinion of a clergyman carries in your eyes but I don't see Jesse Cole killing six innocent men, not in a million years, alibis or no.'

Dick, giving the book back to Derek Enkhorn: 'It's appreciated, Pastor but --'

Sergio: 'Tell him Pastor, I was with Jesse Cole on August 22nd. That night I visit him in his new apartment.'

Pastor Derek: 'Yes. Jesse had moved out by then.'

Rudy to Sergio: 'And you're the only one who can corroborate his whereabouts on that night?'

Sergio: 'I was with him all night, Homes. I sleep on the floor.'

Rudy: 'With all due respect, Poncho Villa, you're a scumbag. Whatever about the priest, you ain't got diddly to offer a judge with your background.' Sergio seethes.

Dick gets a little something in his belly and goes, 'Are there other dates you can vouch for, Pastor?' He's thinking of New Orleans, the murder that predates the farmer.

The Pastor shakes his head and says, 'Not personally, but I stand by my register. And Sergio,' to Rudy, with emotion under it: 'Men do the best they can with what they have, sir. It is a sorry fact of life.'

Dick makes sure that Pastor Derek's looking directly at him when Dick asks, 'That night of August 18th, he didn't leave your place at any point?' Pastor Derek replies, gripping a crucifix from inside his pants pocket, 'It would've been reported to me. Gimme a hundred bibles and a hundred oaths in front of a hundred judges and I'll swear it's the truth every time.' That little goddamned irritant sticks in Dick's belly. He says to Derek, 'Wait here, Pastor.'

Rudy stands up now and goes, 'The fuck are you doing, McShane? It's a crock of shit.'

Dick's already on the move, coming back with, 'You think I wanna be the one to carry that if it ain't?' McShane brings Pastor Derek and Sergio to Morella and AGent Fonda about 10 minutes later. Morella laughs at the Pastor and walks away. Fonda says sorry to the Pastor, no dice.

Pastor Derek turns it up, says, 'Ask Jesse himself, Mr. Fonda! For God's sake, if he says that we're lying then you won't hear from us again.'

Fonda sips ,his coffee and addresses Derek Enkhorn like Fonda's God Almighty, 'I don't need Jesse Cole to tell me that you and your friend are liars. Have a nice day.' Fonda turns and walks down the hall.

Derek's springing on his heels with fury, shouting, 'I'll go to the papers!' Fonda lifts his cup in salute without turning, taking a corner, 'Via con Dios, Padre.'

1.05pm

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

Howard Hockett used to love driving.

Reword: Howard Hockett used to love driving as a means of escape. Didn't matter the time of day. He wasn't a man who cared about the automobile's look or horsepower. He's always been an A-to-B man. That's how he stayed selling kitchenware door-to-door for 23 years. The father of 3 boys loved to hit the highways whenever home sweet home turned sour. Sometimes Howard woke dripping in perspiration to find his walls draped in black blankets. Daisy never understood it.

It was a pet joy of Howard's, coming across places he'd never heard of in far reaches of the country (he once went as far as Chilchinbito, Arizona before turning back) and trying the pie (preferably cherry) and coffee (3 sugars, lots of cream) of the quaintest eateries he could find. He fantasized about becoming a travel writer.

Howard can't drive anymore. Howard can't travel 1000 miles for pie anymore. Arthritis has transformed his hands into lumps of raw ginger. He was forced into quitting the job that he loved in 1965 – knock, doff hat, smile, shake. Knock, doff hat, smile, shake. He cannot dress or feed himself. He's a babbling, twitching wreck. The last couple years have seen Howard slide sharply into a kind of dementia that's not medically recognized as dementia.

Howard's on Costas George's front lawn, rifling through one of the yard sale tin boxes with $1 written on it, nudging things aside with his knuckles. Costas walks up to Howard from behind like Howard's an unpredictable dog and goes, evenly, 'Howard.'

Howard looks up at Costas and produces a brilliant smile, 'George, how are you?' – pulling his attention back to Winston's knickknacks – 'Lovely warm day. How are you?'

'See anything you like?' says Costas. Costas knows Howard 20 years. Doesn't see him out much these days. Howard's middle boy Davy and Winston were good friends in their teens, before Davy signed up for the Air Force. About 6 months ago, Davy came back from Vietnam with his right arm and left leg stumps. He's back in the tight bedroom he grew up in with his brothers. He won't shave or shower or get out of bed or talk to anyone. When his mother Daisy tries to open the curtains to allow in sunshine Davy screams blue murder.

'Ah, just nosing around,' replies Howard, humped these days, wearing a burgundy short-sleeved shirt and off-white suspenders. 'How are you, George?' moving along to the next table with Winston's folded clothes on it – shirts, slacks, formal ties etc. Prices range from $3 - $7. (Janine and Emily fought for hours over what to charge for things. Their disagreements were in fact so divergent on more than one occasion that the yard sale hung by a thread all morning.)

'Good, Howard,' says Costas, not following after Howard the short distance, 'How's David?'

'Davy's home, you know that,' making a mess of a couple neat shirts.

'Yes,' Costas doesn't stop Howard. Costas wonders how much Howard has ever grasped about Davy's injuries. Maybe the ignorance is blissful. Howard shuffles over to a table with Winston's shoes on it. Janine's standing there, leaning on the table.

She says, 'Hi, Mr. Hockett,' and Howard doesn't look at her, his busy hands only good for disturbing Janine's careful layout of the shoes. Emily's sitting on the front stoop reading a magazine. She's hoping that they sell nothing/everything.

Howard says to nobody, 'Boy's been drafted,' succeeded by an extraordinarily lengthy gaze off down the street at nothing. Emily heard him, lifts her head to Howard.

Costas says, 'Danny, Howard?'

Howard says, 'Yes, Daniel. Off to war.'

There's a story in the neighborhood that's folkloric by now: before youngest Daniel was born and while Daisy was pregnant with middle son David, Howard's firstborn, Dale, made the man so happy that nobody could believe it. Dale fit every apple-of-the-eye cliché. One sunny afternoon, Daisy went to the store with her sister and Howard stayed home to watch 15 month old Dale. Howard hadn't been sleeping well on account of (allegedly) these dreams he had at night that caused him insomnia and some said that he was often terrified to close his eyes for fear of the waking demons that polluted his sleeping mind. Howard openly shirked reason and put his tiredness down to an incurable family inheritance, the Hocketts've always slept as well as the princess on that pea! That sunny afternoon, Howard dozed off with little Dale on his lap in the living room. Dale wormed his way through the kitchen out into the backyard where his paddling pool sat idly, filled with maybe 3 inches of cold water. He'd been splashing about in it earlier when the sun blazed there but the area was by then doused in cooling shadows. Last thing Daisy said was, 'Please empty the pool, dear,' and Howard told the woman to mind her own business. Dale drowned in that 3 inches of water.

Janine George looks to her father re Howard and Daniel and all that and Costas offers her no inspiration. He looks to his left and sees Daisy Hockett leave her house by the front door, in no rush, 200 yards on the opposite side of the street, approaching them in her Sunday best, made-up like she's going to the Oscars. The ostentatious clothing's part of Daisy's keeping-up-appearances charade. These are her children too, dying and crawling and wasting. Her arms are crossed, eyes downcast like she's following an invisible trail. She walks with no purpose. Emily stands. A young couple starts to go through a $2 box.

Howard knocks over a small cardboard box and Janine goes, 'That's OK, Mr. Hockett. No problem,' as she quickly picks up the fallen bric-a-brac. Howard makes no move to help her. He's got his back to everyone. Something seems to tantalize him down the block. A gentle breeze enlivens the stillness. Emily and Janine and Costas watch Daisy's last 50 yards in the silence.

10pm

'Hey, wanna know something funny?' applying moisturizer to her arms and neck in bed. Theo's nearly asleep, 'Huh?'

'That guy the cops want, the missing King Lear juror?'

'Uh-huh.'

'I saw him today. At the mall.'

'Uh.'

'Should I call someone about it?' She wants to say Costas.

Theo rolls over, goes, 'They got the guy already.'

'So that last man's safe now, you think?'

Theo's asleep.

*

Well, Walter; tonight there is a palpable sense of relief permeating the Windy City's corridors of power. A spokesman for the Chicago Police Department and FBI announced about 30 minutes ago that the 2 remaining men feared to be the final targets of the so-called King Lear killer, Mr. Raymond Simpson of Cicero and Mr. Thomas Martin of Roselle, Chicago, are to both have their round-the-clock police protection completely withdrawn as of 6 am tomorrow morning.

CPD Superintendent Ralph Darling also informed reporters this evening that the chief investigators in the case, primarily Detective Michael Morella of Chicago and Agent Fonda of the FBI, saw no need for such precautions to be maintained given the department's confidence in prime suspect Jesse Cole's guilt. SI Darling remarked that it, the protection, was both a waste of manpower and an unnecessary nuisance to Simpson and Martin and their families. Neither Mr. Simpson nor Mr. Martin wished to comment.

At 10 o'clock Monday morning Jesse Cole – following the accused man's extraordinary statement delivered earlier today by his attorney and older brother, Thomas Cole, at the Hilton, a statement that has left many experts scratching their heads - will be brought to the Cook County Criminal Building for arraignment. Superintendent Darling closed today's press briefing by explaining that discovering the location of the last missing juror from the twelve that convicted Jesse and Thomas Cole's brother Tucker to death in 1958, Patrick Caplan, has become less of a priority given the situation's stabilization. He did however stress his desire to have Mr. Caplan get in touch with the police nonetheless. The drama here continues! Back to you in New York.

28

Following Day

Casarotto's Diner

2pm

At church, couple hours back, the celebrant's homily dealt extensively (stopwatch read 45 minutes) with the story of Abraham and Isaac. At root: Ultimate Power tested the father Abraham's faith in Him with a challenge: Slaughter your only son and I shall know that you are truly my servant. Abraham proved willing. And so, before it could be carried out, God saved Abraham's son Isaac. God understood Abraham's devotion to Him was stronger than even his love for Isaac. But God SAVED Isaac.

Costas is absentmindedly fiddling with Winston's dog tags in a booth. They've got rubber silencers. The grunts needed to keep them from clanking in the jungle. He'll never forget the 7 guns fired 3 times by statuesque marksmen by that 6foot hole. It seemed bottomless. When he peered into it, his balance became shaky.

Emily and Janine are here, scarfing burgers and fries. They made $112 yesterday and got rid of nearly everything. Some people haggled. That was hard to swallow. Costas took a nap after Howard Hockett went home because he felt the weight of the day. Daisy Hockett shot the breeze (and it died) with Emily for 10 more minutes and secretly bought a handful of Matchbox cars for Howard. She insisted on paying. She said he'd be tickled. Sometimes Howard pretends like he's in the car, driving to god-knows-where. Makes silly noises like a small kid.

Winston's money's just sitting there in a jar on the fridge now. There are no plans for it. They forgot that part. Emily said to Costas afterwards – he was looking out at the bare front yard through his son's bare bedroom window - because she knew the guilt and confusion that Costas was feeling, 'It's stuff, Georgie. Only things. Not our son.'

Emily now goes, sweet as pie, with burger in her mouth, 'Why don't you put those away, Georgie?' about the tags.

4.55pm

Costas answers the phone at home. Emily's sewing a pair of his pants in the sun. Janine's bathing in it.

'Hello?' he says.

'That you, Mr. Costas?'

Big smiles: 'Harvey.' Costas had no hesitation giving out his home number to Harvey Cadorette.

Big laugh: 'You caught Mr. Lear, you old son of a gun?'

'Oh yeah. Yeah. Sure looks like it,' replies Costas, hoping the subject's dropped.

'Well, see, reason I called, I guess, what I got right here ain't really up to much seeing that it ain't relevant now but I figured you might be interested in it anyhow.'

'Yes?'

'That missing girl Thorne sold to Branson down here, Jill Meloserdoff. We found her if you can believe it.'

'She's alive,' betraying his surprise.

'Oh yes, very much so it would appear. I mean, that is, I've been told that she's alive. I ain't talked to her. Don't plan on it.'

'Why not?' wonders Costas.

'Well, call it fate or providence Detective, or whatever, but she's all the way up there with you. In Chicago.'

Caddy's right: Costas is interested.

29

Following Day

Cook County Criminal Building

10.10am

The Klan guy in the brothel creepers behind the barrier goes, '...and where there's smokes there's fire.' And the Chicago cop inside the barrier, at arm's length, laughs heartily.

The NAACP crowd (50 people, tops) near to them is getting louder in the shade. Lotsa them have their heads down reverentially; a cluster's singing a gospel ditty with soft tongues and clicking fingers.

Volume of their hissing detractors blunts the music's point; and that's the detractors' point, of course.

The CORE crew's really pounding pavement (30 persons, max), chanting and marching on the spot by the NAACP shakers.

Black Panthers tightly prowl in single digits, low profiles and weaving, like heat-seeking ripples. They communicate with coded hand signals and walkie-talkies, mouths covered.

You got film cameras and still cameras and microphones and writing pads and the sweating people supporting that particular pyramid scheme.

Some Klansmen (no more than 25 of them present maybe, all told) wield hate banners, some are cloaked anonymously in white, most offer epithets across the divide of the stone steps that lead into the courthouse. There's foaming at the collective mouth.

Cops stand in no man's land, 20 feet of it. The barriers restraining the protestors/goaders are flimsy. They need to be welded down. Whites bay for torture and blacks bay for satisfaction, everybody typecast as chained junkyard dogs.

King was a cocksucker!

I'mona dance on yo grave one day, motherfucker!

Yeah, like I danced on Kennedy's!

You ain't shit on my boot, cracker!

What's fried Jesse Cole taste like, Bubba?

Bananas are thrown, peeled and not. Nobody slips. A cartoonist with legs crossed on a bench pushes hair out of his eyes, laughs to himself and gets to work.

A Black Panther sets a Stars and Stripes on fire. He holds it up triumphantly for anyone. Klansmen go red, white and blue in the face.

A commentator says to his pal, there's a full-blown riot in the mix here. The cops are outnumbered. The cops are underprivileged.

A radio journalist spurts, 'My fuckin tooth!' She came for blood and she got it. A cameraman's rolling for ABC. He can't see anything. His lens is fogged.

There's a plump white woman in a pink blouse with a megaphone on the roof of a Buick. Looks like she's pleading for calm. Her hands are flapping like she wants to take off. It ain't working, sister.

A few individuals stand back and are embarrassed, make like a pharaoh and tut. Heads shake mournfully. People walk away. They don't want their clothes smelling of social discord. They go home to Betty Crocker.

A woman sees black boys punching white boys and white girls wrestling black girls on the street. Someone comes in fast and kicks the black girl. The observing woman stands crying. This is marring her intentions. She came to pray for Jesse Cole's soul. She'd gotten dressed up special. Jesse Cole's late for his arraignment.

A cop's in a shouting match with a teen Negro. Cop's got a demonic Alsatian at the end of his rope on hind legs, baring fangs, the rope wrapped and squeezing the cop's hand, pulling at his muscles and tendons and limits. Cop's nudging and then pushing Negroes with the other hand and they're standing up to it. 'Gimme any excuse, shithead,' the Cop says, to let go of the dog. It's boom time for the crestfallen.

A prominent Negro preacher removes his sun hat and dabs his brow in the hardening sunlight. He didn't tell anyone in April but he thought King got what was coming. He's a ways back on a closed street, hundreds of yards from the action, and he can see for miles.

A prominent white politician with sympathetic lefty leanings sidles up beside the preacher and they watch the unfolding. They could be watching a sunset together for all their faces betray. This melee's like the remnant particles of a bombing trying to reconstitute. Smell: the water-cannons fuelling.

'I don't think anyone saw Cole go inside the courthouse,' says the politician. With everything going on, people have missed the point: Cole sneaked in.

(The cartoonist saw it and said nothing. Typical.)

The preacher replaces the hat on his head. He skews it back and forth to find the most agreeable angle. He says, with a disgruntled grunt, to the politician, 'I'm sorry, what did you say?'

The hat's never damn well fit right.

6.35pm

Residence of Jill Meloserdoff's aunt

Dolton, Illinois

It's been a slow day. A hot day. Costas took the address of the Meloserdoff girl from Caddy yesterday and slept on it. Colin's chauffeur.

Colin's got a crisis at home. Shelley wants to leave him. It doesn't rain, it pours for O'Meara. Colin called Costas about an hour ago, gave Costas a blow-by-blow earful breakdown. Costas said that's women, they need to blow off steam once in awhile. Colin bought it. Costas didn't. Costas said, 'I got this thing I gotta do. Can I hitch a ride?' It got Colin to stop yelling. Colin's had it up to here with tangential sub-characters. He's not up for Meloserdoff today, 'She's got nothing to do with anything, Chief.'

Costas doesn't know why he's doing this precisely. He needs his curiosity sated it would seem. There's something left hanging for him on this. He's not got questions per se for the girl. He wants to just put a face to her story. And, boy, you want a sign? She could be anywhere in the world and she's only a half-hour down the road! Costas feels that a visit's the least he can do for Jill. Show support or understanding or something. Damn, maybe it's got something to do with his relationship with Janine.

Unflinching Colin says, 'I'll be back in an hour,' before pulling off. Costas is left at the bottom of stone steps that snake up a delicate grade to the front door of a very boxy red brick bungalow. The garden out front is lovely, very welcoming. He mounts step after step with an old man's effort. She could not be home. She could slam the door in his face. Maybe her aunt's overprotective. Couldn't blame her if she was. How much does the aunt know? Jill's still a minor.

Three steps from the summit, the front door opens and a teenage girl stands there chewing gum, face hard, confidence brash. It's got to be 17-year-old Jill. She's wary and goes, 'Who are you?'

'My name is Costas George. I'm a police officer.'

Jill steps back, pulls the door closed a little. She's got on a blue sweater way too big, pink lounge pants. She's pretty with an ill-suited haircut and could pass for 50 around the eyes.

REMEMBER: she had an abortion when she was 13.

'What's your business?' she goes. Strange formality. Jill's all grown up.

Why talk like a child when you never felt like one?

'Is your aunt in?'

'No.'

Costas wipes his brow, cool sweat. 'Will she be back soon?'

Jill's slippers: Donald Duck, kinda like what Janine used to have.

'Mister, state your business or I scream.'

'I know about your past and the men in New Orleans.'

She's withholding crippling rage, puts both hands to her tummy – involuntarily it looks like – as if inside her is something that she refuses to let free.

Jill says carefully, with hardly any volume, with an intensity that couldn't be topped if she screeched it, 'I didn't break no laws. Them motherfuckers who took me, they're the ones oughtta burn.'

'They're dead now,' Costas says to ease her suffering and of course it won't but it might get him inside and a glass of water.

Jill: 'And they're gonna burn in hell,' wipes away a tear as soon as it appears. Watching her holding back is only exhausting Costas further. 'I wanted just to talk to you about it. I have a daughter your age.'

'I hope she gets away from you as fast as she can.' Jill Meloserdoff slams the door in his face.

*

Costas rests on the roadside curb. He thinks about Jill and Janine and the individual hands that they've been dealt. Jill seems to occupy an ageless role: that of the rug underswept. No justice for her, if there ever could be such a thing. Nobody watched out for Jill and it taught her to be satisfied with worthlessness. A piece of meat on a carousel, rotting from day one. What a dizzying thought. She'll get by OK, he's sure of it, she'll digest her teens, like so many, and her story would be remarkable, awful to so many. Although it's also an ancient story, with Dawn of Man proportions, that too many have carried. It must be a terrible burden, being a perfect example of how so much of the human experience is a shameful mess.

Colin drives back and asks how it went. He's dulled his edge. Costas says that she wasn't in and Colin's sorry for making Costas wait so long. Costas needs a drink. Colin suggests a corner store for water. Costas wonders where the nearest bar could be. Colin grins, says he saw a place. Radio blabs: Jesse Cole's arraignment: 15 injured protesters. Bail denied. Trial date set for October 21st.

Colin turns the key in the ignition, scratches a reddening mosquito bite on his neck. The newsreader then goes into an unsubstantiated report doing the rounds that at around 5.30pm this afternoon – just about 2 hours ago - Thomas Martin of Roselle, Chicago was found dead in his funeral parlor lavatory. One bullet in each eye.

The detectives: Jesus, man, they just don't fuckin believe it.

2 hours earlier

He's in a phone booth outside the Trib. He ran down. The Roselle mortician murder is hotter than hot.

Theo: 'It looked like him, you mean? You've seen pictures of what the guy looks like?'

'Yeah, on TV and in the papers you throw out,' says Myra. She's on the line at home.

Theo: 'And it was definitely Caplan?'

'Yes! Jeez.'

'Did you do anything? Did you speak to him?'

'No. It was, I dunno, ya know, the mall was crowded and Vicky grabbed me and then he was gone, yadda, yadda. I wouldn't even have known what to say to him.'

'Did you call security or something at least?!'

'Don't raise your voice, Theo! It happened so fast and even you said that it didn't matter!'

'I never said that! When did I --'

'Oh yes you did, in bed! Something like that anyway.'

'I don't remember ever saying anything like that!'

'Something about they caught the guy who did it, the colored guy. I can't remember exactly. God, you think Caplan's in danger again, right? I thought that too.'

'Myra, think for me. Think hard. This is make or break, baby: did you see where he went? Who he was with?'

'He was with these people giving out pamphlets. I didn't read any of it. I guess I don't make much of a detective, do I?'

'Did you see what the pamphlets were for?'

'Richard Nixon for President.'

8.26pm

Colin dodges. He knew the press would be outside Homicide. Pulls up 3 blocks shy. He calls Infante from a drugstore booth on Spaulding, between Polk and Lexington.

Infante's a nail gun: 'Where've you guys been?!' Colin says they were out fishing. It's a lie without a need for one. Both of them had the day off.

From Homicide, Infante says, Wait there. I'm coming. The men wait. Casimir's quick, cheeks aglow. They talk openly. Infante's relatively relaxed. He says, 'Morella? A memory. Forced vacation time. To where, I don't know. Agent Fonda and his Band of Merry Men? Forget it. Tumbleweeds. Only left Layfield and he's on his last legs. Like they were never here.'

'They didn't buck?' says Costas.

Goes Casimir Infante in reply, 'The Pastor sealed it.'

'What Pastor?' says Colin.

'Yesterday,' goes Infante, 'Pastor comes in and says he and this ex-con buddy can stand up for Cole's twenty on 2 of the murders. Fonda – genius \- told them to take a hike without looking into it.'

Costas: 'God. And it checked out?'

Infante shrugs: 'Probably. After the things this afternoon, another murder created reasonable doubt in their minds. They didn't wanna check, couldn't care to check.'

'They knew they were fuckin wrong, that's all,' spouts Colin.

Infante says, 'Feet of clay. House of Cards. The papers will eat us alive,' with a flourish of gestures.

My god, the FBI really was running on empty.

'So Cole's out or no?' asks Colin.

Casimir: 'In the morning, most likely,' and Colin shakes his head.

Costas goes, 'And it's definitely King Lear did the undertaker?' he doesn't like calling the murderer King Lear, it's so current. Still, here he is saying it. Casimir hitches his pants, nods meekly, eyes diverted. This whole thing's the most humiliating imbroglio of many of these men's careers. A good share of their badges will not survive it.

He goes, 'As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport. Never was a man for Shakespeare but that line, oy, it's gonna be my epitaph, I think. Yes, same MO to a tee – a pair of neat .38 bullet holes, the note, no struggle, no prints. No witnesses. McShane got it.'

Colin says, 'I fuckin knew this would happen. When it gets flipped on its head, like it was always gonna do, nobody sticks around to clean up. After all of their bullshit about being the best!'

'Yes, yes,' comes Infante, pooh-poohing the volume, not the frustration, 'We've all played our role.'

'We fuckin haven't!' says Colin, meaning he and Costas.

Casimir sighs, looks back at Homicide down the street and goes quietly, 'Gentlemen, these murders are back on your watch if you want the responsibility. God, it seems, has this set aside for you and no one else.' Costas considers the fallout. The case was shut – Jesus, Cole was arraigned only 8 or 9 hours ago! \- and now the heat's back on, doubled, in truth. Heads are teetering. Big mouths are clasped. It's bittersweet. Colin's boiling. He's glowing. He's busting. He's got nothing to lose. They can't fuck it up worse than Fonda or Master Morella or any of them did.

Originally, Costas asked for the King Lear case and he got it. Then it was snatched from him, mutilated and has been handed back without an explanation or apology. It's a pretty irresistible situation. Hard to say no to something as balanced, as ironic, as perverse and as goddamn stupid as that. Gut whispers: go for it.

'Whaddya say, Chief?' goes Colin, a dog waiting for the stick to be thrown. Costas notices only now, for some reason, that it's a beautiful day.

Costas to Casimir: 'We will have conditions that must be met up front.'

'Yeah, Infante,' says Colin, 'No more fuckin strings.'

Casimir holds his hands up: 'At this point? I think they'd give you Niagara Falls.' You win some. You lose some.

'OK,' says Costas, 'Let's do what we're paid for.'

*

Costas orders APBs on Patrick Caplan and Dustin Bentley. He has Rudy Ollis and Dwayne Clooney cross-examine Pastor Enkhorn and Sergio. Costas stipulates no press conference. Granted. He stipulates Nelson Tarris one-on-one. Nelson quick-marches and Costas speaks pointedly, firmly in hushed tones in a tiny, empty, dark room off the main Homicide floor. Nelson's hot to trot, cat's eyes, shoulders straight, fingertips on hips. He writes nothing, all ears, concerned citizen.

On the record: I'm running the show. No animosity towards FBI, water under the bridge. Thoughts and prayers are with Mr. Martin's family. We're confident of finding Patrick Caplan in time. Mistakes have been made, absolutely. Justice will be done.

Off the record: I'm ashamed to know some people.

Costas is eager to leave, goes, 'Work with that for now. And be smart with it, Nelson.'

And Nelson says, 'Where you going?'

'To help build a wall around Raymond Simpson.'

Colin O'Meara and Dwayne Clooney are in Ray Simpson's living room watching TV. Rudy Ollis answers the door. Costas gets there around 10pm. Simpson's son Alex is there with his young wife Bethany. Costas declines coffee.

Raymond Simpson heard about Thomas Martin's death on the radio as the story broke. He was driving his bus. He started to shake. He went deathly pale. He pulled over and was taken home.

Mrs. Simpson's running around like a crazed woman with trays of sausage rolls and nachos and whipped-up sandwiches. She says, help yourselves! Eat up! to Dwayne and Rudy and the cops nibble to keep her happy. Exasperated Alex tells her to cool it on the hospitality. She screams at him not to talk to her like that in front of guests. Alex wonders if she actually grasps what's going on.

There's a couple rolled-up sleeping bags on the couch. And blankets. Colin's drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette and tucking into a hearty bowl of steaming pasta at the dining table. He gives Costas a thumb-up with sauce all around his mouth. Rudy and Dwayne tell Costas that Pastor Enkhorn's good as gold. And Sergio might be rough and ready with a colorful past but they do believe his story.

Music starts to billow up from somewhere downstairs, the basement presumably. Costas trails the sound, a sound swaying forlornly back and forth between music and a muddle, and finds Raymond Simpson hunched over a tarantella, singing Moon River with an uncertain bottom lip. He's got a small gas lantern lit in the corner. There's most of a brandy in front of him. Ray paints one helluva sorry picture.

A shadow corrupts the straight angle of the far corner to Ray's 7 o'clock. It's a grim specter, a black, flickering veil. It's a chilling sight. Costas is quiet in the darkness at Ray's 4 o'clock and Ray doesn't look at him. Ray's probably not drunk yet. He's probably just scared. The voice is cracked and weak. He stops singing midway, mournful. Costas waits.

Ray sips his drink and goes, pointing up, 'Supposed to bring a new bulb home.' Costas waits a little more in the silence. He doesn't know what to say. He should say that Ray needn't get down on himself.

Ray finishes his drink and fills the space: 'I guess it's just down to good luck and bad luck in the end, Detective, no matter how a man leads his life,' standing and moving his face to the light that's streaming in blankets from the kitchen upstairs behind Costas. The light puts white pins in the dead center of Ray Simpson's worried eyes and Costas feels uneasy. It's one of those moments where nothing breathes.

Simpson rests a hand on Costas' shoulder, breath undecided with booze in the musty room, and comes with, 'And when you're not afraid of that fact anymore, the gamble's, well -- well, the gamble becomes a cinch, I guess, don't it?' with a tired smile.

Every step up the stairs for Ray Simpson is laborious and methodical and Costas hoped maybe that the chill down here would go up and away with the bus driver.

But it doesn't.

30

Next morning

Nixon HQ,

South Indiana Avenue

Kirk McDonald dunks his mop into the bucket of dirty water. Squeezes loose the excess water. Freddy squeegees the window ably. The Nixon HQ storefront's looking immaculate.

'Excuse me, Gents,' says a man. Freddy and Kirk turn. Kirk's working bare-chested, in shorts and wearing nice shades. There's a lot of women (and men, surely) sincerely wish that he hadn't taken any kind of celibacy vows.

Kirk goes, 'Yes?' with a grin to Theo George. Theo's baking in the heat. Fred keeps motoring. 'Either of you guys know where Pat Caplan might be?'

Alarm bells go off for Kirk. He's cool, slaps the sloppy mop onto the glass and starts swishing it up and down and goes, 'Never heard of him. Sorry.' Theo steps forward, he's cool, shows off a nice solid color glossy of Patrick Caplan circa 1965 and comes with, 'Gimme a glance.'

Kirk pauses, lowers his shades, peeks at the shot. Quick glance at Theo over the glasses, pushes them back up his nose and goes, 'He's the guy from that jury.'

Fred sees the picture too and says, 'That's Justin.'

Theo looks at Fred, 'Justin?'

'What is your business with him, sir?' asks Kirk of Theo, 'Are you a policeman?'

Theo pockets the picture, 'Newspaperman. Following a trail. Why'd you lie, Mr. \--?'

'The trail's brought you here?' says Kirk.

Theo nods and smiles and goes, 'You got a name, friend?' to Kirk.

Static's arrived, express mail. 'McDonald. Kirk,' says Kirk, no flies on him. It doesn't surprise him that Justin's been lying.

'Mr. McDonald, do you personally know Mr. Caplan?'

'Yes,' leaning on the mop.

'And for how long, may I ask?'

'Does this go into your paper?'

'Off the record. Every word.'

'I've known him a couple months.'

'You met through politics?' indicating the storefront.

'Through God.'

'I see. And \--'

'You want to protect him from the King Lear killer, Mr. --?'

'Very much so. He's believed to be the final target.'

Kirk: 'You got a name, friend?'

'George.'

'Mr. George, I don't know where he is.'

'When did you last see him?'

'A week ago. More.'

'And would anybody in there be better able to help me?'

'No.'

'You two are close, you and Patrick?'

'Yes.'

'Yet you haven't spoken to him in a week or more?'

'He is his own man. I am not his keeper.'

'I wonder why the confusion around his real name,' goes Theo.

Kirk had seen pictures of Patrick in the media. Since the name announced didn't match the face, Kirk took no real notice. And Justin is not the mirror image of Patrick but the river image; unmoving and ever-changing.

'You seen him?' says Theo to Freddy.

Kirk stabs, 'Nobody's seen him.' Theo's close here, he can taste it. His brain's tripping over itself attempting to devise a satisfactory conclusion. He's got no leverage. If suspect Kirk's gonna call anyone when/if Caplan comes knocking it's gonna be Chicago PD. Does Captain Kirk know of Caplan's whereabouts already?

'OK,' says Theo, 'Thanks for your time.' He walks off and takes the first left onto E34th. He waits there, invisible, something cooking. Puts gum in his mouth. Kirk and Fred finish washing the window quickly.

Kirk kept Theo's departure in the corner of his eye. Kirk's been searching high up and lowdown for Justin or Patrick Caplan the last few days. He's checked all the city morgues. Now he has reason to be concerned. The police may not get to him before the killer. Kirk has to step in. The papers will shred Patrick Caplan. A lamb must be saved from the slaughter.

Theo waits on E34th's adjacent corner, sneaks a peek back towards Nixon HQ from his protected point of surveillance every now and again. He's gonna follow Kirk McDonald's every move.

Meantime

Cook County Jail to the Robert Taylor Projects

Noon

Squeezed Jesse Cole into the front passenger seat. Cameras, questions. Costas wanted to slip out the back. No such luck. Building was overrun wherever you cared to look. It was a scrum. Their car was pushed and groped. Colin gunned it and didn't care if he steamrolled anyone. Costas was reminded of footage he'd seen of women going nuts around musicians and Hollywood stars. Did they see Jesse Cole in that same light?

Jesse Cole says nothing in the car. Costas insisted that he personally bring Cole home to his apartment. He's hoping, en route, to come up with something meaningful to say to Cole. There has been no official apology for Cole's wrongful arrest. Likelihood's there never will be. Costas wants no hard feelings. Costas, in back, offers to buy Jesse a coffee or a beer. Costas doesn't say, 'I'm sorry,' either. He wishes he were braver. He won't apologize because Colin's in the car.

Cole doesn't reply to the offer of a drink. He's got his hands clasped lightly between his thighs, staring ahead. His left small and ring fingers are bound together so that they cannot bend. He's got his moustache tidy and sideburns shaved at angles to come and meet it. Colin sees Cole's Typhoon Coming On tattoo and it bothers him on top of Jesse not replying to Costas.

'You lost your tongue altogether?' says Colin to Jesse. Jesse glances out his window. Costas wonders if Jesse will ever be given the chance to explain his reaction to his time in the limelight. Even so, would Jesse Cole even cooperate?

Colin goes to Jesse, 'You wanna get the fuck out right here, cos I ain't got a problem with that!' slowing the speed of the car. Jesse's cool. Costas feels pressure. He doesn't want Jesse Cole to think that CPD's error is somehow being reversed so that, in fact, it's Jesse Cole's fault for simply breathing.

For Costas, this is like Jill Meloserdoff Part 2 and a sequel so hot on her heels gives pre-migraine rumblings a license to roam.

The journey's (mercifully) short. Colin pulls over, scratching the hubcap on the curb, and gladly opens Cole's door for him, saying, 'Have a nice day, asshole.'

Jesse Cole gets out easily and doesn't shut the door. Colin has to stretch to close it and can't help shouting, 'Yeah, same to you, ya fuck,' slamming it and Costas says finally, 'Colin. No more.'

Jesse Cole's undoubtedly a proud man. Undoubtedly, he wants to get on with his life. Jesse strides slowly, laidback. Costas sees the word cool. Cole's probably a fine dancer. He's got that ease of movement that white men envy. Kid holding a motionless mouse in the plaza asks Jesse something and Jesse doesn't appear to reply; ruffles the kid's hair without stopping and walks into his building. Every balcony, from the lowest to the highest, at the front of the building is populated with observers.

Someone shouts sarcastically, 'My, my, here come de king!' Jesse Cole's been marked – how many scars is that? \- there's no going back and Costas sees that. Cole gave no words so can only be judged by his actions. Costas admires formidable Jesse Cole's character. Could I have been so together in the face of such treatment? Whatever's inside the man, making Jesse Cole tick – why SHOULD Cole speak to us now anyway? \- it's something that makes Costas George sorry that he can't get to know Jesse.

Colin crunches into first gear and goes, 'That motherfucker ain't seen his last jail cell.'

Meantime

El Train,

Green Line Between Indiana & 43rd Street Stops

Yesterday, Theo parked outside W104 88.9 FM and tuned into the broadcast. Tailed Kirk there.

'Welcome to the show, Father Kirk McDonald.'

Theo sputtered: Father?!

The interview was candy with a sugary, disingenuous pro-Nixon message. The DJ swooned. It was a cute little game. And it made Theo all the more suspicious of the clergyman. Theo stuck like glue to McDonald for the day. Trouble was, Kirk spent a large portion of the day deep inside the Nixon nest, so whatever he got up to in there was not something Theo was privy to.

That night, he followed Kirk to Lake Shore Drive and was amazed to see him walk up to a mansion and, by god, go inside without knocking. A Catholic priest with a middle linebacker's physique spending his nights on Lake Shore Drive? Theo needed a spy.

So Theo called Taylor and she said sure, she'd do what she could. She never took clients in the mornings which gave her a few hours before her regular luncheon rendezvous. Theo told her to pretend to worship Nixon, to worm her way into the sights of Kirk. Her confidence was momentarily uprooted when Theo mentioned Kirk's man-of-the-cloth thing. Theo said not to mind it, wear short-shorts and whatever makes your tits hang out. If McDonald's not open to it, some idiot close to him will be. Theo was like a man possessed.

Today, on the rattling train, Theo says: 'So how'd it go?'

'Fine,' she says, nonchalant. Theo sat, nibbling furiously on potato chips, in his sauna car opposite Nixon HQ while Taylor shook her fanny about like it was Mardi Gras. He couldn't see a goddamn thing inside with the glare on the glass.

'How close did you get to McDonald?'

'Not as close as I'd like; phew, that cat is a fox. Damn.'

'Did he give up anything, Taylor?' Taylor, sits, crosses her legs. Man, she gets looks in that getup and why wouldn't she?

She goes, 'We chatted a bit and I did like you said, looked at the paper, you know, calm-like, I was cool, saw the King Lear stuff and asked him, real damsel-in-distress kinda shit, fluttering eyes, Whaddya think about that bad man? And he said it was sad but not really what interested him at the moment and I tried angling curiosity in him a few different ways, I was bending over and dropping shit to pick up and, goddamn it, not even a glimmer of a hard-on. I got dudes pawing me up and down, baby, but that damn preacher man just ain't takin the bait so I swerve, ya know, I decide this shit's getting personal. I do what I do best and he's a cold fish? Naw, baby. Not gonna stand for that so I'm asking him about his schedule for the day and he's going on about it, meetings and materials and bullshit like that and I'm trying to get his eyes to mine and nothin's goin down so I go, I hear the one they want, he's a friend of yours.' Theo holds his breath. He could kiss her. He could smack her. Does she notice his hard-on?

