 
THE DALLAS

HANDSHAKE

A.M. SCHEITLIN

2018

Copyright © 2018 by Alexander Heeren

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

First Printing: 2018

ISBN 978-0-692-14280-6

Merced, California 95348

Dedication:

For Stacey

CHAPTER 1

On such an overcast day any other city would have smelled like rain; Cleveland smelled of a burning river. More like petroleum than of petrichor. Dark clouds of chemical smoke hung over the Cuyahoga adding to the oppressiveness of the morning rush hour. I sat hunched over, in the passenger seat as my partner, Agent Cohen, piloted the car through morning traffic.

I closed the detective novel on my lap that I'd started the previous night. I hadn't slept well, and I was much too tired to pay attention to the book. Normally, I devoured such stories, these hard-boiled, hard-drinking shamuses had inspired me to become an investigator. Even though six years on the job had dispelled all the glamor of the novels, I still clung to the romantic image. In the books, a beautiful, young, but troubled, dame would burst into an eye's office desperately seeking help in handling a deranged lover, overbearing father, or in some of the darker novels, an overbearing father-lover. Regardless of incest, the detective never suffered from hang-ups or hang-overs. He would set aside his drink and rise to the occasion, often to his own financial and sexual advantage.

These novels bore no relation to my life as a government investigator at the Bureau for Responsible Masturbation. My job does not make for pleasant reading. Indeed, most of the stuff that happens at the B.R.M. does not even make for polite conversation; not that I get much chance to bump jaws with high society. Contrary to what the movies and pulp novels would lead you to believe, the life of a government investigator consists mainly of paperwork. We are little more, and paid much less, than actuaries. We fill out forms about people who've committed dangerous acts of self-abuse, mainly instances of autoerotic asphyxiation. We compile those forms into reports and fill out more forms about the compiled reports. Rarely, we get the satisfaction of sending one of these reports to our headquarters in Washington. Even more rarely, someone at headquarters reads the report.

When my older brother, Charlie, got me the job back in 1962, the primary service that the B.R.M. offered was employing the otherwise unemployable relatives of prominent politicians, campaign donors, or other citizens of note. Such was my case; under Charlie's influence, I was assigned to a desk at the bureau office and my main job was to keep out of the way. It was a solution that pleased everyone. As my bad luck would have it, everything changed November 22, 1963.

I can still remember where I was when I heard the news that tragic Friday. I was planning on passing that dreary morning drinking with my partner Cohen at the Sultry Lobster, the bar just down the street from headquarters.

"Two more, Kimberly," Cohen said pointing to our empty glasses. Agent Cohen was a quiet, heavy-set man with thinning brown hair. I'm not sure if he had any friends or hobbies outside of work. In that regard, and in that regard only, he and I were the same. After being liberated from a concentration camp by the Americans, Cohen immigrated to America and ended up working for the C.I.A. helping the agency navigate post-war Eastern Europe. However, as the focus of foreign affairs shifted to East Asia, Cohen had been transferred to the B.R.M. where he stood out like a sore thumb among all of the bureau's misfits.

"Two more for me too!" I added chuckling.

"Really, Dick?" the bartender, Kimberly, asked. "Why don't you pay for your last two first?"

"Don't call me a dick, you twat. Just put them on my tab," I replied.

"Cohen has a tab, you don't," Kimberly snapped back. "Maybe pace yourself instead?"

"Pace myself?" I said indignantly, and a little drunkenly. "More like place yourself. As in know your place, by which I mean--"

"Richard, just shut up," Cohen suggested before I could continue down the slippery and misogynist route I had set for myself. It was just as well since I was rather sleepy. Indeed, I must have started counting sheep because the next thing I remember was Cohen was shoving me awake and Kimberly sobbing.

"What the hell happened?" I asked. No matter how often I wake up to a woman sobbing, I never get used to it.

"There's been an accident," Cohen explained hurriedly getting his hat and coat on. "We have to get back to work."

"An accident? What kind of accident?" I asked the only problem I could see was that my beer was now lukewarm.

"A terrible accident!" sobbed Kimberly.

"Well, of course, it's terrible, you dumb bitch. Have you ever heard of a happy accident?" I said.

"It is a common idiom, Richard," Cohen pointed out.

"Whatever happened can't be important enough to involve us," I said making one of the biggest understatements of my life. "Kimberly, pour me a cold beer!"

"The president!" cried Kimberly. "They're calling it the Dallas Handshake."

Cohen said more forcefully, "Come on Richard, we have to get to the office."

Since Kimberly was sobbing her eyes out, I grabbed my warm beer and followed Cohen out the door. It wasn't the first time I took a drink down the street with me and Kimberly was riding my ass about all the missing glasses.

The atmosphere outside was oppressive and depressive, even more so than what was normal for Ohio. People were wandering around the street dazed. Cohen and I were the only ones moving with a sense of purpose. Well, Cohen was, I was just trying to keep up. It was difficult as I had trouble following a straight line.

"Say, Cohen," I finally asked finishing off my beer. "What's going on?"

"Two Secret Service agents--" he began.

"Oh! Don't get me started on those pansies!" I snapped and for added effect, threw my glass onto the sidewalk. "They think they are all better than the rest of us just because they protect the president instead of chasing masturbators."

"Richard!" Cohen snapped. But I was too upset and lit to listen. Like many at the B.R.M., I had a bit of inferiority complex when it came to other agencies, especially the Secret Service.

"They aren't so different from you and me!" I exclaimed to Cohen. "All of Washington is just a giant circle jerk, and the president is the biggest jerk-off of them all!"

I illustrated my subtle assessment of the current political situation by making an inappropriate, although very demonstrative, gesture and almost fell over onto my broken glass. By this time, we were getting a lot of dirty looks from the others on the street.

"What are you plebs looking at!" I shouted at the bystanders. You'd think I was George Wallace dressed in a Zoot Suit the way they were staring at me.

"Shut up and listen!" Cohen grabbed me and hissed, "The president is dead."

"What!" I gasped. "Eisenhower finally kicked the bucket?"

"Eisenhower? Richard, Eisenhower hasn't been president since--never mind. It's Kennedy. Two Secret Service agents--"

"Those motherfuckers!" I began again before Cohen slapped me across the face.

"The two agents found Kennedy tied up and strangled in a Dallas hotel room," explained Cohen.

"Shit. He was bumped off?" I asked.