'Motherfucker still don't look at me! You know what he does? He hands me a pile of fuckin folders, goes, yeah, he's my friend and would you take these to Chris in the back office?'

Theo ducks his head for the bang: 'Please tell me you didn't throw them in his face and storm out.' Train stops.

'Whaddya take me for? I'm a professional, ain't I? I did like a good little girl's supposeda and then he puts me on a fuckin phone calling people for donations!'

'And what then?'

'Nothing. I got bored. Spent my time sucking on pencils, rubbing my boobs with a stapler; dig? I mean, this dumb shit's for all those dumb shits staring at me. One guy tripped over cos he was lookin. Spilled coffee everywhere. I tell you, Daddy, that was funny.' Train goes again. Theo's exasperated.

He says, 'Did you talk to anyone else?'

'Uh-huh. Few guys. Uh, there was Joe and Zack and Kim and Lance, I think, and, uh, who else? Freddy and Jake and --'

Theo goes, 'Freddy: colored man, innocent type.'

'Sure,' she goes, touching up her makeup with a pocket compact, 'Can't talk properly. Got one of those things where the words get stuck.'

'He's close to McDonald, right?'

'I guess. Hung around him a bunch anyways.'

'OK, so stay on him, see what he knows.'

'You got my 25, as per, Daddy?' Blushing Theo,

'I got 10 now and 15 at the end of the day.'

'Nope. This extra's over for today, sweetie. My bread and butter's callin, dig? I catch you tomorrow on the flipside.' Train stops. Off the train.

Theo starts on the platform, 'Hey, I need you for the whole day.' Theo's got deadlines to meet for Jim Underwood. He just hasn't got the time today, which was originally the point of bringing Taylor on board.

Taylor stops and smiles and takes the $10 in his hand before saying, 'I see you at 9am, honey. You gimme what I need' – holding up the green before stashing it – 'and I get you what you need' – walking away, hips uncontrollable – 'and the world don't give a flying fuck either way.'

11.55pm

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Raymond Simpson

Dick McShane's fallen asleep in front of the TV. Special Agent Layfield and Rudy Ollis are sharing laughs and brews with Ray Simpson in the basement. Occasionally, there's the sound of Raymond's new drill being put to the test.

Mrs. Simpson has been in bed upstairs for 2 hours. Her daughter-in-law Bethany is up there with her. Alex, the son, is at home. He's got work in 6 hours.

Yawning Costas George's perusing a Newsweek in the kitchen. Hear the ticking clock. There's been nothing on Dustin Bentley. There's been less on Patrick Caplan.

There's a few newspapermen in parked cars out front. Rain's pelting down on Chicago in picturesque buckets.

Officer Vess is posted at the back gate. He runs up to the backdoor leading into the kitchen and knocks 4 times, evenly. It's the agreed-upon code for friendlies. Costas at the table goes, 'Come in.'

Vess enters with his umbrella down, sopping wet and holding an envelope. Vess goes, offering it, 'Sir, this was tossed out of a moving vehicle. Dark Packard. No plates.'

Costas reads the envelope: FAO Detective Costas George and says, following a moment's distraction, 'Thank you, Officer.' Vess nods and returns to his post. Costas lets trinkets of hope run through his head. The typed Es are dropped slightly, as they have been for all the killer's writing.

This is not what I think it is:

It reads: Dear Detective, I have kidnapped your daughter. You must present me with Mr. Raymond Simpson outside the greengrocers located 2 blocks due north of where you are by 12.30am or she will die. I am a man of my word.

Costas is detached at first, floating, and then he's attached, welded. It's not happening. Rudy Ollis guffaws and proves that it's happening.

Janine.

Costas rises to the phone on the wall. He gets to it though he can't recall the footsteps taken. Emily picks up.

She's obviously been asleep, 'Hello?'

'Hi, honey, it's me,' says Costas.

'Oh hi there, you OK?'

'Yeah. Uh, I wondered if I could speak with Jan for a second.'

'At midnight?'

Costas laughs, 'I know. I – ah – need her to settle a bet for us.'

'Well, she's not here.'

Costas' heart sticks, it expands to the outer walls, 'Where is she?'

'Angelica's.'

Breathes, 'Could I have their number?'

'Costas, it's midnight! What are you thinking?' Costas doesn't want to get angry. He knows that it will serve no purpose. It's 2 minutes past twelve.

'OK,' he goes, 'You're right. Sorry I woke you.' He immediately calls the operator and gets the number for Jonathan Hadsall. Voices come from and to the back of Costas' head, garbled, screeching horrors.

It's Jonathan who picks up after an interminable length.

'Mr. Hadsall, Costas George, is Janine there?'

Hadsall's been sleeping too. 'George? Janine. Uh. Wait.'

Costas waits. 12:08am. McShane's snoring. The TV's not broadcasting. Thunder rolls. The basement's happy.

Hadsall says, 'George? No. She's not here. OK?'

'Was she there earlier?'

'No, hasn't been all night. That OK now?' Costas hangs up slowly.

Jill Meloserdoff: I hope she gets away from you as fast as she can.

This is his only daughter. He has already lost a child. Beads of sweat. Does he do this alone? The others will never go for it.

12:10am. This is his choice. Ray Simpson must die.

His head: This is ridiculous. There has to be something we can do!

Costas stands in the middle of the kitchen. He could be in Siberia: he's never been so isolated.

His heart: This guy will do it. I am a man of my word.

This is the end of his career: fleeting.

Choose: Family or Career. There is no choice.

I guess it's just down to good luck and bad luck in the end, Detective, no matter how a man leads his life.

Raymond Simpson is right.

12:12am. Move, goddamn you. Does Simpson deserve to die? Did Elmer Thorne and James Branson deserve it?

Why are we running around seeking justice for THEM?

Who knows, perhaps Simpson's dirty too.

Yeah, maybe he brought this on – You're rationalizing!

What will people think?

Costas' eyes roll about his head. He has sucked himself into another world.

What kind of man will this make me? Costas shivers.

The haunting: it's coming.

Be aware, goddamn you.

Weigh it up. 12:14am.

You are an old man. You are looking back on your life. Raymond Simpson has lived a long and so-so life. You are a cop with a dusty medal. You have lost both of your children and your wife hasn't looked at you lovingly in years.

You are an old man. You are looking back on your life. Raymond Simpson was murdered. His widow spat in your face. You lost your job. Your wife is at peace and your daughter's children come to visit. Janine matures. You are best friends.

He's got an idea. Costas opens the back door and runs in the rain to Officer Vess. No umbrella, Costas says, 'You are relieved for tonight, Officer.'

Vess is surprised. Costas heads back towards the Simpson house and says, 'Go on, now,' to the hesitating Vess, 'Get dry.' Vess leaves.

Costas shuts the door behind him in the kitchen, soaked. He's got the killer's note in his pocket. Floor's puddles.

12:17am. He's not feeling anything.

He goes into the living room, says, 'Dick. Hey, McShane!' and Dick jumps.

He's awake. 'What? What is it?'

Costas says, holding it off half a beat, 'There's been a bomb threat.'

Costas George wades into the waters of the Rubicon. It is deep and freezing and very dark.

Dick's shocked, 'A bomb threat?!'

'Yeah,' says Costas, losing his footing in the current, 'Infante called. Says to evacuate. Bomb squad in 15.'

12:19am.

An unseen, underwater branch stabs Costas. He bleeds. The salt stings like hell. One step at a time. He's making progress.

Dick's on his feet like a jackrabbit. Costas tells him to alert the Simpsons upstairs, get them out. Costas is going to call Ray and tell him what's happening. He's gonna take Ray to a meeting point just north of here, on his own, where Infante's supposed to meet them. Dick must inform Rudy and Layfield as soon as the family's roused. Got it? Dick McShane's got it. He doesn't question Costas. It's all hands to the pump.

Don't stop to think. Let's just be calm and cool and fast.

12:22am. He's up to his neck in ice-cold water. He can't look back. Costas' muscles ache pushing against the wavy wall, his heart the heaviest, dragging him under.

Dick McShane dashes upstairs. Costas stands at the top of the basement steps and calls for Raymond. Ray's prompt in coming. Costas is running out of time. Nevertheless, he still doesn't feel anything identifiable. Images are a no-show. For a beat, he can't remember what Winston looks like.

Costas hands Raymond his coat and pushes him out the backdoor, explaining about the bomb threat. Raymond's harried by Costas' speedy actions and words and distracted by the torrential rainfall. He doesn't stop to wonder. Costas says that there's no time to lose, Infante's got an update. Costas is trying not to look at Raymond's face.

12:25am.

They walk and they jog; both men unfit. 2 blocks is a challenge. And the rain lets up briefly. The streets are deserted. The air bites like a tiger.

Costas reaches for fists of soggy embankment. He is drowning. It is unequivocally so. All he can do is pull himself up onto dry land. Nearly there.

Raymond says finally, 'There's a bomb in the house?'

'That's what I was told.'

They get to the greengrocers, shut for the night. No sign of anyone around. Costas pushes away residual raindrops streaming down into his eyes. Raymond Simpson's struggling to breathe. He leans against a wall, coughing. Costas can't see anything.

12.30am.

A car approaches: a black Packard with tinted windows and no plates. It passes Costas and turns west, around the corner. Costas can't see the auto properly or the driver but he knows what it is. Raymond's oblivious.

'Here, Raymond,' says Costas excitedly, feeling now the nuts and bolts tightening in his head. He catches Raymond's arm and leads him around the corner. They're greeted by the Packard parked on the curb with the back passenger door on that side open. Nobody is visible inside.

Here's the Killer!

Here's the Gingerbread Man!

Costas can't see Janine anywhere.

Catch him! Catch him if you can! Costas believes that the killer is a man of his word.

I can't! The price is too high!

Leads Raymond a few yards closer. Raymond's slowly coming together again, steadying himself.

Costas stops just 20 feet short and says, 'There you go, Mr. Simpson.'

'He's in there?' says Raymond to Costas.

'Go to him. I'll catch up.'

Thunder. Monstrous thunder. Raymond's not distrustful.

Costas turns away. Costas takes half steps.

Hears a car door close.

Hears a car drive off.

Hears the Rubicon's tinkled cackling lapping at his heels.

Hears Janine cry out, 'Daddy!'

31

September 11th, 1968

8 hours later

Jeffery Avenue

Kirk McDonald looks on Patrick Caplan standing in the Lake Shore Drive doorway, disheveled, unshaven, unshowered, pathetic. Patrick wants to smile. He wants to hug Kirk. It was a long, long way to knocking on this door. Shame wins out: Patrick stares at his worn-out, stinking and soleless shoes.

Kirk grins, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which is lost,' and he pounces to catch Patrick in a monumental embrace, lifting weary Patrick off his feet with a grunt. He sets Patrick down again inside and shuts the door. 'We must wash you!' exclaims Kirk, leading Patrick, the ragdoll man, upstairs. Patrick says nothing. His tongue is tied up and down. He's overwhelmed by Kirk's acceptance. He is too beaten to weep. His heart is ravaged. Open him up and see shards.

This house reminds him of a dream. This house is bigger than the house in his dream. The steps on the stairs don't creak.

There is a shower. Patrick uses it. The warm water's elemental, baptismal: he is Saved. Again.

Kirk announces ecstatically that he shall prepare a meal downstairs in the meantime for Patrick: cold meats, egg salad, beetroot and raw peppers, doughy bread.

*

Patrick comes down in Kirk's white bathrobe and slippers. His hair is wet and combed back. He has shaved. He knows that he cannot repay this holy man for his generosity. Patrick Caplan is permanently indebted and sometimes that's OK.

'Come in and eat!' says Kirk, leaning against the countertop, fresh OJ in hand, pointing to the table where a feast has been laid out. Patrick says softly and sincerely, 'Thank you, sir,' and Kirk stands to reply with as much sincerity, 'You are welcome.'

Patrick never ate so well and halfway, with little having been said between them, Patrick starts to cry, cry and cry. Kirk falls to hold Patrick and not to shush him. Patrick buries his face in Kirk's chest. Patrick sounds like an ocean-liner going under. He screams hard and gags wild, coughs big and sputters hell, thumps Kirk and kicks demons. His every muscle squeezes him dry, trying to relieve themselves of suffering. They will suffocate him without a second thought if that will end the pain.

Patrick stops after 20 non-stop minutes. He is on the tiled floor, a sack of people-parts. He's cradled by Fr. Kirk.

Patrick says, 'I am the only one left.'

Everyone in the country knows about the detective who gave up the juror to save his daughter early this morning.

Kirk: 'Perhaps it isn't as bad as we fear?' Kirk says that because Raymond Simpson's body's not actually been found yet.

'I don't know what to do.'

'I wonder if you'd like to confess.'

'Yes,' says Patrick, pulling himself away from Kirk, sitting up. 'Yes, I would.'

Neither gets cleaned up. They move into the beautifully calm and unfussy and quiet conservatory at the south end of the house. They share a wicker, cushioned couch, inches apart. And, for the first time, Patrick Caplan is allowed to tell his story.

Shall the truth set you free? Ask anyone imprisoned.

Almost 2 hours pass. The phone has rung 4 times. Kirk refused to answer. He didn't move. 'How did that feel?' asks Kirk.

Patrick starts to laugh heartily, 'I feel like a million bucks. Well, half a million maybe.'

Kirk smiles, 'And what did you feel like this morning?'

'Oh,' nibbling those fingernails, 'about 50 cents.'

Kirk slaps Patrick's thigh and laughs, 'I cannot tell you the boost you have given my heart today, Patrick.'

'The problem still is what do I do now?'

'Ah, that is for you and God to decide. You must pray for guidance.' Patrick's been thinking on the people that he robbed – Nat and his niece in Charlotte, the Vet: the genuine Justin McElwee – how could I have taken the name of a war hero like that?

What of the people he did nothing to help? Think of poor Clara and her orphans on the road in Texas. He's cheated people to survive. The thought of the hurt that he has caused makes Patrick understand why he is as miserable as he is. His only redemption is in the Lord. It is a recurring option. Any good undone must be redone.

He doesn't trust the cops. Who's to say that they won't swap him for a loved one? Nobody loves Patrick Caplan that much.

And who's to say that they won't put Custer's murder on him? He threw the harmonica into the Chicago River.

What if someone finds it and/or the redskin's body?

'I think that coming back to Chicago was a big mistake. I thought it was where I was supposed to return. All it's done is show me that I have to keep going. What do you think about me going back to California?' asks Patrick.

Kirk thinks for a moment and then says, 'I'm going to Springfield on Friday. Come down with us to see Richard Nixon in the flesh. Now, he is one of God's finest disciples. Be one of the noisy majority with me! See the fruits of your labor. See the smiling faces in the town where another great Republican began his incredible journey for America with Jesus Christ steering his thoughts and actions in 1861. But, hey, I tell you what: first thing's first: you stay here, out of sight, alone with God,' taking Patrick's hand in his, 'and pray for all you're worth, OK? What better advice could I ever give a man? Give yourself over to Jesus Christ, body and soul, blood and bone and,' \- a knock on the front door – 'you will have your answer when the time is right. I have no doubt about that.'

'You will tell no one about me?' Another knock on the door.

'It is not my place to do that, Patrick. This is between you and Him. It has always been between you and Him. No matter how many times you fall, He will lift you up onto your feet. Hallelujah. You will be protected and you will fulfill your obligations to your Creator only if you sacrifice your every breath to Him without reservation!' Kirk's face ablaze. 'The Kingdom calls for you, Patrick Caplan. Here and now is when you shall be received. If you take that next step, if you are brave enough to stand naked before the world for your god, who loves you more than anything, and if you receive Him with enough passion and humility and shun any pride that might be dogging you, then the eternal gates are open to you and ain't it a beautiful sight?'

Both men are breathless. Another knock on the door.

'Be well,' says Kirk to Patrick, standing, 'I must go. Remember what I have said.' Patrick feels like he's been plugged into a socket.

Read all about it: Kirk McDonald saves lives.

Kirk answers the door and Taylor and Freddy jump when they see him. She's dressed even less conservatively today. Freddy goes, 'Kirk, we've been calling all morning.'

She goes, 'We were worried sick about you!' Kirk apologizes, breathes in the air intensely, and shuts the door behind him, leading them both down the garden path.

2.31pm

He's been praying. He took a nap. The Lord's Holy Light has brought him great peace and comfort.

Alas: He hasn't seen to Patrick's thirst.

'Pick up, pick up, pick up. Please God, pick up.'

'Yesh, who is it?' Abigail's pissed already. This is an East-side payphone they've sometimes used as a contact point. It's pure luck that she's there.

'Abby, it's me.'

'Oh, it's you, is it? Well, fuck a duck, how are ya?'

Just a taste, that's all.

Patrick used to have bible quotes verbatim vis-à-vis temptation. Not now, when the crunch comes. There's a quote for that too, in fact. Can't remember it either.

'Can you come to The Drive? I need a beer and can't get out.'

'Roger, dodger. What's the address, you old codger?'

Gimme one to ease the need.

Patrick can't concentrate on sacrificing himself to God with the need ramming him.

Well, it ain't fair to God, is it?

*

She's at the door in an hour. She's got 6 Budweisers. He says thanks a lot, consciously holding the shakes at bay, popping the bottle top off one with the doorjamb, and Abby says she's gonna scream the house down if he doesn't let her in.

'Ten minutes,' he says, eyeing the street for stoolies. Patrick informs Abby between the sips and gulps of his 3rd beer of how his life is finally back on track, this time for good, of how he's going to Springfield and that he might even be going back to see Carol in Bakersfield. He's getting organized, finding clarity. Maybe Carol'd look favorably upon reconciliation since he's a man of God and things now. He forgives, she forgets.

He gets pretty drunk and then morose about being drunk. Today's hymn, an old stalwart fave: How could I do this to Fr. Kirk after everything he's done for me? Patrick beats his head with his hands 6 or 7 times by the beautiful black fireplace, shouting, 'I have to give myself up!' to a beat. Abby chuckles. Admires the swing-set in the plush backyard, unmoving and sparkling in the blistering sun. She taps the closed glass door leading out to the yard lightly, going to Patrick, 'Run, run, run to Mommy,' and she waits and then says, 'Pussy.'

Patrick yells at her to get the fuck out. Why is she here if she's only going to run him down? She says that he's got no stones. She gives him some advice: step in front of a bus. Patrick catches Abby by the throat and slams her against the glass door, saying, 'A fine life you've made for yourself!'

When Abby's gone, Patrick opens up all the windows he can find. And he showers again, piling on the cologne and mouthwash.

4.45pm

Chicago Homicide

Dwayne's walking towards the building, cup of Joe in hand, whistling a tune. Abby's between him and the door, looking up at Homicide like it's a holy shrine.

She shouts at Dwayne, 'You a narc?' ten/twelve yards between them. Dwayne ignores her. She looks like she's trying to personify the Summer of Love's ineffectiveness: with the past-the-shoulders dark straight wire-mesh hair everywhere; a bouquet of dead posies in her hand; petals falling to the ground with her every motion (an attempt at escape surely) and her snappy yellow and orange to-the-floor skirt torn and faded. 'Hey, man,' she slurs angrily, stepping Dwayne's way, 'You a narc or what?'

Dwayne stops and says firmly, 'Go home and dry out,' no aggression. She puts an arm up against him, the flowers into his chest, and goes, 'You think I'm a nut, right? Cos I tell the truth.'

Dwayne leans in a fraction and maintains eye contact: 'You smell like a sewer.'

Abby's slow to react, hurt badly, before going, 'I know where your boy is.'

'Oh yeah?' Dwayne replies, feeling wacky, sipping his drink, 'And who's my boy?'

'Caplan's your boy, that's who.'

Dwayne says, 'You got the lowdown on Caplan, huh?'

'Yeah, I do.'

'OK?'

'Big house. A castle on Lake Shore Drive.'

Dwayne says, 'And he's up there right now, all by his lonesome?'

'Right now, man. All alone,' she goes, 'you do me a personal favor, go and nail his ass for me.'

'I would, lady, except I gotta see Dustin Hoffman about this picture we're doin together.'

Abby may be tanked but she gets it: 'Fuck you,' and she spits on Dwayne's trouser leg. Quick, boy, quick: Dwayne backhands her face and she staggers back, head ringing. Dwayne catches her arm and drags Abby into Homicide, 'See if a cell don't sober you up, bitch.'

*

Judge Hogue Mallard declines Colin O'Meara's offer of a cigarette at Colin's desk. Colin's already commented on how well retirement appears to be treating the judge.

Hogue: 'Nothing on Caplan?'

Colin: 'Not a bean.'

Infante came to Colin last night, asked him to run the show, right in front of Costas. Costas is out. Colin looked at Costas. Costas was in a world of his own. Colin considered the loyalty aspect and realized that, in this instance, filling the gap and carrying on where Costas left off was being loyal.

Hogue spoke directly to Colin long-distance last Sunday from Ireland. Said he was sorry, said he hadn't heard anything about King Lear until the evening before. Overheard chat in a pub and asked around after that.

'I try to avoid the media as best I can when I am on vacation. More so this year than any other,' Hogue says to Colin and Colin replies, 'I understand. I appreciate you coming in, Your Honor.'

Hogue insists on being called Hogue or Mr. Mallard if you must. Hogue said on the phone that as soon as he could he'd be in to talk to someone.

Colin says, 'Yeah, well we had this thing under control until last night.'

Hogue shakes his head, seated, and goes, 'My god, yes, I heard about that. Have you spoken to Detective George?'

'Briefly,' says Colin glumly, setting up another cigarette for himself.

'Has his daughter been interviewed?'

Lighting up, Colin shakes his head, 'Too shocked. Tomorrow.'

The air in the place is strangely becalmed. There's a normal working day feel. Describe it: Complacency? Disinterest? Defeat? Hogue feels that a painter would more accurately capture the scene than a writer.

Hogue says, adamantly about Costas, 'He and his good wife must be distraught. What a shocking thing to have happen. And, of course, Mrs. Simpson too. Lives torn to pieces.' Colin nods along. 'And Mr. Simpson's body?' asks Hogue.

Colin's reply: 'We're sweeping. It's a matter of time.'

Last night was fun. Renne wanted Costas fired at first and then thought better of it and sought a resignation on medical...mental strain...or personal grounds instead. Ralph Darling said no, suspend him pending an investigation. How about early retirement? Full detective's pension; George cannot execute his duties adequately given what's occurred and so on and so on... Infante saw crumpled Costas and wanted to give him a shoulder. Christ, he wanted to leave Costas alone. But the dogs didn't give a fiddler's. Colin O'Meara laid it out, called them cold-blooded cocksuckers not to their faces. Infante wondered about his superiors' insides, how their insides seemed to operate differently. Even after everything that's gone on, their dials remain stubbornly set to perception.

After endless goading, Casimir suggested to them that Costas maybe keep working – his call \- but to have Internal Affairs handle a low-key enquiry meanwhile, to give a sense that CPD understands that verification is required on how this went down exactly.

'I want to stress to you, however,' Casimir Infante said to Darling/Renne, 'that we do not make this more difficult for Detective George than is necessary.' Costas excused himself to go home after Colin took up the mantel. He didn't care what they decided. He left his badge and gun on Infante's desk. He needed to be warm with his wife and child.

This morning the newspapers howled. Morning TV was clogged with moral complexity juggling. Even they've found it difficult to smelt this ordeal down into right or wrong. The country's sympathetic to Costas, be sure of it: Jesus, his only boy (a forlorn, wasted hero – The Miami Herald) killed in Vietnam; himself badly injured in the DNC riots (heroically maimed – The Boston Globe) instilling civil obedience. And his daughter kidnapped and used as a bargaining chip (a chip so indefensibly heinous as to make Einstein's observation that once we accept our limits, we go beyond them ring horrifyingly true – The Globe and Mail, Toronto.)

Every parent in America, across the Westernizing globe, shakes their head and wonders if they wouldn't have done the same thing. In San Diego, an editor dubs it The Decision Impossible and it's already a snowballing phrase.

The lonely plight of Mrs. Simpson is a beleaguered one.

The George front lawn is overrun with vested interests. The blistering unforgotten subplot to all this drama, of course, is the scorching return of King Lear into the fold; a poisonous phoenix, wrote the New York Times.

Am I the only one who wakes up every day now feeling numb with fear, dreading the next installment of the country's suicidal decline? bemoaned Ned Cakey of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. There's no end in sight to any of it.

Dwayne Clooney bursts into Homicide with Abby in tow, hissing and cussing. He slaps her down on a chair by his desk and says that if she even fuckin blinks before he gets back, she's gonna be sorrier than she's ever been in her life. She flips him the bird and stays where she is. Colin, on witnessing this, allows a smirk. Hogue Mallard cranes his neck back to take in Abby.

Colin asked Hogue a few minutes ago if he could finger anyone for the killings and Hogue said that he was utterly dumbfounded by what was going on. He couldn't fathom for a minute who might be capable of such untold violence.

Colin says, 'Is it true that, uh, that Tucker Cole's appeals people asked you to step in at one point?'

Hogue nods, 'Yes, that is true. They requested a letter from me to, ah, I don't know what, to beg for or to lend my weight to their campaign seeking some kind of clemency or leniency for him.'

'But you didn't.'

'I felt that in no – and I explained this to them clear as day – in no uncertain terms would I do such a thing. As far as the law and I were concerned, not one iota had changed since the verdict and sentencing. There was no new evidence to fetter my opinion.'

Colin can see that Hogue's nervous of Abby the weirdo just feet away from him so he goes, 'I think we ought to put someone on you, Judge. We don't know who this guy might target after Caplan.'

Hogue opens his mouth to speak and Abby shouts, 'Anyone here interested in where Patrick Caplan is? Huh? Any of you heartless motherfuckers care?'

People turn and people tell her to shut the hell up. She continues: 'Springfield, Illinois come Friday. You bet against it! Lake Shore Drive today. From the horse's mouth. Right now!'

Rudy Ollis quips, sifting through a box of decrepit cream puffs, 'And ain't Caplan the Bears' new defensive coordinator too?' Big laugh.

Dwayne's back to drag Abby the weirdo, the disgrace, to a darkened corner somewhere.

Colin pushes a page to Hogue and goes, 'Your statement, judge,' offering a pen to sign it, 'And you're free.' Hogue obliges.

Hogue stands with the aid of his sturdy walking stick, offers his hand for shaking and says to rising Colin, 'Thank you, Detective, for your time. I don't believe that there will be any need for a fuss over an old man like me,' with a glinting smile. 'Find Mr. Caplan. It will be a tremendous balm for the country. You have a great responsibility here, you are aware. There are lifelong optimists out there struggling to stay the course. America's beliefs are being assailed as never before, day in and day out. Do whatever you must to achieve your goal.' Hogue Mallard's not overtly passionate with his words but with the deliberately teased cadence of those words, chiseled by years of calculated speech, along with the distinguished and wise elder gravity, every syllable delivered to Colin feels like an eloquent sermon aimed smartly for – and striking - the breast.

Hogue puts on his derby and the final touch: a touch to Colin's shoulder, 'I have the utmost faith in you.'

7.13pm

Cabrini-Green

Near North Side Chicago

All he's been buying is yogurt, yogurt, yogurt.

Goddamned toothache: Pierce Dudley can't chew on a thing without wanting to yell. Worse, this hepcat can't sleep a wink with the pain and the painkillers make him puke. Much more of this and he's gonna have to fashion himself a noose.

Front door's unlocked. Dustin must be back. Corridor smells like shit. Pierce's got a small ball of powder inside with his name on it. Started working at this car wash 2 weeks back. Told it was full-time work, been getting 15-20 hours every 7 days so far. He complained to Mr. Petree about it. Petree brushed him off. Motherfucker took a step back, suddenly called it a trial period. All in all, it's still a little extra bread for a birdie.

Ain't much of a diet – yogurts and heroin – though it do keep a boy lean, that's for sure. Puts his plastic bag of yogurts on the counter top. Motherfucker Bentley ain't done the wash-up like he said. Only spoons, couple mugs. Pierce could wring that dude's neck sometimes the shit he be pulling. Dustin never shuts up about how he the source of their good scores. Motherfucker never remembers who usually jumping them fences and picking them locks to get at the shit so's Dustin can get his white ass high.

Pierce says to himself, 'Everything down the middle, my ass.' A brother's gotta hit 75% to get halfa Whitey's payload. Even if the cracker's a broke-ass drug addict.

Now Pierce's moves get to the point. He rolls up his sleeve, washes a spoon. He's got his lighter on his person and opens the press over the refrigerator. Got the stuff in a small tobacco tin at the back. It's quickly apparent that his tin and/or powder ain't present and correct. He wipes his nose and slams the press door. He curses that pasty motherfucker.

Pierce goes loudly, 'Dustin, you thievin motherfucker, where you at?' and then there's a delicate snap near to Pierce. A mouse writhes in a trap on the floor. A second mouse scampers from the scene. It hits Dustin like his Mama's slaps that he can't live like this anymore. This Negro's gotta split. Fuck Dustin Bentley. He ain't done shit for nobody. Didn't someone say the cops are giving a reward?

A chick's making noise down the hall, man, like she's in discomfort. It's in the other room, Pierce and Bentley's bedroom. Door's shut. Pierce comes closer and then he recognizes the sound of a chick getting her snatch plugged. He puts his ear to the door. His tooth's hopping. She sounds good. The senorita expresses a little appreciative Mexicano.

Pierce tries the keyhole. Nothing. On the chair by the bedroom door there's a shopping bag. Pierce ogles the insides and finds a shoebox. There's the end of the thing in the bedroom. Dustin's a growler.

Inside the shoebox is a pair of dazzling white Lonsdale sneakers. Pierce goes overboard. Things in Dustin's room are quiet. She giggles and Pierce opens the door quickly. She ain't fazed, she's familiar, she's smoking. She's naked. Dustin's only got purple socks. Both cover up nothing.

Pierce takes in the scene and goes, 'The fuck you get these?' about the Lonsdales.

Dustin smiles, 'You like?'

Pierce goes, 'You been holdin out on me, motherfucker?' Senorita's cool and Dustin replies, 'Naw, baby, you lost your mind? I just ain't got around to divvyin yet.'

She's got a superb ass and Pierce goes, 'The fuck you was,' – recognizing her – 'you that Puerto Rican bitch I seen around the ways.'

She's getting dressed, dragging from the cig: 'I'm Cuban, you stupid asshole.' Dustin's smile is huge. Pierce's wanted to fuck her for weeks.

'You pay her?' asks Pierce.

'Course he paid me,' she goes.

'How much, goddamn it?' says Pierce. Dustin covers himself up, it's colder now.

'25,' she goes, nonchalant, slipping into her sandals. Her hanging melons are so juicy.

'The fuck you gettin this green, man?' says Pierce, his tooth pushing him on, 'I wanna know!'

Dustin: 'Relax, Chico, I got 25 for your ass too.'

She's ready to go and says, 'So am I stayin or goin, Bubba? I got a babysitter.'

'Up to Chico, here,' goes Dustin, meaning Pierce.

'Yo, get the fuck outta here, bitch,' says Pierce, in no mood, 'I ain't hittin no loaded-up stank pussy.'

'Fuck you, Pachuco,' she goes to Pierce and leaves, muttering something in Spanish. Mmm, she got a sweet pair of lips-for-later...

When she's gone, Dustin goes, 'Look, you really wanna know where I got the bread, man?'

'You motherfuckin right I do.'

'You don't wanna know, man. Trust me.'

'And where the fuck's my dope?' Dustin makes like his hand's a rocket ship shooting into space and its nose lands right in the crook of his left elbow. He loves it.

Pierce doesn't. Pierce throws the kicks and their box at Dustin, 'I'mona kill you!' He plunges for Dustin and Dustin's quick to spill, 'Wait, wait! I got more shit comin. More good quality shit.'

Pierce hears him, pulls the punch, and kneels on the bed. 'Yeah, when's it getting here? I oughtta crush your skull for this shit, man.'

'Oh be sweet now, my brother, you got yourself a bona fide sugar daddy in yours truly. Ain't you gonna call that a useful situation?'

'When does the smack get here, Bentley?' scratching his Swiss Cheese arm and feeling that sweat pulse revving.

'Momentarily, Homes. Relax your crack. It's gonna be good, I promise, and it's gonna be clean as a motherfucker, baby, OK?'

'Who's your bank man, man? Forgive me if I'm havin trouble believin a single fuckin word you say.'

Dustin goes, with dilated pupils cackling: 'Alright, man, I tell you, all right? Jesus H, you get so hung-up on stupid shit sometimes, Dudley, I swear. Ready? Money's from that kidnapped girl last night.'

'I didn't hear nothin bout no kidnapped girl.'

Beaming smile, 'You gotta get with the program, my fine feathered friend.'

'The fuck you talkin in riddles for, motherfucker? Lay it straight.'

'OK. OK, man. You win.'

32

September 12th, 1968

Following Morning

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Theo George

They fought last night.

It's hot and humid already. Window's been open all night. Sheets and quilts? Forget it.

How can you be so heartless?

Her naked tan-lined body rolls over in bed and Myra places her splayed hand on his bare, sticky back, whispering, 'I love you, Theo. I love our life together.'

I will see him when I am ready.

He says nothing.

She says, 'Are you asleep?' His body twitches and rumbles.

You have to forget this stuff, Theo. This is your brother!

She kisses his skin lightly, her left hand mobile, saying, 'I am yours.'

Theo turns slowly onto his back and she smiles at him, leaving her chin on his chest, left hand on his thigh. 'Hi there,' she says and Theo yawns, leans in, weaves his right hand through Myra's hair and pulls her in for a kiss.

Get off my back about it, Myra!

There are still times when it feels like a first kiss and it makes him weightless, gives him the hearty outlook of 21 year old again. Myra George said I am yours the first morning she woke up next to him. He forgets how good his wife smells and sounds sometimes. It can be a shock to relearn it.

The room is stifling. He stares at Myra, Patrick Caplan on his mind, and she kisses his five left fingertips, shifting onto her stomach.

Don't you think Costas would like --

Patrick Caplan was the last thing he thought of the night before. The morning's natural light highlights the slinking hollow of Myra's dry-sweat back. Her hair falls over her left eye and she doesn't push it away because Theo's said that the sight of her like that makes him hard. She's got the body of the wildest 20-year-old. Men oughtta be jealous. Twenty-year-old women are.

Where are you, Patrick Caplan?

Theo to Myra: 'You are mine.'

No, I don't think he would like! Now, drop it!

Theo showers, dresses and drinks cranberry juice with the radio on in the kitchen. Myra's got car keys in hand, wraps her arms about his neck and goes, 'What say you to eggs, bacon and waffles when I get back, followed by you calling in sick and disrobing me to do whatever you wish for as long as you wish?'

This sort of forthright friskiness is occasional and everything about it, the whole package – the promise and its delivery - makes Theo an unabashed subscriber to miracles.

Victoria comes in with her schoolbag and says to Mom, 'Ready?' Myra leaves her tongue inside Theo's mouth for the longest extra beat, answering Victoria with an Uh-huh.

Myra walks out the door and Victoria goes with her. Myra says out of shot, 'Back in 10.'

The door closes and Theo begins immediately going through the tranche of things that he could gladly do to Myra – things he's done and visualized a million times - when she gets back: Undo her belt – Patrick Caplan – Unzip her pants – Patrick Caplan – Unclasp her bra - Patrick Caplan – Suck on her nipples – Patrick Caplan...

...Taylor answers the phone, 'Hello?' with honey dripping.

'It's me. We good for this morning?'

'Oh,' the tone flips, 'You can forget that.'

Theo's not astounded: 'Don't you pull this on me, Taylor!'

'Fuck you, man. You owe me a hundred bucks.'

'I owe you seventy five!'

'You come by my patch with a C-note before we open for business or this chick bails. Slavery's outta style a long time, Pops.' She hangs up. Theo's deflated.

Suddenly, his body's the understudy. His brain's whom they've come to see. Watch says it's just gone 9.

And what do I do when I find him?

He's got time. He could take his frustrations out on willing Myra. Figure that out later! Taylor! What a bitch.

He's gotta sit on the priest all day himself. Just find the son of a bitch before anyone else does!

It's now or never. He can't stop. There's something, some huge payoff in the offing. He's come too far.

He nabs a piece of paper and starts writing.

11.35am

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

Funny thought: the 4th amendment prevents unreasonable searches and seizures and for people to be secure in their persons, houses and papers. Nothing about amoral media intrusion.

Costas peeks out his kitchen window: goddamned reporters on the sidewalk. He can't even leave the goddamn house.

Isn't THIS an unreasonable search?

Hasn't my house been seized?

I could shoot a burglar for invading but not a newspaperman.

Theo.

Costas is DOUBT. Janine rests upstairs. Her night's sleep was fitful. Emily held her in her room. Costas heard the weeping. It lasted for minutes and hours and lifetimes.

Unshaven, unwashed Costas waits for coffee in the kitchen. He stares at nothing. Somebody, probably Emily, opens a door upstairs and then closes it quietly. It required every vestige of his being to get out of bed this morning. It was that or wet the bed.

He leaves the radio off. It's the first day in 20 plus years that he surveys the world feeling like someone other than a law enforcement officer. If a crime was to be committed here and now, he wouldn't make a difference, wouldn't have the know-how.

He doesn't care what punishment, if any, is meted out. They want him to quit? He'll quit. His life's totally out of his control. He's some kind of sloppy putty in God's hands. Of course, he's been taught that very fact since the day he drew breath; he knew it before he could even conceive of a Higher Power. Today is the first day that he's ever felt the lesson. He feels both foolish and cheated. This – this - this powerlessness is the scariest thing Costas George can ever remember feeling.

Maybe I never was a cop. Maybe I've been living a lie.

They say it isn't true but it feels like the truth. They say it isn't so but Costas feels like the killer of an innocent man. Costas recalls cradling Janine yesterday morning after he saved her. He sees what he did as unavoidable, not admirable.

The coffee's brewed. It's so dark. Costas hasn't always drunk it that way. Winston starting making pots and pots of it like that a few years ago. Grinning Winston used to say, 'Coffee's not worth a nickel unless a man can stand a spoon up in it.'

America needs heroes. Heroes are fiction. America needs fiction.

Costas pours heavily. Janine's in the doorway suddenly, holding herself. He turns and is very glad to see her.

Costas is GUILT.

The sky is blue. 'Smells good,' she says softly, reaching for a mug.

Meanwhile

Chicago Homicide

Dude goes at the desk, 'I gotsta see a detective.'

'You wanna maybe specify, Mac? We got a lot of 'em,' goes the duty sergeant, waving arms to display the milling congregation present.

'Whoever tryin to catch that motherfucker's killing all them white men.'

The sergeant sighs, 'Don't tell me: you did it, right?'

'You out yo mind? I got information. Help you solve the case.'

Hardly listening: 'Information, huh? And what's your name, sir?'

'My name's Pierce Dudley.'

*

Yeah, yeah, so last night was good. Dustin Bentley was as a good as is word for once. The skag came early and it was backroom shit, dealer's own supply type shit. Clean as a whistle.

Icing on the cake: Dudley bumped uglies with longed-for Miss Havana too, all on Dusty Warbucks. Pierce's still mighty irked though. Ain't no kinda partnership. Dustin's been skimmin a long time. Been wipin his ass with everything down the middle. Where's Pierce Dudley's regular taste? How long's Bentley been holding out? That Cuban pussy only the stable door and that motherfuckin horse be long gone. Diming ain't got shit to do with morality. It's called retribution. And ain't there a reward?

Colin O'Meara takes Pierce into a private room. Brings Dwayne Clooney in with him. Pierce gabs on Dustin's exploits with Janine George and the cops like it. Pierce wonders after a reward and O'Meara gives him a crumpled dollar bill and directions to the vending machine.

*

Dwayne's got his piece out. So has Colin. Colin knocks, goes, 'Police, Open the door.'

They wait. Nada. Dwayne tries the doorknob. It turns. They go in.

'You in here, Bentley?' goes Dwayne. Guns are poised for action. They scope rooms and find Dustin Bentley strung-out, hanging off his bed like a disused puppet.

*

They spoke with Janine a little while back. Words came slowly. They were impressed by her strength. Colin and Dwayne told her so. She tried her best. It's all hazy. Emily held her hand throughout.

Dwayne to Colin, about Dustin Bentley: 'Asshole's out farther than even NASA couldn't send him.'

Colin: 'Could he be faking it?'

Dwayne: 'I've seen it like this before.'

Colin: 'So what? We wait?'

Dwayne: 'We wait.'

Meanwhile

Tribune quotes Chicago PD Superintendent Ralph Darling: Michael Morella is a good policeman. He is very capable. In this instance, however, he and we agreed that things were quickly getting too far ahead of him. Mistakes were made and, ultimately, the responsibility lies at his door. I would also like to refute claims that Detective Morella was being used as some kind of patsy for the FBI or anyone else. This couldn't be further from the truth. Eggs must be broken to make an omelet and, here, the eggs, unfortunately, can be a man's ego. We are grown men in this department and each of us knew the potential pitfalls when we stepped up to the plate on this unprecedented case. I like to think that Michael Morella is a grown man.

Ouch.

Theo chuckles:...eggs can be a man's ego... Classic Darling rhetorical crap. Rumors of him resigning his post and running for the Senate, with talk like this, would make for some seriously funny soundbites. Everyone sees Darling's position as untenable. It's been a shambles. Barefaced fact: Feds/CPD hierarchy went headfirst and dropped the ball. Head goon Fonda, where's he now? FBI says they're retooling, regrouping. Yeah, pull the other one.

Mike Morella peeked above the parapet and got egg on is badge. Comeuppance. King Lear's pursuers are a skeleton crew with arthritis. Odds are stacked against and slipping. Not much meat left on CID's bones. Come promotions season Theo sees a ghost house.

Theo's reading the paper, parked outside Nixon's storefront HQ three hours. Kirk McDonald's in there. No Caplan.

Myra said in the living room, 'You won't even call him?'

There's an article on Nixon's presidential rally in Springfield tomorrow in the Trib. Theo's seen mini-vans and pickups and campers dropping by in the past few hours collecting Nixon campaign stuff. He slipped a hippie chick a sawbuck and she confirmed, Yeah, the priest's goin down there. We all are.

Theo's not seen cop one fishing around down here for anything. CPD's stumped.

Costas.

Myra said, 'Bury this hatchet. He needs you.' Theo wanted to slap her goddamn mouth shut.

He's busy thinking like Darwin. Fittest = survival. Costas claws victories and is hailed a runaway champ. That hurts. Costas the Victim. Costas the Savior. Same result: acclaim.

Theo's not cut out for this waiting-around shit. He starts the car with a hard key turn.

How many of you sonsabitches watched Tucker Cole die? In the end, against the grain, it is Fate. He's gonna beat 'em all to the punch.

Somehow.

Meanwhile

Chicago Homicide

Dustin Bentley's sitting in the same room Pierce Dudley was. He's coming down kinda hard. He's cuffed. He goes, 'The walls are closing in on me, man. Fuck.'

Colin O'Meara flings a glass of water in Dustin's face and goes, 'Any better?'

Bentley's whiny and juvenile. It's been an hour of this after 2 hours of hanging around waiting for any semblance of coherence from the dopehead. Colin wants to take a knuckleduster to Bentley. Bentley's their strongest link so far to Lear.

And he kidnapped Janine!

'Been a long time searching for you, kid,' says Dwayne, after a hearty lunch.

'You ain't my type, sucker,' goes Dustin, rubbing his eyes.

Colin glowers at Dustin, full-on. He's thinking about Janine's cheerless face from earlier. Such a good kid. Emily said she'd hardly spoken since it happened and Colin says to Dustin, 'You the one took the girl?'

'Pierce Dudley told you that?' Dustin bellows.

Colin takes a step, plants his left foot and swings his right fist, knocking Dustin Bentley off his chair and onto the floor. Dustin stays down and Dwayne takes Dustin's seat, crossing his legs and slipping his hands into his pockets. Dustin moans and wriggles on the floor.

Colin says to Dustin, 'Who gave you money for the private dick?'

Dustin cradles the left side of his jaw. He works himself to his knees and Dwayne jabs Dustin's ass with a playful, irritating foot.

Dwayne says to Dustin, 'Come on. Spit it out.' Dustin spits out blood, not much.

He sits on the floor, goes, 'You could've broke my jaw, man!'

Colin says, 'Who paid you?'

'I don't fuckin know who it was.'

Dwayne: 'You expect us to believe that?'

'He sent the money and the instructions in an envelope. I never saw him or spoke to him.'

Dwayne looks at Colin. Unbelievably, that's believable.

'You never met the guy, no phone calls?' says Colin.

'No, man. Nothin. Hey, I'm not talking till I get a lawyer,' Dustin dusting himself off and getting to his feet.

Colin says, pointing, 'You won't be talking because I'm gonna pull your goddamn tongue outta your mouth!'

'This is intimidation, man!' pointing right back.

Dwayne cracks Dustin in the balls with a swinging fist. He doesn't need to get up off the chair to do it. Dustin's down like a sack of potatoes.

Dwayne says calmly to Dustin, 'What have you done for him?'

Dustin's struggling to breathe on the floor, cupping his nutsack, groaning and cursing. Colin's hand-on-hip, leaning on the other chair.

He says, 'You got a warrant on you for absconding, dickweed. We got you on all kinds of nasty charges. You got kidnapping to start – that's a felony right there - parole violation and a 2nd count for possession.'

'Not to mention you're an accomplice to eight murders,' mentions Dwayne.

That gets Dustin's jaw retrained: 'Hey, I got nothin to do with them murders.'

'Make us believe you, Dustin,' says Dwayne, 'You're going back inside the joint, lawyer or no lawyer, it's a question of for how long. So just cough up.'

'Look,' says Dustin, 'I get these envelopes, I dunno how the motherfucker knows where I am, OK? There's my name on them, FAO Mr. Bentley, and there's cash money in there, you know? I'm drowning in greenbacks. The dude wants a gun, bread up front, bread on delivery. I get it to him on time, leave it in a hotel room and get the fuck outta there with my pay.'

Colin: 'How much we talking?'

Dustin's to his feet again, 'Couple hundred. So, some time goes and I get another envelope; same deal – cash, instructions. Drop this thing into some newspaper prick.'

Dwayne: 'What?'

Dustin: 'I dunno, it was a letter. I didn't read it.'

Dwayne: 'And? More.'

Dustin: 'More, yeah, more instructions. I'm to go see this private investigator, pay him big bucks to find this guy, uh, Patrick somebody.'

Dwayne helps him with, 'Caplan.'

'If you say so, man. I think that's right,' says Dustin. He's pacing a little, caressing his crotch on and off. 'That PI dude asked a lot of questions but I don't know if he found Caplan or not. It ain't got shit to do with me anyway, alright?'

Dwayne goes, 'And you got another envelope about a kidnapping?'

Dustin stops moving and holds his head, saying, 'Yeah. I got a grand up front and a picture. Catch this chick, take her to a place, hold her there and let her go when I get a call. That's all it was. I didn't have to harm her. I wouldn't.'

Dwayne: 'But traumatizing a young kid didn't seem like a new low to you?'

Dustin: 'The done deal was 2 large, man, on toppa what I got already. And I didn't touch her. Did she say something?'

Colin: 'How'd you do it?'

Dustin: 'Aw Jesus, I dunno, man, it was simple! I walked up to her, asked her directions and while she was looking at the map I brought – wham – I nailed her with ether. The car was right there. She was out easy.'

'And then?' says Dwayne.

'It said go to Eggleston Avenue.'

Colin goes, 'Where's that? South side somewhere?'

Dwayne replies, 'West Pullman. Go on, Dustin.'

Dustin goes on, 'There's an apartment building. It looks like it's being torn down or it should be. It's abandoned, I guess, I dunno; no furniture, no paint. Anyway, I took her into the first unlocked room I could find. Ground floor. I waited there until 12.30am on the dot. Then when I got back to Cicero I left her out at the corner I was supposed to. That's it. Hey, you know who this guy is?'

Story tallies with Janine's. (It took Janine George a minute to orientate herself when Dustin let her out of the building and drove off. She saw her father dreamily. She thought she was hallucinating Costas' picture in the puddle. She screamed, 'Daddy!' at the puddle.)

Dwayne stands and says to Dustin, 'You're being bankrolled by a murderer eight times over.'

'Shit,' is the best Dustin can muster, understanding the severity.

Colin again: 'And I guess you have no idea where your friend's stashed the bus driver's body?'

Dustin starts crying and goes, 'I don't know nothin. I never even saw this bird. I never hurt nobody!'

Dwayne raises his voice to Dustin, unsympathetic, 'You remember the address for the abandoned building?'

Dustin's all over the shop, crumpled, of his own accord, to the floor. 'Come on,' Dwayne whispers to Colin, 'let's take this piece of shit for a look-see.'

*

Colin and Dwayne keep Dustin Bentley cuffed in the rear. He bitches about police brutality non-stop. It's a mask: he's shitting his whities about going to jail. They said maybe 10 years for beginners. Dustin's all, if I'm doin a major stretch, at least let me murder that rat-fink Pierce Dudley before you throw away the key...

Dwayne eases his foot on Eggleston. It's mostly residential along the eastern flank; tidy, working class. Opposite to that it gets patchy: there's work going on. Scaffolding adorns the façade of a couple large redbrick edifices. They're ugly, bookending and being bookended by attractive houses with walkups of various description, basements and maintained lawns. Kids skip rope and run around on the sizzling Eggleston sidewalks. A stickball game on the street pauses and disperses to let Dwayne through.

Nearing the end of the block, Dustin goes, 'That's it,' nodding to his left. Dwayne finds a spot curbside. He and Colin take in the front of Dustin's building and then disembark.

Colin notices firstly the heavy scent of a flower he cannot name and secondly the heavily-shaded pathway, the front yard a jungle of overgrown foliage. From the sidewalk, the building's front door cannot be seen. Dwayne wipes sweat from his brow and helps Dustin out of the car.

Colin says, 'Lead the way, Bentley.' Dustin's reluctant. Colin shoves him in the back and says, 'You're delaying my lunch, asshole.' Dustin walks alright. The cops follow.

The walkway leading to the door is canopied by thick, overhanging vegetation. It's like an anteroom and its walls and ceiling muffle the commotion of construction – a cement mixer crunches, a man hammers a metal bar into shape up high – as well as midlevel street traffic. The temperature plummets in the shadows.

Dustin comes to the foot of a dozen ascending stone steps. The sheltered walkway ends abruptly. Colin and Dwayne are close behind Dustin. Dwayne finds the place eerie. It's got a graveyard vibe and a seclusion vibe. He can see why it was chosen as a hideout.

Colin says to Dustin at the summit of the steps, 'Is it locked?'

'How would I know, man?' says Dustin. Dwayne surveys the front of the building, tilting his neck so his eyes reach the roof. It's chipped, it's got architectural acne. Colin tries the door handle and it twists with no resistance.

He says to Dustin, 'Go.'

Everything's a mess, unfinished. Dusty. Hasn't been seen to in years. Was in the middle of renovations or early stages of demolition. Cracked ceiling. Ground and first floor stairways don't meet. Steps missing, bannister's hapless. Errant planks of wood and sheets of plywood, electrical wires hanging out of wall sockets.

Dustin takes them to Apartment 4, stepping past a filthy bathtub and over a fallen pile of cardboard boxes, their contents – miscellaneous papers and documentation – spewed out. The boxes at the bottom have given way to dampness at their corners.

Apartment 4's door is open. The rest are closed tight. Dwayne, Colin and Dustin see Raymond Simpson dead in the center of the single-room. The men stand staring.

Dustin's scared: 'Man, I didn't have shit to do with that!' Large armchair in the corner's grayed with neglect, probably a shade of blue before.

Desperate Dustin: 'You hearin me?' to whomever will listen. His yell echoes. So does the slap to the back of his head from Colin.

Dwayne steps into the room, the bare concrete floor loud beneath his weight. There are strewn-about needles, a thermos flask, what appears to be a small, once-living fire on the floor: signs of squatters. With the strong sunlight pouring in on numerous small pieces of glass, the floor sparkles about the dead body. This incongruous beauty only accentuates the scene's strangeness.

Dwayne's cautious on approach. Simpson's hands are tied behind him with rope around the back of the wooden chair. He lies on his back, two dark holes where his eyes were. The blood's long congealed. The blood's spatter is extensive. It falls short of the back wall in a fan of droplets. Dwayne takes a knee by Simpson and fishes a sheet of paper from Simpson's pants pocket, no breast pocket available, using tweezers he carries everywhere. Dwayne's hand's a little unsteady. Heart rate's up. Something about the horrific death of this ordinary family man bothers Dwayne more than the others.

Colin comes fully into the room to get a load of Simpson. Dustin's made to follow him, within reach. Dustin's about as white as a white man can get. Colin sighs and loosens his necktie. Dwayne leaves the Shakespeare quote where he found it and stands.

He goes, 'I'll call it in,' and punctually exits the room. Colin is quiet, looking about for anything without disturbing anything. Dustin stands as still as he can. Stomach cramps are on the march. Soon he will need to cop very badly. But he knows that acrimony towards the blue boys is a no-no for the moment. The pigs'll break bones and call it a fall... Hey, he could make a run for it...

Colin looks down on Simpson, body empty, a few feet away. He's trying to get inside King Lear's head. He finds that he hasn't got the imagination for it. A real sinking feeling engulfs Colin O'Meara and the hope of success that's driven him so far is draining fast. Fires up a Chesterfield and it's so fuckin good. He wonders what Costas is up to.

8pm

Residence of Mr. & Mrs. Costas George

Colin had to bustle past the few straggling reporters. The sky's marmalade. They sit in the living room. Colin holds his brew. The new TV's shiny and switched off. Costas' beer is on the coffee table. Colin talks about how Jim Underwood's gonna run King Lear's crazy letter to Ulysses Thompson in the morning. He also talks a bit about how it looks like Ralph Darling's gonna walk, P&P: plaudits & pension.

'Officially, Darling's the one pulled protection on the mortician that got it from Lear,' says Colin, burping and sighing. 'Officially, he wants to spend more time with his family. He'll bounce back into some cushy city committee, you watch. Give it six months. Cocktail party cops like Darling never get what's really coming to them.'

Janine sweeps through the room. She says hi to Colin and he says hi back. The resultant minutes of quietness remind Colin of morgues he's been in. Come to think of it, Costas looks like a corpse. Colin stares worriedly at his friend and his friend stares a thousand, a million yards.

He's time-travelling: checking the future, consulting the past. Costas always knew that Ray Simpson was cold somewhere. He prepared himself. Knowing it as fact is very different. He hadn't unprepared himself.

'Chief,' goes Colin, leaning in slowly to dab Costas' knee with a finger, speaking softly, 'Are you OK?'

Costas listens closely to the clock on the mantel.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Win-ston. Win-ston.

See the fault-lines, feel the rumble, run to the nearest door frame.

Costas moves his head a little, his eyes move too but they stay on the walls. He goes, 'Needs paint.'

Colin looks at the wall and goes, 'Yeah, I guess.' Costas seems to wake up, remains tranquil and reaches for his beer.

Keyed-up Colin says to him, 'Need help with it?'

Costas nods. He doesn't look at Colin. Costas gulps his beer and his lower lip plumps as he swallows.

September 13th, 1968

The next morning

The Roadside Motel

3 minutes N of Springfield, Illinois

9.15am

I was present for Tucker Cole's execution.

I was the first to put the murders of Elm Kite, Grady Birch and Ulysses Thompson together.

Friday the 13th. A portentous and fitting omen. Theo's not at all superstitious. He smiles nevertheless, sipping good coffee, looking through the net curtains of his room. There's nothing there. There's highway.

This is mine. Always has been.

Nixon-Agnew speaks at the stump in 5 hours and 45 minutes. Theo's completely alone out here. He's Jesse James. He feels in total control. Destiny has handed over the reins. He has no excuses. There is no need for them this morning. He doesn't know what will happen today. It is, however, certainly win or lose.

You're gonna fall right into my lap, Caplan. I know it.

He takes a few slow steps along the mollifying orange carpet to the made bed and places the mostly-empty cup on his bedside dresser. No radio, no TV. He's thinking a lot about breakfast. Got a serious hankering for sourdough. Don't ask him why. A huge semi speeds by, not 20 yards beyond his window. It makes the room shake. Theo sits to put his shoes on and shakes his head with another smile: Friday the 13th. Hey, why not?

Meantime

Chicago Homicide

Casimir Infante picks up his ringing phone and goes, 'Sergeant Infante.'

A silky, calm voice says, 'Hello, my name is Candace Axworthy. I was looking for Detective George but the man I spoke to said to talk to you.'

Infante: 'Yes, Detective George is on temporary leave. What is this about please?'

Candace gives little indication of nerves: 'Perhaps you are aware: I am Patrick Caplan's ex-wife.'

Casimir listens more closely, 'Oh yes? Hello.'

'Well, he was here. Patrick was.'

Casimir's back's a plank. He goes, 'When was this, Mrs. Axworthy?' Casimir covers his mouthpiece and yells, 'O'MEARA!'

Candace says, 'He just left.'

Colin runs to Infante. Infante ushers him into the office and says to Candace, 'Did he say where he was going?' Infante scribbles CAPLAN onto a writing pad and slides it across to Colin.

Colin's knocked over, pointing at the phone, he goes, 'That's him?'

Infante waves him off with a grimace to hear the woman speak and Candace says to Infante, 'He came by to say goodbye to me. I gave him a few dollars, what I had in my purse. There was a man waiting for him in a car. It was less than a minute probably,' with signs of tears now on the horizon.

Throughout that, Infante's changed CAPLAN to CAPLAN'S EX on the pad for Colin's edification. Casimir to Candace: 'And he told you where he was going?'

She says unhesitatingly, 'Springfield.'

'Springfield, Illinois?'

'Yes.' Casimir nods to Colin and Colin's gone so fast he bumps into the doorframe on the way out.

Meantime

Chicago to Springfield South on I-55

Strange things can enter a man's head at strange times. Patrick Caplan's being chauffeured (Kirk's word) by Kirk McDonald. They're alone. The back seat's flattened. The trunk door needed them both to get it locked down. All the Nixon-Agnew flotsam's jammed in there. Kirk hasn't asked Patrick if he's come to any decisions about going to the police. Kirk didn't question Patrick's short visit to see his ex-wife. All Kirk's said since they began travelling is that it's another one of God's beautiful days.

Patrick's jealous of Kirk's simplistic look on things. It's one thing or the other, feast or famine. Patrick's feeling grayness around him. He looks out the window toward something tugging at his sleeve, some outwardly force somewhere lurking inward beyond the hills, extending past the prairies; even, maybe, reaching out to the skies or into the depths of his own natural core. He'll be damned if he can name the sensation but it's definitely dark in nature and revolves around his life before Christ. It's a shade of dissatisfaction's spectrum.

Seeing Candace was neither a plus nor minus event. He'd hoped that she'd refuse to let him leave. He searched for shades of green. Her pitying eyes flashed red. He's been thinking about Carol in California again. Is it she that calls to him across the humps and hollows?

He's thirsty so cracks open a soda. It's sweet against the heat. The news says that the authorities will save Patrick Caplan. Kirk says that God will save Patrick whatever happens. The more saviors selling hope, the less secure Patrick feels, the more Patrick wants a drink.

Who is pulling the strings? Why must I feel powerless over my own existence?

The road was lonely horror. The road was disloyal freedom.

'Penny for your thoughts,' says Kirk. Patrick looks ahead. The road may have its bends and its corners. Still, it sure won't tell a man how best to save himself.

Yes, very strange things, indeed.

11.03am

Colin called Costas: 'We got Caplan,' going into the whys and wherefores of it. Costas sang and danced about not being needed. Colin said that that violin shit was for Wall Street types, whatever that meant exactly. He got real aggressive down the phoneline. He fuckin baited Costas. It was highest-stakes talk. Sounded like Colin smoked 3 cigarettes at once. The talk was verging on, are you man enough for it? Costas stood in the silence of his living room and took the bait. Colin asked him about journalists. Costas said his yard was crawling with them. Colin said he figured that and so cooked up a scheme. Costas thought it childish, ducking and weaving. Colin veiled it, so you're a mouse after all? Costas suddenly hadn't enough ears.

Colin went, 'Any neighbors you got trustworthy?'

Costas thought of nobody and then he thought of Daisy Hockett. Then the words long and shot.

'She done any interviews on you?'

'No.'

'They tried though, right?'

'Yes.'

'OK. Great. So call her up and tell Daisy that you're in a bind. You need to get out of the house but can't have any reporters following. Explain to her that she's got to talk to them. Answer whatever questions they have. While they're being fed her tales of your decency, I pick you up down the block.'

Costas went, 'This is crazy.'

Colin said, 'You're goddamn right it is. I'll be there in 20 minutes.'

Janine was upstairs in bed. Emily was upstairs too. There's been a lot of that. Christ, running around like this: talk about pathetic. Costas didn't want to make Daisy do anything like this. He didn't want to impose on her. And yet he did ask her to do it, with a dry mouth, and she was incredibly, blessedly co-operative.

Daisy said, with relish, that she liked the idea of pulling the wool over their eyes, especially if it was to give Costas a helping hand. She said she'd keep her answers honest and brief. She hoped that Costas only needed a small window of time. Costas told her how indebted and grateful he was.

*

Colin white-knuckles it to Springfield. Costas holds on. They're riding point. Behind them is Dwayne struggling to keep up. Rudy Ollis shotguns for company. None of the men are treating this Caplan break lightly. They got moving as inconspicuously as possible.

Springfield PD have been put on alert with huge emphasis on no leaks. They're 20 minutes out. Colin's got to slow in the face of a Pontiac stuck behind a tractor-trailer laden with a tower of hay bales. He curses and pounds the wheel.

Costas is convincing himself of the logic supporting his justification for coming along. Redemption seems the most accessible: Save Caplan, wipe out Simpson memories. Simple. Dwayne tailgates Colin. Colin's up the Pontiac's ass.

Dawdling, dawdling...45mph, 46mph, 45mph...

Colin's nudging his nose back and forth across the center line, leaning impatiently for a chance to overtake. He batters the horn at the green Pontiac for not trying to pass the tractor. The Pontiac driver's unperturbed and maintains.

Costas says, 'It's OK,' and Colin replies, 'Gotta be a goddamn broad.'

The tractor's passenger sticks a hand out the window and waves those behind to go. Colin waits a second for the Pontiac to take the signal. It doesn't.

Colin creases his brow and pulls out to fly - when the goddamn bluest Chevy you ever saw screeches into Colin's wing mirror suddenly, coming up suicide-fast from behind.

Colin swerves back inside – 'Fuckin hell!' – as the Chevy continues forward on the wrong side of the road. Colin ladles out expletives at that passing Chevy and Costas is the first to see that the Chevy's not actually speeding beyond the truck.

The Chevy levels itself with the Pontiac. And it stays that way. The driver of the Chevy, unidentifiable, appears to have a gun in his right hand.

Colin says, 'What the -- ?' watching on in disbelief. The Chevy driver aims at the Pontiac driver. The Pontiac swerves sharply to its right - and a gunshot goes off.

BANG!!

Costas jumps. Colin wobbles the wheels.

BANG!!

The fuckin Pontiac careens off the road, into a crisply ploughed field. Colin blinks.

BANG!!

3 rounds burnt in less than 2 seconds. Colin's dazzled. Doesn't hit the brakes. Now the Chevy passes the tractor.

Meanwhile, behind: Dwayne's smashed on the brakes, shunting his back wheels out, skewing their stationary car's angle on the road to 45/50 degrees. They've shot past the off-road Pontiac. The Pontiac's not moving. This shit's all simultaneous.

Meanwhile: Costas and Colin see Dwayne alighting his car behind them, taking a knee behind it, drawing his weapon. Maybe 3 seconds have passed since the shooting. Colin looks to Costas and confused Costas whispers, 'Go.'

Colin blurts his front fender out, mounts the other side of the road, catches a glimpse up ahead of the bailing Chevy and crashes his foot through the floor. The engine admonishes and soon the tractor's a thing of the past. The chase is on.

There's something that says they've got to catch that Chevy.

*

Dwayne's covering the Pontiac steadily, lowered by his left front wheel. Protected. The Pontiac's still idling in the dust. Rudy Ollis covers likewise from a standing position at their unmarked's trunk. They're on the tarmac, 60 feet away. The Pontiac's got a bullet hole in the driver's door and the window behind the driver's been blown out.

Dwayne nods to Rudy and Rudy starts very, very slowly to step into the open towards the Pontiac. The seated driver's visible. He isn't moving. He may be dead.

One Mississippi, Two Mississippi...

Dwayne keeps his aim poised. It's a long way for a revolver to be accurate.

Rudy shouts, 'Open the door and show your hands,' making a mental note of the plates.

Nothing.

Dwayne wipes his brow. The sun's hard, hard, hard.

Three Mississippi, Four Mississippi...

It's a metropolis of quiet. Rudy reiterates his demand. He's 30 feet off. He stops encroaching, his piece still pointed at the car and ready to fire.

'Shut off the engine and step out of the -'

The fuckin Pontiac guns it, kicking up dry dirt and it's static for a half second - the back wheels just spinning maniacally for purchase - and the body of the auto slides left and then right and then it straightens and then it zips off its mark like a dragster.

Dwayne and Rudy don't think twice about opening up, peppering the vehicle – homing in on the tires - causing little damage. After a hundred yards or so of adulterated dirt, the Pontiac feels safe enough to turn back onto roadway. He's headed South.

Why is he driving – no, speeding in the direction of the car that tried to kill him? Rudy quickens back to Dwayne, coughing from exertion, from dust. Dwayne's got the car primed in first with Rudy's door open. Rudy jumps in. They hot-pursue. Rudy breathlessly calls in the Pontiac's plates.

*

I have been neglected. As have you.

That blue Chevy's cutting up road. Jesus, he's everywhere. He's worse than any Red Menace. Nobody's safe. Colin's got the car shuddering, like it's about to explode, zipping in and out of slipstreams. The view ahead's blurry. They could die. They could take off. The chase is nothing like Costas or Colin has before experienced. It's highest-octane. It's riveting and petrifying. They swish past cars dangerously toward Springfield, blaring horns.

Town limits are coming up. This is no time for Sunday driving. The Chevy's staying down the highway's middle with no regard for anyone. Drivers alongside him and facing have to swerve to avoid catastrophe. Horns are cacophonous. Some people pull over to the side of the road to gather themselves. Grand Avenue appears like a mirage. The chase continues in the direction of downtown.

A lot of Springfield's outskirts are closed off. Traffic access is severely curtailed. Entering the town at top speed, the Chevy takes a squealing left at an intersection, straightening its tail at the last moment to evade a street lamp. Colin does the same, nicking his tail at the lamp the Chevy missed. Colin stalls on restart. Colin's pissed. The Chevy ducks down an alley.

Main streets are a no-go area. Colin gets moving again. Heads for the Chevy's alley a half a block down and across the street. There's hardly anyone around. Retail stores are shut. The interest is saturated at the epicenter in Washington Park. The noise is audible 6, 8, 10 streets over. Colin takes the curb and hits the alley hard. Brakes harder. It's a shallow cul-de-sac. Almost nose-to-rear with the parked Chevy.

Costas and Colin pull their guns. No driver visible. Colin opens his door and wields his piece. Costas slowly gets out too. By now Colin's sniffing around the Chevy. Checks inside. Empty.

Colin sees a wire-fence blocking the Chevy's path. Must've been how the asshole bounced, climbed the damn thing. Costas says he's gonna call in the plates.

*

Show the ratbastards that you're no soft-hearted liberal where it counts.

Washington Park's packed, thousands and thousands. Party atmosphere. Nixon's wooden here-today-gone-tomorrow podium looks like a gallows to the uninitiated. Sore-thumb Secret Service comb, cold to the jolly plebs.

Sheriff Beck's lithe, young, walks with a meaningful step. He's been waiting. Dressed smart-casual but the experience of authority's there in his handshake's lunging pump, eyes locked intensely with concentration. Office is crammed with a cadre – 8 or 9 strong - of steely-faced loyalists, itching for an order. Beck listens fervently to Colin and Costas re the Chevy and the mystery driver/gunman. Beck dispatches a pair to look into the abandoned Chevy.

Costas: Waiting on a report back on the Chevy's plates. Beck's wasted no time sending out calculated Caplan search parties.

Describe the Chevy driver. Can't.

Describe the Pontiac driver. Can't.

Colin says they're waiting on Pontiac plates too. Sheriff Beck discusses the possibility of roadblocks. With the events of the day, he's really dancing to the tune of Nixon's goons. They will not stand for any last minute divergence from this plan to protect their man. It's been in the works for weeks.

Beck apologizes to the detectives for that. Beck's got the safety of a candidate for the US presidency to worry about. He's got maybe the King Lear Killer's final hit skulking about too. And this town definitely ain't big enough for the both of them. Costas is impressed by Beck's coolness, organization and decisiveness. He's no laissez-faire bum. He speaks firmly and directly and without any fear of contradiction. Bumpkins sometimes jellify when city cops come knocking. It's clear that Springfield's police ranks run as a meritocracy.

The Sheriff's flush with walkie-talkies. A frequency is agreed upon. Cardinal points are accorded generally. Costas and Colin pull East. Streets, street corners and landmarks are used as areas of operation by Beck for his underlings.

Everyone's just about gone when Dwayne arrives following a run. Rudy's puking up his breakfast back a ways. Couldn't keep up. All the cops stop dead for Dwayne. Ringside seats for the Republican roadshow are going fast. Every street's clogged.

Dwayne goes, 'Plates came back on the Pontiac. It's a rental.'

Sheriff Beck waves his men to go about their business and they unerringly comply. Dwayne pulls Costas, Colin and Beck back inside the sheriff's office, away from the carnival racket.

Dwayne looks uncharacteristically shaken and says, 'Rented yesterday evening in Chicago.'

'By who?' says Costas.

Dwayne wastes no time: 'Hogue Mallard.'

*

Why can't you be more like Thomas?

Theo tried roaming first: looked in restaurant and store windows, stared at Nixon groupies preparing, peeked around corners. Couldn't see Caplan. When he finds him, Theo may punch Patrick Caplan before kissing him. Popped into a café off the Park, got a coffee to go. It seems like this should be Hubert Humphrey country. Theo feels a strange sense of déjà vu.

Butterflies. Decided to go static. Stood outside the café, sipping.

Costas crossed the street, hurried, panicky almost, at Theo's twelve o'clock headed to his nine. Colin was stuck to Costas, searching, fidgeting on hot coals. Theo held his breath. Costas saw Theo. Theo saw Costas. Colin didn't see Theo. Costas didn't stop to chat. He didn't break stride. They got a tip on Caplan too? Theo felt a jolt of self-pity followed by self-righteousness followed by doubt, regret, anger and determination.

This is MINE.

That was 4 minutes ago. Theo's prowling again. He's got an extra half step. If Costas is here, Patrick Caplan is here.

Then: that's him. Over there. The Man Who Would Be Caplan is practically holding hands with that priest, McDonald. There's a gaggle of them chatting on a park bench, enjoying the buzz, a distance behind where Nixon's soon due to address the audience.

Seeing Caplan and knowing that he is not mistaken shocks Theo. Theo starts for Caplan. It's a long 50-yard quick-march. Closing in... Dodges an ice cream vendor...40 yards... Faster! Theo's looking right down the line, picking up the pace, peripheral vision's for losers...30 yards... Looks a lot like the priest's saying his goodbyes to people...20 yards... Caplan's about to start moving...15 yards....

A small flatbed truck pulls up onto the grass lugging large speakers and sound gear. It's headed for the podium. Theo doesn't see it coming in from his 3 o'clock...10 yards... Caplan's going! The flatbed's horn honks loudly and the driver cuts off Theo's sight. Theo's momentum bumps him into the side of truck.

Driver shoves his head out the window and goes, 'Hey, do your sleeping at night!'

Theo's not waiting around. Could he give a fuck? Caplan's gone again.

*

Survival of the fittest only benefits America in the long run, wouldn't you agree?

Kirk says, 'How are you feeling, Pat?'

Patrick doesn't say queasy.

He says, 'Good.'

'It's amazing, isn't it, how one man's vision for the future can galvanize the ideals of so many others to act?' says Kirk about Nixon with his usual optimistic patter.

The crowd's swelling. Patrick's feeling claustrophobic. Cannot ditch these niggling doubts. They're headed towards Kirk's hotel. He forgot his baseball cap in his room.

Kirk goes, 'I'll be a minute.'

Patrick says nothing. He stands in the busy lobby, a light knapsack around his shoulder, T-shirt, shorts, sneakers. He notices something written on the wall behind reception: We Sell Train Tickets. Clarity beckons: I need to get out of here. Patrick approaches the desk and says to the clerk, 'Excuse me. When is the next train leaving?' The Clerk goes, 'Where are you headed, sir?' 'Anywhere. The next train.' The Clerk gives Patrick a sidelong glance and produces a timetable from out of sight, lying it flat in front of Patrick. 'You may find this useful,' he says, before going off to do something else. Patrick hungrily checks the laminated schedule. He checks the clock on the wall. Then he asks himself if what he's feeling is the truth and nothing else besides. Because the next train departs in 10 minutes.

*

Is it this terrible race to which I was born?

Who would want to kill Hogue Mallard? And why did Mallard run from the police? These are questions worth asking.

Costas pulls up outside a dry-goods store. Needs a breather. Loosens his collar. Updates crackle from the radio on his belt. Nothing so far. Colin's nearby, looking around still, tied to Costas invisibly, never 10 more than yards away. There seems to be millions of people here. There are flitting riot flashbacks.

Swallow.

That bile... Costas is dizzied. Colin comes in for a checkup, 'You OK, Chief?'

Costas nods, hunched a little. Up the street, there's a BANG.

Costas and Colin stare in the direction of it. Could be anything: car backfiring, firecrackers, something big falling from a height. Nothing happens. Nobody bats an eyelid. The men hold their breath. And exhale.

And a woman screams down there, 'He's got a gun!' and there's a couple yelps and a portion of the crowd disperses enough for Colin and Costas to see a tall man in dark clothes darting, escaping amidst the bodies. He's up ahead, a half a block, headed West. Costas shorts it west down an alley. Colin runs due North to follow as fast as possible. Someone says on the radio, 'I think I just heard a gunshot'

*

And whose flesh shall we donate?

Patrick Caplan waits with no patience at the foot of the hotel's main stairs. He's got this train ticket in his hand. He can't remember paying for it. He's feeling like he's gonna throw up.

Where the hell is Kirk?

Patrick wants to say goodbye. It's the respectful, grateful thing to do. Heart's doing the Tommy Gun Shuffle. He's afraid that Kirk will try to dissuade him. Takes the bottom step. He also believes that Kirk will let him go with God's blessing. Off the bottom step. Patrick's afraid that he's gonna rip up the fuckin ticket in about 30 seconds if he doesn't vamoose. Train's in 5 minutes... His eyelids flicker. He may be about to pass out...

Patrick leaves the building through a side door. The air saves him. He will write Fr. McDonald. He will be a man of letters.

Sees a cop: ducks back inside. Waits for the coast to clear. Takes a step outside again and starts walking smartly down the sidewalk towards the nearby train station.

Man, he's feeling alive! And then...

*

Tigerish Theo ain't leaving this godforsaken town without his bone. He's panicking. He's seeing it slip from his grasp.

He sees...Patrick Caplan leaving a hotel and starting to walk perpendicular, to Theo's left. Theo hesitates. The strain of this bullshit's taking its pound of flesh in installments.

He begins to run. His mouth's parched.

He shouts, 'Patrick Caplan!' and Caplan doesn't stop, doesn't motherfuckin hear him. And Theo sees a man in dark clothes standing before Caplan. Caplan's got his head down, doesn't see the man in dark clothes. Theo keeps running, sees the man in dark clothes raise a gun and point it at Caplan. Theo loses his mind. Caplan's 15 yards from the man. Theo speeds up, having trouble through the throng, losing pace. Looks again: a glimpse of metal in the sunlight. The gunman takes a step. His face is shadowed. Theo yells at Patrick over and over. Theo's stuck, is he? His feet are glued. Patrick stops and turns his head to Theo. Hear the squeeze of the trigger... Theo tackles Patrick.