"More liked rubbed out if you know what I mean," said Cohen.

"What?" I asked. I was too drunk to follow the conversation.

"Well, the initial reports suggest no one else was in the room when it happened," Cohen explained. "If you know what I mean," he repeated.

I did not know what he meant. At least not at first. A moment later, the full implication of his words set in. "SHIT ON MY TESTICLES!" I shouted sobering up instantly.

"Yeah," said Cohen pushing me inside the doors to the Federal Building and towards the elevators to the third floor where the B.R.M. was located. "There's going to be hell to pay."

"And a hell of a lot of paperwork," I added.

We listened with the rest of the department to the radio as the facts about the incident emerged. The new bird in charge in charge, Lyndon B. Johnson, tried to handle the circumstances of his predecessor's death in a way that would not tarnish J.F.K.'s memory. He did so brilliantly. In fact, too brilliantly. Kennedy's death glamorized the old choke and jerk. Soon, hundreds of copycats across the country began to off themselves, both literally and figuratively, using the "Dallas Handshake."

In the five years since Kennedy's death, Cohen and I had our work cut out for us. Ohio did not have a lot of entertainments. It seemed that whenever the Cleveland Indians started to do poorly, a rash of men would begin to "experiment" with other pastimes. The country was soon gripped by an epidemic of auto-erotic asphyxiation and Ohio became its epicenter.

* * *

"Kacken zee ahf deh levanah ku fartzer," Cohen's oaths at the rush hour traffic brought me out of my reminiscences.

"That fucker," I offered sympathetically. I didn't know the language but presumed it was Yiddish, which I did not know. I figured my reply was generic enough. After all, "that fucker" is the little black dress of rejoinders and is appropriate for all occasions. I was glad that Cohen insisted on driving after my unfortunate, but memorable, accident with a septic truck outside Sandusky the previous year. Even before the accident, I was prone to horrible motion sickness. After the accident, the connection between automobiles and human waste was even more cemented in my mind and bowels.

Even thinking about Sandusky got my stomach acting up. I had hoped the heavy traffic would give me time to catch up on sleep. I tried to settle my stomach by looking out the window. Instantly I regretted the view; the only thing I could see was the dead river. The surface of the Cuyahoga was a macabre rainbow of oils, filth, and flame. A single dead fish floated in the middle of the river, slowly drifting out to Lake Erie.

"Lucky bastard," I thought. At least the fish was on his way out of Ohio. The sound of Cohen striking a match drew my view from the window back to Cohen.

"Cleveland smells like shit," Cohen muttered using the match to light a cigarette while at the same time swerving between a school bus and pickup truck full of department store mannequins.

"Hmmm," I muttered back non-committedly as the cigarette odor mixed with that of the city. The mixture did not improve the aroma. I agreed with Cohen's assessment of the city but was feeling too ill to risk opening my mouth.

"I'm glad I'm almost done with this," Cohen mumbled. At twenty years my senior, Cohen was set to retire from the department with a government pension at the end of the year. I was apprehensive about Cohen's retirement. Cohen was by far the most competent person in the department and I, being far from competent, depended on him.

Compared to Cohen, I had done little with my life. Just last month I turned thirty, F. Scott Fitzgerald's promised decade of loneliness. I had spent the first two decades of my life primarily being known as a disgraced senator's youngest, and ne'er-do-well, son. The third decade of my life I spent being known as the younger, less successful, and still ne'er-do-well, brother of the prominent businessman and aspiring politician, Charles Cox. Now after some unpleasantness in the family, hardly any of which was my fault, thirty seemed to be living up to Fitzgerald's promise. Not only did I need Cohen to help me pull my weight on the job, at this point, Cohen was the closest thing to family that I had.

"Shit," Cohen said wiping off the cigarette ash that had fallen on his rolled-up sleeves. I looked at the tattooed serial number on Cohen's forearm, a tangible piece of evidence that there were worse places in the world than Cleveland.

Maybe it was the smell of the city or my apprehension about Cohen leaving, but what had started out as a gentle suggestion in my stomach was now approaching an urgent declaration.

"Can we stop here? I've got to take a shit," I said pointing to an adult bookstore on the corner.

"Really? Here?" Cohen sighed.

"From what Edna said it doesn't sound like there will be much of an opportunity to use the facilities at the victim's house," I replied.

"What all did Edna tell you about the case?" Cohen asked.

"Not much," I replied thinking back to how Edna, the B.R.M.'s secretary woke me up this morning. Edna could not supply many details about the case, but from what she told me it sounded like a disaster.

"What in the name of God's glory hole are you doing here this early?" Edna had asked me accusingly as I startled upright at my desk. Edna's and my boss, and everyone else's at the regional B.R.M. office, was Father Michael O'Sullivan. As a former priest, O'Sullivan did his best to ban profane things from the office; namely profanity. The rest of the department made it a principle to swear as often and vividly as possible when he was absent. Such language did not come naturally to Edna. But, during her tenure at the B.R.M., she had risen to the occasion admirably. Sometimes too admirably.

"I just wanted to get an early start," I lied. Actually, I had been living in my office for the past few days since a romantic tryst with my sister-in-law went, as I should have expected, poorly. I'm grateful to my older brother Charlie and his wife Valarie for welcoming me into their home and to Charlie for getting me started at the bureau after my father disowned me. But fraternal gratitude has its boundaries and limitations especially when your sister-in-law is hitting on all eight. Besides, as I had tried to explain to Valarie, Charlie had died nearly four months ago, and she wasn't getting any younger.

"That's a bunch of fucking bullshit," said Edna. "The day a semen-clogged sphincter like you starts work early is the day my clit pops out," she added. This time, I think she surprised even herself. I was certainly taken a bit aback, it was too early in the morning for me to mentally process my own sphincter much less my co-worker's popped clitoris.

"But since you are here," she responded to my stunned silence, "it saves me a phone call, O'Sullivan wants you and Cohen to go investigate a case up on Euclid."

"Crapping Christ," I complained, both in response to having an investigation so early in the morning, and belatedly, to the mental image of Edna's clitoris. Responding to such calls was a thankless job. Literally thankless as the victims are in no shape to thank you. Even if they could, you probably wouldn't want to shake their hand. Not after where it has been.

"This case looks especially troublesome," Edna added. "It looks like he took out his wife with him."

"Fuck!" I exclaimed. Then remembering Father O'Sullivan was absent, "Holy fuck!"

In my six years on the job, I had never encountered an incident involving more than one body at a time. The types of accidents we deal with at the B.R.M. tend to be the results of solitary events.

"How did he manage to do that?" I asked, less concerned about the deaths than I was about the paperwork the investigation would entail. I didn't even think our forms had spaces for multiple victims.

"Golly, I don't know. That's your and Cohen's problem," Edna replied, then almost reading my mind, "You are going to be up to your sagging scrotum in paperwork."

* * *

"Richard!" Cohen said once again bringing my attention back to the pressing matter at hand. "Do you want to stop or not?"

"Yes," I replied. "As soon as humanly possible, if not sooner."

Cohen sighed, but was already pulling in under the large sign reading "Euclid Erotica." He was well familiar with my sensitive stomach and, through experience, knew better than to test its limits. I did not wait for the car to come to a full stop, instead, I bounded out of the vehicle and pumped my getaway sticks towards the front door of the store.

"Shit," I said trying the door, the word serving as an oath and as a premonition of what soon was to come. The door was locked. What self-respecting porno store is closed at eight in the morning?

"Open up!" I called pounding on the door.

"Not open! Come back later!" called a voice from deep inside the store.

"Bureau of Responsible Masturbation!" I yelled. Even I had to admit it sounded ridiculous. But I found it equally ridiculous that the man inside wouldn't unlock the door for an emergency.

"We are not open! GO AWAY!" The voice, who I assumed had to be the porno proprietor, yelled again.

"Shit!" I said again, this time more forcibly. "Fuck my tits to Tennessee!" I added for good measure. The situation was becoming dire. I looked over his shoulder to see if Cohen was looking. The older man was quietly reading the detective novel I had left behind. It was the latest in the Detective Hancock series, my favorite series. No matter how adverse the situation in which he found himself was, Hancock always managed a way out of it.

To my knowledge, Detective Hancock never faced the urgent problem that I now found myself in. If he had, at least it was never documented in any of the books. With no one watching, I took the opportunity to run to the side of the building and along the back to the alley. Turning around the corner, I tripped over something and had to catch myself by grabbing the greasy edge of a Dumpster placed in the back of the porno store.

"Watch it man!" grumbled a bedraggled homeless man who revealed himself as the object that I had stumbled over.

"Sorry! Agent Cox, important government business," I said flashing my badge to the tramp. The man did not seem to be impressed by my credentials. However, he did not appear to be upset about the situation either as he had already gone back to sleep. Now that my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the alley I went over to the other side of the dumpster and relieved myself. Defecating near a homeless man in the alleyway behind a porno store was not one of the highlights of my crime-fighting career, but it also was not one of my worse either. Still, I suspect that the fictional Hancock would have devised a more dignified solution.

"It's gonna be a hell of a day," I said to myself, then realizing that there was no toilet paper, "Damn, I wish I brought my book along."
CHAPTER 2

"All set to go?" Cohen looking up from the detective book as I gingerly sat back into the passenger seat.

"All set," I said out of breath from my fecal misadventure.

"This is some authentically terrible shit," Cohen said throwing my book onto my lap. I winced at the word "shit."

"Her last couple were pretty good," I said defensively. I had raced through all of the novels by A. M. Scheitlin, the author of the Detective Hancock series. I was desperate to learn more about the author but couldn't find any information on her. Even the sexy librarian at the Cleveland Public Library was sick of me asking about her. Well, at least she was sick of me. Her boyfriend made that very clear one afternoon. I had to walk around for a week with the black eye as a reminder.

"If you say so," said Cohen. "It seems pretty perverted to me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said. "Besides, women can't be perverts."

"What do you know about women?" Cohen mumbled under his breath. I decided to pretend I hadn't heard. After my fight with Valarie, I didn't have the strongest footing on gender issues. We had exited the parking lot of the adult bookstore and continued on to a more prosperous neighborhood just beyond the university. Finally, Cohen pulled up to a large Victorian house with police cars scattered out front. Cohen weaved into the driveway, the car bursting through the police DO NOT ENTER tape like a runner crossing the finish line. Although, given the circumstances, I did not feel like a winner.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" A Cleveland police officer yelled as he came out to fix the tape.

"B.R.M," Cohen said simply.

"I don't care if you are the Feds. Even if Hoover himself burst through here I'd make him park his cross-dressing ass outside of my tape," the flatfoot yelled.

"Oh yeah, well--" I began what I hoped would be a witty rejoinder to the insult but failed to think of anything. It had already been a long morning. I also had a policy out of professional jealousy of never defending the F.B.I. Instead, I just flipped the officer off and followed Cohen into the house.

The front door was open, so Cohen and I entered the foyer. As one who spent the night at his office desk, I was bound to be impressed by any home. But even so, it appeared the late owners had not been lacking money. They had been financially comfortable and then some. At least they had enjoyed life before its abrupt end.

"Cohen and Cox, B.R.M," Cohen said efficiently showing his badge to the officer in charge. That was one of the things I admired about Cohen. He was able to lend credulity to even a job as ridiculous as ours. The man was a true professional.

"Sergeant Lewis," the officer said shaking Cohen's hand. He did not offer to shake mine, which was just as well as I had not had an opportunity to wash them since the alley.

"Took you boys long enough," he added.

"Traffic was... shitty," I mumbled as an apology.

"The stiffs are here in the kitchen. The son found them and called it in. I expect this will pretty much fuck up his childhood," Lewis said leading us to the kitchen.

Cohen and I gasped. To say that the scene would fuck up the son's childhood was an understatement. A fat, middle age man, or what was left of one, was splattered on the kitchen floor. Underneath his carcass was the legs and lower half of a woman. The parts of the floor not covered in viscera were covered in blood tinged bath water and broken porcelain. Working for the B.R.M. Cohen and I were used to seeing unpleasant sights, but deaths from the Dallas Handshake, while undignified, were hardly as catastrophic as the scene that lay before us. I took a step forward to survey the damage and slipped and fell.

"Careful," Lewis said, "there's water everywhere."

Indeed, there was. Water was still dripping from the gigantic hole in the kitchen ceiling. I had an excellent view of it from my position laying prostrate on the kitchen floor.

"We just got it shut off," he added helping me up.

"Thanks," I said. "I'm just glad I didn't impale myself," nudging a large shard of porcelain with my foot.