And fucking BANG!

*

I got things in my head so's I don't know what's comin round the corner.

Costas finds the opposite end of the alley. This street knows nothing of anything. Pit stains. People mill and look at Costas like he's a freak. Costas sees Colin emerge up ahead.

Where's the running man?

Costas rushes north as best he can to join his partner.

Colin's on tiptoes, goes, 'Did you see him?'

Costas says no and Colin points, 'There!' and sets off again.

Costas stays with him, moving north. It's all a haze. All Costas can see is a dark form, scooting left and right. It's pretty easy to track, everyone's dressed for the 90 degree heat. The form dashes left, ditching the flow of people. Colin almost falls. Takes the same left so quickly. They're hot on this guy now.

'Hey!' Colin shouts. He's close enough to do that and maybe be heard. The presumed assailant sprints down another tight alley. Looks like he's on his last legs. Colin's right on him, running full-pelt. Costas has found his second wind and is keeping up. His body ain't gonna thank him later. The man in the dark clothes skips back onto a less crowded street, taking a sharp right. There was indecision in that move. This close shave run-in was certainly not part of the plan. A train whistle blows in the distance. Costas and Colin stay hot on the sidewalk, people getting bumped.

And BANG, somewhere. A scream.

Colin and Costas stop and have their guns poised in a second. The gunman in dark clothes stands on the sidewalk up ahead. People yell. The man in dark clothes falls to his knees.

Jesse Cole shoots Hogue Mallard in the chest for a second time.

Colin screams, pointing his gun at Jesse Cole, 'You put that fuckin piece down right now! Right now, Goddamn you!'

Jesse Cole's got nothing in his eyes. He drops the gun. Colin roughly gets Jesse on the floor and cuffs him. Jesse Cole has no fight or flight left in him.

Hogue Mallard's bleeding from his mouth on the cold concrete. He's choking on it. Costas George hasn't even time to be astonished by the sight. Costas gets down onto his knees and cradles Hogue Mallard's head. Hogue's eyes swim. His hair's drenched from perspiration. Hogue Mallard's about to die.

He gulps blood and whispers to Costas: 'Clarence Darrow.'

*

Gentleman, it is quite true to say that we are none of us divisible from our actions or decisions.

Theo's unconscious. There's a circle of gawkers as usual. Theo's shirt's soaking up blood in the shade. A doctor fights for space, pushing the gawkers for room. He gets like a rabid dog. An ambulance is coming.

Did anybody see anything?

Doc finds a hole under Theo's left armpit, pumping out claret. No exit wound. Where's the other guy? The guy that was underneath him...

*

Patrick didn't know what the fuck just happened. Banged his head pretty nicely. Pushed the unmoving man off him. It was sheer instinct to do so. Escape. People gathered round fast. They were all, You OK, man? to Patrick. Patrick stood up shakily and vomited. That kept them back. He didn't look back. He struggled his way out of the mélange. A train whistle blew. It came back to him, the reason. How did the realization feel? Nirvana. He ran.

He partly guessed the route. Vomiting was a godsend. He dropped 50 pounds in an instant and, floating, before he knew it, he was on the platform. And the train was pulling out. He'd never catch it without super powers.

So Patrick shut his eyes real tight and crossed his fingers and whispered a wish to have wings.

EPILOGUE

Christmas Day, 1968

The intercom buzzes by the door. Breathless Charlie bangs across the hardwood floor in his new heavy hobnails, loose laces lashing, to answer.

'That you, Dad?'

'Sure is, buddy boy!' says crackling Colin.

Charlie buzzes in his Dad and runs down to meet him. The lad ticks every box: huge smile, wide eyes, thumping heart. Careers carelessly downstairs, forgetting Santa's visit, knowing always that Santa will never, ever leave a boy's father beneath the tree.

Colin has enough time to shift his wrapped gift under his left arm before Charlie launches himself 3 steps above to be caught. No doubt, no question. Total trust. And Dad is good to the expectation.

They embrace with gusto and Colin says, 'Happy Christmas, my boy.'

'I love you so much, Dad. I can't even say,' says freckled Charlie with braces on his top and bottom teeth. Charlie smells alcohol on his Dad's breath, as he has before, and he knows that Mom hates Dad because of it or something else but Charlie knows to zip his lips or Mom will get mad if she finds out and then it'll be like always and he really doesn't want it to be like always. Not today.

Father and son stare at each other and Dad gives son's face an extra squeeze to fatten the cheeks and Charlie's eyes, my oh my, they are such sparklers.

Colin says, 'I love you too,' with Charlie wiping crumbs of snow from his Dad's shoulder. He is besotted. They go back upstairs into the apartment and Colin says, 'Where's your Mom?'

'She's in the shower,' goes Charlie, knees to the floor, unwrapping his present ravenously.

The apartment's very tight but very warm and something good's on the stove. The tree's perfectly decorated. Greta was the queen of symmetry when it came to that. A brand new sled sits nearby. There's Christmas kitsch dotted about the place, beautiful candles modestly positioned about. She really has an eye for understatement. Man, do her highlights all bite at Colin.

'Oh my God, Dad!' goes Charlie, 'Just like yours!' It's a train set, a starter kit. Colin started dabbling on the sly a couple months back. Hooked immediately. Kid loves to come over and make the thing fly. It's something new for Shelly to gripe about. Colin doesn't care. He prefers the goddamn train set.

Colin lights a cigarette and says, 'And you know what? We can join ours together to make them even longer.'

'For real, Dad?!'

'Uh-huh,' taking another hug, maybe better than the first.

Greta emerges from the bathroom, face red, hair up in a towel, another towel wrapped about her. She's not surprised to see Colin. They're supposed to go to church as a family. She's doing it for Charlie.

'Merry Christmas, Colin,' she says and approaches. Kisses his cheek and Colin's floored. She's been so harsh. Two nights ago she called to say that she's moving to Denver to her sister's and she's taking Charlie with her. Colin fumed and wept and begged and Greta seemed unfazed. She never thought he was a bad guy, just not the best for her. He's a cop first and it's hard to change that. She believes that he tried. He said this time that he'd quit for her, not to reunite, just to keep the boy around. That King Lear case, 'Christ, Gret, it's beaten any passion for the badge right outta me.'

Colin smiles and shifts a bit and Greta says, 'Can I bum one?' and Colin says, 'No problem,' giving her a Chesterfield and lighting it for her.

Charlie says, 'Look what I got, Mom!'

Mom stares at Colin: 'That's wonderful, sweetheart. Now, make sure you got your gloves and hat and scarf for me, OK? We gotta go soon.'

Charlie obliges without flinching, running off to his room.

Colin says, 'You look good.'

She replies, 'You been drinkin.'

'One,' he goes, 'I had one.' He had 4.

'Bullshit,' she goes, blowing smoke, wagging a finger with a smirk that's not like usual. He seizes on the opening with, 'It's Christmas,' shrugging.

Charlie, with gloves on, pops his little head out of his bedroom door and says, 'Hey Dad, you wanna go sledding after church?'

Colin looks at Mom and Mom, her back to the boy, says nothing so Dad goes, 'Sure, buddy boy. You try and stop me.'

Charlie punches the air, 'Yes!' returning to his room.

'Ain't that gonna make you late for Shelly's turkey?'

'Nah. She'll understand.'

'You guys got a healthy thing goin then, huh?'

'I was talking about the turkey.'

'Funny,' Greta nods like she's impressed and then says, stubbing out her cigarette in an ashtray, 'I'm cold. Back in a few.'

'Take your time,' he says. Greta turns away and starts to peel off the towel restraining her hair. She disappears behind the closed door as the hair swishes down against her bare shoulders and Colin finds the sight of it all highly arousing.

He takes a seat and he's happy with the small things like joking around, like the kiss on his cheek, like Greta standing there so vulnerable, like she rarely did when they were married. Under his feet is the rug they chose: an elephant herd in motion.

'Hey,' he goes, louder, 'you still got that elephant rug.'

Few seconds go by and she goes, 'Take the thing. I always hated it.'

And he laughs because this back-and-forth might be what they do now. If only they'd been able to do it when everything mattered so much more.

The trail of dainty, watery footprints leading into Greta's bedroom is faint – he sees it - and, in the heat, growing fainter.

*

He's sitting up in his bed, freezing. He's got one set of spare clothes. Gloves on his hands indoors. It's OK. That's Northern California for you.

Patrick Caplan's got his knees up with a writing pad on his knees. The words are not coming. He writes Dear Fr. McDonald...that's it. He's stuck. Dear Kirk...? Dear Freddy?

Patrick never did find Carol in Bakersfield. All the way from Illinois he pictured a miraculous happy ending. Built it up to skyscraper expectations. Gave it his best shot and it astounded him when his failure to even find her wasn't the end of the world. Hung around Bakersfield. Deadsville. Thought about Frisco. Thought better of it. Too many tripwires in the Haight.

He traveled a bit, including a few random bus journeys, and got a job cutting wood. Got an apartment on the first try in Oakland. Things are looking up. The booze still loiters, some days it harries and bullies. AA is a godsend. Photography takes up much of his time. He's making ends meet and the ends are courteous when they do. He's deeply retrospective and unsociable. It feels right for now. He knows it will change. He prays some days, not everyday. Buys into core Christian principles still. He has many questions though. Sometimes he gets answers from the strangest places.

Sometimes Pat thinks about Tucker Cole and the judge that killed every juror except him. He reads a little philosophy to help him understand why he was the only one to get away from that whole ordeal. We're talking 2nd, 3rd, 4th chances in life for this guy. Some days he feels unworthy and guilty, suffers that survivor's guilt. Some days, no matter how hard he tries, he cannot feel down in the dumps. His spirit's enjoying the contest at least. There's no need for him to be found.

The journalist that saved him is famous. Patrick doesn't trust the guy based on quotes and interviews. Theo George gives Patrick motivation for obscurity. Patrick could sell his story and maybe he will. At this moment, he is delighted to be the One Who Got Away.

People have given him the extra glance - is that...couldn't be! - and Patrick's eyes are riveted to the floor. It can be electrifying, being the country's most well-known mystery. He sneaks a grin from time to time. Even with two teeth missing. But he feels for Judge Mallard. He knows too well the thin red line. He knows how easy it can be to snap, to be pushed past sense into a place different to where no sense or logic or peace resides. This undeniable place, where nobody wants to go, where life becomes devoid of dimension and where the language uses no adjectives. It becomes merely a vibration and those who know it most intimately communicate wordlessly through their waves. For months now they've wondered tirelessly as to the judge's motives. There's been pages, expert interviews and there remains no decision and no tangible explanations so, in many ways, the incalculable forces that invaded and twisted Judge Mallard continue to sell their wares to the country at large. Patrick's pretty sure that this saga will reverberate for years to come.

Patrick was the probably the most reluctant of the 12 to put Tucker Cole to death. Unhealing time burns: he didn't stand up for himself. He was on the fence and the hard-nosed ones around the table horse-collared him over to their side. Patrick could say that he was young and that would be true. He could also say, perhaps more in earnest, that his character as a man was put to the test by the disapproving gazes of implacable men and he glaringly flunked his own test in order to pass theirs. Somehow, he has outlived each one of them. And there is no satisfaction in that. Although, there is real satisfaction to be had in the bite outside his creaky apartment building.

The sidewalk is slushy with leftover sleety snow. The brisk breeze brings every molecule to the surface of his skin and he does a quick headcount: yeah, I'm all here.

This Christmas morning Patrick's going to help feed the homeless and heartbroken at a nondenominational soup kitchen around the corner. The people in there giving up their time are the kind of people Patrick Caplan wants to have in his life. It's his 14th day volunteering. He knows that he'll be met with welcoming smiles. It's brutally emotional, thinking on previous Christmases. He won't ever forget them. But he's honestly not lonely, just glad to be alive, on the world's loneliest day.

Only problem's this old black guy, Trev, came in most days after an afternoon's scrounging. The guys running the joint don't allow hooch on the premises but Trev was a wily old bastard and he secreted a small bottle of the good stuff that was never quite full. Patrick eyed it and his yearning for a slug made him tattle. Trev got his wrist slapped. There's no coincidence that Patrick hasn't seen Trev since. Trev poked the sleeping bear of want. Patrick feels residue Probs attacks when things get silent in his bedroom and there's no kindly woman around to soothe the wounds.

The volunteers asked Patrick to sing a few carols last night. There was a makeshift band. He said the hell with it and murdered Jingle Bells and everyone loved it, demanding an encore. Eventually, they had to pretend that the amp was broken to get him off.

He'll write Kirk some other day, when the feelings are aligned, when it comes more easily. That's how it should be, easy. He owes himself that much, easiness, a break from the self-recrimination. He owes himself a lot of things.

Huddled in the soup kitchen's entrance, there's old Trev hugging his half-full bottle. Alarm bells go for Patrick. Patrick says Merry Christmas, Trev and Trev eyes him slowly, bitterly. Trev slides the bottle into the outer pocket of his heavy, raggedy overcoat.

Patrick watches it disappear and says, 'I hope you're hungry,' with a smile, his eyes quickly moving to Trev's in an effort to forget that goddamn half-full bottle. Trev grunts and straightens himself. A couple decrepit stragglers pass Patrick and then Trev to go inside.

Trev says to Patrick, 'When you smile, you like one ugly motherfucker,' and spitting a wad on the floor. The stragglers cackle. Patrick swallows the venom. His gaze wobbles. Humiliation reveals itself like melting wax. Trev follows the stragglers in. The wooden door slaps shut. Patrick's a statue. He searches his body for blood. Feels like he's draining onto the pavement, back into the gutter that so gleefully accepted his ruination as hard currency. Despair will never reject a man.

He pulls the door open. It takes everything available to him to do it. Patrick can't recall the last time he so desperately needed to be drunk. Trev's bottle is fifty feet tall. It's Godzilla. It's destroying everything in its path.

It's half-empty.

*

Theo's got 6 meaty figures in his pocket for the book on his role in King Lear. Jesus, he got a call from President-elect Richard Nixon!

He allows his night attire fall to the white-tiled floor. Naked, Theo stretches, lets the shower water run, tests it with a hand before slipping under the warm cascade. Oh, it is a beautiful thing.

The book's due to be finished in early March. It's coming easily which everyone tells him is a good sign. Sidney Lumet's interested in a film adaptation. Theo may fly out to Hollywood early in the New Year. Picks up a bar of pink, scented soap. Has PLAZA engraved in it. Smells the bar first. Smells like the woods in winter. It's a memory kickstarter. Theo loves it. Begins lathering his underarm. Feels that healed dent on his left side where the bullet pierced.

Doctor's said it was a routine procedure. The journalists want the doctors to lie. They want touch and go. The doctors look at one another. Bulbs flash. No sense of theater. People ask Theo about white light and tunnels with Jesus beckoning. Theo's a crowd-pleaser. Theo's sense of theater's rampant. He spent years praying for good copy. They gobble, choke on it, splutter and cough.

He spews g-g-gold:

First: We all have our moments.

Next: Oh, I wasn't the ONLY one who foiled him.

Then: Well, it might not have been touch and go for them, but I wasn't so sure about it!!

May I have your autograph?

What's Walter Cronkite like?

I wouldn't have jumped in front of it!

Caplan sure is ungrateful, huh?

Maybe Caplan was never real in the first place!

Theo answers the omni-question sweetly: 'Sure, I'd love to meet Pat Caplan. I owe the guy a drink and I guess he owes me one too!'

It's a fireworks display for nobody being celebrated.

Theo notices how the shower could fit 6 people. It's a huge bathroom. Steam gathers sluggishly. He cuts off the water and grabs a large, crisp towel. The rolling bar it's draped on doesn't squeak as it rotates. He's methodical. He doesn't want this to end. He tells himself that this is just the beginning.

The days of meeting Jim Underwood's deadlines are over. Theo sees Dan Basford, that fat fuck, cleaning his ear at his desk with a pencil.

Look where that shit gotcha, Danny! I can piss on YOU now! You and Joe fuckin Markiewicz!

Theo called the Trib just to say goodbye. It was brief. People were magnanimous and well-wishing. Theo cursed their translucence. He bathed in the bitterness he knew they were abating. Theo George is a stay-at-home writer. The publishers want 3 novels in the next 3 years. They say go with what you feel like. They suggest crime. Theo says crime never wins a Pulitzer. People chuckle. Theo's serious.

Myra said once, oh years back, wouldn't it be swell to spend Christmas at the Plaza in New York? So a week ago, Theo said to her, 'Baby, your wish is my command,' holding plane tickets. She couldn't believe it.

There's a complimentary robe, midnight blue or burgundy. He smells it. Everything's fresh and clean, how it should be. OK used to be OK. Now OK is shit. Dries and combs his hair, tries to pluck a couple gray strands. Shaves. His face has been seen by millions of eyes. It's a face worth looking at. Photographs come out well. He likes his smile. Women – perfect strangers - young women have slipped him pieces of paper with hotel room and phone numbers. He's acted on a couple of them. They are experiments: push the boundaries in himself, test his morality status, find the consequences to sin, feel the adrenaline, fear the discovery, live it to know it to write it. It's their need for him; that's the aphrodisiac. Combine these and the moment of orgasm = IMMORTALITY.

He brushes his teeth, barefoot, takes his time with it. Takes his time in the mornings now. It's what he's found that wealth affords a man: time. Even that's playing by his rules these days. He flosses. This is what he deserves! He schlepped like an asshole for years! There are no regrets. The timing was right. He is READY.

Finds his pink slippers, a joke from his daughter. Sunlight's peeking in behind bedroom curtains. Theo nudges one aside, careful not to upset snoring Myra. (They made serious love on that king-size last night. She drank too much and went berserk, dirty talk like Theo never heard.)

They flew into Kennedy 2 nights ago. The cold snap revitalized. The New York minutes throbbed. Vicky went crazy over the Radio City Rockettes. He looks down on Christmas morning in Midtown Manhattan. Theo sees a man waving to someone and it looks like he could be waving to Theo. It feels like that a lot now, like people are seeing him. And are glad to see him. Retreats from the window and thinks about his mark on history and how best to continue making it.

The phone calls are pouring in. The talk is of Theo George, best-selling author. Ivy Leagues are demanding lectures. He's hungry.

Vicky's asleep in the adjoining suite. Opens her door a crack. He got her this beautiful mink coat on 5th Avenue. His heart swells: I can do these things for my family.

He saw the lights of the city shine in her eyes and Vicky said, 'I never want to leave New York!' A drastic change in circumstance can bring along with it real, almost tangible clarity. He's had moments: Why didn't I see this before?

Theo's fallen in love with the women in his life. He is not grateful to the money. This is what he has battled years for. The money's no gift. It's fucking earned.

The press initially lapped up Costas the Hero, father of Winston the Hero and now Theo the Hero! Loving the Greek heritage stuff, the press went to town on Greek theater references. But Costas clammed-up, refusing to comment either way on his brother. Word was that Costas didn't even visit Theo in hospital. (A lie.) Someone said that Costas had warned his wife and daughter to stay away. (A lie.) Someone said that Costas didn't shed a tear when he got news that Theo had been shot. (True.) They're as discussed as Jack and Bobby. Suddenly the interest swung to sensationalism. Suddenly, there was evidence of a rift and The Family of Heroes soap opera took a big juicy twist overnight. Theo's played down any filial disconnect. He told 21.4 million people on Face the Nation that he loves his brother and forgives him. Theo feels terribly for Mrs. Simpson. (Theo stroked Myra's hair in bed 3 weeks ago and said that if he never says another word to Costas that's fine by me.)

Theo whispers a call to the front-desk for breakfast. Theo orders one of each. He'll only live once, right? Myra stirs. Mrs. George's taken this madness in her stride by all accounts. At first, when the Lear thing finished, all she wanted was Theo home safe and time for them to relax. That dream lasted 5 minutes. Companies kicked down the door as soon as Theo left his hospital bed looking to pen a deal on his life story. Every radio station, every television network, every major newspaper in the world wanted time with him. So Theo was whisked off again and again and Myra saw no end. He promised to stay at home as much as possible. It was hard. There was a lot of late-night phone calls and teardrops and things said. The point perhaps where things took a turn for the better was the day that a box as tall as Myra came to her door. She signed and opened and what stood before her were hat boxes and chic dresses and must-have lingerie and branded shoes. Theo wrote that he didn't know what to get so he got it all. This was the day after the money came through. Myra found this ostentatious scenario – surprising to none more than her - very much to her taste. It turned her on. She's been amazed at how amorous she's been feeling. What a show of power that was from her husband! And now she's spending Christmas at the Plaza! She ain't nibbling on acorns anymore, baby. Myra George's got oak. (Been secretly scanning property brochures in California. Who would say no to so much sunshine?)

Myra pulls the left shoulder of her new silk kimono up. It keeps falling, giving away big pictures of cleavage. It's oversized but she adores the flow as she walks across the floor. It's got this Joan Crawford glamour-mystique thing going for it. She yawns and takes a monster bite of her toast. Theo's sitting across from her eating his devilled eggs. There was a Christmas card from the hotel staff on their room service cart. It wished them season's greetings. Myra thought it was nice. Theo saw through it. He loves how innocent she can be.

He seems deeply pensive, wordless for a protracted time. Myra says to him, 'What's on your mind, my love?' Theo slowly shrugs, slugs his coffee and chews and she waits. He appears burdened by thoughts. He's lost weight.

He says: 'Do you think that James Garner could play me?'

Myra sighs, a trace of disappointment. She shakes her head, chewing. One of her cupboard door hinges back home in Chicago is on the cusp of collapsing. She sees the thing at every mealtime. It's a job hanging around for 6 months or more. She thinks of all the years that she and Theo scrimped and counted the pennies. They were happy. Now she smiles. Boy, have they come a long way!

She jokes to herself, if another thing goes wrong with that darn kitchen, I can just buy a whole new one!

Theo goes, 'What's funny?'

Vicky comes into the room, PJs, hair a cute mess, grinning drowsily, going, 'The smells woke me,' standing by her Dad. The cameras haven't ignored her either. She's been described as particularly attractive, unusually mature and prettier than even her mother and her mother, let's face it, is a knockout. It does wonder for a teenager's swagger. And her sense of entitlement.

Dad kisses Vicky's hand and wraps an arm about her midsection. Myra scrunches her forehead, foraging for something elusive, it seems, in her brain. Something heavy. She swallows and her eyes go wide.

Myra goes excitedly, 'Hey, what about Brando?!'

*

He smiles: Anita Bettencourt.

Can't say why he's just thought of her. Chills in the cell.

Christmas Day: What the fuck d'ya say? Fat mulatto dude, one tier above, who stabbed to death his wife, her mother and their three daughters 5 years ago sings it over and over. He actually has a beautiful tenor voice. It's sad.

Christmas Day: What the fuck d'ya say?

Jesse Cole agrees. Today is bad: Jesse Cole's reflective. He doesn't want to regret killing the judge. It's a giant viscous blob in his gut. He wants to regret what led to killing the judge. It won't come though. It's lodged. It's a stubborn, abscessed tooth. Hey, it'll come. You've got time... Reflection is amazing him. His past's a muddled jigsaw. His memories play tricks. They didn't even feel like his memories. It's more like he's arranging a story someone else once told him about a young African-American who thought he had a chance but, in reality, never did. And that's scary because he knows that he has a past. Goddamn it, he got here somehow. So it seems that his options are to either accept these sketchy dreams as the life he made for himself or get paranoid and defensive and bitter. Right now, the latter pins the former to the mat. That can change. Everything changes.

Except life without.

So alone.

Anita Bettencourt... Becky... Black freedom. It's over for him. Any freedom. That's just a fact. He feels like he got conned. Shit, he knows he fell into their trap. Any CORE visitors? Any Black Panther support? Ingrates, has-beens, loafers and (ab)users. Who better to swindle a black man than another black man?

He's prowling in his cage, furious. Hope. No sword, no gun, no bomb can match its devastation! Forget war and pestilence. Hope has no mercy. And hope in prison is like a Saharan raindrop.

It was cold-blooded revenge for the murder of Tucker. They asked him why and he gave it straight up. They asked him again. They said there must be more. He laughed and they called him insane for it. Bottom line: Judge Hogue Mallard was the ultimate symbol. Jesse got tired of pushing against the cancer sea all around him. He let it go, let the waves wash about him. Jesse got fingered for smoking the jurors and then he was freed. They nabbed him off the street and released him at their leisure. The Black Man's a toy. They oughtta start teaching that in schools. Let Negroes know early, baby, save everyone a lot of time. Jesse boozed when he got back to his hovel - unemployed the following morning forthwith - and fucked the women available and ran the looping emotional gamut for days: crying, kicking, cursing and swearing revenge and then revenge wouldn't desist. It won the day.

Jesse sat in the stolen blue Chevy outside the judge's house last September. Jesse had every intention of gunning that son of a bitch right down on his own porch. He got out of the car and the shut door snagged his jacket. He was stuck and wasted time tugging and bitching. Meantime, the judge's rental left and Jesse, seeing red like never before, followed him all the way to Springfield.

Tina's sent a package, a hat she knit and a fruitcake from Mama. There were letters from family. He read them and felt nothing. Some cats in here - all colors - have applauded what he did. They followed that shit on the radio and TV. Some cats – whites - spend nights whispering low, and in graphic detail, how they're gonna end Jesse Cole's days. Jesse blocks their words but wakes in midnight frozen sweats. He's wondered if this destination wasn't destined. He made choices. They were choices skewed by what came before. It is the before that brings the after. There's a visitor. He is shocked.

'Who is it?'

'The fuck do I know?' says the screw. He's a tall, mean streak of piss.

'Tell em I'm dead.'

'You will be dead if you don't move your black ass right now!'

Jesse instinctively bristles. This is his life. He's the brunt of scared men. Always was. Another piece fits too late. He stands with a sigh.

It's Becky. She stands on seeing Jesse. Jesse can't believe it's her, she's a lie. She smiles and waves. Elijah stands beside her. Baby Elijah's four and fat. Jesse's never met the kid. Jesse's forgotten the kid. On purpose. His insides erupt. He's world-record weak at the knees.

Becky catches the kid's hand and raises it to wave to Daddy. She wipes away a tear. Jesse can't stand the feelings rushing. He wants to go, go, go! Hands grasp for the wall.

Oh no! No! Please God no!

He pushes against the wall. Jesse's sight blurs. Elijah stares.

Look away, boy!

Regret slides in under the door. The screw catches Jesse to keep him standing. Tucker Cole stands behind Becky. Becky's face is ashen. Voices ring in Jesse's ears, countless; static noise, a lifetime's worth. Tucker's horrifying ghost screams inaudibly.

Don't do this to me!

The fuckin walls shake and bleed. Jesse's heart beats in his ears with the force of a wrathful army. Regret.

Baby Elijah begins to bawl. Jesse's eyes give up rivers. It's too much too fast. The screw goes, 'He's having a fucking heart attack!' Jesse's eyes roll. Becky steals Elijah out of the room. Jesse Cole no longer functions. The blackest hole opens up and Jesse Cole is swallowed into a shrieking web.

REGRET!!!

And silence.

*

Costas skips upstairs and Emily goes, 'You forget something?' and Costas replies from upstairs but it's muffled. Emily waits on her knees, soapy sponge in hand, bubbly droplets on the tiling. She's giving the bathroom the cleaning it's required for a long time.

Janine had said, 'You wanna do that instead of coming to Winston's grave?!' Janine was hurt and Costas shepherded her away. It didn't become anything after that. Costas pounds down the stairs, a big wreath in his gloved hands and he says, 'Back soon.'

Emily hears the door shut and she's terribly lonesome. It is, however, a more understandable kind of lonesome. She is alone now so loneliness makes sense. When the cheerful house was busy earlier with snug Christmas presents and dinner, that loneliness was something altogether more disconcerting and inexplicable.

Costas pauses at the stoop to tuck his scarf (from Janine) into his buttoned overcoat (his from mother.) It's below freezing and snow falls in intermittent tendrils. Costas holds Winston's wreath between his knees and tucks his ears into his hat (from Colin.) Costas gets behind the wheel and goes, 'All set?'

Costas' mother in back looks set in stone, invisible neck, layered endlessly in hard winter clothes. She says nothing, handbag clasped rigidly on her lap.

Janine says, 'Ready when you are,' rubbing her cold, gloved hands together. Costas turns the key and the engine gargles.

Nothing happens and Costas says, 'Isn't the snow pretty?' turning the key and the car can't get going. Costas sighs and breathes and his mother fills the space with, 'A blanket on the hood overnight. There's your answer.'

Costas tries again and still no luck. It's been doing this recently. Janine's doing her best and says to her Dad, 'Come on, old man, put your back into it.' Father and daughter trade smiles. Costas fails again and his mother huffs. Janine dramatically slaps her hands together in prayer and closes her eyes, going, 'Dear Brother, please help your lovely, frozen family and use your heavenly powers to get this heap of junk moving.'

Costas likes it and gives the key a slow turn. It works. 'Hallelujah!' yelps Janine, 'Thank you, Winston!'

Happy Costas leaves the handbrake out and they begin to roll. This has been a better Christmas.

Flashback

The morning of Hogue Mallard's cremation, 7 days after his death about 3 months ago, Costas opened his front door to find Casimir Infante standing there. Casimir smiled, asked after Costas' health. Costas was looking better. He was relaxing. Costas poured Iced-Ts. He said he was alone. Emily was at the store and Janine was visiting with a friend. The sunshine poured into the living room. The atmosphere was a far cry from before. Nobody stalked the lawn. Peace reigned, as much as she could. Costas said that he was relieved beyond words to be done. Casimir said he wouldn't beat around the bush and produced an envelope in a plastic bag and said, 'A woman found this in Jackson Park cemetery, at Clarence Darrow's grave.'

Costas took the bag in hand, his arm pain extraordinarily improved, and saw FAO DETECTIVE GEORGE written on it. Wham, a smack to the face. When Mallard had spent his dying breath with the words Clarence Darrow it bemused Costas to the point that he thought he had misheard the condemned judge. Costas chose not to say anything about that to anyone.

He left me a gift.

Casimir said, 'I came straight over with it.'

Costas opens the bag and frees the envelope. Inside are crisp white sheets of paper and words, many words, typed and clear: 'We are perhaps unavoidably, something of a curiosity, those of us, like you and I, inextricably touched by death. Our loved ones are removed from one plane to another, from one arbitrary statistical column to another. He or she may not have ever been a regular topic of discussion when above ground. Yet, suddenly, irretrievably buried in dirt, he or she becomes infinitely memorable, for a short time at least. And those left behind, to mourn - like you and I, as are many others - and to continue the journey alone, remain topical long after our loved one's body is out of plain sight. In many instances, we are topical simply for having not succumbed to loss and joined their ranks. People wonder about the bereaved, don't you agree? People are curious about us. They stare firstly at the corpse, undaunted, fascinated, repulsed. Who slakes that need of the populace to look on a cadaver and wonder as to what once motivated its every breath?! Where has the engine gone? The bereaved slakes that need, I dare say. The walking dead! We are the stokers of supposition! The speculators want to know how we cope with the heartache. Hearts bleed for us. Monstrous! The entire notion of their dignified barbarity turns my blood to boiling! I hate the damned sympathy! I could feel their eyes boring into me, stabbing me with questions: HOW DOES IT FEEL? Faces noticeably change when I am looked upon. Still! And I consider you, Mr. George, so new to this preposterous indignity and am saddened. Utterly monstrous! You, sir, are a brave man - if this coward might suggest - losing your handsome boy; a courageous lad who, if I may, could be also labeled foolhardy in his outlook. America in wartime is a dithering limbo. This is the truth. Disaffection or support for any conflict in this country is never truly political or social in stance - it is purely a battle between fundamental attitudes towards the reasons for the fighting. Ask Senator Kennedy. He was a man of might. Or Dr. King. Men of truth and wisdom and patience! Men to be inspired by! Men's lives cut short by villains, sir! And so they were heroes, in the original sense, and it is their lost potential that shreds their legacies now to mere curios. That inescapably tawdry phrase comes to mind: What might have been. And so America was bereaved this past year with the loss of two giants of a putrid age and we stare \- like fools, like children - right at and into ourselves and discover a dead nation still pulsing. And within that milieu, in this darker hedonistic light, soldiers, like your boy, are villains, where once, returning from Europe, that generation's equivalent shone as awesome heroes, worshipped, rightly, for their ungainly sacrifices. Alas, we are all villains to ourselves come The Reckoning. Heroes, such as they are, and villains, such as they are, have a fine line to tread. You and I are doing it. We have used our respective positions to kill innocents and, in our own way, innocence. Yet, was the ability to capably discern the nuances not driven from inside us - or forcibly sacrificed, if you will - in our developing years by our so-called Protectors; be they government, schools or fathers? Who is it that can tell me who I am? That colored boy met his death not at the hand of the State but at my hand, sir. Mine. This is the truth. I was responsible for leading those 12 men down a darkened, evil path shorn of conscience and fuelled by my horrifying, misguided need for confirmation of that most time-honored and harrowing assumption: If I sacrifice my very being for the approval of others, I will at least in the end be, surely, in receipt of a stout reward commensurate to that sacrifice. Shortly the confirmation returned as a voided transaction and I understand now - oh the clarity draws blood! - that even if it had been resoundingly edified, it was, in fact, a situation wherein I was always destined to lose. The reward is not giving myself up for others at any cost or for any seeming prize! Can you see the point, Detective? It came to me when Tucker Cole died, when Donna left this world in May with an indignity not befitting her character. Bobby, Martin. It was a bolt: those men, those jurors, were killers. They were blinded and it became my duty to have them starkly see the coldness of their actions! Who better to exact justice upon those soldiers of destruction than I, their leader, the doyen of apathy. It became a mission, a glaring decade-long oversight. I saw what had been eating me finally! The puzzles opened up for me like a springtime rose. Years I have searched for this sense of fulfillment, coming up empty and with only Mr. Caplan left, I am the United States as she is ever-promised to be, comfortable with my flaws and that we are all pawns of Providential whim. We squirm. The gods laugh. We must do what we can with what we have made of our time in this meager world. How can I describe the exhilaration and freedom of these feelings to you?! My life has not been pretty and my legacy will match that. I made awful, unforgivable mistakes in my early life, so many of them irreparable. So many of them shaped me and brought me to this zenith. At the time, I seemed to have no choice. I see now, in hindsight, that I was weak in youth. I allowed myself to be bullied. For the first time, I am taking control. I want to move forward, to right many wrongs. It appears an impossible task, doesn't it? Yet, I sit here in the sun and pause and it is a glorious day to be alive. A mistake may be only one outcome in a thousand throughout any daily selection of decisions and so frequently they are what we allow to define us. And they are so frequently what we are remembered for. It will always be so. I am so glad I decided to take this time to communicate my thoughts with you, Mr. George. I apologize for what I did to your daughter. I hold you in the highest esteem and would be touched if you might feel likewise for me. I wish you a fond farewell. The race is almost run. I will be no man's curiosity. Of the piece, sir, I am the villain. This is the truth. It is, at last, the course of my own choosing. I breathe. Never was a man so proud. Non est ad astra mollis e terris via.'

Casimir wondered if Costas knew what the last line meant and Costas shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. Costas went, 'He thought we were a lot alike,' with a little smirk.

'I guess so,' replied Casimir.

'This is our answer to why?'

Casimir sipped and shrugged, 'As close as we'll ever get.'

Flashback continued

Costas had had no intention of going to the judge's final ceremony. He was in the process of figuratively burying the man himself. Chicago and the USA, to a man, to a woman, was doing it too. Still, on the back of the letter, Costas attended. Not certain why. And it was a suitably somber affair, lacking all emotion, slathered in formality.

Let's get this guy out of our hair.

It was a startlingly warm and fresh September day. Costas stood well back. Only Hogue's brother Jared and his wife, Sarah, and Fillmore and his wife, Janet, came. Everyone commented on the decency of Costas' appearance. Fillmore looked gaunt, eyes shady. The women stepped aside and eventually strolled to the cars. The men monosyllabled the moments. Who knew what to say? Jared said that the papers were saying enough for all of them. Fillmore mentioned Theo: his heroism and, therefore, strength of character, and Patrick Caplan, his elusiveness and, therefore, cowardice, and Jesse Cole, his mania and, therefore, prejudice solidifier. Costas nodded in agreement, half-interested. Luckily, his opinion on things was not requested. Costas was happy to pretend that none of it ever happened. Jared went on to say that he'd read about Winston's posthumous medal coming down the line.

'Congratulations are in order,' he went and Costas politely accepted the gesture and felt strange because he didn't know these men but they knew all about him. The Walker Report recommended all CPD riot-related commendations be rescinded. Costas doesn't care about losing his medal. Theo's proven that nice guys come last. Who, in the end, saved Patrick Caplan?

Follow the rules: Bronze. Right place, right time: Gold.

Hey, it depends what a nice guy wants/expects.

Costas said to Jared Mallard, 'Did you know a woman by the name of Donna Squires?'

'Doesn't ring a bell.' Costas glanced at Sarah, a ways off, chitchatting with Janet, and said to Jared, 'Maybe Donna Nimmo?'

'Nimmo,' said Jared, recognition there alright, fondly remembered perhaps, 'Yes. Oh, that's going back. Donna Nimmo, God, I haven't thought about her for years.'

'Who was she?' And Jared looked right at Costas and Costas was expecting some kind of lengthy back-story filled with appropriate adjectives and suitable similes. He didn't get that. He got instead, succinctly and sincerely: 'She was the love of my brother's life.'

Neither Jared nor Fillmore understood the exact meaning of the Latin Hogue addressed to Costas when he quizzed them on it. Costas didn't say that it was Hogue who wrote it. Jared said that terra had to do with the earth. Fillmore said astra was probably to do with the heavens, the stars, something like that. Jared concurred.

Costas was going to ask the women about it. But he forgot.