Cohen coughed to remind me not to move anything at the crime scene. He was inspecting the bodies.

"He is--was, a big guy. Look at that thick neck. The rope wasn't enough. Probably had to half drown himself," Cohen said.

"Either that, or he turned on the water to cover the noise," I tried to add helpfully. I regretted it. The sight alone was disturbing enough for my eyes, there was no need to involve my ears.

"Either way, the water was left on. Must have weakened the floor and the whole kit and caboodle came down on the wife in the kitchen. Either that or she found him up there and they both fell before she could untie him? We can't really tell," Lewis said. He looked at us like he was expecting us to tell him what happened. Which, I suppose, as the investigators, was our job.

"These old houses, they look fancy but they're not up to code," Cohen offered.

"It seems improbable," I said but didn't have a better explanation. I was careful after Cohen's warning to not touch anything, but something about the rope around the man's neck caught my attention. Identifying and tying knots was the one part of the job where I surpassed Cohen. "You ready for me to take a look at the knot?"

Lewis and Cohen reached over to help me lift the man's head to take a better look at the noose.

"Hmm," I muttered. The rope was of high quality and the knot was tied expertly. I pulled out my penknife and cut the noose making sure I didn't cut too close to the knot.

"Got an I.D. on the victims?" Cohen asked while I studied the knot and made knot notes in my knot notebook.

"Man was a psychiatrist, name Bartholomew Franklin forty-four years old," Lewis said looking at his notes. "His wife was Mabel Isabel Louise-Franklin, forty-one years old. The kid is Thomas Franklin, twelve years old."

"Fuck, a shrink," I said. "Bastard probably deserved it."

I'd had nothing but problems with psychiatrists.

"Anything we need to see upstairs?" Cohen asked.

"Just a giant hole in the floor."

"I better take a look," I said mustering an aura of professionality that I did not possess. My stomach was acting up again. Obviously, the one bathroom was no longer in a usable condition, but I was hoping that there was a second somewhere, preferably one in which I would not have to hover precariously over a dead married couple to use.

I slipped the noose into an evidence bag and into my jacket pocket. Then I left Lewis and Cohen in the kitchen and went back to the foyer and up the staircase to the second floor. I waded through the thick plush carpeting past the bathroom. I could hear Cohen and Lewis discuss the Cleveland Indian's season from below and saw the cloud of smoke from their cigarettes floating up through the missing floor. I went into the room next to the bathroom. There were clothes all over the floor and a bunch of pinewood derby cars and a trophy sitting on a shelf above the bed.

"What a nerd," I said looking at the trophies and scouting paraphernalia. Based on my cursory inspection, there was nothing that would pass for a toilet in the room. I'm sure with some imagination I could have devised something, but as a newly minted orphan, I figured the kid had already had enough problems. I tried the next door down the hall, it was the master bedroom with, to my great relief, a bathroom off to the side.

After consummating said relief in the bathroom, I rummaged through the medicine cabinet looking to see if there was anything interesting in there. From my experience with psychiatrists, I figured there would have to be some interesting in there. I was going to need something to get me through all of the paperwork. I was disappointed to find nothing stronger than Bart Franklin's arthritis medicine.

I wasn't eager to go back downstairs and start filling out forms. Plus, I knew Cohen wouldn't mind sharing a few more cigarettes with the cops, so I figured I'd take a quick nap to refresh after the busy morning. That way I could start the paperwork refreshed. I went into the master bedroom and laid on top of the already made bed. I sighed with pleasure as I sank into the soft mattress. After sleeping in my office, laying in a real bed was delightful, even if it was not my sister-in-law's. I kicked off my shoes and stretched out. I rolled over and heard a crinkling noise underneath my pillow. I reached in, felt a magazine and pulled it out. It was an issue of Boy's Life.
CHAPTER 3

"Cohen! Great news!" I yelled racing down the stairs and almost tripped on the last step.

"What took you so long?" Cohen grumbled. He was lounging on a couch in the Franklin's living room while Lewis was trying to get reception on the television set. He was obviously in no hurry, so I ignored his comment and thrust the magazine into his barrel chest.

"Great news!" I repeated, "Victim was a pedophile, it's the P.P.P.'s problem now." As B.R.M. agents, pedophilia was out of our jurisdiction and under the purview of the Pederasty Prevention Police. The Franklins, and the copious amount of paperwork the case would require were out of our hands.

"Nice work Cox!" Cohen congratulated me. I beamed, it was rare I received praise for my work. "Sorry, Lewis. Looks like we can't help you," Cohen said to the sergeant.

Cohen and I were so glad to avoid the case that we nearly skipped out of the house. Instead, I celebrated less flamboyantly by making another obscene gesture to the flatfoot outside.

"Shit, it's still early," Cohen said as we got into the car. "O'Sullivan won't expect us back until afternoon. Let's hit the Lobster for a few drinks."

"Sure thing," I said. At the mention of the bar, my stomach immediately felt better. Either traffic was much lighter now that rush hour had ended, or Cohen was in a better mood as he only muttered Yiddish oaths twice on the way back downtown. We parked the car outside the post office and waltz over to the Sultry Lobster.

"Two beers!" Cohen yelled out to Kimberly. We nearly had the place nearly to ourselves since it was still morning.

"Haven't seen you two in a while," Kimberly said. "At least not during the day." It was true, ever since Kennedy ruined my life by ending his, I had not had much time for drinking on the job.

"Good catch on the case this morning," Cohen said after our drinks arrived. "I wasn't looking forward to solving that one."

"Neither was I," I said. "Thank God for pedophiles."

"Don't let O'Sullivan hear you say that. He'd be both offended and aroused." We both laughed. Maybe it was the beer, or perhaps bonding with Cohen over child abuse, but I was feeling a lot better about life than I was that morning.

"So," Cohen began tentatively, "how are things with you, since Charlie... passed?" The mention of my family life immediately popped my bubble of happiness.

"It's been better. I'm still sorting it all out," I replied thinking of Valarie.

When I first heard that my brother Charlie had died, I assumed that he had been mugged or was the victim of some random act of violence. However, when I learned that he had been shot execution style and dropped into Lake Erie, I had to reassess my assumptions. While part of me hoped it was a case of ice fishing that went horribly wrong, the more rational part of me had to come to terms with the fact that there was a side to my older brother that I had been unaware of.

"How's his wife handling it?" Cohen asked.