Back to Christmas, 1968

Judy Garland's softly suggesting that we have ourselves a merry little Christmas. Emily George sips eggnog on the couch: Nana George's recipe. She drifts her eyes over the walls of the living room. Photographs and decorations that she hung with care. Memories. Wonderful, wonderful thoughts. Big parts of her life. Well-wishing cards above the fireplace with stockings draping from it. The beautiful fire, it crackles and keeps the chills at the door. And the tree! So precious and light-hearted. (Adorning it was her and Winston's thing every year.) The Nativity scene, so humbling. Reminds her to be grateful. Emily's loneliness has obligingly stepped aside, for the moment, allowing tranquility to overtake.

A knock on the backdoor that Emily ignores. Who could it be after all? Her back's in too much pain for mysterious visitors and that infernal right shoulder of hers won't let up: winter climes and manual labor drive it bananas.

There is no second knock. She waits. She is glad of the quiet. Another sip slides down her throat luxuriantly. She shuts her eyes and sees the liquid coating her palate. She sighs with pleasure. She even shivers with pleasure.

Front doorbell. Emily's startled. Is she nervous? She holds on. Nothing happens and then knocks on the door. She tells herself she's being foolish. Would Christ turn out a wanderer on Christmas Day? She creeps up to the living room blinds and peeks outside. There's a Negro woman standing on the stoop, all wrapped-up in a padded baby blue jacket, hood up. Snowy front yard. Emily puts down her eggnog and forgets to put on shoes. Probably some homeless girl in search of a handout. Emily adjusts her hair, clears her throat and opens the door.

The cold air whips around Emily's legs and the woman, about 20 and holding something square and wrapped in Yuletide paper, offers a big welcoming smile.

'Hi,' says Emily, wary in spite of herself. This girl is very attractive.

'Hello. Are you Mrs. George?' says the girl confidently, street corner education not evident in her voice.

'I am.'

The girl offers a gloved hand to be shaken, going, 'Merry Christmas, Mrs. George. My name's Charlene.'

Flashback

Day before Thanksgiving, few weeks back.

Costas picked up a bowling ball and hoisted it close to his lips, preparing to roll, concentrating on the pins facing him at the end of the lane. Ordinarily, he never took the game seriously. However, that day, he was verging on a 5th consecutive strike, something he'd never come close to achieving before.

Harvey Cadorette swiped from behind, 'Jeez, I hope he doesn't choke,' and Harvey's wife, Nancy, scolded him playfully. Costas tuned out any noise and scored 9. It was Emily's job to pick up the spare. The Georges were trouncing the Cadorettes.

Harvey had said, 'You gotta add 15 holes to the three in that ball before you got a game I can play!' The Cadorettes vacation in Chicago was scheduled for 4 days and they ended up staying 10.

Emily missed the spare and Costas went, 'Caddy, let's freshen up these girls' drinks,' and Harvey followed without either man asking what either woman wanted. Nancy Cadorette's got a few years on Emily but Nancy's' fiancé Joey died in a car crash when he was Winston's age. In common: Emily and Nancy don't discuss the heartache.

At the bowling palace's counter, Harvey left Costas for a piss with a pat on the shoulder. Costas ordered a couple milkshakes and one of his old cop cards was slid in front of him from the side. Turning, Costas beheld a face seen before: Gilbert Morningstar.

'How are you, Detective?' came Gilbert, perky and clean-shaven.

Costas beams: 'Good. And how are you doing, son?'

Former Deputy Morningstar beamed: 'Great. Here with my girlfriend. Happy Thanksgiving by the way.'

Costas: 'Happy Thanksgiving.'

'Say, I, uh, don't mean to pry or nothing but I saw you here and I had to come over. I read the things that happened to you and I, you know, I wanted to say that I have a lot of admiration for you, for what you did, all of you in CPD. I can't imagine what that was like, everything that went on. It must have been surreal.'

Costas turned fully finally. This meeting was an unexpected thing. And, moreover, it was pleasant. Costas was pleased to meet this young man again.

Costas went, 'You played your part.'

Gilbert shrugged, 'Whatever it was worth.'

'It was worth something.'

'You think so?' seeking reassurance, a reassurance that may have been the single most motivating factor for Gilbert's coming over and talking to Costas.

Costas sensed this and said, 'Sure.'

'Coates dropped the case against me.'

'I'm not surprised.'

One word of confidence from Costas meant the world to Gilbert Morningstar and he couldn't hide his delight.

'So, they said you'd retired.' Costas' drinks came and he paid. Harvey saw Gilbert as he exited the john and kept his distance for a minute.

Costas replied to Gilbert, 'Retired as a cop. I've moved to insurance.'

'Like door-to-door?'

Smiled, 'No, fraud. Investigation.'

'Right, right. Stupid! Of course.'

'And you?'

'Set up a furniture store with a couple pals.'

'How is it?'

'It's slow to get off the ground, you know, but onwards and upwards. Rome wasn't built in a day. My Dad's always feeding me that one.'

Costas said, 'I'm sure that he's very proud.'

'So he says.'

'And I'm proud of you.'

Oh shit, the words bring emotion! Such untold emotion! And so sudden! Costas had to blink tears away.

You've just told a stranger!

His throat swallowed bile.

You never told HIM.

His whole body clenched top to bottom in front of everyone to keep it together.

I am proud of you, Winston.

It was a moment of unspeakable brutality. Costas covered his face and Gilbert said, 'Are you OK, Detective?'

Costas shook his head and lied: 'Migraine.'

When Costas got home, a migraine hit for real so he went into the bedroom alone, locked the door behind him, climbed under the covers and wept.

Back to Christmas, 1968

Charlene Weteling holds a mug of coffee on the couch. Her coat's hanging by the front door. She's comfortable and she's dumbfounded.

'Dead?'

'Yes,' goes Emily, standing close to the fire flames, her back to them.

'I can't believe it. I'm so, so sorry.'

Emily can't believe that Charlene's black. She can't believe how well-spoken Charlene is. Emily is ashamed by her own prejudice.

'Those letters, I found them in his room.'

Charlene's stunned. 'I don't know what to say.'

'May I ask you a question?'

'Please.'

'Your father is white...'

Charlene says, 'Oh, yes. Yes. I am adopted.'

Charlene says nothing more and Emily feels like an idiot for even asking.

What's that got to do with anything?

With Charlene here, out of the blue, it feels to Emily like none of this was ever her business to begin with.

'We went on two dates,' says Charlene. She speaks carefully, like before she says the thing, she's remembering it clearly. 'He was persistent,' and a big smile, 'I was working in a men's clothing store. He came in two, three times a week for months before he even asked me out. I don't know how many ties and cufflinks and shirts he bought.'

Emily loves the thought of Winston's awkwardness around Charlene.

'He was a really sweet guy,' goes Charlene, glassy-eyed, 'a gentleman.'

Emily doesn't say anything. Her heart's hopping. Winston was a gentleman. The backs of Emily's legs and her bottom, so near the fire this long, are getting overcooked.

Charlene shakes her head, disbelieving still: 'Would you like the letters and poems back?'

Poems.

'No,' and Emily's sure on that score, 'They are yours.'

'I am so glad that you sent them. Thank you.'

'You are very welcome. Winston always had a keen eye for beauty.'

Charlene is embarrassed and Emily doesn't care. Emily wants to be careless when it comes to the truth. To hell go the consequences of truth.

The women are silent for a time.

Charlene sniffs.

Emily says, 'Would you like a tissue?'

'Yes, please.'

Charlene runs to the bathroom and pulls a couple tissues from the box of them on sill. The pretty potpourri wafts and Emily's reflection in the mirror is blemished by a smudge on the glass. She licks her thumb tip and wipes off the marking. It becomes clear.

'Here you are,' says Emily, offering the tissues to Charlene. Charlene stands by the couch and takes them saying, 'I'm obliged to you.'

Charlene blows her nose as quaintly as she can and Emily's ten fingers make a wringing knot where she stands on the spot. 'Charlene, could I ask you something?'

'Please,' replies Charlene, cleaning her nose.

Emily hesitates: 'You drove here yourself?'

'Yes I did.'

'Will you sincerely thank your father for passing onto you what I gave him?'

'Of course.'

Emily can't hesitate: 'And maybe, I wondered, if maybe you could give me a ride. There's somewhere I should be.'

*

Nana George holds rosary beads, facing Winston's grave, rolling each bead between her middle right finger and thumb. Pushes her way religiously through the rosary. Her voice is above a whisper. Her eyes are closed.

The sun is out and the cemetery is pure, serene, unpolluted white. The breeze is gone for the time being. Costas stands behind his mother, hands clasped in front of him. Janine presses her body against his. They stare at the tombstone as if hypnotized. The wreath brings cheerful color.

Costas hears footsteps coming and turns to his 7 o'clock. It's Emily approaching and Janine turns too. Emily holds onto a mysterious young dark-skinned woman. They balance each other on the tricky terrain.

'Hi,' says Emily, her breath like smoke, her nose putting Rudolph's to shame.

Costas says, 'Hi,' and Janine hugs her Mom tightly.

Nana George goes, 'Who is this?' meaning Charlene. Charlene's kept back.

Emily releases Janine and goes, 'This is Charlene, a good friend of Winston's.'

Janine moves in for a hug and Charlene's surprised but quick enough to reciprocate.

Janine says, 'Merry Christmas, Charlene.'

Emily saunters to her awaiting, adoring husband. He takes her into his body, wraps her up and kisses her forehead. She buries her face into the confines of her buttoned jacket, shivering.

Everyone looks on Winston's final resting-place without a word. Costas can't help but wander to the boy he thrashed in the riots; to the Simpson family. And the mysterious Patrick Caplan.

What is this day like for them wherever they are?

Then Emily delicately breaks free of Costas and steps onto the grave. She cries softly. There are no hefty, sucking sobs. Emily, the mother, bends slowly and kisses the top of the frozen stone where below her boy was lain.

She whispers, 'I love you,' and lightly rests her forehead on the stone for just a second.

Oh, it is an eternal moment.

Returns to her family. After a few more minutes, the quintet makes its way back towards the parked cars. Nobody talks to Charlene, nor is she isolated. Charlene remains respectful and emotional.

The sky showboats its bulk and the snows may once more be set afloat. Charlene is invited to the George home by Janine and Emily. Costas has no problem with it. Charlene politely declines.

Emily says finally, 'Come and see us soon, Charlene. Please.'

Charlene sees the generosity set-aside for her in Emily's face and replies honestly, 'I will.'

She waves goodbye one last time, gets into her auto and leaves. Emily feels good. Costas opens the passenger door for Emily and before she gets in, she looks on him carefully and cups his face with her freezing hand. Costas meets her strong gaze all the way and Emily smiles, 'Will you always love me?'

And Costas says truthfully, 'I will.'

Emily climbs in and Costas shuts the door. When Costas is in the driver's seat, he can't get the engine to start.

'Here we go again!' says Janine.

Nana George explodes: 'Why don't you buy a new car! I tell you what, I give you the money myself!'

'Hey, why not ask your brother?' says Costas to Janine and Janine wastes no time putting her hands together like before and saying, 'Dear Brother, who art in Heaven, please, please, please, get this pile of junk moving. My toes are going numb.'

Everyone pauses expectantly. Costas turns the key. And nothing happens.

Nana George just says, 'Shit.'

And Janine breaks into howls of laughter. She, of all people, had explained to Costas that Non est ad astra mollis e terris via translates to: There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.

Something the detective and the judge could confidently agree upon.

THE END

Further (Optional) Reading For Additional Context

The Life & Times of Judge Hogue Mallard

June 16th, 1958

Cook County Criminal Court Building

54 West Hubbard Street, Chicago

The People vs. Tucker Reginald Cole

10.05am

(Opening Statement of Assistant District Attorney Abraham T. Mundane, based on Trial Transcripts.)

'To begin: this is a murder trial. There is a young woman dead. There is a young colored accused with the unprovoked ending of that life. As a father myself, I can imagine no greater tragedy than that which has so recently befallen the parents of beautiful Suzanne Litbarski.

The People aim to show through testimony and physical evidence and, beyond any reasonable doubt, are certain to prove, unequivocally, the guilt of one Tucker Reginald Cole: a callous, unrepentant killer.

Now, it must be said that you all look like reasonable men; intelligent, discerning patriots to the last I am inclined to assume, and it would undoubtedly be my privilege to know any one of you to a man more intimately under less bleak circumstances. You are familiar with right and wrong and have, more often than not, chosen the former in accordance with the moral compass that the good Lord long ago once saw fit to bestow upon you. But I pose a question here: where does the justice in this case lie? Can sentencing Tucker Cole to death, as the People are demanding, return seventeen-year-old Suzanne Litbarski to the family that, on the balmy night of May 1st this calendar year, was so savagely ripped asunder for no good reason beyond cowardly petty theft gone awry? Alas, you good men know well enough that the answer is simple: Miss Litbarski will never be returned to the bosom of her loved ones. She will never attend the Ivy League as she dreamed. She will never again ride her beloved horses or turn heads with her brilliant smile or further share with others the kindnesses that so naturally radiated from her heart. She will enjoy no wedding day, no children. No. Gentleman, the prosecution will readily concede here, before a word is uttered by the defense, one solid, intractable fact: Suzanne Litbarski is dead. Whatever you hear in this room over the succeeding days and weeks, there can be no argument on that point.

Where the work for you comes is in disentangling the lies, the agenda, the obfuscation in the name of shameless self-preservation on the part of Mr. Cole so that we might shine a light on a murderer and have nobody, on Judgment Day, proclaim that he was denounced a brutal murderer because you, as an impartial microcosm of this fair town, took into account the disparity in wealth between killer and killed, or because of difference in skin color, thus rendering your eventual decision both questionable and intolerable. Again, to any forthcoming detractors I vehemently cry out NO! Be aware of the facts.

In these United States, in this great State of Illinois, in this great city, there will be justice served for it is right to do so and to do so with a harshness commensurate with the appalling crime that has precipitated our congregation in this courtroom. And, indeed, it will not be a conclusion marred by controversy or second-guessing. Your guilty verdict will arrive as only purity of truth may arrive, as only the Declaration of Independence punched a spectacular hole in the annals of history; subsumed by a modest, almost childlike, belief in one fundamental right: freedom. To mete out a punishment any more generous than that would be an insult to the blessed memory of an angel whom we have lost to the Heavens and a scorching affront to the founding principles of this nation which is, always has been and always will be concerned unendingly with the protection of its citizenry at close quarters, with continuing to blast a contagious beam of hope across the beleaguered world through our actions further a field and, perhaps most importantly of all, with the notion, conceived uniquely of this motherland, that every man is created equally. Remember that, sirs! Feel it in your bones, decent Gentlemen of the jury. The cornerstones of this country and the cornerstones of this building were devised and constructed by men with hearts and minds as equal as yours. Let us not collectively sully their splendid adornments by betraying a young innocent girl of their lineage, of our lineage, of mine and yours, who wanted, like each and every last one of the people in this room today, to live life in freedom. Was that too much for Suzanne Litbarski to ask? Tucker Reginald Cole thought so. It won't change the horrible, horrible past, but finding this colored boy guilty will restore some faith to a wounded family, some love to a lonely spirit and some pride to a flag worth saving. Thank you.'

June 18th, 1958

2 days later

The People vs. Tucker Reginald Cole

11.30am

Every person in the sweltering courtroom fans his or her face.

'Call your next witness, Mr. Strange,' says 55 year old Judge Mallard.

J W Strange rises and says, 'Defense calls Miss Carla Morrison.'

Carla Morrison is 18 with big, milky eyes set against a backdrop of dark skin. Eyes are trained to the floor as she approaches the stand. She's average looking. The room is expectant. Her chair's wooden, feels like stone.

J W Strange is a shade duller in complexion than his perfectly white shirt and has about seven years seniority on Miss Morrison though his acne scars make him look akin to an actor in a school play based on a murder trial.

'How do you know the defendant, Miss Morrison?'

'He my boyfriend.'

'Please keep your voice high.'

She clears her throat, leans forward a touch. 'He be my boyfriend.'

'For how long have you and Mr. Cole been boyfriend and girlfriend?' J W Strange leans on the jury bench, left hand planted on his cocked hip, opening his jacket like a prospective gunslinger. This is his favorite stance. A Sunday Herald court reporter speculated yesterday as to whether Mr. Strange believes that the spotlight resides directly above that area. J W's fangs are bright.

'About six months I guess,' says Carla.

'And have you ever known him to be violent?'

'No, sir.'

'Never heard any stories about Mr. Cole being violent towards anyone?'

'No, sir. Never.'

Second Chair for the People, Fairbanks Bradshaw, writes on a pad and shows it to ADA Abraham Mundane sitting beside him. ADA Mundane reads and nods.

'Do you know where Mr. Cole was on the night of May 1st last?' goes J W Strange to Carla.

'Yes, sir. He was with me at a little jazz joint in West Englewood.'

'From what time to what time, Miss Morrison?'

'Was about six to about one we was together.'

'And Mr. Cole never left your sight the entire evening?'

'Not more'n five minutes I'd say.'

'Does Mr. Cole have a car?'

'No, sir.'

'So, given in your sworn statement, Miss Morrison, that the nightclub to which you refer is at least a thirty minute round trip by car to and from the crime scene, do you think it reasonable to assume Mr. Cole's innocence?'

'Calls for speculation,' says Mundane.

'The witness may answer,' says Judge Mallard.

'Yes, sir. No way he could have killed that girl,' says Carla.

J W Strange picks up a plastic, transparent bag containing a smart green ladies' bangle. 'Do you recognize this, Miss Morrison?'

'Yes, sir.'

'From where?'

'Tucker bought it for me.'

'Can you explain to the court please how this purchase came about.'

'White man, he sell it to us.'

'Where and when Miss Morrison?'

'Outside the club on the street. Night the girl died.'

'What time was this?'

''Bout midnight, I guess.'

'And did you see the letters S and L on this item of jewelry when Mr. Cole bought it for you?'

She shrugs, 'I just thought it was pretty.'

The white audience titters. 'What did Mr. Cole pay for it?'

'Three dollars.'

'Three dollars. A bargain.' J W Strange smiles at the jury. 'And neither of you had any idea that it was stolen? Is that what you want us to believe, Miss Morrison?' he continues.

'It's true,' she goes, not understanding why Strange is so aggressive toward her.

'Can you even describe the man who sold it to you?' says Strange.

'Just a white man. Thirty-five or forty years old, I say. Skinny, you know. Smoked a cigarette. Kinda talked a lot. Wanted five first.'

'You mean you talked him down?' Jason Waldo Strange thinks this is funny.

He's not alone. DUMB NIGGER KIDS!!!

'Yeah,' she says after a pause. People shift in their seats. Suzanne Litbarski's mother is front row center. Her chin will hardly lift again in this life.

'Did Mr. Cole make a habit of buying you gifts from strangers?'

'That was the only time.'

'And finally, Miss Morrison, where did you and Mr. Cole first meet?'

'At Church.'

'Yours,' Strange says to ADA Mundane. J W Strange slowly takes a seat.

Abraham Mundane takes his time to rise. Buttons his coat. Strokes his amazingly lustrous beard. 'Miss Morrison, does your boyfriend have a criminal record?'

'Objection!' jumps J W Strange.

'Mr. Mundane, we have discussed this already. Keep within the lines,' says the Judge.

'Goes to character credibility, Your Honor,' Mundane defending himself.

Judge Mallard: 'I know what it goes to. Do not think that you are being so clever, Counselor. We are dealing with one crime in this trial. Previous transgressions are inadmissible.'

'My apologies, Your Honor.'

'No more warnings,' says Judge Mallard, genuinely displeased.

'Miss Morrison,' recommences Mundane, 'do you have a criminal record?'

Carla seems to wait for J W Strange or the Judge to interrupt.

'Miss Morrison?' pushes Mundane, 40 years old, fatherly type to a particular kind of child. 'Don't be shy.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And what were you arrested for Miss Morrison?'

She does hesitate. 'For hooking.'

'Objection!' comes J W Strange.

'For what Mr. Strange?' says Judge Mallard. J W Strange delays. 'Irrelevant.'

'Mr. Mundane is going to say that it goes to credibility. Isn't that right, Counselor?' the Judge says to Mundane. Mundane nods and grins.

'Overruled. Sit down, Mr. Strange. Don't waste the court's time with spurious objections.' The Judge waves A T Mundane back in. Mundane goes, 'You were convicted twice, Miss Morrison, for solicitation, were you not?' Carla nods sadly.

Mundane: 'Let the record show that the witness indicated in the affirmative as her response.'

J W Strange stares at his fingernails. No wind in those sails of a sudden.

'Nothing more,' finishes Mundane. Sits down.

Judge Mallard to J W Strange, 'Mr. Strange, redirect?' J W Strange can't look Judge Mallard in the eyes. The Judge picks up his gavel and says, 'Then I think that it's a good idea for us to take lunch.'

June 23rd - June 27th & June 30th - July 2nd, 1958

Over the succeeding weeks

The People vs. Tucker Reginald Cole

Electric fans dotted around circulate a modicum of air. These days are predictable to those who have been so disposed to experience in an American courtroom. Those unsure of their footing blind themselves with open arms to keep their spirits returning. Attendee numbers both lay and media, dwindle daily. This is not so shocking.

Assistant District Attorney Abraham T Mundane has no eyewitness. He has no weapon. Cause of Death was strangulation.

J W Strange ploughs through a steady stream of character referees, testimony which is mostly garnered from family members. They need deliberate coaxing. In the end, predictability wins out: in their heart of hearts, their Tucker doesn't have it in him to do such a thing to nobody.

The ADA lynches every last one of them, citing obvious bias and calling much of the proceedings little more than manipulative saccharine. He demands on a number of occasions for comments to be stricken on grounds of hearsay. Judge Mallard is even-handed and patient throughout.

'Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?' A T Mundane says to Tucker Cole's father, Jeremiah, one late afternoon.

'No, sir,' comes the straight reply.

'Are you saying that you never attended any Marxist meetings?'

'Well, I did. When I was younger. Back in --'

'Are you saying, sir, under oath, that you were not a card-carrying member?'

'I ain't never been no member! Just saw some folks talk's all.'

'And are you saying, in front of these good people of the jury, that you never worked for a man – a Mr. Cuthbert Durban - who was openly Communist and therefore a possible spy against the United States?'

'Your Honor,' Strange goes, tired and sweaty, 'the District Attorney's Office has been interminably wasting the court's time trying to smear innocent people all day with ludicrous and irrelevant conjecture.'

The Judge ponders, wavering from a long day's concentration. His eyes flit to Mrs. Cole, of all people, and she stares through him, imploring him to make the pain end. 'Change the record, Mr. Mundane.'

*

A different afternoon: 'Isn't it true to say, Officer Terry, that you have a low tolerance of Negroes?' This is the first thing J W Strange says to one of Tucker Cole's arresting officers and Mundane hits the roof. Judge Mallard expects it, raises a knowing hand to the prosecutor and Mundane obeys, gentlemanly restraint appropriately ruffled.

'You're purposely inflaming things, Mr. Strange?' comes the Judge, eyebrows lifted.

'Merely seeking the truth for the benefit of my client, Your Honor,' goes Strange with that grin.

'If you need my birth certificate, Counselor, I will gladly produce it, but I am sure that my word will suffice when I say that I wasn't born yesterday,' and the Judge gets a chortle or two. 'Continue maturely, sir,' and J W Strange nods in deference, caught as intended.

Strange: 'What brought you to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Jeremiah Cole on May 3rd last, Officer Terry?'

'We received a phone call regarding the possible location of the victim's missing jewelry.'

'As seen in newspaper and radio appeals for information?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Did you get the name of the caller?'

'It was an anonymous source.'

'And did you act upon this anonymous source immediately?'

'Yes.'

'I see. And do you act upon every tip from anonymous callers similarly?'

'No, sir. We couldn't possibly.'

'So what made this an exception?'

'We were aware of the Negro boy accused of possessing the stolen item from past instances.'

'So you presumed his guilt.'

'No, sir. It was the strongest lead that we had received up to that point in the investigation.'

'And when you arrived at the defendant's home, were you met with any kind of hostility on the part of the residents?'

'No, sir.'

'Isn't it true to say that you were in fact welcomed as you had procured no lawful warrant to search the premises?'

'That is true.'

'And did their reaction to you cause suspicion?'

'No, sir. It did not.'

'And when you found out that my client did not have the item you sought in his possession, following you and your colleagues barging into their humble home, did my client express any grievance towards you?'

'Not that I saw, sir.'

'Hardly the actions of a guilty man, wouldn't you agree, Officer?'

'Mr. Cole was indeed well-behaved given the circumstances.'

'Well-behaved! Yet, he was arrested!'

'We were not happy with every element of his alibi.'

'Mr. Terry, isn't it simply true to say that your mysterious tipster told you that he or she had seen the victim's bangle in the possession of one Carla Morrison, my client's girlfriend, and, as a result of this you did some superficial digging, discovered that the girl's boyfriend was a colored boy and decided that proving his guilt was something to be considered long after the fact!' built nicely to a thunderclap crescendo.

'Objection!' Matches the thunderclap.

'Sustained,' comes the Judge, frustrated with them both.

'Argumentative, speculative and downright defamatory!' says Mr. Mundane.

'Enough, Mr. Strange,' says Judge Mallard with slightly less austerity. J W Strange clears his throat, acknowledges the Judge with a hand and nods. Sips his water.

'Your witness,' says J W Strange and A T Mundane's unprepared for it. Recovers quickly. Hooks his thumbs behind his suspenders and approaches the witness.

'Are you a veteran of the Korean War, sir?' he says to Dick Terry with a smile. Dick's 31; graying, happily married for now with a 5-year-old daughter. He's handsome in low lighting.

'Yes sir, I am.'

'Were you decorated for your exploits?'

'Yes. I was given the Purple Heart.'

'How long are you with the Chicago Police Department?'

'Seven years this October.'

'And do you have any citations for excessive force or false arrest during that time?'

'No, sir.'

'Are you a racist, Officer Terry?'

'No, sir, I am not.

'That will be all.'

July 4th, 1958

Independence Day weekend during the Trial

Mallard Residence

Oak Park, Chicago

Afternoon/Evening

Stars and stripes tablecloth: patriotic, gaudy, uncompromising, and frayed. Outside caterers were warned of the Judge's shellfish allergies.

Odessa's been militaristic in her supervisory capacity. Everything's meticulously organized for the annual Independence Day gathering that doubles as a celebration of Hogue Mallard's birthday which falls two days later.

Beautiful spread on the grand cherry wood table pushed up against the wall of the dining room, replete with a lustrous centerpiece punch bowl of sangria (Beryl's sole and unaccredited contribution to the proceedings.) Odessa samples one of everything on offer from the crab sticks to the rice salad, nodding to herself as she tastes each, stepping precisely from left to right, eyes closed to interrogate the quality thoroughly. (Mrs. Mallard is well aware of the nation's colored history with the French but it'll be hot dogs on a day like this over her dead body.)

Odessa slaps any remaining crumbs from her palms and wipes hands down her apron. Ready. 'Fit for Auguste Escoffier himself,' she declares, mispronouncing the name, saying Escoff-eer. Guests are arriving in drabs.

Upstairs, Beryl ties Hogue's tie in the bedroom. Her bony fingers tremble. Her face is waxy, beneath the cracked eyes large sagging bags heave - an unwanted, irreconcilable family heirloom; the makeup's brashly overcooked; her life's an ancient tract of soulful land given up cheaper every day for cheap social housing. Psoriasis flakes botch the back of her mauve jacket. She's no withered flower.

'Thank you for a lovely morning. The picnic was a real treat,' Hogue says and she waves away any praise as always. Odessa did everything.

'Hasn't begun yet,' she goes, pats down the Windsor knot when the tie is done. She kisses his cheek dutifully. Beryl reeks of gin. He's not figured out how to stop it. He cannot say when it started precisely.

The doorbell downstairs makes noise. 'Oh, that'll be Fill,' she squeals and exits quickly to answer. 'I'll get it!' she yells to the house, thundering to the front door.

Hogue turns himself to the mirror. Face has still got that sparkle. Stretches his lips, adjusts the lapels of his jacket, smiles, stands strictly to attention. Neatly sticks out that chest. Narrowed, wattled face. Verdict: a handsome man with virtues. He feels worthwhile and proud. Sees before him a horse with a future worth backing.

'Duckie, now where the Hell are you?!' comes his cannon-report beloved downstairs.

*

Their son Fillmore is a wise old owl for 30.

'Saw that victory of yours in the paper, son,' goes Senator Maxwell DeBardeleben, 55, (D – MN) to Fillmore with an arm squeezing Hogue Mallard's shoulder, 'Mighty fine legal mind, you have. Mighty fine. Chip off the old block.'

Both Max and Hogue are past pupils of Harvard, like Fillmore and Fillmore's grandfather. Fillmore grins at Max, loving the limelight, and sips his Muscadet.

The room's filled with milling friends, acquaintances, family. Beryl's threatening to unleash her kazoo if she could just remember where she put the darn thing. Nobody joins the search party.

Next to Fillmore is a woman who has been introduced to Hogue as Miss Janet Lirette of Springfield, Massachusetts. A tall, slim brunette, practicing medicine, she seems somehow inappropriate for Fillmore, ill-conceived. Hogue finds women at eye level off-putting.

'Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mallard. I work in a delicatessen,' was the first thing she uttered, shaking Hogue's hand daintily. Did he hear her right?

A delicatessen?

Then Fillmore burst into laughter and admitted that they were joshing. Planned it on the car ride over.

'Filly, you ought to have maintained the ruse!' she bemoaned and Hogue, an hour later, is still not entirely sure how fond he is of this woman; she betrays his experience of upper-class decorum.

The birthday boy does the rounds: a brand new set of Mizuno golf clubs from a colleague who declares the Moet to die for; an invitation to speak at a dinner supporting United Way from his brother Jared, the usual scrutinizing of his constitution by his sister-in-law Sarah. He's nudged mercilessly by piers into an Irving Berlin piano duet with his 14-year-old niece.

*

Maxwell DeBardeleben pulls him aside on the balcony. The evening's settled. Hogue enjoys Roquefort choux pastry with a generous smattering of the superb poulet au vin blanc.

'Looking forward to the fireworks, old man?' comes Maxwell.

'Not especially, no,' replies Hogue.

Maxwell inhales the fresh air and says, 'Have you heard that there will shortly be an opening on the Supreme Court?' smoking one of the Montecristos he presented to Hogue as a gift.

'I've heard nothing,' goes Hogue truthfully. Maxwell conspiratorially closes the balcony doors to almost-shut. Voice lowered, 'Well, it's not official yet but Harold Burton's got Parkinson's and will drop out come October.'

'I didn't know Harry was unwell,' says Hogue, genuinely surprised.

'So Ike's going shopping in the next few weeks for a replacement.' Maxwell pauses. Hogue catches on. 'I couldn't be anywhere near the top of his list,' says Hogue.

'Top five, on good authority,' says Maxwell with a bright, toothy smile. Hogue dissects.

'What about Wentworth Snowden? Ike's a big fan,' says Hogue.

'Snowden's happy with second in line for Solicitor General,' comes Max with a shake of the head to affirm the point.

'So who's in the running?' Hogue's looking for any way to squirm loose of this opportunity and Max knows it. Max digs his heels in. 'Harper Childs, Eugene Freeman, Potter Stewart and Floyd Juntti,' says Max without using fingers.

'Fine men and more than eligible candidates. Floyd Juntti is whom?'

'He's on the Associate Counsel to the President. A long shot. He's only 35. They're all outsiders, Hogue.'

'They've each of them had their time in and around the White House except me, Max,' goes Hogue, tugging hard against the tide so that tide might tug him harder.

Maxwell says, 'Everyone knows the sacrifices you've made,' with a face telling Hogue that nobody knows better than Hogue. 'Let's not be coy here. You should be at the top of the ladder. It's long, long overdue. Now, it's likely to be down to you and Potter Stewart if we start lobbying as soon as Burton's resignation is announced. And Stewart, as you probably know, is a middle-of-the-road man to the quick.'

'Potter's right of center. Much more to Eisenhower's tastes,' reminds Hogue.

Maxwell nods, clearly enthused by Hogue's predictable arguments, 'Yes, yes but Eisenhower likes balance too and everyone on the Hill knows that you're a lefty with peripheral vision and an impeccable record for fairness. Both sides of Congress would respect your opinion,' says Maxwell grandly.

'By your tone I'd swear you're serious with all this, Max,' comes Hogue, self-deprecating instinctively.

'Why not? One word of advice – your darkie trial: give it no quarter, for your own sake. Play it hard. Eisenhower and the committee will eat it up if you show the rat-bastards that you're no soft-hearted liberal where it counts. That's what he hates about Earl Warren, the soft-sell. Here's an ideal opportunity for you to take your abilities to the next level: honest to goodness prestige and ultimate power in the world's most far-reaching judiciary.'

The balcony doors swing open. A chorus ascends from the adjacent room behind Hogue: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!

Trapped. Hogue must bear it or jump. Wobbly Beryl wheels the cake out of the kitchen on a cart, 56 candles flickering. The house rumbles with singing, each face facing Hogue.

'Give the People what they want,' says Maxwell to Hogue to wrap it up.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR HO-OGUE. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!

Hogue turns to the attendees and there's a rushing cascade of applause. Beryl hands him the knife. He notices a disfigured reflection in the blade.

'Blow 'em away, Duckie!' she bellows. The clapping subsides. Someone in back demands a speech. Voice deserts him.

July 8th,1958

Four days later

Cook County Criminal Court Building

Judge's Chambers

9am

He's trying to contemplate, rearrange, re-establish.

May 1924: wealthy teenagers Richard Leopold and Nathan Loeb kidnap and murder 14 year old Bobby Franks for the thrill, because they can. Chicago prematurely calls it the crime of the century. They're tried for murder in this very building.

Hogue Mallard would pass the Bar two years later. He receives special dispensation on August 22nd from his summer clerkship to attend the closing arguments of Clarence Darrow, the young men's defender. Then 66, Darrow was famed for his wit and eloquence as a litigator. Hogue had heard and read many things by and regarding Darrow. Forever Hogue would regret this chance to be present for something so significant and decadent if he missed it.

The excitement in the courthouse was immense that day, a gigantic entity. The room was to the rafters with press and public. Hogue watched the charismatic Darrow deliver a protracted and poetic summation. Darrow's critics found his siding with the despicable Leopold and Loeb as nothing short of reprehensible; Hogue saw it as something else - Darrow was a man above judgment of any individual. He was a man of the constitutional law, straight and true, he believed in due process as the power above all, putting his good name and reputation to the background in favor of being a willing exponent of the legal system. Hogue admired the man and was determined to emulate those kinds of unwavering principles. Even towards the conclusion of Darrow's speech, Hogue's muscles pinched and groaned but he remained glued to every syllable. The air was festooned with smoke rings and sighs. People had removed their jackets and their ties, checked their timepieces and left to use the toilets or make their dinner. Clarence Darrow did none of these things; he was a superhuman gentleman.

At one juncture, the attorney quoted Housman. Hogue memorized what he could of the recitation. After the trial, it took the library three days to find a collection of Housman that included the poem he wanted:

Now hollow fires burn out to black,

And lights are guttering low:

Square your shoulders, lift your pack, And leave your friends and go.

Oh never fear, man, nought's to dread,

Look not left nor right: In all the endless road you tread

There's nothing but the night.

His reminiscing is interrupted by two sharp raps on the chamber door. Hogue bids entry. A T Mundane holds the door open for J W Strange. Strange enters with an uncharacteristic pall of anxiety about him. Mundane's demeanor proves to be quite the opposite.

Outside, on a distant graying knoll, Laurie London's voice wafts He's Got the Whole World in His Hands from a car radio. Judge Mallard tightly shuts the window, through which he has been staring, to swallow up the music. The judge then turns to Mundane and Strange. Hands clasped behind his back. The men stand studiously to attention. Hearty puff of the pipe and a nod good morning from the ADA. Strange is eager to sit. Limelight dims about the loser. He knows it to be true. It's obvious and these are black or white days.

'Welcome, gentlemen,' begins Judge Mallard, prefacing his words with no change in the grave repose of his face. Offers the men chairs and they are taken. 'To be brief,' he says, beginning to sit behind his desk. His hanging gown billows gently behind him. No preamble as to the quality of their respective July 4th Weekend holidays, no small talk, no snifters or highballs offered up as is customary even at this early hour.

'I am going to allow the Defendant's juvenile criminal convictions be entered into the proceedings forthwith should the District Attorney's Office see fit to request such a motion today,' and the way he looks at Mundane tells Mundane that the District Attorney's Office is going to see fit. J W Strange is perplexed and A T Mundane is pleasantly shocked. He crosses his legs, blocks a cough with his fist.

'Why the change of heart?' is what J W Strange says shortly thereafter with a barely veiled tone of righteous indignation.

'It is my feeling, Counselor,' comes Judge Mallard firmly, 'that such evidence is particularly pertinent to the jury's determining whether or not your client is guilty as there are no material witnesses or viable fingerprints and/or murder weapons available from our murder scene.' The judge's eyes are bobbing. His right hand is busy twiddling a pen. ADA Mundane waits for something. He is somewhat set off-kilter by the turn of events. J W Strange clears his throat, ruefully shakes his head, slips his hand over his slick hair with a masterful parting right down the center. Regroups. Perfumed Brilliantine hair treatment (Strange) and Mellow Virginia tobacco smoke (Mundane) paper the cracks of the air in this formidably small room.

'Judge, this is the death penalty. This man does not deserve to die on a circumstantial conviction,' and it's a heartfelt statement from Strange - unexpectedly so, to Judge Mallard and the truth of it stings Hogue wistfully for a bursting second.

'We can prove reasonable doubt, which is likely to be sufficient,' interjects Mundane, almost apologetically.

J W Strange feels anger's en route. He's not raising his voice nor gesticulating with any great ferocity.

'You've been fair up to now,' says Strange to Judge Mallard with something approaching real commitment - is it acting or truthful? Toss a coin.