"Valarie is being... unreasonable about the whole thing," I said to him.

"Well, I wish I could say it gets easier with time, but it doesn't. But that Valarie sounds like a strong woman," said Cohen.

I didn't know much about Cohen's past. As a concentration camp survivor, I was always nervous about asking him about his personal life for fear of bringing up memories. I casted around to find a diversion topic but failed. While Cohen and I spent a lot of time together, ours was not a relationship built upon conversation.

"What else is new with you," Cohen asked, filling the silence. "Are you still seeing that one girl, what is her name?"

"Honey?" I asked. Honey Potter was my childhood friend and my sometimes girlfriend. Or I assume my ex-girlfriend as I had not seen her in months. The Potters had been the only African American family to live on our block. After my mother left, the Potter house had become a sanctuary from my cold, unforgiving father. Honey and I had been the same class while her eldest brother and Charlie were six grades ahead of us. Well, I should say Honey and I were the same age. As the smartest and brightest person I've ever met, she was always in a class by herself. She graduated valedictorian, went to Ohio State and then Harvard Law School. Always conscientious, she came back home to Ohio to work as a labor attorney. By that time, my brother had taken on and expanded the family construction business. He, following our father's example, was beginning to turn his eyes to a political career. Honey's legal advice and relationships with the local unions proved indispensable. She seemed more affected by my brother's death than I had been leading me to suspect that there was something secretly going on between them. My suspicions increased when she disappeared suddenly after Charlie's death saying she had "family problems." I would have been hurt if I had not been so keen to tangle trousers with my newly available sister-in-law.

"I don't think so," I replied to Cohen's question. "She had some family issues and we fell out of touch."

"Well, my family is all dead," said Cohen morbidly standing up. "So, I'm not leaving because of that, I'm leaving because I have to take a piss."

I was as acquainted with Cohen's unreliable prostrate as he was with my irritable bowels. He'd be occupied for a while, at least for enough time to have another beer. I took a long deep sip of it only to be interrupted by the only other patron of the bar, a man playing pool.

"A little help?" he asked pointing to a pool ball that had rolled off the chair and under my stool.

"Sure thing," I said tossing the ball back to him. I over-judged the distance and set it whizzing past his head.

"Christ!" he yelled dodging the ball.

"Hey! Don't break my shit!" scolded the Kimberly.

"Sorry!" I apologized to both the stranger and Kimberly at once. The ball had bounced off the wall and rolled back to me. I picked it up and this time walked it over to the table.

"Sorry again about that," I said to the man.

"Don't worry about it," he grumbled taking the ball from my hand.

He was a big guy, a full head of black hair and appeared to be in his middle to late twenties. Probably a few years younger than myself and would be considered handsome if it wasn't for his sinister and unfriendly demeanor. Looking back on it, I should have just gone back to my drink. In all of civilized history, no good has come from socializing in bars. But after almost nailing him with a pool ball, I felt pressure to say something to him.

"Marine Corp?" I asked him pointing at a ring on his left hand. "My father was one."

"Yeah? So, what," he said with a strange furtive demeanor. It was almost like he was being hunted, or haunted, by something in his past. I was going to go back to my stool when he asked, "You two cops?"

That explained his anxiety. Many people caught on that we worked in some capacity for the law. Well, not so much me, but Cohen definitely had an aura of authority. "Don't worry," I reassured him. "B.R.M. so unless you are planning to choke on a pool ball while abusing yourself you don't have to worry about us spilling on you."

"What the hell?" he asked confused. At first, I was worried that this was indeed his plan. Then I realized he just didn't expect a stranger to talk about violently masturbating in a bar. It was obviously his first time in Ohio.

"You can't be too careful," he said finally realizing that Cohen and I were no threat to him.

"With pool balls?" I asked my turn to be confused.

"No," he said looking at me as if I were the one who was odd. "With strangers. Not that I have anything to hide. Not from you Feds at least," he added a bit too quickly to sound credible which should have served as a warning. I should have obeyed my instincts and went back to my seat. But not for the first time I was betrayed by my gut.

"You're not the friendliest type, are you?" I remarked.

"Brother, you have no idea," he replied.

After discussing Charlie with Cohen, I winced at his use of the word "brother." However, I was spared trying to change the conversation by the dramatic entrance of a different type of brother.

"JIVE-ASS-MOTHERFUCKER! WE FOUND YOU!" A thundering voice called out as two men threw open the door and entered the bar.

Many white people would be uncomfortable at the prospect of a large, angry, Black man accusing them of relations with their mother and jive-assery. Especially in Cleveland with the Hough Riots occurring just two years before. Kimberly certainly was. She booked out the back door like the bar was on fire.

"Kimberly!" I called out after her. "You racist slut!" I added once I was sure she was out of hearing range.

The stranger also seemed to be terrified beyond what was required of the situation. He half fainted and had to grasp the edge of the pool table to support himself. Uncharacteristically, I responded with confidence as I recognized the voice.

"Hey, Clarence, is that you?" I called. By now the door had closed behind the two men and without the blinding sunlight, I greeted Clarence Potter, Honey's older brother, standing in the doorway. With a short Afro and mustache, Clearance had modeled his appearance and politics on his role models, Bobby Seale and Eldridge Cleaver.

I had never seen the other man. Wearing a Stetson hat and bolo tie, he looked out of place above the Mason Dixon Line and an odd drinking partner for a Black Panther. He was older, probably mid to late fifties. He had the sickly complexion of a dying man or a rapist. I suppose the two aren't mutually exclusive, but given the choice, it is always safer to assume rapist. Especially in this part of Cleveland.

"Dick?" Clarence asked.

I cringed, no one likes being called a dick, even if it was just short for Richard. With the last name Cox, I hated it more than most other Richards.

"Yeah," I replied ignoring the name. "How's it going? What brings you to this clip joint?"

"Your motherfucking friend right here," he said pointing at the stranger. Clarence approached the pool table and tore a pool cue from the rack on the wall.

I wanted to protest that the man was no friend of mine and that I had no idea whether he had carnal knowledge of my mother. However, as I had not seen my mother in eighteen years, I could not confidently make such a claim. The more honest approach seemed to try to diffuse the situation. "Just wait a minute guys, let's take a moment to cool our heels and I'm sure--"

"Your balls, corner pocket," Clarence interrupted swinging the cue towards the stranger. It could also have been that Clarence's aim was off, or he was speaking figuratively. Either way, the younger man's gonads were spared for greater things as he ducked out of the way just in time. Instead, the pool cue soared past him and into my head.