Strange: 'We understood that from the start this was going to be an uphill battle but all we would ask is that you continue to give us a fighting chance. I mean, I don't wish to sound like a rookie but there is simply no justice to this young man in the slightest if you make this decision against us.' He glances to Mundane but Mundane's puffing and staring at his shoes - indifferent or pensive? Desperation's creeping in.

Strange goes, 'Your Honor, I don't honestly know where this is coming from. It's absurd to have an innocent man crowned perpetrator of a capital act based upon previous infractions that are in no way similar to that capital act!'

Judge Mallard: 'The boy had every opportunity granted him by law to have his juvenile record expunged and he chose not to do so.'

J W Strange says, 'In the original petition to the court, if I may remind you, it was made perfectly plain that my client did indeed trawl through the necessary procedures of paperwork in order to do as you have said only to find that he could not afford the fees required and could find no judge sufficiently decent to waive that requirement as any of them could have.'

Judge Mallard breathes; he'd like this to be over and certainly wasn't expecting such an uppity display from Strange.

He says, slowly, 'Arrests without conviction prior to his 17th birthday I will continue to disallow. Would that satisfy you, Mr. Strange?'

'No, Judge, it would not,' comes Strange, tensed as tense could be, 'His 2 previous convictions are for B and C misdemeanor crimes and, I reiterate, have never come near to the geography of felonious murder!'

Mundane butts in, perhaps unadvisedly, and says to Strange, 'You do seem overly concerned about your client's juvenile record's significance all the same, Mr. Strange, given your apparent belief in its insignificance within the apparatus of our current milieu.'

'Yes,' begins Strange, 'however,' and here the Judge tersely tries to call time on the scene with an interjection, 'Any jury is fully entitled to the facts, Mr. Strange, and it is negligence in extremis on my part to disallow this information. I can appreciate that I am retracting my original ruling but that is my privilege. It's my duty to admit to an error and try my best to rectify that error without any substantive damage done to the legitimacy of the trial. Now, if you would --'

'The verdict will have no balance!' comes Strange, real fire in the belly. Wide-eyed Hogue retorts with, 'Let me disabuse you, sir, of any flighty notion which you might possess that this position of power which I hold is treated by me with anything less than the utmost regard demanded of its auspices! There shall be balance in my courtroom and justice shall have its pound of flesh if that is how it is to be.'

'Very well, Your Honor, and whose flesh shall we donate?' stabs Strange. 'Do you fight so ably this morning for the life of a man or the life of a budding career, Mr. Strange?' The Judge's clenching his jaw; some mornings he wakes to pain unimaginable.

'I move that you recuse yourself immediately on the grounds of incompetence and gross ethical misconduct leading to untenable bias,' booms Strange and he's on the verge of standing, of exploding. It's an extraordinary show of bluster.

Judge Mallard cackles, 'That will be the very last thing that I do! And I have a mind to hold you in contempt for the way you are conducting yourself in my chambers!'

J W Strange barges out the door. ADA Mundane keeps his eyes on the floor. The Judge wants to let that air in again, he's choking.

Still, if he opens the damn window, who knows what tender horrors he might invite.

July 16th, 1958

Cook County Criminal Court Building

The People vs. Tucker Reginald Cole 2pm

'Objection!'

The paper's peering out, winking at him from beneath folders of documents.

8 down (8) reads, cryptically: CARRY YOUR TEA SET, HONEY MAKERS, EVERY ONE OF YOU.

Nothing remotely new on the Supreme Court front. Hogue believed Max; believed that he had a shot. That belief's waning. Max called Saturday night with the usual preambles, side steps, anecdote distractions; said things were quiet all over when Hogue pushed him. Patience. Be Patient. Early days. Hogue easily managed an extra sherry before bed.

A bug's gnawing at him today, some sort of viral infection; feverish, worsened this morning. He's done with this trial for most intents and purposes. The decision he took against Tucker Cole that has so upset J W Strange is serving now to merely prolong the inevitable. Should've excused himself for the day. Head's a logjam.

'Overruled,' comes the judge with a sniff. Not sure if it's Mundane or Strange objecting.

8 down's right there but he can't get it. His fingers flex. Tries to return to the room.

'Withdrawn,' says ADA Mundane. He's standing at his table, as if jurisprudence itself glued his shoes to the floorboards. He takes a breath. Seldom does he walk about. Clears his throat.

'Now, Mrs. Mulcahy,' continues Mundane with regard to the white woman on the stand, 'what are your recollections of the aforementioned incident that shook your very soul, as you put it, in December 1955?' He says it delicately, like she's a moron.

Denise Mulcahy's 69, immaculately dressed for court, lopsided mouth. Eyebrows plucked, stockings anew, those cyan hand gloves from her thoughtful neighbor for special occasions.

'Well, I was walkin' down Magnificent Mile, ya know,' she starts, shockingly baritone, Chicago confidence through and through, 'Shoppin, well, browsin, mindin my own bee's wax, when suddenly, outta nowhere, this little brat –'

'Objection,' shoots J W Strange and Hogue Mallard's just as quick to overrule him. Strange's been like a woodpecker, a real pain in the neck; objections left, right and center, silly motions tabled; slowing things to a crawl, irritating everyone. It's a blatant tactic; as close to kicking and screaming as a courtroom will allow without expulsion. Mr. Strange is edging ever closer to the brunt of Hogue's wrath.

'Proceed, Mr. Mundane,' says the Judge.

'Go on, Mrs. Mulcahy,' says Mundane, like she's a moron.

'Move to strike the testimony of this witness, your Honor, on grounds of prejudice towards my client,' finishes Strange coolly.

'Why wouldn't she be prejudiced towards him, Counselor? He stole her purse in broad daylight,' goes Hogue, chin propped up on his fist, and there's titters, people putting their chins to their chests.

'And he has been rightly convicted of the crime already,' says spiky Strange, not backing down.

Hogue leans forward, absolutely seething, 'Would you like some free advice, young man?'

Strange, bold as brass, heart about to burst staring down twin barrels: 'Please enlighten me, Judge.'

'If you know what's good for you, son, you will sit down and keep your mouth shut,' and clearly produces the eyes of a hangman to illustrate his sincerity. J W Strange nods with hands tied, smiles nervously; defeated in another battle, this losing war. He sits down. Judge Mallard's chair creaks wildly. Nods to Abraham Mundane. Mundane hasn't budged.

'My apologies, Mrs. Mulcahy. Please: your story,' says Mundane with an outstretched hand to shepherd Mrs. Mulcahy back to center stage. Gladly, Mrs. Mulcahy resumes: 'Well, that boy there, he just come up behind me, steals my purse. Had all my Christmas money in it too. $40 and change.' She's a very effective face; obviously a stout and spirited woman, brought finally to tears by ADA Mundane's convoluted questioning - e.g. and so, Mrs. Mulcahy, your small grandchildren could receive no gifts that Christmas from their beloved grandma? A damning indictment against the Defendant.

Yesterday: the Defendant's former Parole Officer attested to the boy's willingness to reform. Counselor Strange pounced on any charity: Tucker Cole volunteered at a retirement home on weekends as part of his rehabilitation.

Alas, Abraham Mundane pointed out that the accused had then been asked to leave said position on suspicion of stealing money and personal effects from the vulnerable patients. Could the Defendant's Parole Officer confirm this? He could, although nothing was proven concretely at the time.

Jason Waldo Strange explained this morning to the jury of his client's tough childhood: schooling sadly cut short when he was 10 to help his Ma feed the family, meet the bills. Chronic and inescapable destitution, his father's inability to work due to an on-site injury, his father's claims for compensation being roundly denied, the premature death of his client's baby brother, Sam. Strange thinly uses witnesses to draw the picture he wants. Judge Mallard tells Strange more than once to save the rhetoric for his closing remarks. For every hundred words the Defense utters, ten from the District Attorney's Office shreds them to ribbons. It's indicative of the disparate styles involved - young versus old - but also of the immense challenge J W Strange faced from the outset.

'Call LaQuita Bastible,' says ADA Mundane as soon as Denise Mulcahy is gone. J W Strange's puzzled. LaQuita Bastible's a very big Negro girl, 21, corn rows in her hair. Her head gives the impression of being filled with some type of viscous liquid. The eyes droop. Judge Mallard's not exactly sure who this is either.

'Your Honor, I object,' says Strange, standing, sifting through notes. 'Who is this person?'

Judge Mallard says, 'Mr. Mundane, if you would be so kind.'

Mundane's only too happy, goes, 'Miss Bastible reported being interfered with privately by the Defendant more than a year ago.'

'Your Honor!' comes Strange, arms up to say it all. Judge Mallard raises a hand to calm him.

'Counselor,' this is to Mundane, grimly, 'I wonder if you aren't abusing the leeway that I have graciously afforded you.'

'I don't believe so, Your Honor. I'm continuing to construct an overall portrait of the Defendant's antisocial predilections.'

8 down comes in a flash. Judge's unbalanced. B-E-T-R-A-Y-A-L.

Strange says directly to Mundane, man to man, no audience, voice lowered in disbelief, 'He's never been convicted of anything like what you're talking about.'

'Nevertheless, it fits a pattern,' comes Mundane louder than necessary and he's smug about it.

Strange to Hogue, 'Your Honor, this is farcical. Are we to permit every ridiculous fabrication run riot in your courtroom?'

Judge Mallard gathers himself. He daren't fill in 8 down. Clears his throat. 'Proceed cautiously, Counselor,' goes the Judge to Mundane, having not really heard a thing from the past minute or more.

'Thank you, Judge,' goes Mundane.
'Your Honor!' explodes Strange. His grievances are genuine but it comes out like a playpen tantrum. Judge Mallard looks at him.

'Let's see where it leads, Mr. Strange.'

'This is a kangaroo court! I move for mistrial,' says Strange with punch. That hangs for a long time. Murmurs. All eyes shift to the judge. Hogue Mallard knows one thing: he had better get that goddamn Supreme Court seat for this.

'That's enough, Mr. Strange,' he says evenly and turns to LaQuita Bastible. She looks shell-shocked by the ruckus.

'You're an absolute disgrace,' blurts out Strange to Judge Mallard. Judge Mallard's not certain that he heard that correctly. Nobody in the room's certain. Footing's in jeopardy. It's as if the floor's been sheeted with ice.

'Excuse me?' says the Judge to Strange, naked with terror - is Strange saying I see through your ploy?

'You heard what I said,' goes J W Strange, smashing his ass into his seat, not so sure and too far-gone. Judge Mallard settles himself. He's dizzied, swindled of power in the moment. J W Strange holds his head in his hands. Doesn't care. All is lost.

What the Judge says next to Strange is throwaway, under his breath; he's lost the reins on his breathing, tidying files to prove that he's unaffected: 'Obviously you're seeking a death row cell alongside Mr. Cole.' Astonishment reverberates, pulses. The jury's heard it. Hogue Mallard catches on a second later. Respiration's somersaulting. He may be beginning to hyperventilate.

'I'm kidding,' he forces, fidgeting, deeply embarrassed. 'You will, of course, uh, of course, ignore that comment, please. To the jury I mean - I'm saying that. Strike it from the record, uh, if you don't mind. It's prejudicial. Please,' he splutters.

No one knows what to do. Every eye is trained on the bench. Hogue undoes his tie knot. He stands up and like that - blacks out.

August 6th, 1958

Cook County Criminal Court Building

The People vs. Tucker Reginald Cole

3pm

(Closing Remarks to Jury from Judge Hogue Mallard based on Trial Transcripts.)

I shall be brief, gentlemen. In the first instance, allow me, on behalf of the State of Illinois, to thank you for your earnest attendance, co-operation, patience and time throughout this case. I know it's not been easy to be apart from your loved ones and let so many pleasant summer days go by indoors.

You must weigh the facts as you have heard them and keep it foremost in your thoughts that it is within your power and constitutional right to recommend the defendant - Tucker Cole – be put to death. Cold as it may sound when stated candidly, it is, nevertheless, one choice awaiting you in that room. I have also decided that your verdict rendered and sentencing recommendation, whatever they may be, need not, necessarily, be unanimous to gain my approval, within reason. Be very clear on that point, sirs.

All right, well, I will not lecture you on the holy doctrines of law or the rightful search for justice. You are not stupid men. Let me simply say I am sorry that a burden such as this has been put upon you. I wouldn't wish this upon my worst enemy but we are here, as citizens of a system of authority which, woven inherently and inextricably therein, is an incumbency upon us all to collaborate in the execution of these profound duties. Duties that civilized, democratic systems, and their peoples, are traditionally charged with. For better or worse, today, that is where we find ourselves. There are no winners or losers.

I am afraid that I have no spellbinding oration or grandiloquent quotation with which to leave you. My job is to shepherd. All I will say is that I wish you good luck. Be true to your own principles as Americans, whatever they may be. Trust yourselves, don't be swayed by temptation to pander or satisfy others, that's my advice. Be strong in your convictions so that when you finally do depart from this courthouse you can say to yourself honestly, I did what I believed was right. Gentleman, it is quite true to say that we are none of us divisible from our actions or decisions. You are excused.

August 14th, 1958

Eight days later

The White House

9.55am

Ike's got the putter shouldered like his precious 7.42 NATO rifle, head cocked, left eye shut.

'Ever been?' says Ike to Hogue Mallard.

'To Western Pennsylvania? No, sir.' Ike pulls his invisible trigger.

'Got him.' Smiles at Hogue – 20 yards of exquisite putting green between them. 'Fabulous hunting. Wonderfully rugged terrain,' goes Ike, planting his feet, hunched over an 18-footer. 'Whitetail bucks everywhere you look.'

Hogue's standing in the light rough with one hand in his pocket; in the other is a mostly-full glass of ice tea: his default social libation.

The President's ball lips out. 'Darn,' Ike goes, a smiley chap today.

'Unlucky, sir,' says Hogue, unsure if this meeting's going anywhere. Been close to 30 minutes worth of this repartee.

Ike leans on his putter, shrugs about the missed putt. Looks out into the misty morning. Sun's low and off-white. Hogue's terribly aware of Secret Service dotted about.

When do we discuss my nomination for the Supreme Court?

Ike's surely playing it coy for suspense though he has no record of being a showman.

Clears his throat, replaces his putter in the bag standing close by. 'What's your course, Hogue?'

'Cog Hill, sir,' goes Hogue.

'Cog Hill,' comes Ike, measuring up his sand wedge. 'Yes. Second course there's got a son-of-a-gun back 9 if I remember rightly.'

'Yes, sir. Ravines,' says Hogue, impressed, if nothing else, by the President's knowledge of golf courses.

Ike rolls 6 or 7 balls into the nearby bunker. 'Ravines. Yes,' comes Ike, trundling in after the balls. 'Devil of a day's play there. Yes, sir.' President's moving freely despite being diagnosed in '56 with Crohn's disease and suffering that stroke last year. Speech problem's hardly detectable. He's a tough nut. Got 10 years on Hogue; on the other hand, put them side by and side and you could be fooled that they're contemporaries.

Call came 10 days ago....wants to see you...hears good things about you...you're in the running...

Hogue's head was in the clouds. He had agonized for days over the introductory letter, sure that it would inevitably come across as fatuous and sycophantic. Beryl thought it was a hoax when Hogue told her to pack her bags. She worships Eisenhower.

'He beat the Krauts like a buncha redheaded stepkids,' she said on the plane to DC. The Bloody Mary sloshed in her hand. She'd once learned his D-Day speech off by heart; couldn't recall it just then. 'Oh, he's a poet. A splendid Christian soldier in my book,' she went, toasting the Commander-in-chief.

'Nothing tops Augusta National in my book,' comes Ike, closing in on 68 years, working on his lower back, practicing light movements, says something like trouble with my back swing elevation though Hogue's not certain he was meant to hear it necessarily.

President says, 'Yup. Bobby came up with one heck of a course down there.' Ike thins a ball from the sand – shoots across the South Lawn fifty yards. 'Shit,' says the President, 'Excuse my Swahili, Judge.'

'That's quite understandable, sir,' comes Hogue.

'Usually pretty good outta the traps,' shake of the head, tugging at his plus 4s. Hit the range already this morning. Hogue has always appreciated Eisenhower's stately manner, his immense military record, his dignified roguishness, his lofty position in the pantheon of American history. Hogue's grandfather was born about 5 miles from where Ike grew up in Taylor County, Kansas.

Politically Hogue finds Ike rather too traditional, repressed – particularly, he never liked the idea of putting under God into the Pledge of Allegiance. It seemed somehow gaudy - uncouth - to Hogue to do so. He's going to be put out to pasture in 2 years.

You've played the game perfectly your whole life. It has led you to this grand place. Play the game now. Can't you taste it?

Frederick Mallard would've loved Ike. Hogue's hoping that the old man can pull some strings from the Great Beyond. He can feel his father's great weight on his shoulders. Hogue dry-heaved over the toilet when he rose this morning. Beryl snored up a storm in the hotel bed. The cab ride to 1600 Pennsylvania was arduous. He's not been right for weeks; as soon as he shifts an ailment, a fresh one descends: flu, bronchitis, heart palpitations, gout, headaches, waves of lassitude, a lasting ear infection – no break in the chain. A number of them remain ongoing, interlocked. Mercifully, a runny nose is his utmost complaint at the moment. Unless, waiting for the conversation to reach its point can be a complaint. Stomach's trampoline act's more diplomatic.

'Went fly-fishing – oh, musta been 3 weeks back. No, a month,' continues Ike. Swings, pops a ball up in the air - lands it ten feet from the hole. 'Rainbow trout in Idaho,' shakes his head, like he can't believe those trout. 'You can't believe how well those fish taste; cooked right, knob of real creamery butter. If you're ever near Henry's Fork, my advice is, even if it's fifty miles outta your way, go. Just go, take the detour. You will not be sorry.' The bottom third of Ike is invisible and Hogue's never fished in his life.

'I'll keep that in mind, sir,' tips his glass to Ike, sips the drink. It's very good. Appointment was for 9am. Hogue arrived alone at 8.10. Didn't wake Beryl in the hotel – god help him, he drugged her drinks to guarantee freedom; the aftermath will be cataclysmic, no doubt. She knitted a bobbled, loopy red, white and blue scarf for Ikey-pie. Hogue left it behind. Hogue will shut down when she goes cuckoo as he has long ago trained himself to do. It will be worth it. Ike made him wait 15 minutes after 9. His Secretary gave Hogue ice tea and then sent him into the Oval Office. Hogue's jitters eased. He liked the portrait of Eisenhower by Norman Rockwell on the wall. Found the room smaller than he'd anticipated. Succumbed also to the hokum - imagined the hunched men, all the amazingly important decisions made in that room. It was cold and quiet, like a prison cell or fallout bunker.

Then Ike burst in, hand out: 'Apologies for my lateness, Judge Mallard,' he'd said. Hogue couldn't get up fast enough. They shook. Ike smiled and came up with, 'The hand of the diligent will rule, while the slothful will be put to forced labor.' Asked after each other's health; Ike didn't sit at his desk once. Grabbed his clubs and told Hogue to follow.

'Please excuse the informal attire,' Ike said, walking out the South Lawn door. The President's gait is unmistakably forged by years of rigorous rhythm, righteous reasoning and rigid rectitude.

'Dick Nixon mentioned you to me,' says Ike suddenly, hovering over a ball off the green, clutching his putter. 'Saw that case with the black boy in Chicago,' as he takes a stroke. Steps sideways to the next awaiting ball and goes, 'Never a responsibility to take lightly, sending anyone to his end.'

God, Richard Nixon of all people. Most unpleasant man you might dare conjure.

'I like the rough longer on this side here, you see it? I ask John specifically to let it grow a hair taller. It's not exactly links conditions, but it does mean that I'm not completely unprepared whenever I can get to the seaside.' Putts. His distance and line is uncannily consistent. Moves to another ball.

Dwight Eisenhower: 'Biggest damn fool mistake I ever made was making Earl Warren Chief Justice. Dick hates him. I thought Warren would help nudge any undecided liberals to the right. I'll be darned if he hasn't run amok in there. Dick said he was a Commie wolf in sheep's clothing and I took that with a pinch of salt, as you must with Dick a lot of the time. I've never thought Warren a Communist; just he maybe has a screw or two AWOL. Dick thinks everyone's a Red. He's got a serious penchant for melodrama. He was right, though, in some ways. Warren's a big regret. Dick believes that you're more of a team player, Judge. He's researched you. Patriotic was the word he used and that's a word when I hear it used to describe a man, I listen. The Court's too leftist right now, too radical, plain and simple, and it's not that I'm looking for a browbeater either - good Lord, that's what WW2 was about, stopping crazed bullies.' Ike checks his watch and replaces the flag in the hole. 'Dick's running in 1960. Never saw a man so rabid for power since Hitler! Between then and now I'm sure he'll be keeping a close eye on the men who show loyalty to their masters and commanders, if you'll pardon my phrasing. He's keen to promote and surround himself with honorable men.'

Leads Hogue inside the Oval Office, leaving the clubs. 'Unfortunately, my time is up. But for what it's worth, you've got a shot at this thing, Judge. I'll speak to my advisors. This is one tricky decision. We were sorry to see Harry go but we're lucky to have strong candidates duking it out to replace him. Survival of the fittest only benefits America in the long-term, wouldn't you agree?'

August 22nd, 1958

Eight days later

Lake Minnetonka

5550 Maple Heights Road Greenwood, Minnesota

11.05am

Hungry-nervy. Bored-impatient.

Hogue's read the same passage of his Robespierre biography for the last 5 minutes.

The delicious surroundings: the enchantment's wearing thin. There's work to be done.

'White sucker's probably my favorite. Claire does a mean job with 'em,' says Max DeBardeleben (D-MN). He's caught 3 black crappies and a green sunfish. These will be for lunch. Max hung a cute, wood-carved sign on the front door of the cabin: Gone Fishin'. Whittled by his father's father.

The lake's around back, down a gentle grassy grade - dense tree coverage and 1200 feet of shoreline. Awe-inspiring landscape. Helps paint a man insignificant if he needs it. Hogue came out in the 20footer as company for Max. He's got no rod, no interest. They're 200 yards out in the freshwater, zero wind, softly motioning up and down in perpetuity.

Max cracks a beer, takes in the view, adjusts himself to a slouch, and puts his right ankle atop the front of his left thigh. 'No place like it, is there?' His getaway spot is treasured, verging on obsessively. ('Don'tcha just love the sound of it: stucco interior?') Hogue wants to say that Max looks silly – the hat with miniature hooks, the shorts, the white socks pulled taut, shabby sneakers. Unfortunately, Hogue's a guest and Max has been very good to him. Fight the negativity.

This is the nice calm before the rampant storm of the Capitol. Norman Rockwell strolls on land, fanciful cravat, puffing a long-stem pipe, with Claire DeBardeleben. Max's beloved German shepherd hops and scoots by them. She's got her arm looped in Norm's. Their conversation or silence appears very comfortable; they've clearly been good friends for many years. Norman stops and picks up a stick – Hogue's watching this unfold, Max tilts his head back and his hat forward – and the dog starts to bounce on its hind legs, barking, panting. Norman slings the stick into the water. The dog fetches with great splashing and gusto. It's idyllic. Friends being friendly; being uncomplicated. Norman and Claire keep walking. Hogue's jealous of things he shouldn't be. This is who he is now. Others' happiness is an oppressive regime. His insurgents have long ago abandoned the recaptured garrison.

Not true. Things are difficult, OK. But I will win this day.

Waiting for the call from Eisenhower's set his every molecule on edge. The basket's overloaded with Supreme Court eggs. He's pictured his wife being run over by large vehicles, seen her drowning here, falling alone and dashing her head on a rock; he wants her dead. A horrible honesty. Beryl made a spectacle of herself at dinner last night. Hogue excused himself. She called him a lying pig, accused him of stepping out with other women, dubbed female colleagues sluts, one and all. Max took her to bed. Claire cleaned up the broken dishes. Beryl's no longer a person. She cannot be loved; the man who is her husband therefore cannot love himself in any constructive, survivable, desirable context. They are a couple unprotected by the unwise world; there is no bin to collect them, nor an ounce of succor found at the bottom of any pigeonhole. At what point does sacrificing to remain a functional being become death by calendar strokes?

Stop! Resist it, you old goat. Make lemonade.

The lemons are running low. Flip side: he is going to join the ranks of the Supreme Court.

Yes, there is hope.

D-Day's fast advancing. Ike has the power to restore one last beachhead to its rightful owner. Hogue's not overly excited, per se, he daren't be. Adolescence allows for whimsy. It is not the tides that change. Love (of the necessity to be pragmatic) conquers all.

Beryl opens the backdoor fully dressed – covering up the shakes and disorientation with her mightiest full-length coat. She makes a move immediately towards Claire and Norman. Hogue's burrowed embarrassment rears its head like a gopher the exterminator missed.

*

Half an hour's passed. Max waits, catches a few more bites. Hogue shuts his book finally. Chugs bottled water.

To Max: 'That bill you were talking about,' says Hogue, swatting a bug. Could be as high as 80/85 degrees.

'Won't pass the House,' goes Max, fingers on the reel, back to intensely hunching over the boat's edge.

'Midterms on the horizon. No brave incumbent's gonna rock any boats,' with a wink.

Claire and Beryl are waving to them from land; shouting. Hogue taps Max's shoulder. Max swivels and Hogue points - Max cranes to see the women.

'Should we go back?' says Hogue. Max finds his binoculars by his feet, has a peep through them. 'Are they alright?' Hogue goes.

'Claire's smiling. We better go see, I guess,' says Max with a defeated sigh. Pulls in his line gingerly, revs the motor. They make their way back to shore. Claire's elated on the jetty. Norman's hands-in-pockets, chortling at her. Beryl's standing by as the boat slows.

'What's happening?' says Max.

'The president's on the phone for Hogue!' yelps Claire. Max looks at Hogue and Hogue looks at Max. Swelling breasts. Claire reaches up to Hogue for a hug. 'You deserve everything good in this world, my darling,' kisses both his cheeks. Norman shakes Hogue's hand tersely, smiles, says nothing. Beryl squeezes Hogue's hand. She billows beneath the hulk of her addiction's omnipresent side effects. The hyperbole's infectious. Hogue holds her close. She's so thin.

'I love you,' Hogue says to Beryl.

'And I you, Duckie.'

Hogue travels alone towards the house. It's a backward farewell.

'Give Ike our best,' comes Max. Hogue salutes as the distance between he and they lengthens.

*

Long and the short of it: Eisenhower said No.

Potter Stewart's the man. Hogue sits for the longest time in the cushy red leather-bound Italian couch, cathedral corridor; legs are 90 degrees to the floor, hands resting on kneecaps. He stares out the circular hallway window. Fall's a breath away: leaves will be turning, trees will be shedding. The cycle is reentering its prime. Biblical emptiness bursts forth. Hordes of onrushing, unappeasable hordes.

How could I have been so stupid? He's choking.

I expected one lousy hard-line attitude to nullify my entire career record?

There is no pain. Numbness. His body's in emergency hibernation or it's in atomic meltdown. Reserves are in operation....close call...good luck in your endeavors...keep up the good work...God bless you...

No hole big enough to bury him. His stomach growls. His brain falters; synapses are tripping up each other. Single-minded slideshow: Tucker Cole. One tear from an eye betraying a scalded soul.

Weep, weep, and weep then! Goddamn you! You have left yourself with nothing!

Hogue removes his glasses and dabs the tear. Makes mallet-fists, holds them, turning each muscle to rock to prevent anymore self-pitying or kindness. The tears of a lifetime cannot be stopped.

*

Norman rattles Hogue awake on the couch. Been asleep for 2 minutes.

'Would you like some lunch?' says Norman.

They've figured it out reports Norman's grave face. Hogue nods, slowly lifts what remains of the sum of his parts to standing.

How much must a man endure without his heart giving up?

Not even a death wish is granted.

Excuses himself. Goes to the bathroom. Kitchen swims with the smell of frying fish. Hogue enters with a swollen grin. Beryl sets the table; Norman's uncorking wine, pipe in his teeth. Claire minds the cooker. Commiseration is proffered; nothing profligate - the group's shared disappointment engenders maudlin propriety. Hogue shrugs the debacle off like a dusty cloak, a nuisance resolved. Glad that's over with!

'Wasn't meant to be,' he says and it sounds truthful and convincing to him the more he says it. Stands beside Claire in front of the kitchen window. Gazes out over the blue-gray lake. Sees the clouds gliding. Proof that the earth spins undaunted.

Max's carrying a plastic bag up the hill from the moored boat, wearing rubber gloves. Slaps the bag down on the wooden picnic table outside, a few yards from Hogue. Max is concentrating. Does Max know yet?

Max overturns the bag, out flops three smallish fish. Hogue watches Max behead them with a serrated blade one by one.

Max won't prepare them in here because he can't face me.

Claire goes, 'Hogue, be a darling and open the window a crack for me. Aren't you boiled alive?' She barefoots it to the fridge. Hogue obliges. He hears Max sneezing three times in rapid succession. The world's so quiet, as if it's also attempting to sidestep Hogue's rejection. Norman steps outback to clean his pipe bowl. Beryl's not in the room any longer, footsteps upstairs. The dog's napping. Hogue puts his back to the window, crosses his arms. Claire comes to him with that sad face of hers and puts a hand on his forearm for a second.

'Can I do anything?' comes Hogue. Idle chatter between Norman and Max outside. Back door's been left open too, daisy-cutter draught.

'Not a thing, darling,' she says, seasoning the sizzling fish in the pan.

Norman laughs heartily outside, says to Max, 'You're right, he is one sorry-looking sucker.'

Hogue turns to the men quickly, shocked, unsure that he heard Norman correctly. Hogue's blood rushes to blush his face. Neither Norm nor Max look at Hogue. In a few seconds, Hogue Mallard understands.

A fish.

Norm's talking about a fish.

April 5th, 1968

Four months before the first King Lear Murder

The Kansas City Star

By Paxton Dudasik

'Scourge of God' is Guilty

His trail leaves indelible mark on a Nation bemused

International curiosity Giovanni di Matteo, 41, originally of Hoboken, NJ, was today found unanimously guilty on 19 counts of first degree murder in Topeka's stately Courthouse. It took the jury just forty-nine minutes to return their verdict. This shocking trial concluded following more than 4 months of intense litigation. As the judgment was read out, di Matteo, aka Johnny D, showed no emotion. The defendant's fiancée, Sonya Kershaw, 23, was less reserved in her reaction. She was the singular attendee to cry. Defense Attorney Declan Gribben's tactics throughout the proceedings were to claim and persuade the jurors that di Matteo was not 'in possession of his faculties by any definition of the term,' when he committed the murders. The drive of their argument contested mainly that di Matteo became a 'different entity altogether' at certain, unpredictable times, due to a force taking over him, 'a force too (Continued on page 2) large and powerful for any one man to control.'

The fact that before Mr. Gribben ever agreed to represent di Matteo, di Matteo had openly confessed to approximately 30 killings showcased how difficult and, debatably, unwise, the attempt to prove his innocence was. One leading investigator and chief liaison with the FBI, Kansan Detective Luke Acheson testified to di Matteo's 'astonishing levels of self-obsession' and his 'seemingly boundless disregard for the people that he has killed and hurt.' It cannot be understated the huge cooperative attempts made by more than 28 police jurisdictions and the Federal Bureau of Investigation in bringing this case in successfully. A number of damning character witnesses from all across the country, including family members, attested consistently, at great length and expense to the state, to di Matteo's overwhelming and obvious discomfort around, and loathing of, women. State's Attorney Woodgate Armbruster, who fought tooth and nail to have this trial decided here in the Sunflower State, said, with his inimitable luster, 'Justice was served today insofar as it could ever be done in such a disturbing and bizarre debacle.' Armbruster, at one point, famously referred to di Matteo as the 'Scourge of God' because of his rampage's likeness to that of Attila the Hun's spectacular wave of slaughter in the 5th Century. It is understood that Johnny D's atrocities spanned the years 1955-1966 though no one can be one hundred percent sure. His victims, all female, ranged in age from 14-21. Their skin color, social backgrounds and physical types varied wildly, making him scarcely traceable. An aghast attendance was graphically told how di Matteo lured young girls into darkened urban corners from Rhode Island to South Dakota to Nevada, to beat and strangle them. More often than not he sexually penetrated the individual, achieving crescendo during the administration of her demise. Judge Adam Ware commented today that he was 'speechless to say the least [by Mr. di Matteo's actions.] Your heartless campaign of bloodcurdling horror defies any kind of logical understanding that I maybe thought I had about the limitations of evil.' The judge chose to throw out 6 of the murders for which di Matteo was charged on the grounds of insufficient evidence coupled with di Matteo's occasional lack of uncharacteristically vague recollection. Also, because some crimes had been commissioned so long ago, the various pertinent scenes had been impossibly compromised, contaminated, or in one instance, lost entirely. That final example related specifically to the case involving one Tucker Cole, a 29 year old colored boy on Illinois Death Row for the slaying of a white girl, Suzanne Litbarski, 17, in May 1958. Despite di Matteo's assertions of his own guilt regarding Miss Litbarski's death, Judge Ware said, 'Given the defendant's wishy-washy memory on this particular murder and the fact that the alley where the girl was strangled is now a bowling venue and the fact that another man has long been held accountable for the act, I am disinclined to allow it here.' Giovanni di Matteo, eligible for the Death Penalty, will be sentenced on April 25th next.

The Life & Times of Jesse Cole

January 20th, 1961

Manhattan

515 E 79th Street Apartment 29C

3.47am

She's gasping, 'Oh baby, just fuck me!'

On her pearly belly, ankles crossed, his body's brashly pummeling hers on the rollicking queen-size. Lights are out save the L-shaped corridor's wall lamp fawning the Picasso imitation across from it in weak yellow.

Moon's pulling its weight, one ten-foot curtain shunned aside. Fourth floor 4500 sq. ft. apartment \- lavish, upscale, nouveau riche, resplendent with collectibles: a Turkish rug in the bathroom, an Iranian vase in the foyer, a handcrafted Peruvian dining set, framed movie posters in the bedroom. Originals.

'You ready?' he grunts, lifting his body without breaking the rhythm, driving her head into the pillow with the butt of his right hand; his shoulder blades close in on each other like a bird about to spring into flight.

She goes, 'Give it to me, baby. I want it so bad,' moaning helplessly; she came with a stampede a few minutes ago. He loses every semblance of control as promised.

*

Anita Bettencourt's her name. She's 31, married to Martin Chance, mega Hollywood star. The naked black boy beside her is not her husband.

She wriggles with post-coital relief, catches the cold sheet, wraps herself a little; the transparent negligee's a ravaged envelope. Jesse Cole wipes his mouth on the bed, shuts his eyes, body doing what it can to balance the breathing. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. She reaches back for him without looking, fingers grasping air, 'Don't leave me yet,' she says. He plays with her floating hand, she snorts a muffled laugh.

He stands on the black walnut floor, cold soles. Frosty night. Thirsty work. Goes into the bathroom, washes his face and cock, and drinks a handful of water. Judges that the face in the mirror dabbles in handsome. Dries himself off. She's snoring within 3 minutes.

Is it always this quiet in here?

He throws on his form-fitting underpants and undershirt, working-class musculature molded by father-demanded military service 1956. Has maintained the physique without much conscious effort.

Heads for the mini-bar in the lounge. Switches on the radio...the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans...

Takes out the Maker's Mark. Last 2 maraschino cherries in a bowl. Leaves for the kitchen, yawns....born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage...

None too concerned about creating noise. There's Angostura bitters in the fridge. Sugar cubes....and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those human rights to which this nation has always been committed, and to which we are committed today at home and around the world... Carries the bitters and cubes into the lounge. Forgets the peeler, goes back in for it. He's been dubbed an Uncle Tom for this kind of extravagance....Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill...

Crushes the sugar with fresh orange zest....that we shall pay any price...

Bitters added, a double measure of bourbon. Shakes thoroughly....bear any burden, meet any hardship...

Pours. Solitary cherry plops....support any friend, oppose any foe...

Topped off with a dram of tonic water....to assure the survival and the success of liberty...

This is what he's learned, it's what he drinks....This much we pledge -- and m...

Nods his Old-Fashioned to JFK and turns him off; whitey always be yakkin: in one ear and out the other.

Brings the cocktail to that big bedroom window overlooking the East River. Sky's a hard ceiling – this world's someone's basement.

Jesse likes to lose himself in the warm alcohol, the peace. If anybody should see him half-naked up here, well... Tomorrow he'll sent that wad of cash to Mama.

*

Tucker and Jesse had routines. They did Who's on First? It was requested at each family gathering. They did Harpo pretending to be Groucho's Duck Soup reflection as well. They were thick as thieves and thieves without doubt - fruit & veg to launch off the overpass, magazines they couldn't read (pages made good spit balls), marbles for slingshots, mittens for the vicious winters, hammers and nails used if only to leave their mark, to hit something hard.

They had very little in the projects – this is the late 1940s/early 50s - shared one shoddily-plumbed bathroom with 60 tenants of a 3-storey tenement. Their Southside Chicago neighborhood cushioned suburban white men's slippers.

10-15 years of age: scrimped money with odd jobs; ran sometimes for half-assed toughs. Jeremiah - Papa \- lost his foot to a cinder block from eight stories on a construction site. The boys fought the tide; Papa Cole had his impenetrable pride and sent those two out into the world. Tom, the youngest after baby Sammy's protracted death, stayed sheltered, protected at home. Got Mama Cole's brother and Papa Cole's Mama squashed into that tiny apartment too back. This family knows in its gut what a hanging veil hunger is.

Jesse and Tucker were arrested - sometimes together, sometimes apart – 10 or 12 times: playing craps on the corner, fistfights over nothing; naïve delinquent desperation, without exception; not exactly in the league of Alphonse Capone. Penniless. Thought of as lower than scum - civil restitution usually came in the form of cruel beatings and scurrilous abuse from the police. Spent a few nights in juvie cells considering what they'd done, nursing swollen, untended consequences.

Firstly: The experiences bred distrust in uniforms.

Secondly: Worked to reinforce Jesse's natural low-self worth.

Mama Cole: unofficial round-shouldered occasional housekeeper/babysitter of the 2nd floor – fretted; said more than once that she was at her wit's end with those boys in and out of trouble. That got Tuck and Jesse hot under the collar. They busted their chops for her approval.