I nearly lost consciousness, I certainly lost my footing. As I fell, I saw Clarence's southern friend pull out a blackjack and try to pull the young man out from under the pool table where he was trying to hide. I wondered what he had done to get into so much trouble. I corrected myself, I wonder what he had done to get us in so much trouble.

"No Jack! Don't!" I heard the young man call out. At first, I thought he was referring to the blackjack, then realized that the man in the hat was named Jack. I was only momentarily distracted by nomenclature since the sanctuary underneath the pool table was now vacant. I pulled myself along the sticky bar floor to take up the spot. It smelled like stale beer and vomit. I made a mental note to speak with Kimberly about housekeeping. From my viewpoint under the table I saw Clarence holding the stranger while Jack pummeled him about the giving him the old Indianapolis interrogation. The poor kid's screams drowned out all the other noises. Soon his screams yielded to whimpers and Clarence began to drag him towards the door. Before they reached it, Cohen returned from the restroom and entered the fray. He tackled Clarence who dropped the now unconscious stranger. Cohen turned to Jack and fended off a blow to the head. He slugged Jack in the stomach, then kneed him hard balls for good measure. At this point, Clarence, always a prudent man, decided to not attempt to take on Cohen and ran out the door.

Cohen helped the battered young man to his feet. Then, he looked around, found me underneath the pool table. At the time, I was grateful for Cohen for rescuing us. I did not realize how much trouble that fight was going to cause me. In hindsight, I wish that Cohen's prostrate would have occupied him a few minutes longer so that Clarence could have pulled the stranger out of the bar and out of my life.

"Shit," Cohen said looking at a gash on the side of my face, I must have hit the pool table on my way to the floor. "I only left you for five minutes. You're going to have to be stitched up." He helped me up onto the edge of the table as I was still a little unsteady on my feet. My blood dripped onto the green felt leaving brown splotches.

"Stay there," Cohen said going behind the bar to find the phone. I wasn't sure if he was talking to me, the tackled man, or the young man.

"You're lucky this time," Jack said to the young man. "I'll get you next time though. And if I don't, Rossi will send someone else. They'll keep sending someone until they get you."

"Who the fuck are you and what the fuck did you do?" I asked the stranger. But both he and Jack had sealed their yaps. Their silence was broken by the sound of sirens coming down the block.

* * *

"Nice hat," the paramedic said as he stitched my face back together. I had requisitioned Jack's Stetson hat. Neither he nor the police seemed to care. Kimberly returned with the fuzz and treated all of us to drinks, except for the stranger and Jack who were in handcuffs and ready to be copped off to the big house. We may not have gotten much work done that morning, but between the beers and cigarettes back at the Franklin house, Cohen certainly did a good job of networking with the local police force. The police were taking advantage of Kimberly's hospitality and were leisurely interviewing Cohen about the fight. Thanks to the head wound they ignored me for the most part. No one, not even Cohen, had thought to ask me if I recognized the other attacker. That was fine with me, I had no desire to get Honey's brother in trouble, like I said to the stranger. I was no snitch.

"Come on Richard," Cohen said, "We should get back to the department. O'Sullivan is already going to be plenty pissed as it is."

"Did you find out who those two were?" I asked.

"No, they clammed up as soon as the police got here," Cohen said. "As far as we can tell, they are just two nobodies. They said that their names are Jack Ruby and Lee Harvey Oswald but those are obviously aliases"

"Shit," I said disappointedly I was hoping to get a real answer. "That's ridiculous. They could have put a bit more effort into coming up with something more realistic."

"Whatever you say, Dick Cox," Cohen replied helping me off the bar stool and outside.
CHAPTER 4

Cohen had accurately predicted O'Sullivan's reaction to how we had spent the morning. You'd think as a laicized priest, he would have had more experience with far worse confessions.

O'Sullivan was a small man, with dark hair, glasses, and a mustache. His somewhat childish appearance which made it difficult for me to treat him seriously. By the time of President Kennedy's accident, O'Sullivan had been conducting Mass for fifteen years at Our Lady of Perpetual Conception, Cleveland's largest Catholic Church. As he tells it, O'Sullivan decided to leave the Church to help honor the recently deceased Catholic leader. A contrary story floating around the bureau suggests he was already embroiled in allegations of child abuse and found the opportunity for a career change appealing. Either way, O'Sullivan had found the calling of a government job to be louder than the calling of God. Besides, something about regulating what people did with their penises appealed to his priestly nature.

Due to his seniority, Cohen always managed to avoid O'Sullivan's fury leaving me to bear the brunt of it. Usually, I did not mind; Cohen pulled more than his own weight in the field, I figure that getting reamed out by O'Sullivan was my contribution to our partnership. However, today I was recovering from a head injury and wasn't sure if I was up for dealing with the boss.

Without even asking me if I was all right, or commenting on my new hat and stitches, O'Sullivan sent me to wait by his office while Cohen more fully explained the incident at the bar. I went and sat in a chair next to his office door like a child waiting to be disciplined by the principal. Although, if the rumors about O'Sullivan were true, I suppose that any child in my case would be apprehensive for different reasons.

An angry and red-faced O'Sullivan brushed past me and motioned me into his office. O'Sullivan's office had the feeling of a vestry. On the right wall, there was a painting of the Virgin Mary. On the left wall was a picture of President Kennedy and another of Robert Kennedy both strung with black crepe paper. Even in death, O'Sullivan made sure to keep the Kennedy brothers away from virgins. It was the closest he came to abiding by the separation of church and state. I tried to sit down in the only chair in front of O'Sullivan's desk only to realize the seat was already occupied by a man in rags.

From past experience, I figured it was best to try to head-off O'Sullivan's rant before he could get started. "I was just minding my own business," I lied, "When this one stranger who was not an African American," another lie, "attacked us for no reason," probably a lie but I was unsure about the truth.

O'Sullivan waved all of my excuses away. "I want to talk about what happened this morning," he said.

"The Franklin case? Didn't Cohen tell you? It turns out that it was out of our jurisdiction, we left it for the P.P.P." I grimaced after mentioning the P.P.P. There was no telling how O'Sullivan would respond to that particular agency.

"No, before that. On Euclid Avenue," O'Sullivan said not catching my mistake.

"What about Euclid?" I asked. My head was spinning from both the beers and the pool cue. I tried to walk towards the window to look out of it. Perhaps a change of view would help.

"At the, um, retailer of ill-repute," he tried to explain. His face, already red from anger turned more crimson with embarrassment. For someone who headed a department focused on masturbation, O'Sullivan was a rather squeamish man.

I racked my brain, "You mean the porno place?" I asked. Suddenly I recognized the rag man in the chair; he was the homeless guy I had stumbled across in the alley.

"Gunderson here is a confidential informant, and he informed me, rather un-confidentially," O'Sullivan said frowning at Gunderson, "that you befouled yourself, and the Bureau, in a public area."

"It actually didn't come to that," I tried to explain, but O'Sullivan was in no mood for subtleties. It was just like O'Sullivan to hire a confidential informant and keep it confidential from his agents.

"I take this matter very seriously," he continued. "First of all, when you leave the office, you are a representative of the Bureau and the federal government. What would our beloved late president say of your actions this morning?" O'Sullivan said pointing to the image of Kennedy after crossing himself.

"Probably not much," I admitted. After all, it's hard to speak when you're hanging with your pants down in a Dallas hotel room.

"Back at Our Lady of Perpetual Conception we were plagued by defecators like you," continued O'Sullivan ignoring me. "Every morning I had to get up before daybreak to muck out the confessionals. You have no idea how many times I had to explain to a deranged homeless man that a baptismal font is not a urinal. We had to spend a fortune on incense to just cover the smells..."

O'Sullivan continued reminiscing about his time in the priesthood. By the time he got to how he devised punishments for errant choir boys, he was so far lost in his memories that he clearly forgot that I was in the room much less that he was supposed to be chastising me. Even Gunderson began to squirm uncomfortably as O'Sullivan's descriptions became more and more graphic. I coughed to try to get his attention. Now my stomach had started to turn to keep my spinning head company. I wasn't going to be able to last on my feet much longer. It was time to go back to my desk and make a visit to the Sandman.

"...as for your punishment," O'Sullivan continued, finally bringing the conversation back to me, "tomorrow you'll start community service with our local youth groups. I'd do it myself, but um, there are certain restrictions on my time," he ended vaguely. In reply, I vomited on the confidential informant and fainted.

* * *

I woke up later in the backseat of a car smelling like the Cuyahoga. On further investigation, I was able to confirm that the smell was coming from myself, and not the car. I sat up and grimaced. My head was no longer spinning but now I had a nasty headache to go with the bump and stitches. I wondered what time it was and where I was.

"It's around six," Edna, guessing what one of my questions was. "You were out for the whole afternoon."

"Thanks," I replied. Although I was a bit concerned about the fact that my coworkers did not think it necessary to take me to a hospital. Since Edna had not volunteered an answer, I had to ask my second question:

"Um, where are we going?"

"Home of course. I figured I'd drop you off since you didn't seem to be in shape to drive."

"Shit," I said. We were on the way to my brother's house. I had forgotten that no one at work knew I was spending the nights at the office. I looked around the car frantically. The last thing I needed was a confrontation with Valarie.

"Yeah, you were in pretty bad shape," Edna replied misunderstanding my concern.

I thought as fast as my aching head would let me for a way to get out of the car.

"Well, thanks for the ride," I said quickly. "You can just let me out here and I can walk the rest of the way."

"Don't be stupid," she said. "We're almost there. Boy, this is a nice neighborhood."

"I think, I'm going to throw up again," I tried another excuse.

"All, these nice big yards," Edna said not paying attention to me.

"It is, was, my brother's," I said resignedly as we were pulling into the driveway.

"Oh, who's that? She's so pretty!" Edna said in a typically maternal fashion. "That's nice, I was worried about leaving you alone sick."

I summoned all my courage to face Valarie's fury. Instead, I was surprised but equally upset, to see my ex-girlfriend Honey sitting on the back doorstep.

"Um, I guess I'll see you tomorrow?" Edna said, hinting for me to get out of her car so she could go home.

"Uh, yeah, of course," I replied. "Thanks for the ride." I clambered out of the backseat and flashed Edna my biggest fake smile as she drove off.

* * *

"What are you doing here?" I asked Honey while I was seeing Edna off.

"What do you think? Clarence told me what happened downtown. Thanks for not turning him in."

"Well, I wouldn't want to add to your family troubles," I explained standing awkwardly by the door. I hoped she wasn't going to ask to come in, for all I knew Valarie had changed the locks.

"Family troubles? What family troubles?" she asked confused.

Now it was my turn to be perplexed. "In the letter you gave me, you said you were having family troubles. I assumed that a relative died or you were pregnant."

"Wait, you thought I was pregnant and didn't say anything?"

"Well, I didn't want to put any pressure on you one way or the other to get it sucked out."

Honey just glared at me like I said something wrong.

"You dumb ass," she said finally. "I said I had problems with 'La Familia.' Obviously, I didn't want put the details in writing."

I stared at her blankly.

"La Familia? Cosa Nostra? Don't you pay any attention to all those gangster and crime books you read? The fucking Mafia," She explained.

Shock replaced my confusion.

"Shit," Honey said, this time taking on the tone one would use to explain to a child that their puppy got ran over, or that a trusted family friend had violated their grandmother. "You really didn't know? I thought you were in on the con with Charlie, I didn't realize you were actually just that stupid. How could you live with Charlie and not realize he was involved with the mob?

* * *

Once I recovered from fainting for the second time that day, Honey helped me into the house. Apparently, Valarie had not changed the locks which saved me from any awkward explanations, at least for the time being. Needless to say, I had been shocked by Honey's revelations. But as I thought about it, it did begin to explain a lot. Charlie had a bunch of business associates. Many with Italian accents. I had always just assumed he was courting investments from the immigrant community.

"For how long?" I asked as we sat in the kitchen. Honey was rummaging through the refrigerator and had gotten a beer for me and herself. She was now heating up some left-over pot roast that she had found.

"You sure Valarie won't mind?" Honey asked nervously.

Given the circumstances, I was fairly sure that the pot roast would be the last of Valarie's complaints if she caught us in her kitchen.

"It's fine," I assured her. "How long was my brother involved with the Mafia?"

"I'm not sure. I tried to stay out of it. As a Black, female lawyer, I have enough problems without getting involved with that kind of business. I just helped him out of some legal troubles occasionally."