Why can't you be more like Thomas? Tommy's the prodigal son, grew up to be the legal eagle, the perennial prodigal redux.

He's slaving to get Tucker out of Stateville for almost 3 years now. Jesse wants Tom to fail and Jesse wants Tucker to be free.

*

Anita's gurgling in her sleep, says something unintelligible. Jesse walks to the bookshelf - novels, encyclopedias - high-toned decorations.

On the bottom shelf there's a picture album: OUR SPECIAL DAY embossed boldly, and underneath that: June 10th, 1955 - the wedding of Anita and Martin Chance. Jesse takes a load off, opens the book up, the spine creaks, and swirls the drink - a habit.

Anita was clearly beautiful, (flam)buoyant, enflamed on the day; dark grooves now encircle those glossy peepers, like coffee mugs were left on her eyes. Pin sharp black and white snapshots. A picture speaks a thousand words. Sometimes it screams them. Everything's colorless. Movie stars attended. Warner Brothers' boss was there. They cut the cake, they danced.

Martin Chance, 32, is a terribly handsome man, shaped by the studio - endless acting, singing, dancing, speech classes; dental and plastic surgery; told what to wear, what to eat, what roles to choose, where to go socially, with whom, curfews, diet pills.

If that ain't slavery, I don't know what is.

No wonder the dude's just a morphine drip with a bank account.

Anita said to Jesse one night, drunk, 'Whole thing's a damn sham. He's a homo - oh yeah, believe me. Can't get it up for nobody 'cept boys, and I tried; oh I did my best and that's the god's honest truth. Lying's a sin, I know that. So's going to bed with another -- anyway, they said I wasn't trying but I tried. You can't draw a horse to water or whatever, I said. They don't like me. I don't know why I ever got chose for this. Clayton's a pig like I never met before.'

Clayton Wisehart's Martin's agent. Confidential magazine arrived smiling at Clayton's door in late '59 with Hey, by the way, we know your boy's a fairy. Oh yeah? We got snaps, hotshot.

Clayton saved the golden goose by anonymously ponying up sufficient dirt on a couple of his other unsuspecting clients to assuage the bloodthirsty trash-mags. To copper-fasten the heterosexual image, Clayton promptly introduced Martin to his secretary, Miss Bettencourt - once before engaged, never married. She fell for Martin, not knowing about the ruse; 'He's the world's best-looking man, for goodness sake! I'm from Montana!'

Jesse feels bad for Martin Chance. Persecution's borne solely of the nature he was given. Been there, doing that. Jesse understands that people have problems. The evidence lies wholeheartedly blatant beneath the colors absent from these photographs. Who better to stage a fake fairytale wedding than Hollywood?

*

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Quick succession shots. Jesse jumps. Anita's out of it. What the -- It's the door. Silence. Jesse shuts the album carefully. Bang. Bang.

Spaced out, more forceful knocks. This is trouble. Sets down his drink. Heart's racing. Permutations running. Stands up slow as he can. He can prepare himself, grab something, ambush whoever's --- BANG!

Door's kicked in; hear the wood crack, splinter, hinges kaput. Anita's roused with a yell. She's up in bed like a bullet, looks to Jesse - 20 feet away from her? - whitest parts of her eyes beseeching; clunky footsteps, chunky heels - a man, speedy, pronouncing purpose. Can't really see the guy, there's a breeze follows him; a dark blotted, flashing figure rushing past Jesse's sight to the bed.

'What have you been told, you stupid bitch?' goes the man, raising his right arm fast, looms over her like Dracula - jagged, enormous shadow; Jesse can't see anything, the darkness, the shock - the man brings his right hand down big on Anita's face, brings an instantaneous resultant dull noise. She screams, collapses, holds her face, it's all high, angular, creeping insanity.

The man explodes over to Jesse, streaks of intruding moonlight giving up pieces of the identity - Jesse's frozen, combat training absconds, he's never been the roughhousing type; assailant pistol-whips Jesse's face square before shapes reveal him.

Jesse's down clean, takes nothing with him. Attacker's a white man with stony pallor, not so big, powerful, neatly dressed, left hand to Jesse's throat, knee snug to Jesse's balls on the floor, .45 to Jesse's temple. Jesse may recognize him as Clayton Wisehart from pictures. If it is Clayton, Clayton's foaming at the mouth, lips kissing Jesse's purpling cheekbone. Less than 20 seconds since the door was busted.

'Count on this jigolo,' accent's thick, street-smart outer borough, maybe Jersey, 'you come within a mile of her again and you'll be disemboweled.'

Jesse Cole's not the smallest guy (five-nine) but he's sure thrown down those stairs pretty easily. His thumb breaks and so does the camel's back.

1958/1959/1960

Flashback

The Big Apple

Jesse's scrubbing like blue blazes in the rat-a-tat sink; has a date, already 20 minutes late. Stacks of dishes so cleansed that they needn't fear even the next life's transgressions sticking.

Dante Bial tweaks his terribly pinched neck beside Jesse Cole, rolls the squalling shoulders. Older than Jesse by 3 or 4 years - making him, tonight in 1960, 24 or 25 - with lacquered, light black skin like somebody started washing him towards white and then forgot or chose not to finish.

They're in back of the steamy Birdland jazz kitchen – the lounge on W 44th Street christened such as homage to Charlie Parker - sopping shirts gluey.

'Done!' Jesse goes with a whoop. Looks up at the clock. The plump, balding manager wends quickly through the kitchen to the boys at the back.

'Cole,' he goes, loud and 1st generation Italian, in no mood for hesitation. Everyone calls him Chico behind his back.

'Wanna make a h-extra 6-a bucks?' Jesse checks the clock again, like it's gonna make a difference.

'Doin' what?'

'Gotta one less-a waiter. Sick or some bullshit. Yes or yes?'

Yes or yes? is his much-imitated quirk. Jesse's paid on Fridays. It's three days to Friday and all he's got's a rumbling tummy. Love can wait.

'Nine,' says Jesse, the uncharacteristic hubris making the hair on his arms stand up. He's only working here a month. Chico wants to smile, he should smile.

'You get 7 and a half,' is the counter.

'Eight,' Jesse shouts, louder than he means to. The Italian says something in his tongue to the heavens.

'OK. OK. You put on a jacket. Go. Change a-you shirt. Go. We gotta the cash people waiting.'

Jesse shoots disgruntled Dante a wink. Shame Jesse didn't negotiate the hours he would be working for that money.

The club caters to many wealthy patrons; a high proportion of the regulars is a privileged member, in varying watered-down degrees, of the secret and elusive so-called Eastern Establishment. Hardly breaking new ground: a tightly-knit network of assorted Anglophiles bent on using their vast positions in society to inveigle, lobby, seduce for decisive control. They include Wall Street bankers, corporate financiers, high-level academics, newspaper publishers, global industrialists and leading media personalities. Some have more than the presidential ear.

So why haunt a nigger joint? Jazz and blues are hip. Never know when a little nigger-sympathy might buy a vote/sign a contract/seal a donation. And nobody plays the blues like a nigger. Coloreds rarely come into the place.

Goddamn money's so intimidating: Your cigar/wife/hair smell/cost more/better than my house do. A white wouldn't stand for it.

The racial thing doesn't make Jesse stop and think, never did: things are the way they are.

Tucker though, my good brother, and that farcical trial, sometimes...

Starts as slowly as he can on the main floor. Much more space than he thought. Never done this before. Jacket's 3 sizes too tight, hands wrinkled and sore from washing. Shift Jesse just did was 8 straight. It's 11pm. During the time spent between talking to Chico and grabbing this tray, his body's crashed. The last thing he needed was a break.

A big group enters in a cloud of smoke: 12-15. White, rich, women and men split evenly. Ages 25-35: The Jet set - Establishment offspring, wannabes, and verging on. Dizzy Gillespie's on in a half-hour. Trumpet sound-check was sweet, even from the kitchen.

Tucker holds his breath and, with 2 other waiters - one colored, one Honduran - hones in on their fresh arrivals. The guests remove coats and capes, hats and minks and gloves. One woman's brought a small dog inside her Chanel handbag. The dozy Pomeranian laps crazily from a Collins glass in her hand, half-full; the woman must have taken the glass from wherever they just came from. When the glass falls on the table, spilling whatever was in it, people do likewise with laughter.

Jesse maybe recognizes Martin Chance in that disoriented mess of faces. Chatting and guffaws, half of them plastered, the female half it appears. All these young white women don't got a clue where they at half the time.

Orders come thick and fast: White wine spritzer; nothing domestic.

Manhattan for me.

Chilled glass of Perrier Jouet. I'll say it again for you: chilled.

Mojito, please.

Peach Margarita and don't skimp on the tequila.

Mojito sounds good, put me down for one of those.

Black Russian and your name.

'Pardon me, Miss?' says Jesse.

'I want to know your name,' comes Anita Bettencourt.

*

Two cathartic things happen to Jesse Cole in 1958:

1. The sentencing to death of his younger brother Tucker for murder.

2. Seeing Sidney Poitier in The Defiant Ones. Jesse decides then – the fall of 1958 - that he wants to be an actor. His parents laugh, his father downright dismisses, inferring with a spiky clarity that even dreaming of pursuing such nonsense would bring shame upon the entire family.

Jesse's got no one in Tinseltown. His mother's sister lives in Harlem. Broadway it is. Ups and catches a bus on New Year's Day 1959. Aunt Mavis' got a fine heart but also her own life to live and 4 children under 9 to feed regularly.

Jesse's got 2 weeks to figure out his life. He gladly sleeps in the bathtub. He likes that he became free the same day the Cubans did.

Brief flashback: went over to the Buchbachs on and off, sometimes watched the House UnAmerican Activities Committee headhunting Pinkos on TV with Old Herb Buchbach near the corner of S Ewing Ave & E 106th Street. Joe McCarthy spearheaded those expeditions and everything about the man made Jesse uneasy; he was 13-17 then, apolitical as you could ever be but something enthralled Jesse whenever McCarthy was on, sifting through ash, as McCarthy evidently loved to do, for devil horns on human remains. Old Herb Buchbach was an unapologetic Communist; he always let Jesse, Tuck and Tommy come over to play with his boys, watch TV, share ice cream, never called them names. Jesse couldn't ever figure out what a Communist was and what they had done so wrongly to America. (Old Herb replied once, when asked by Jesse what a Communist actually did, 'He tries not to be selfish.' And Jesse liked that.)

Later, Jesse discovered that his own father was a due-paying card-carrier for sometime in the '30s. Jeremiah was embarrassed, pushed that history away like cobwebs in his face when it was mentioned. Jesse was proud - not because his father had been a fellow traveler; he was proud because his father had once held personal convictions. America saw Castro's spectacular rise to power as an inconceivable level of Socialist threat up to that point in the country's history. Wait, Russians 90 miles off OUR coast? Jesse's got high hopes for Fidel and his future.

*

So he's got a job after a few days shopping around Manhattan, manning a 24/7 Laundromat on 122nd Street that mainly serves coloreds. Couple blocks from his aunt Mavis'.

Jesse travels, heart thumping, the endless subway downtown for the first time, alighting at 42nd Street, 3 days after his arrival in the city. The sheer size of it! The impossible grandness! He strolls the streets aimlessly, up and down, east and west, rain and shine, without food, for the whole day: Times Square. Central Park. Chinatown. Little Italy. Broadway. Movie Theaters on every corner it seems. 5th Avenue. Subway trip back uptown, a realization: I am where I am supposed to be.

He goes on auditions for plays. Knows nothing about it. Has never seen a play. Never finished a book. He's gonna be Sidney Poitier. Nerves always bug him just before going on. Not too many chances, he learns from Dante Bial, for a young marginalized man to make it.

Dante from the Bronx has just shut a small unsuccessful production Off-Broadway. Jesse and Dante bump into each other at auditions frequently - it's a small fraternity. The big prize becomes A Raisin in the Sun in blossoming 1959. Word is this thing's gonna change the colored man's place in the eyes of white America. It's so powerful, truthful, wondrous - Jesse suckles the hype, lets the energy take him - after all, the appraisal of the material comes from Dante Bial and Dante's a great, knowledgeable thespian with friends who have friends in the industry. 'Every black actor in New York's going to try out for Walter Lee Younger,' says Dante with arms like he's holding a gigantic invisible ball. Dante's a radical artist, a social agitator, anti-White. He's very smart, a gifted debater. Ambivalent to Malcolm X, moderate on the Nation of Islam. He's got opinions coming out his ears, writes and analyzes poetry; reads historical books. Read this guy and then this guy. Despises Booker T. Washington's Up From Slavery for its rampant and pathetic supplication. Page after page of humble gratitude offered to the benevolent White Man for 'allowing' him to breathe.

'Take a look at Dubois,' says Dante, 'Dubois got it right. Argued that Washington was a limp-dick.'

The night that the role of A Raisin's lead male character Walter Lee Younger is cast - and neither Dante nor Jesse got close - Dante calls it another African spirit sent to the bonfire - though the role did go to a Negro, as it had to have - and he gets absolutely binned on high-grade dope.

There's a house party in this Haitian couple's Village loft, middle of 1959 - 2 streets over from Jesse's newest firebox pad - that isn't segregated, though it's predominantly dark monochrome in tone. The Haitian wife hand-makes androgynous cushioned white dolls for kicks that are available to be taken from a box by the kitty litter tray in their kitchen.

Everyone assumes they're for voodoo and nary a doll's ever left. In the early morning, when people are gone home, asleep on the stairs or too high to say goodbye, Dante slips a copy of Freedomways magazine into Jesse's hand before he nods off.

'Check this shit out, man. Hot off the press. Makes you wanna fight, don't it?'

He reads what he can of the poem Midway by Naomi Long Madgett in diminishing low light from the magazine. He likes the poem much, it strikes a cord. Thinks he can show nominal support to the cause by joining CORE towards the end of 1959. Dante laughs hard at him, says 'CORE's a buncha bleedin hearts with no brains,' hard enough to need to use the bathroom. Jesse enjoys listening to Dante's passionate rhetoric, his favorite line being: Are you inside the Veil or outside it, baby? It's never clear what that means. And when Dante's drunk on anything, he can sting: If it was my brother, I'd bulldoze that white man's prison and get him the fuck outta there.

Notices that the talk \- the delivery more than the instruction - gets Dante laid a lot. But Jesse can't make a connection with it beyond that. He's not infuriated. He's not dumb, of course, he sees - lives \- the inequality. Got no desire to save all American Africans. There are big men for that kinda stuff

1960/61

New York City

Downtown Manhattan Hotel

637 Lexington Avenue

1.20am

She won't shut up.

Bitch, bitch, bitch. These white women: damn.

Propped up in bed with Minnie Javorsky. Minnie got picked-up 3 months back for shoplifting on Riverside. Expunged it with on-the-spot greenbacks. Cop found it in his heart when she found it in her handbag.

Picked-up tonight for DWI; cop was a wiseass goody-two-shoes. Jesse Cole bailed her out; had to go to goddamn Yonkers. She drove back to the city with him hidden in the backseat, covered in a mohair throw, to the Fitzpatrick on Lexington.

The humiliation I put up with and for what?

Every time she calls he agrees to the rendezvous. Every time he swears it's the last, no more so than tonight. He's weak where it counts and he hates it.

She waddled in the front door of the hotel. He slipped in the back, up the staff elevator.

Her vitals: 42 years, 3 kids, married to Reginald Javorsky, millionaire producer and/or importer of fine wines. She's unendingly unattractive to Jesse. Stares at the ceiling; lists what he dislikes about her...pigeon-toed... He can't hear her over his own self-hatred...garlic breath...

Minnie's off the rails, goes, playing with the descending line of hair from his navel, 'And I said to her, how many congressmen is that? And she just shrugged her shoulders because she's a coy little bitch and that's why she gets as much silver-spoon sacktime as she does. That and the way she pushes those big tits in everyone's face.' ...straw hair... 'Plays it like she's a moron,' pauses to sip her wine, 'and men love that game. Idiots that they are. They think a suit and a car makes them mature. That's why Reg's blood runs cold with me now. I'm not so easily pushed around.' ...flat boobs... 'That's his problem. He's an insecure child. When I think of those tramps he picks up, oh yes, I know all about it; they give him what he thinks he needs.' ...crooked teeth... 'And you give me what I need, don't ya, Big Boy?' the end of it baby talk, reaching down to fondle his nuts. ...she calls me Big Boy...

'Why don't you take me out?' Jesse goes suddenly, hoping to stunt the nasal noise of her complaining.

'You mean, out to a restaurant?' she goes, like he's just proposed.

'Yeah. No more room service.'

'Oh sweetie,' she goes, stemming a laugh, caressing his clean-shaven cheek and then pinching it, 'You fuck me like a man, I forget you're still a boy.'

He's been testing them recently - Anita Bettencourt's ever-widening Inner Circle. Asks that question – why don't you take me out? They all laugh - titters to bellies - pitiful gazes unfailing. Feels foolish for being so slow on the uptake. He's a throwaway to them, lipstick gossip, a powder-puff scandal, a slab of freedom meat. Antifreeze. He's their dog, their pet. He's their escape artist. They allow him to come inside their pussies, inside their mouths, all over their backs. They screech his name and gouge his back and plead for him to make the bad things stop. They will not be publicly seen with him: fully-clothed and civil discussion between the races is beyond their grasp of approved propriety. It's carcinogenic, their luxurious money, the awesome hypocrisy of the great divide. He craved their acceptance at the outset – still does, despite his better judgment, never spent such extended periods in the company of white people, of money – was dazzled initially by the attention from, at its height tonight, a dozen or so white women of grand social upstanding and personal self-destruction. 3-a-night some weekend nights, and the sickness that this has wrought inside him is only - in past and passing weeks - snaking its slimy trail to the forefront of his priorities.

One of them, the first he was recommended to by Anita Bettencourt, openly supports black causes in the papers. She got him the tickets to A Raisin in the Sun on Broadway. She thought the play relevant and boiling with ambition. Jesse's connection to the play – set in contemporary Chicago - hit so close to home in parts that he couldn't sit through it.Another one of them's married to an aide of Alabama Governor John Patterson; she's indifferent to the Negro's cause but not to the Negro giving me a good time. She used to fly from Montgomery to New York monthly for shopping. Now she visits every 2 weeks and Ted keeps going on that Manhattan must be getting hit by some very localized inflation; I'm coming home with the same amount of stuff but less money.

The job at the jerk-off club's part-time for Jesse, financially superfluous - it helps to refract the guilt; it's honest pay going towards the Mustang he's set his sights on.

Minnie stands before him, naked except for a diamond-heart necklace, shedding lovemaking's debris, stretch marks on her wobbly body, butt creases.

'Oh I feel good,' she says. 'Every woman in this state should have one of you hanging in her closet.'

*

Grumpy Gramps' cheery Chinese granddaughter explains, during that same summer of 1960, 'Is year of Rat in China.' Eyes vanish inside her plump face whenever she smiles; Jesse's invariably amazed by it. He'd asked her about the picture on the wall of a bucktoothed mouse in a green overcoat lighting firecrackers. She giggles, hands him his egg foo young for one.

1am sidewalk's hot to trot in Spanish Harlem; petite, dark-skinned hookers compensating with high footwear and big talk. Buzzard neon overhead blows their cover: I know you're sweatin in this heat, baby - me too, let's cool down together.

On Park between 116th & 117th Streets: halfway-pasted poster of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, looking down on everyone: A Time For Greatness. Coincidence: Is year of Rat in America too.

Eats his food in the small ticket booth of the XXX joint. Fairly busy night. Living two months with a couple brothers on 109th between 5th Avenue and Park, his 4th home in less than 2 years.

Dante Bial's off the radar for a while, lives diverged after Birdland; his self-righteous hyperbole finally crossed the line and Jesse split – one night, around closing, Dante called Chico a rightwing narcissist bigot for reasons that Jesse doesn't understand and Dante's never divulged. Chico told them both to hit the road. The Italian fell deaf to Jesse's protests: 'What'd I do?' Jesse moaned, chasing Chico to the bar.

'a-You friends. a-You too much-a the trouble,' said Chico, arms flailing.

'I ain't done you no wrong, Chico. This ain't no square situation, baby.'

'You-a do me the headache all-a the time, you-a people. Get-a job someplace else. Baby.'

Tarred with the same brush again. That grated most.

A lull in the skin flick box office about 4am tonight. Jesse writes home to his sister, Tina. Lies about getting parts in plays, about not being homesick, about girlfriends. They've been corresponding irregularly for 12 months. He sends mucho dinero home. She comments on the large amounts, it helps sell his story of working behind the counter of a discount department store close to Grand Central Station. He ain't never gonna say where it really comes from. The family's in the market for a new stove thanks to his selflessness.

She writes that Tucker's good, considering. Sends his love. She went and saw him. Tommy says the appeal will be ready soon. Whole family's got their fingers crossed. Mama misses Jesse, she's all the time cribbing about how you upped and run off, abandoning your own kin etc. She saying too that she hopes someday God give you sense and bring you back into her arms. She says that two sons to lose be plenty in one life. She prays night and day. Pop don't say much about you. Jesse returns 1 word for every 10 Christina writes. His wrist gets tired. And his mind. Sometimes he wants to come home. Then he thinks on Mama's fussing and Pop don't say much about you.

New York's OK.

*

March of '61: a shade over 2 months since Jesse's bowels were threatened in Anita's apartment and he got bounced down a flight of stairs. Hasn't answered a phone call from any of those women since. Money's too tight to mention. The Mustang's a goner. Feels better for it. Didn't show up a couple nights - shattered thumb hurt like nothing else that first week - at the XXX place and got fired. Blessing in disguise. Doing the night owl at an all-night convenience store. The hours permit a new hobby: reading. Bought a copy of Booker T. Washington's autobiography and read it slowly by lamplight, wanted to quit many times. He's an unconfident reader and the language used is daunting \- though overall it wasn't fascinating, it wasn't boring - Washington did a lot of good with that Tuskegee Institute during a very strange and difficult time for the Negro. He tried to bridge the gap between the bruised post-war troika of White Southerner, White Northerner and recently Freed Slaves with compromise and diplomacy in the 1870s/80s. Any criticisms of him seem harsh.

A woman at work lent him her treasured copy of Roots; it's big and Kunta Kinte's a stupid name. Gets halfway and gives it back. Idles the streets alone increasingly - it's the tongue prodding the toothache - his view of the White World has changed. He's become aware - honest-to-goodness aware - of the imbalance, of how the color line does directly give his people a ceiling in life, has done ever since Day One. The clarity's solidifying. The translucency of his heretofore walkabout-existence is coagulating into something accessible. He's proactive with CORE (Congress of Racial Equality) throughout springtime of 1961 - handing out pamphlets, attending/helping at meetings/rallies, making same-sort friends. He's re-educating himself, re-evaluating himself, reclaiming himself. He heard Bayard Rustin shouting this ain't yesterday or last week we talking about; this is 500 years of White Man's Rule and brutality!! and that's stuck in his mind. Rustin's charismatic and approachable. A letter comes from Tina at a crucial juncture - Jesse's heavily introspective transitional period's reaching its current pique - I'm engaged, Jesse knows the guy, kind of a dumbass with a steady tow truck business; we may honeymoon in New York!! He'd rather she didn't come. Date's gonna be fall next year. Then, one line: Tucker's appeal got turned down flat.

Cute CORE kitten, tribal Marxist, unstoppable ass, long lashes, starry smile: passionate Stacy Barendt; she's 22, forthright, a red-diaper baby from Indiana, her well-off folks bought possessions just to give them away, without charge, in garage sales - and (gulp) she's white as ivory. She's the one told him to let his afro run riot - grow it African, man. So he did. Gives him a small newspaper clipping; she knows all about Jesse's brother's predicament. The piece explains: white Death Row inmate - Smyth Holderbaum, 60 - said that Tucker admitted to him that Tucker had murdered Suzanne Litbarski all right. Holderbaum was convicted in 1955 of kidnapping, 14 counts of female rape and 6 horrendous murders. Stateville Warden, Illinois State's Attorney and Governor Daley believed Mr. Holderbaum's story so Tucker's appeal hadn't a leg to stand on. Holderbaum got a 4x8-foot patch of dirt to grow beans and an extra 2 hours every week in the yard. Up, down, left, right, in, out: WHITE IMPEDIMENTS TO BLACK PROGRESS.

'A steaming pile of fuckin bullshit,' Stacy comments, brushing muffin crumbs from her red keffiyeh scarf. Jesse balled her once - she looked impossibly good that evening, sweat-covered following a productive day's good-fight fighting. And the maryjane supplied was out of sight. Solemn inner pinkie swear: strictly, from this date forth: sister snatch exclusively. Hasn't had a black piece since coming to the Big Apple. This time, it's political.

The resentment's flourishing: Stacy brings up the segregated public facilities in the South, the recent sit-in protests down there. She educates him on the Scottsboro Boys fiasco of the '30s. She gives him history books on the Klan with old grainy photographs of white men celebrating beneath the dead bodies of hanged black boys and men, of large burning crosses on front lawns.

Vietnam. No Dogs or Blacks need apply. The collective imagery's a confounding, sickening, disconcerting revelation. He knows none of it. He's heard nothing about it. Never seen it before. This is his America?

Where have I been?

To continue the trend, to carry on the momentum, the timing of his meeting Dante Bial again is perfection. Dante's let bygones be bygones, we all soldiers. Dropped the specs, got a little scar on his chin from somewhere. He's vitalized by Jesse's Road to Damascus. Had one himself, to an extent; he'll take the ribbing, it's maybe deserved. He's man enough to admit that. He likes where CORE's headed now. He and Jesse are peas in a pod.

'I been reading stuff, Dante. Can't compete with you yet but I got my eyes opening slowly,' says Jesse, combing his fresh black bushy moustache.

This bar near the Apollo's packed and smoky. Bill Cosby's post-show audience mixed-in. Dante laughs and says, 'Our movement's superfly, brother. The beautiful black man and woman of America are no more satisfied with scraps off the white man's table. You read Dubois?'

'No,' says Jesse with a grin, 'ain't got around to him.'

'Tut-tut, mi companero de armas. Allow not another moment to pass,' says Dante and he produces a very weather-beaten copy of The Souls of Black Folks by W.E.B. DuBois from his satchel. 'Wrote it in 1903,' says Dante, not as stuck-up as before (credit his new old lady, Lillian), 'and things in it's as true now as then. No self-respecting confederate of mine ignores Mr. DuBois.'

Jesse takes the book reverently, leafs through it. Lots of dog-ears and underlined passages. Stops at one randomly: The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife, - this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge his double self into a better and truer self. In this merging he wishes neither of the older selves to be lost. He would not Africanize America, for America has too much to teach the world and Africa. He would not bleach his Negro soul in a flood of white Americanism, for he knows that Negro blood has a message for the world. He simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a Negro and an American, without being cursed and spit upon by his fellows, without having the doors of Opportunity closed roughly in his face.

Yikes. What an introduction!

'I can't wait to read it,' Jesse says. Dante gulps his Coke, usually 3 gulps does it no matter the size of the receptacle, shifts his funky red and gold bandana.

Bayard Rustin enters, 48, tireless raconteur de rigueur: spiked, tight, gray-specked hair, black rimmed glasses. Said to have been the man that convinced Dr. King to abandon the road of violence. Knew W.E.B. Du Bois personally, growing up. Jesse, like many, is wary of Rustin's open homosexuality. 'See if it don't help you become better acquainted with the Negro you been trying to kill off,' comes Dante about reading DuBois. Jesse fears a diatribe and Dante detects that, therefore says, 'Talking about how we all guilty of it, Jess. DuBois ain't about being pro-Negro necessarily. He just pro-facts from the minority side, pro-unbiased viewpoint, dig? Show me any white cat unbiased and I'll show you one lying motherfucker or a secret agenda-keeping motherfucker or both.'

Jesse sips his vodka, smiles, goes, 'You heard I guess about what your friend,' indicating Bayard Rustin, 'and Farmer and them's planning in May.'

Dante worships Rustin, nods, 'Stateline buses.'

'Right,' goes Jesse, 'Starting in DC's the idea. You gonna go?'

Dante licks his lips, comes with a grin, 'I shuh be wantin' me a mite o' dat famous ol' Jim Crow hospitality.'

June 1961

Following month

Florida

Fuck the Kennedys' cooling-off period.

The flight leaving Tallahassee for DC's in an hour.

Virgil starts things in the airport. Tough cookie walks up to the counter, he's a large man, shiny shaved head, smiles pleasantly, says, 'Cheeseburger, please. Extra pickles.'

The white counter attendant looks around, confused. Staff are slow to look. Jesse Cole and Dante Bial, the 2 Rebeccas and Lillian watch in amazement from their gate's seated area; this is unscheduled. Virgil's known for his exhibitionism, his size usually permits it.

Virgil holds out a $5 bill to the attendant, still smiling. He's dressed in brown slacks, tan shoes and a faded yellow short-sleeved, collared shirt. Has a sweet, round face.

'Ain't ya seen the sign, sir?' says the Southern man politely pointing; frail, untrained for this.

Sign reads: FOR WHITES ONLY

'Come on, man, don't you think that line's a bit anachronistic?' says Virgil kindly, 36, as old as the counter dude. Dante's coming quickly to Virgil's rear with Jesse in tow, calling on the others to follow - fun and games \- 11 Rider reinforcements. The black to white ratio of the group is 2:1. Customers in the fast-food eatery are getting freaked. The counter dude takes a step back, the space in front of him bulging with fresh, anticipating faces. Out-of-sight sizzling stops. Spatulas are held fixed.

The manager, from in back, approaches Virgil and the Freedom Riders, smiling too. Everyone's so happy to be here. He's late 30s, handsome, shorthaired, well-built, sharp eyes.

'Sir, I am sorry but we cannot serve you here,' the manager says to Virgil, accent's not Southern.

'But I want fries, man, I'm hungry's a dog,' comes Jesse. A cacophony of orders comes fast from the Riders, one on top of the other. One nameless wiseacre demands a gumbo shake.

Patrons are leaving. The manager's cool, steps forward and says calmly to the Riders, 'Please, it just cannot happen. I'm sorry. Don't make me call the police.' This acts as meager incentive to go.

The group's traveled together by bus from Washington DC through Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi, (all were gladly arrested in Jackson, MI – regional ordinances prohibit desegregated interstate transport) Alabama, and Georgia, facing immense invective from the man on the street and the disinterested law enforcement every inch of the way.

'And what are they gonna do to us?' says Rebecca Rubidoux at the back, about any plausible police intervention. The manager pleads. The restaurant empties.

The Riders occupy the vacated seats. Stacy Barendt finishes an abandoned burger. She makes a meal of its tastiness. The manager makes a huffy puffy phone call.

The Riders wait patiently, chatting. Sing songs, play cards and jacks. Nobody else comes into the place. They cancel their flight home. They're gonna wait to be served. Highly agitated men in suits come by in about an hour. They talk hurriedly to the manager. He sends a particularly sour white individual over to the Riders. 'Who the Hell do you people think you are?' says the sour man, fifties, molasses tone, hands on hips, chewing tobacco, immaculate clothes and matching tie, his bald head sun burnt to a crisp.

'All we want's some food,' says Becky McBroom forcibly, 29, black, hair in a hive.

'Never been a nigger served in this place, darlin', not gonna be a nigger served today neither,' says the sour man, unflinching, looking to a couple whites in the gathering, 'Goes for y'all nigger-lovers too.'

Virgil stands up, got six inches on the sour man, his muscles like peacock feathers.

'Nice try, boy,' says the sour man effortlessly to Virgil, pushing back his open gabardine jacket to show the gun tucked into his waistband, 'these men behind me'll blow you to Hell if'n you raise so much as yo' voice to me.'

Virgil stays standing, sees the piece. Puts his hands into his pockets. Soon all the Riders are standing with hands in pockets.

Lillian Alaniz, hardly 5 feet tall, Dominican blooded, Dante's girl, says, in her low, unbending timbre, 'We just wanna be treated equal.'

Sour man giggles, chuckles, laughs – his men are encroaching from behind, a couple steamed local cops with them. There's a small crowd outside the airport restaurant watching, someone calls the newspaper.

'Not so very long ago we could've had you motherfuckers strung up like chickens and not one sumbitch anywhere in this country'd've said boo to us,' the sour man says with a wipe of his brow. 'You don't know how lucky you sumbitches got it.'

Jesse's been introduced to Frederick Douglass on the journey - the 19th century non-violent, abolitionist – and quotes him, 'No man can put a chain about the ankle of his fellow man without at last finding the other end fastened about his own neck.'

The sour man explodes, hopping mad, juts an index finger like a pistol at Jesse, 'Now I have had enough of this! A book-learned coon don't have a place here anymore'n a stupid coon do. I wouldn't be impressed if you pissed against a wall and made it stick, you got that? Not one of you's getting food in this here establishment while I got breath in me; I don't give a damn what them Washington dandies think's comin' down the line!' doesn't stop shouting until now.

The Riders sit down again, one at a time. They're going nowhere. Sour man's breathless, staring.

20-30 seconds go by, he says: 'Pull down them goddamn shutters,' to the manager, and 'Y'all get,' to the staff, 'we closed fo' the day.'

*

Night comes on and the standoff continues. Restaurant's immovably tight in the shadows. Atmosphere's quiet as a mouse - a cough perhaps, a page turned, a squeaky sneaker. Impatient police stand around whispering, salivating.

CORE HQ's officially not sanctioned this trip; nonetheless, they've heard about what's going on - keep going, we're with you is the word. There's a sheer, invisible field between watchers and watched at the gate, like the Riders are a museum exhibit. Stacey's humming to the ceiling, chest rising and falling steadily, her luggage a pillow on the floor in the heat of the night.

Virgil's reading an Archie comic, pocket flashlight held in his teeth. Dante and Lillian argue the pros and cons of raising children in America. A good deal of their relationship seems to be based on disagreement.

Becky McBroom's on the payphone by the toilets. Jesse plays Solitaire at a table by the wall with one of Becky's plump, scented candles flickering.

Rebecca Rubidoux's black as coal, 25, tall and very thin, pigtails, denim cut-offs, comes up to Jesse with a couple Ding Dongs. 'Hey Jesse,' she says, voice weak, and he pauses playing, 'Wondered if you'd like a snack?'

Jesse says, 'Thanks Rebecca,' taking and unwrapping it. Rebecca looks over at Becky on the phone, goes, 'Should I leave one for Becky?'

'No, she hates them,' says Jesse, chewing. Rebecca eats it herself, taking the seat opposite Jesse, and comes with, 'How you think this thing's gonna go?'

'We'll win,' he says assuredly. She looks unsure, nervous. He says, to help, thinking of the knuckleduster in his hold-all, 'Try and put it out of your mind, girl. These honkies ain't gonna rush us.'

She looks out at the baying pack in the dark and says, 'They like bulls fixing to charge.'

Becky returns from the phone looking dog-tired and Jesse says, 'How is he?'

'OK,' says Becky and Rebecca makes to stand. Becky stays her with a hand and goes, 'It's alright.'

Becky slips back into her vacant woven leather sandals beneath the table, yawning into her fist, sitting on Jesse's lap, caresses his head.

Rebecca says, 'I's jealous. You guys are the cutest.'

*

May:

4 weeks prior.

Jesse's getting a Turkish shave and haircut at Ahmed's Gentleman's Emporium on E 120th.

Radio's in the background:...further tensions again last night in Anniston, Alabama. A group of injured Civil Rights activists or Freedom Riders, as they are known, had to be relocated at 2am from the hospital in which they were sheltering. Staff at the hospital refused to give aid to the victims as they feared for their own safety given the threatening mob outside. Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth, a renowned social radical in the area, organized cars for the victims to escape unharmed. Locals unhappy with the Riders' actions - continued efforts to highlight contravention of federal transport legislation - including some members of the Eastview Klavern #13, had slashed the tires, firebombed the first of two buses and physically attacked the protestors yesterday afternoon. As many as...

The point of the exercise was to raise awareness. Accomplished. Indeed, a sleepless night of scant victory. Jesse thinks anxiously on Dante and Lillian: they were on the second bus that came to Anniston - Klan burst onboard and battered everyone senseless. Spoke to them before they left three days ago. They were ebullient. People on the ground in the know said that Dante suffered a concussion and a multiplicity of body-wide abrasions; Lillian needed 12 stitches for the crown of her head. If things don't change by the time the Riders get to Birmingham, CORE will consider pulling out.

Jesse visits Chappy at Mt. Morris Square, beneath the fire watchtower. Wrinkled Chappy's shoe shining in that spot since 1910. He's a fountain of facts on the Civil War. Jesse likes to pepper him on the battles. Not today, chewing his lower lip.

'No trivia, boss?' says Chappy.

'No trivia.'

'You scared for them friends of yours down in Alabama, huh?'

Can see himself in his shoes; gives Chappy a buck. Takes the 3 from 116th street to New Lots in Brooklyn. Long and lonely trip. The rain spits at him as he waits for transfers. The shoes hold out. His thoughts, if painted, would puzzle Jackson Pollack.

Terminal station's round the corner from Stacey's one room place on Hinsdale. Her place is, in turn, round the corner from a pool hall.

*

For such a colossus, Virgil does some things with stringent delicacy - namely, here, sipping his beer from a tankard. The pool hall's a gritty, dank, rinky-dink hovel: a perfect capsule to break free of the captivity of Man's mutilations for an hour or two.

Virgil goes, 'Someone really should check on her,' vacuuming peanuts from the bar supply. TV's on. Jukebox spews Orbison's Cryin'.

Virgil's referring to the weeping woman in the booth nearby. Stacey rattles the pocket's jaws with the 5ball.

'Yeah,' she says, joining Virgil in trying to have Jesse play Samaritan. She and Virgil exchange glances. Jesse's unreceptive, chalking his cue tip.

Stacey gulps her beer, leaning up against Virgil. She has a habit of sucking on the bigger wooden beads of her handmade necklace - it's a sideline that earns her a few dollars. Would give anything to do it full time; alas, the fashion scene's about as anti-Marxist as you can get. Dilemma.

Jesse bends, makes the 5, and blocks his route to the 6, goes, 'Damn.'

Virgil sighs, gets up and walks over to the weeping woman. She's got a kid with her, maybe 2 years old. Stacey sets down her cue and follows Virgil.

'Your shot, Stacey,' goes Jesse. Then, 'It ain't our business,' about the woman.

Becky McBroom straightens up when mighty Virgil steps beside her; she dries her eyes, her cheeks, cuts off the running snot. The kid's got fat cheeks, lighter skin than his mother, happily nibbling on a coaster.

'I'm alright,' she goes before anything's asked of her.

'Can we do anything for you, Miss?' says Virgil.

'No, no. I'm just having a really, really bad day.'

Stacey goes to Becky, 'You have the sweetest kid.'

The kid smiles, offers up the coaster to Stacey and she takes it; he won't let go.

'Good grip,' Stacey smiles, to Becky. The kid tugs Stacey closer to the seat; Stacey puts one knee on it.

'Do you have money, Miss?' says Virgil.

'Oh...' says Becky, beginning and then thinking better of it. Stacey plays peek-a-boo with the kid. 'Thank you, I'm fine. Honestly,' Becky says to Virgil.

Virgil says, 'My name's Virgil. Stacey here and I are with the Congress of Racial Equality. We like to help folk where we can.'

'Right,' says Stacey, 'even if to only lend an ear.'

Becky fixes her hair, breathes softly, shakes her head with a grin, and says, 'God, if my mother could see me, crying like a child in front of strangers.'

Stacey sits down properly, goes, 'We all have our bad days.'

Jesse appears on cue with his cue in hand. He is introduced. It's not love at first sight but the top down view of Becky's ample cleavage is of interest. They talk Becky into a Coke - she's a non-drinker - and conversation, the subject matter, they allow, is entirely up to her.

Jesse, beside Stacey, comes out of himself as minutes pass. Turns out Becky's a chatterbox - lucid, articulate, candid, a dry wit: the kind of woman Jesse would like to latch onto. So that's what he does, one word at a time.

The Freedom Rides come up, Becky's aware of it; would like to do more, hands are tied with the kid, saving up for night school. She hopes their friends (Dante and Lillian) will be OK. I admire your work tremendously. Kid's name's Byron. She's crying because Byron's father, Byron Sr., split this morning \- left a blunt if sincere and useless note - with Junior's babysitter. Now Becky can't go to work in 30 minutes because she's got nobody to watch ByBy and she's going to be fired from her job at the grocery store on Bradford Street. Her sister's a nurse - pulling a double in Beth Israel – and her only other option so she has no options. By any standard, it's been a trying day. She laughs in the retelling, it's so ridiculous, and I hardly believe it myself. Circle of sympathy.

Up to the plate steps Jesse: 'We'll watch him.'

Virgil and Stacey are the most surprised. Stacey was thinking of offering. Becky's wedged. Without this job, wham, it's the shelters or her sister's and that was a disaster last time: Think Hindenburg and add a zero.

So, Stacey and Jesse watch Byron at Stacey's. Then Virgil has to pick up his children from school and Stacey's working at six; leaves early with a deep sigh for the second-string printer's that gives discounts to flirty girls.

Jesse's well afraid of being alone with the child at first and apart from the little man bumping his noodle off the coffee table and crying until he's given chocolate, it works out OK. Becky's thrilled to collect dozing Byron at 10pm.

She's grateful beyond words, goes, 'You ever seen a Fellini?'

Jesse says at the door, 'Like a Ferrari?'

She smiles, says, 'He makes movies. Let me take you to one.'

Jesse does what he can to help her out until she organizes a new sitter in the coming days. They see a Fellini the following evening (Stacey stepped in as sitter) and despite the subtitles and lack of color Jesse likes it. He's never met a girl who liked movies in another language before. Becky's fiery, unpredictable, unafraid to swear and not sorry to be counted. She's been part of marches for peace before, never a member of any real groups. Dated a member of the Students Non-Violent Coordinating Committee. He was a flake.

They talk from 8pm to 6am. He wakes before her, a night on the rug, the dawn light golden on her face, showing off the small hairs about her upper lip. Jesse puts on a record, Ray Charles' Georgia On My Mind. It shifts her gently, doesn't rouse - the scene, the mosaic, he watches it like it's an addled snow globe - such unparalleled kindness to the air, through the warm light, filling the still room, enlivening the sleeping beauty.

He gets down, good morning, and, 'I gotta go prepare for the trip.' Their time's cutting into the time he can spend with his principal commitments.

Red Alert: they've grown on each other.

'Oh,' she stretches a fine womanly form,

'Well, I'll see you when you get back.'

'I wish there was a way you could come with me,' he says. Becky's first inkling's to think of Byron's present and her second inkling's to think of Byron's future.

Monday: Becky phones: 'Hey, move in with me.'

Tuesday: Jesse leaves a note: 'OK.'

Wednesday: She says, 'I'm going to come with you.' He's not certain.

Thursday: Jesse learns that Byron Sr.'s white.

Friday: She cries into his chest, 'Nothing's ever felt so right. I love you, Jesse. I'm not scared of it with you. I'll find a new job somewhere.'

Saturday: They make love for the first time and three more times that day.

Sunday: She says, about the Freedom Rides, 'Am I crazy to be doing this?' Byron's already at Becky's sister's. 'Do you really believe that you can love me and my son?'

Monday: Jesse kisses her sweetly and says, with brightest eyes, 'Yes, I can.'

*

Sun's up in Tallahassee. Jesse was wrong: they don't win. No food.

Media and irate residents congregate. The Freedom Riders feel hate crawling over them like bugs. The usual epithets are brandished. The stone-faced Riders are peacefully handcuffed for illegal assembly and guided through the crowd. White onlookers spit on the ground before and after them. The sour man's there, standing proudly at the door to the bus that's going to blow this inconvenience out of town.

Jesse feels a sprinkle of something wet on his face, his arms; Virgil gets it too, in front, and Becky in back. Can't be the makings of rain.

Holy Water.

On her Daddy's shoulders, a girl with 2 lower milk teeth missing, yells, 'God's gonna smite yo' black asses come Judgment and that's a fact.'

Laughter, whoops and hearty applause.

August 30th, 1963

Two years later

Greenbrier County, West Virginia

Afternoon

He pops the Derringer's barrels with no recoil. Misses the used bottles and cans atop the hay bail from 15 yards. The rowdy metal sparkles - can't be looked at directly. Grip's nickel-engraved.

Becky smiles beside him, eyes shielded beneath her sun hat, behind her Pall Mall smoke, says, 'You gonna blame the sun for that one too?'

'It's too small,' he goes, honestly, offering the gun to her, 'I preferred that last one,' pointing to the Cogswell Pepperbox Revolver lying with a bunch of other vintage handguns and ammo boxes on a tartan blanket over the grass. He didn't hit anything with that either. The kick was a pleasure.

She says nothing, aims the Derringer carefully at a target; holds her right hand steady with the left. Sucks on the cigarette between her lips and holds it in. She's patient and he watches her squeeze the trigger. A bottle shatters and she exhales a cloud.

There's growing squash and melon as far as the eye can see, blue sky past that with a tilt, big grain silos link earth and firmament, a big red barn behind them's on the wrong side of providing shade. He nods in appreciation of her shooting and she says with a squeal, 'Dang, I'm good.' Jesse hadn't fired a gun before this morning. Her father's a collector. She's always been made aware of her unalienable constitutional right to self-preservation by force. Get him before he gets you, Becky's father's blue in the face repeating. The average Negro needs protection more than most. He's said, too, that war's pointless unless it's a fight to preserve the 2nd amendment.

Jesse picks up the M1869 Schofield Pistol – a beautifully-crafted replica. He looks down the sight, likes the weight of it. 'What is it about the feel of a gun in a man's hand?' he wonders, really enjoying the prospect of shooting with it.

'Same reason you like ICBMs,' goes Becky, flicking away her cigarette, placing the Derringer lovingly on the blanket, 'Your peckers.' She removes her hat and fans herself with it, one hip cocked.

The Missile Crisis was almost a year ago, last October. The world stood on the brink of nuclear Armageddon for 13 days, the news said. President Kennedy made Khrushchev blink first, the news said. He told the Russians to get those warheads out of Cuba or American invasion forces were gonna lay down the law. Stood to reason, the news said, that the jealous Communists wilted. They'll do anything to topple the United States' way of life. They're too proud to admit that their own ideological revolution was a singular failure.

The streets at that time were paved with worry; there wasn't a carefree patch of dirt to be had from New York to California such was the fearful stranglehold of possible atomic outbreak. Tina's wedding got postponed. Her fiancé got cold feet in the face of impending nuclear holocaust. They broke up and reunited at Christmas and married the following summer and never made it to New York.

Jesse's father, Jeremiah, started work on remodeling the family bathroom as a bunker. Basically, he laid another layer of brick inside the walls only serving to make the room even smaller. Jesse's mother phoned Jesse personally, imploring his immediate return to Chicago, having not seen him since his spiriting away nearly 4 years earlier: 'I don't want you to die alone.' She knew about Jesse and Becky's relationship from letters; they just hadn't met her yet. Mama obviously believed that whomever Jesse was with at the time of his demise was immaterial – to not be with your mother was to die alone.

So, within the bubble of national hysteria, Jesse asked Becky to marry him. They'd been an item for the bones of 18 months, he'd grown confidently, organically into his role as stepfather and husband-to-be. He was now flossing for her, shaving his pubic hair for her, keeping his facial hair and fried food intake under control for her, he didn't wear his sunglasses indoors anymore for her, and he drove a cab for her. They had a nice little walk-up in Harlem that absorbed the best of any heat and deflected the worst of extreme cold. She agreed with his thinking that if they were going to be vaporized from above it might as well be as man and wife. Witnesses included Virgil, Lillian and Becky's sister. Nobody said that they thought it was a bad idea. Tina wrote that Mama practically fainted when she got word.

Pop said we all gotta make our own mistakes. Tommy says congratulations. Tucker's over the moon for you and wonders when you're coming to see him. He says that you're afraid to see him and I said that it was just hard for you to get away now with a baby and things. He'd love a letter. Maybe you could send him a picture of Becky and Byron.

They blast a few more rounds at the cans and bottles and then Becky goes to Jesse, 'I could eat a horse. How about you?' She gathers up the guns in the blanket and they walk hand in hand into the barn.

Becky's father wasn't impervious to the hyperbole surrounding the Cuban face-off. He was quite a distance into building a safe house underneath the barn when news came that disaster had been averted. He said he'd finish it anyway, if there ever were a next time. He never was a Boy Scout but he sure likes to be prepared. It's a work in progress. Jesse pulls up the trapdoor beneath a scattering of straw in the floor and Becky descends with the tiki torch she's lit. A couple geldings chow down peacefully in the coolness, watching the couple vanish.

It's 11 steps exactly to the dark concrete room and good to count them so as not to miss the bottom one. It's petite, with enough room to comfortably house 4 people, 5 or 6 uncomfortably if it came to it. There's empty shelving running along the walls and a lower wooden bench that skirts below three of the shelves. Nothing's painted. No utensils. Jesse tries the pull-string for the bulb out of habit. It's never worked. There's a slot for the torch halfway up the east wall. It's so cool and refreshing. You can't get much further from the noisy world than this place. Their bamboo picnic basket's there, Becky'd left it earlier to keep the meats cold. Her copy of Wuthering Heights from their last visit's still there too. She laughs at herself, taking the book in hand, 'I looked everywhere for this.'

Jesse gently puts the guns to the floor, spreading out the blanket for them. It's a feast: corn chips with salsa or hummus, mango and pineapple chunks in a Tupperware box, home-made brownies, and hard boiled eggs dipped in spiced honey, sweet potato salad, cold cuts of cooked ham and turkey, and a large bottle of Mountain Dew. They're hungry. Becky's an excellent cook. Jesse compliments her and eats everything too fast, giving himself the hiccups.

A couple minutes in, with a mouth full of egg, Jesse goes, 'You haven't said much about the march.'

She shrugs, finishing what she's eating, says, 'You want honesty?'

'Sure I do,' he replies.

'Well, I think he's a self-promoter mostly.' Jesse tries to hide his surprise, wipes his mouth. She goes on, 'I know lotsa people think he walks on water. I just don't think Dr. King's the great person than everyone says he is.'

Jesse's amazed now, he goes, 'You didn't like the speech?'

'No, it's not that I don't like his speeches. I just think - '

'What about him gettin all them Jim Crow signs taken down in Birmingham?' says Jesse, feeling bother beginning its rapid ascent.

'That was good, I guess. Gotta look at it like this though, Jesse – segregation signs in Alabama coming down is all well and good but you go into a place looking for a job in Birmingham or Mobile and a white kid does the same, who you thinks gonna be staying unemployed? None of that We Shall Overcome jive's doin much for Whitey's attitude. That's the problem. King walks away with all the people loving him and those Negroes in Alabama still got no chance of fairness.' Jesse's moved from kneeling to sitting.

He's dumbstruck, angered: 'What you come to DC for then?'

She says, 'Cos I know you like him, and your friends. I want to be part of the things that you are passionate about, baby. Please don't be upset now. I know Dr. King's tryin to help. Just that I don't go weak at the knees like you.' Jesse feels a fool. He cried for the first time in public listening to King at the Washington Memorial. The electricity of the day! He never saw so many whites and blacks in solidarity in one place, as one. Someone said it looked like God's chessboard.

'Going home you said that he was talking profound!' says Jesse, getting defensive, getting like he can get with or without an hour's drinking. She thinks for a second, adjusting her stripy dress; wonders if she's digging a hole and says, with a touch of embarrassment, 'I didn't want to bring you down. I'm sorry.'

He chews in silence. She tries to keep it light, to keep the molehill a molehill, to salvage what has been a wonderfully pleasant afternoon with her beloved husband. Becky smiles, goes, 'What seems to be the trouble, Officer?' a snippet of their occasional bedroom role-playing antics.

'Not now,' he blurts, guzzles Mountain Dew.

'Oh come on, lover, no need for the long face,' she goes, reaching for him and no more than that. She reads the Typhoon Coming On tattoo on his inner left forearm, thinks of a new angle of attack, and says softly, 'Hey, your tattoo's really grown on me.'

'I'm not a baby. I know you hate it,' he says, calling her bluff. She moves finally to his side and touches the gently raised ink on his skin.

'No,' she says, 'I swear,' she kisses the words, 'I really like it.'

*

They'd been at the Museum of Modern Art looking at Turner paintings. They got looks from Whitey and Jesse felt their worries. Becky paid reactions no never mind if she picked up on anything. Jesse liked the scope of Turner's work, the sheer size of the pictures; many of the canvasses were large and wide, taking in great heaps of blustery gray sky above scenes of great decay and rapture. Heavy drama. None of it stuck to his mind though. He had forgotten every strike of paint 5 minutes after they left the building.

The Slave Ship was the real showstopper. Becky audibly inhaled on seeing it. 'This is the one,' she said to herself. She wore white satin gloves, had bought a new blue handbag and tasteful dress for this very occasion. Jesse saw her exit their bathroom in the new getup – envious – she absolutely radiated self-confidence - she ain't never dressed up for me like that.

He watched her watching the painting. She did seem to sway a little, the soles of her feet alternately rising an inch and then falling an inch, like she was imagining being on the boat that she was looking at. Jesse read the title on the wall to himself, and then the second half became a whisper: The Slave Ship or Slavers Throwing Overboard the Dead and Dying – Typhoon Coming On.

She didn't get close to him and said, 'Ship was called the Zong,' not reading it. Looks mostly on the picture as she talks. 'Was a British vessel going to Jamaica. In 1781 the captain threw 122 dead and dying black slaves to the sharks. See, because some of the slaves had been diseased and died at sea the insurance company would not cover the loss of any slaves that died on shore. So the captain thought they should all die at sea.' She steadied herself, playing with the small necklace that belonged to the aunt that ostensibly raised her and said, 'Nobody got jail time. Things hardly change in 200 years,' with a mournful mouthful. Jesse was impressed by – and envious of – her knowledge. He wanted to compliment her, but the darker side in him prevailed and the words couldn't have come out worse, 'You really think you know it all.'

The face she shot him was poison itself with a genuine flash of sadness underneath. He thought of apologizing, as he knew he should, and the thought didn't come fast enough so she said, voice careful and vituperative, 'How the Black man gonna free hisself if'n he don't know what he oughtta know about his forbears?' Jesse can always measure her level of disharmony by the quality of her diction. The more annoyed she is the more she speaks like an uneducated nigger.

2 weeks later he got that tattoo on his arm in midtown and it cost him a pretty penny. When she saw it, the look replicated to a tee that which she'd given him in the museum.

'You say you're sorry by desecrating your body?'

*

Back under the barn, he goes, 'You all the time poutin.'

Her head springs up from his arm, lips abandoning the tattoo, and she goes, playfully, 'When you ever see me pout, Jesse Cole?'

He shrugs, drawing a blank but knowing he's right, 'You do.' She returns to her plate of food, the mood lightened.

She sticks a toe in again: 'So we good on Dr. King? It's OK to agree to disagree with you?'

'Oh yeah,' he says, 'I just don't know what you're expecting. You want us all to be like crazy Malcolm?' She's hazy on Malcolm X and says nothing. Jesse's eyebrows rise, 'You want us to go in shooting? We do that and Whitey's got us done for. You see Moses shedding blood getting the Israelites outta Egypt?'

She's on top of him with, 'And did America break free of the British through peaceful means?'

'Goddamn you, woman, I cannot ever have the final word,' he says, with a smile and shake of the head, difficult to gauge his level of irritation and/or playfulness. Whatever way Becky reads it, she's wide-eyed and got her back straight, 'You just don't like your wife being so able to speak her mind.'

'Oh that ain't it.'

'Oh that's it.'

'It ain't.'

She's up on her knees. 'Oh you just hate it when I don't fall at your feet. Cos I don't think the sun don't shine out King's ass.'

'You know, you got one helluva a mouth on you girl and it's gonna get you bloody one of these days I bet.'

'Is that so? And you gonna be the one doin the bloodyin?'

'If I got a mind to, maybe. If you keep on pushing me, maybe.' He still sits. Not eating the sandwich in his hands.

'Well, ain't that just a very modern man talkin,' she goes, 'Free the black man, keep the nigger bitch bound up in the corner.'

'Watch your mouth now. Tread soft,' he goes, not looking at her; his mouth's taut. She stands up and then sits on the bench behind her. Moments pass.

'This is how he keeps us in the gutter. We just scratchin at each other like cats in a bag on the way to the river. Even if the next President of the Unites States was a Negro, we still gonna be fighting,' she says sadly, 'Malcolms on one side and Kings on the other – or whoever the big shots are at the time. Nigger's always lookin for someone else to be their savior.'

'No more about that now, all right?' he says, not as readily switching to morbidity as Becky – her regular post-argument stance. He's done with his food and starts to put everything into the basket. 'You done with this humus?' he asks her, pointing at it. Her head's hanging like her neck's a severed branch and she nods, goes, 'I'll clean it up.' Jesse needs no second invite.

He stands up and opens the door and goes up the stairs, saying halfway up, 'I see you in a minute then.' Where they were shooting on the grass he finds the .45 smokeless; must've fallen off the blanket when Becky scooped them up. He picks it up. His anger's having issues. The sun's doing him no good. Gun's hot to touch, got 3 rounds. He seeks a target – the bottles and cans are gone. There by the tire-swing that's sagging from a pepper tree branch, leaning against the trunk: a battered, moldy, disused, faceless scarecrow. Jesse aims – gotta be 35 yards – inhales, squeezes off 3 of the most satisfying quickies of the day. Animosity towards the world engraved on every one of them.

Becky calls from the shadows below, 'Honey, can you help me lift the basket?'

He sets off to survey the damage to the scarecrow. When she resurfaces and says from the barn door Didn't you hear me? he can say that he was too far away to have heard it.

February 21st, 1965

About a year and a half later

Audubon Ballroom

166th Street & Broadway, New York

About 1.30pm

Jesse and Becky Cole have come late. Room's already ¾ full. Must be 400 Negroes in here.

Becky's got this new job, part-time, at a salon and the owner doesn't like mouthy Malcolm X. That's what detained Becky. The owner said that Malcolm X's a raging anarchist and he wants to shoot everyone. Becky said that technically Malcolm's name had been changed to Malik el-Shabazz a long time ago and her boss shooed her in the end, saying, 'Go see your precious Prince Shabooboo.'

Stacey Barendt's watching little Byron until 2.30 or so. It's the best she can do for the Coles. She's got an interview for a design job in the Garment District. That means Jesse and Becky've probably got to leave this Organization of Afro-American Unity meeting early depending on how long Brother Malcolm plans on talking. Jesse says it's gonna look really bad walking out on one of his speeches.

'So what we gonna do, leave a 6 year old fend for himself?' she had said coming in from the warm afternoon. Jesse's antipathy towards the kid is compounding: for the time and money the child consumes, for the prison fatherhood constructs, because his glory CORE days are past tense and his good friends have been dispersed by choice and happenstance, (Lillian Alaniz's run off to Iowa with an Oriental dope-peddler; Dante's doing jail time for grand theft auto in Hackensack, New Jersey. Virgil's factory got relocated to Pennsylvania and so did he. The other Rebecca disappeared mysteriously 3 months ago and Stacey's got her sights set on a career in fashion. Becky says to Jesse that drifting's natural; you can still write, right?) for the fact that Byron's half white and not his.

The child that's coming will be a proud, pure member of the African race and Jesse has high hopes for a boy.

4 big black dudes hover around the raised plywood lectern at the top of the ballroom. The atmosphere's explosive. Jesse and Becky are seated way back – 30 rows and to the left, in a sea of wooden folding chairs.

Only last Sunday Malcolm's house got firebombed in Queens. He's staying in the Hilton downtown right now, with his wife Betty and their 4 children. It came across Jesse's mind that the Hilton's not exactly a move of commonality with the Negro on the ground. On the other hand, ain't no Muslim gonna get close enough to blow Malcolm to pieces high up in Whitey's backyard.

There's nattering and whispers and shushes start to rise as a thin black man, neatly pressed, approaches the podium. Now, a fifth large man stands guard. The bodyguards scan the crowd blankly. Becky's excited, she squeezes Jesse's hand. She's more of an overt follower these days. Jesse's standoffish, undecided.

Dr. King & Co. got Civil Rights passed into law last July 2nd. It made no dent in Jesse's day-to-day. He learned that July 3rd. It was those 4 small girls in Birmingham that got blown up that really alarmed Jesse: maybe reactionary violence is the only way forward. Started listening to Malcolm after Malcolm said JFK's assassination was chickens coming home to roost. Elijah Mohammed censured Malcolm for 90 days for speaking his mind like that and Jesse considered becoming a member of the Nation of Islam as a mark of respect and support for Malcolm. Then Malcolm quit those cats last March. Jesse believes in action being needed. Malcolm says that blacks are superior; possibly, thinks Jesse. Malcolm says that segregation is not enough, there must be complete separation from whites and that's unrealistic, thinks Jesse. It's a head-spinning time for a Negro in search of a torchbearer.

The man at the lectern holds up a hand – splashes of clapping. People quiet down.

He says, 'I now give you Brother Malcolm. I hope you will listen, hear and understand.'

The flock jumps to their feet as the man steps aside and Malcolm X walks onstage, smiling and waving minimally. The ovation that greets him comes like a wall of energy and they do not halt their exaltations for a full minute.

And as they calm, as they heed Malcolm's patient calls for silence, he says, 'A salaam aleikum,' to which the loud response is, 'Wa alaikum salaam.'

Jesse knows the meaning – peace unto you and unto you peace – but says nothing. Isn't he a hypocrite for wishing peace for people and then telling us the only way to survive is by using violence?

Becky gives up the response to Malcolm audibly and Jesse's not sure that he's all that fond of her these days for manifold reasons.

Malcolm pushes his glasses up his nose, beautifully tailored suit, as dapper as any man of any color could be.

He begins with, 'Brothers and sisters...' and two Negroes rise quickly to their feet in the center, beside each other, near the front and one shouts, 'Get your hands off my pockets, nigger!' to which the second one says, 'I ain't done nothin to yo' pockets!'

The first Negro says, 'Don't you be messin with my pockets!'

Malcolm says to them, 'Now, now brothers, please break it up. Be cool.'

Here 4 of Malcolm's protectors converge on the arguing pair.

Then a sudden outbreak of unrelated commotion swivels heads to the back of the room. It's out of sight to most, low down it seems.

Becky's looking back there and she says, 'Is something on fire?'

Then there's a big blast, like dynamite, a gunshot, up front and everyone looks forward again and the ones closer to the front know what's going on before everyone else does and they start to scream and to run and there's a further quick-fire volley of shots up there somewhere and Jesse hits the dirt and people are stampeding to the exit in all directions. It's bedlam.

Becky yells, trying to move forward against a sea of refugees, 'I can't see Brother Malcolm. Where's Brother Malcolm?'

An old Negro man falls onto the floor, gets trampled, curls himself up into a ball and his bloodshot eyes meet Jesse's. Jesse's so frightened of dying in this dingy hall that he gets to his feet and grabs his pregnant wife by the arm so hard that she's got a bruise there for a month after.

Malcolm's pregnant wife Betty's crying out in the melee, 'They're killing my husband!' They're killing my husband!'

September 4th, 1965

Nearly six months later

Vandalia Correctional Center,

Vandalia, Illinois

Dearest Sister,

How blessed I am to have your ear! It is hard to know where to begin. I suppose it is better that I first apologize for what I have done. I have proven myself to be a man of weakness and not for the first time. I wonder if it is true that nobody can be where they are not supposed to be. I am meant to be in prison.

Do I deserve it? I don't think so. But Whitey sees it differently. As I write, I am a tired man at 28 and, in some ways, a defeated man. I do not have it in me to be angry with the world tonight. Please tell Thomas that he is a good and dearly loved brother and that I continue to refuse his assistance for reasons that are my own and are beyond me to explain. Make him to understand that the decision is not based on his abilities at all. He is such a confident person, I'm sure that he has figured that out already.

I do not feel ashamed to say that I am frightened in here. There are men three times my size, like my cellmate. His name is T-Rex and you might laugh at that but, believe me, he commands respect through fear. My first week is up tomorrow. I still jump when they slam the doors behind us. I have made no friends. I have spoken maybe twice when I didn't have to. I don't know that anyone can make a friend in a place like this. I am surrounded by dogs. A man just walked up to me and sniffed me last night in the mess hall. All the guard did was laugh at me. If I serve a full term for my mistake I have 1,044 days to go. I have begun counting.

Sweet Tina, I wish that I could be brave in the face of what is ahead of me. In this tiny room, it is a box, really, with cockroaches, behind these bars I am a child again. I am a lamb. I am alone and I can't write that word to show you the feeling as I truly feel it. I cannot sleep for fear of unspeakable things happening to me. There are bets made, by inmates and guards, on matters too vile for your beautiful mind to be told about. I spend as much time working out in the yard as I can. Even in the rain sometimes. It takes little effort for my muscles to tone. I am lucky. I shortly will be very large. I do it to relieve my thoughts and I do it because someday I know that I will need great strength beyond my heart if I am ever to again see your smile. How is Mama? I am sure that she still hates me. Please tell her that it was not my intention to disgrace her. Please let her know too that I love her and I know that those things she said to me were out of pain and sadness for what I done. I cannot imagine what it is like having two sons in jail at the same time and being a widow. I hope that you believe me when I say that I did not plan to rob anybody. You saw, as you always see best, how I was the days after Papa's funeral. I was not able to control myself. I was dumb. I showed the world how dumb a nigger can get. It all came crashing down on me. I should've gone to see Tucker. He will be dead when I am out of here. I did this to myself. I am the fool who got too drunk. I am the one who will not see his boy's 1st and probably 2nd birthday. I am the one who regrets. My heart is bleeding through my fingertips for want of freedom. I am scared and I am a pup and I do not know if I shall survive this, Tina. I thought that the years I had put behind me in New York would stand to me, make me able to take on any situation but I was wrong.

Oh my god, the hurt I feel for myself! Where does a man turn to? My whole life I ask that question, so many men do. We turn and we turn and we turn and so many of us, it seems, just end up turning so much and so fast that all we do is spin and can't stop it. I am the creation of God and I am rightly punished by Him. But will He not grant me hope? Can I not also be shown mercy and shepherded through this mighty valley of death? I am a sinner, a sinner, a sinner. I have lived a wasteful life. I was lucky and I lost it. I am unworthy. I was loved and I scorned it. There seems to be no way out from where I sit. I search and I want to be a happy man. Is it this terrible race to which I was born? Are we cursed? Do you remember the judge called me a blight on the landscape? Do you think he was referring just to me or to all Negroes?

There has been no end to the rain today. If the clouds do not part soon, I fear for my state of mind. It is enough to be locked into a dark room and forgotten about by men. If you will remember me, I will gladly shiver in your sunlight.

Write me soon, dearest love.

Your humble brother,

Jesse.

November 12th, 1966

Fifteen months later

Rebecca,

How can you do this to me when I am already ruined and trapped? What a Judas bitch you are! I bet you think you're safe out there, that you can run away whenever you feel like it. Well, you can't. That's my boy you got, you hear me woman? I don't care how much you will always love me, Dante's my friend! He was. And don't worry, that black motherfucker's gonna hear from me too.

I got shit all around me, miserable hateful shit. The walls are covered in shit, grown men weeping day and night, you know that? You ain't got no idea what I see every second of everyday. And I suppose you think I deserve it. It ain't so easy to escape, you know. You think you ain't in prison too, girl? We all been born behind bars, baby. We was fuckin fools we thought the world was a free world. And it don't matter too much if a man be a dark one or a light one or a Chink one or a Mexican, the color that's got the power is GREEN. GR$$N. You got no green and you a nigger even if you white or a blue Martian. You lying if you think it ain't so and you also lying if you think Dante Bial's gonna take care of you like I did. He an egomaniac. He wants easy pussy, that's all. Keep this letter for the day you regret everything you doing right now. I write it big for you: I TOLD YOU SO.

When I get outta here, I'm coming for that boy. He's mine, goddamn it. He the only fuckin thing I didn't fuckup in my life. You remember how happy we was? How can you forget that? You an evil bitch for this shit.

You know T-Rex got stabbed last month; he in intensive care since. They say that his brain's dead. This Spic dude got pissed about some deal and T-Rex's a fried egg now, sister, you dig? Stopped him quick as you leaving me, that's all I gotta tell you. There ain't no god out there. God's a twofaced motherfucker and he don't exist to me and if he strike me down cos of me saying that then let him do it cos I want a sign of life. This place is a walking graveyard. I got hours and hours and hours to kill and I cannot read or concentrate on TV or radio. I watch flies flying. I put my hand out my window the other night, it was a full moon. The moonlight was so soft and the air was warm. I keep my head down, I stay fuckin quiet, ain't a peep outta me, and I do as I'm told. Don't mean some cat ain't gonna slice and dice me anyhow. That's how this shit works. Sometimes I get so mad I wanna go Bruce Lee on the next motherfucker asks me how my day's goin. Makes your blood into tar, this kind of joint. But let them frustrate and cage me, I say, let them cut my heart out if they like, won't hurt near as much as having my only wife betray me, opening her legs wide for another man's flagstick. I wanna fuckin vomit. That shit's Uncle Tom type shit; even worse. A nigger once call me a Uncle Tom for knowing how to make a cocktail right. What the fuck was all that marching for when I got that sorta bullshit up in my grill? Let the Black Man rot. That Uncle Tom sonofabitch comes across my path again, I'm gonna fuck his ass up.

And Tucker got turned down again. You heard I guess. That boy's toast, baby. He ain't got a snowball's chance. There's your god again. Fried chicken like your lovely Malcolm. You probably part your little red sea for his ass too he asked you for it but he dead, mama, and I ain't yet and you filling me with anger and all that poisonous shit I don't need cos there's so much of it in here and you know what? Parole board screwed me. I acting like a choirboy 440 days straight and what it get me? It get me the same result I get when I come to New York, when I try to walk the line like a dumbshit law-abiding nigger, when I try to bring the fight to our cracker overlords, when I try to do right by my woman: I get nothin. And it don't matter to me no more. All that shit's making me stronger when I think about it, all a that White Man's crap and any two-timing bullshit you be pulling on me while I trying to fight only to breathe. This ain't living.

I can dead-lift my own bodyweight. I'm big as a motherfuckin ox now and I can wrap my fingers around your throat no trouble. You best be in a different country when I come to Philly to find you. I'm gonna go Bay of Pigs on that Dante cocksucker's ass. I got things in my head so's I don't know what's coming round the corner. Typhoon Coming On.

YOUR HUSBAND

Jesse Cole.

December 16th, 1967

Thirteen months later

Southern Illinois Penitentiary

Randolph County, Illinois

In memory of Ernesto Che Guevara de la Serna,

Dear No One,

I guess you could call this my Christmas wish list or my Santa Claus list. Pretty childish, I guess. I don't really have too many good memories of Christmas. I been thinking about it a lot. I guess my best Christmas was the first one with Becky. She got me a new Armitron watch. She'd remembered I'd seen it in a shop window about 3/4 months before. They put that watch in an envelope when I came here. I hope never to wear it again. It's a constant reminder of the woman who ripped up my heart. Maybe I will pawn it and spend the money on a new watch. Although I don't think about time so much now either. I got no appointments to keep; nowhere I need to be. Time's man made, I guess, when you think about. Always been there, Whitey just give it the label. Same as everything. They got one wing overcrowded here. Overcrowding's why I come here from Vandalia. I'm in with a murderer and a child molester. They got it all screwed-up. These guys are funny though, neither of them could you peg as being evil. They are very bright and generous and polite. They make very little noise, they don't threaten anyone. It's weird. I guess it's another lesson. My sister Tina brought me a beautiful sweater yesterday. I got it on right now. It's so very cold. Guy in the cell down a ways, Gutierrez, he plays the guitar. Stole as long as he's been able to run he said to me. He's pretty good at it too, music I mean, plays these real sad songs; some of them are in Spanish. I like them the most. Sounds sometimes like he's crying while he's singing. I'm glad they transferred me. One of them newer screws at Vandalia was definitely setting his eyes on making my life hell. I was saved by the Department of Corrections' efforts to fix the Sardine Policy; or at least that's what I call it.

You know, my one Christmas wish, and I should do this when I next see a star (tonight's very cloudy) is to be paroled. I mean, it's kinda obvious. But it's for Tucker. My next hearing (the 3rd one) is on January 11th. It means that I will see Tucker before he dies and that will really mean the world to me. I have so much to say to him. I thought 10,000 times about writing to him but I just don't know how to. Maybe I won't be able to tell him everything I want to tell him when I finally see him – it's been 9 years! I know that I will be granted parole. When I think about walking out of here, I get this smile on my face. It's almost like being in love!

I have gotten used to this life, I must admit. The racket's not like it used to be. It used to be like the walls were made of Jell-O the way the screaming bounced. I think I've developed a slight hunch from keeping my head down. I try to consciously walk straighter. I'm not so scared; I'm not really scared at all. I weigh 199 and I hit that speed-bag hard, Mama. I've been boxing more and more too. It's something I like to do. It does things to the demons. Joe Frazier look out! Listening to Motown too. Whitey don't dig on it – and the white pigs run this joint tight when it comes to black expression - controls so I don't hear it too much but I like it when I do. Hey, maybe I could make songs; how hard can it be to write that stuff and be a millionaire? Berry Gordy better watch his back! Stupid things still happen in here, inevitable things. Example: for the record, a carjacker from upstate, name of Logan (white,) got shanked in the shower last month. Got over it quick and wailed on Packer (black) - the guy who did it - till Packer passed out and now Packer's lost hearing in his left ear and Logan's getting extra helpings at dinner. The racism is otherworldly and that's no surprise. It's somehow become more manageable for me. I am deaf to it. The light at the end of the tunnel's an amazing comfort. I can almost taste it. I say to myself not to get angry, not to do anything to make my stay longer. I never thought I could see this to the end and the end's around the corner now and it feels so good, baby! I eat healthy if I can. Tina's so good to me, bringing food and things; and her husband. He ain't such a bad guy. Becky's sent me a picture of my son on his 2nd birthday. He's named Elijah and he looks happy. How can anyone say from a picture? They've moved to Philly. I was married and now I'm not. It's hard to get that from inside here. It's hard to know that this child is my son. I have never held him or kissed him but I am told that he is my flesh and blood. I wish I knew him. I wish things had been different for him. I get so mad sometimes still. It's really hard to be forgiving. Becky told me that drifting's natural when my old buddies upped and split to all corners. I try not to think about those guys, it feels to me like another life, another planet. Somebody says that Whitey's close to getting a spaceship on the moon. They spending billions of tax dollars on it and the Negro can't pay his doctor bill.

I regret not going on them marches in Selma in 1965. I just got so sick of everything by then, after what happened to Malcolm. What did any of that achieve? What difference would my presence have made? None. I been reading more too, nothing that's changed my life but it makes time go. I guess that I've matured some. I still don't have any time for religion. They got nuts in here saying all sorts about the grace of god. He is the Light and the Way and such. I say which way to the light in the Negro slums of America? Light from us usually comes from a pig's flashlight. They say my argument's too black and white and I say what else it gonna be?

I looked back at the beginning of this letter and saw that it was going to be a Christmas list! My mind wanders. It can wander to crazy places and keep me up nights. I'm not perfect.

I was thinking just now, it's funny; I went to New York to become like Sidney Poitier. It's why I left Chicago. And I never once played a part in anything. But look where it took me that I never expected? Everything in life can seem so random and meaningless or, maybe, life is only there to give it a point if you want it to have a point. Hey, maybe I've cracked it! Nothing means anything unless you want it to. So I guess everyone wants it to. It's kinda hard to think that we're all here for no reason. Still, maybe that's the truth and we prefer the lie. So many smart people in history and they ain't got the answer, just guesses. They know as much as a nigger does. Someone must be thinking the answer's been on the moon all along.

J.