I granted her that was reasonable. Ohio wasn't known for being on the leading edge of feminism or civil rights. But then again, I also didn't peg the state for being on the forefront of organized crime.

"Clarence was a bit more involved," she added.

"We're talking about my brother, not yours," I pointed out. "What was Charlie doing with them?"

"Well, probably the same thing as Clarence. If you are trying to get involved in politics, it's hard to avoid the mob," Honey explained. "Steel, shipping, construction, labor, you name it, they have a piece of it."

I thought back to when Charlie had gotten me my job. When the letter had come that I had passed the civil service exam to be a federal investigator he had been even more excited than I. He took Valarie and me out to dinner and was joking about how it would be nice to have his little brother on the "inside." At least at the time, I thought it was a joke. Now that I think about it, he did seem disappointed when I was assigned to the B.R.M. rather than the F.B.I.

"So then, his death?" I asked. "Did the mob whack him off?"

"Jesus Richard! He was your brother!" Honey gasped.

"I mean, did they kill him?" I rephrased.

"Oh," she said calming down. "Well, I'd assume they were somehow involved. How else would he end up in Lake Erie?"

"Ice fishing?"

Honey just looked at me like I was a few geese short of a gaggle. "Anyway, after it happened," she continued, "I figured it'd be safest for our families to stay apart. I didn't want to get any more involved than I already was with Charlie and Clarence."

"Yeah, about that," I asked, "How exactly again were you involved with Charlie?"

However, before Honey had a chance to answer that delicate question, Valarie's car pulled up into the driveway.

"Jiggling Jesuit!" I exclaimed

"What, you said she wouldn't mind the pot roast?" Honey said.

I needed to buy some time. "Excuse me, I have diarrhea," I mumbled to Honey. It was not the most dignified way to exit a conversation, but in such circumstances, I have always found it a reliable excuse the precluded further questions. And it was a lot less embarrassing than what Valarie would say when she found me in her kitchen. I ran upstairs and into the bedroom that used to be mine.

"Shit!" I swore to myself as soon as I got into my room. Why the hell did I come upstairs? Now I was trapped on the second floor. I could hear Valarie opening the door downstairs. I rushed towards my bedroom window as pulled it open as I heard Valarie make an angry exclamation.

Among my many neuroses is a fear of heights. Just looking out my window on the second story was enough to trigger my vertigo. The fake case of diarrhea that I had used as an excuse to leave Honey nearly became authentic. It was not always this way. I owe my fear of heights to Scout Camp and my brother.

* * *

My mother left my father when I was a kid. I couldn't blame her, I'd have left him too if I wasn't twelve. He was a hard man to live with, especially when she realized that she preferred to live with women. Apparently, our father didn't relish our company either as he immediately packed both me and my brother off to camp. I was a bit too young, and Charlie was a bit too old, but we both made the best of it. Well, Charlie made the best of it. I hated every second.

My fear of heights came that summer while working on our mountaineering merit badge. Most of it was learning how to pack equipment and tie knots which wasn't so bad. In fact, I enjoyed that part and was looking forward to finally getting a badge. I had failed at all the other activities so far. My hands were bandaged from the cuts I had gotten while attempting the wood carving badge. These bandages lay on top of the ointment and creams covering the burns I had received during the cooking merit badge. Ironically, considering all my injuries, I also failed the test for my first aid badge. Finally, it looked like I had found my niche with mountain climbing. Everything was going well until they led us to a climbing tower. The counselors then took sadistic pleasure in informing us that in order to get our badge, we'd have to climb up the tower and repel down.

"Go get them, scout!" Charlie said much too cheerfully after he helped me secure my harness.

"Charlie, I really don't want to do this," I whispered to him. But it was too late, he'd already pushed me to the wall. I grabbed hold of a thin ledge above me and hoisted myself up. It turned out it wasn't so bad. I kept on going until I had almost reached the top.

"You're doing great!" Charlie called out from below. That is when I made the mistake of looking down at him.

"Holy crap!" I gasped. I began to feel light headed and my left hand slipped, and I fell away from the wall.

"Don't worry Dick!" Charlie called out from below grabbing the rope to arrest my fall. "I've got you!"

The next thing I knew I was curled up in front of my brother and groaning in pain. My left arm was shattered. So were my hopes of getting a merit badge.

"Oops! Sorry bud," Charlie had said sheepishly. He had not properly tied my harness.

* * *

I tried to push aside the memory as I looked down the window, but I couldn't help feeling a twinge in my arm where the bone had been cracked. In the emergency room, Charlie had assured me that one day we'd look back on the experience and laugh about it. But eighteen years later, he was dead, and I still wasn't laughing.

"Wrong again you fucker," I whispered to his memory while I stood in his house and watched his furious wife enter the bedroom. Then I threw myself out the window.
CHAPTER 5

I awoke with my head ringing and no idea where I was. It took me a few minutes realize that the deafening noise in my head was actual church bells tolling. I sat up and looked around finding myself in a dark cavernous space that smelled of incense. Suddenly, the memories from last night came flooding back: my meeting with Honey, my escape from Valerie, and wandering the streets until I found myself outside a church. I must have gone into the church and passed out. Overall, I could have done worse, and it was better than sleeping outside. I felt my face, it was covered in crusted blood, I must have popped a stitch in the fall. No matter, it might unpleasant to look at, but that wasn't my problem. My appearance was the least of my worries.

Looking around, I realized that I was not the only one to seek refuge in the church. The place was half filled with homeless men. In fact, I was even not the only one covered in blood and, what I hoped, was their own vomit. As the other sleepers were beginning to stir, I hurried into the line to use the confessional for my morning constitutional. I finished up as soon as the church bell started to ring again. I held my breath until the bell completed its ninth toll; I was already late for work.

I ran back to my pew, grabbed my belongings, which as it turned out, only consisted of my Stetson hat my detective book and raced outside.

"Shit," I swore to myself when I got safely outside God's house and hearing. I had no idea where I was. I picked the most likely direction to downtown and started walking. It was eight blocks later that a car passed me and skidded to a halt.

"Hey, you!" the driver yelled as he got out of the car. "That's my hat!" I looked up and saw the man from the bar, the one who said his name was Jack Ruby.

"Shit on my tits!" I exclaimed and cut into an alley trying to make a clean escape. It didn't fool Ruby; he left the car in park and started down the alley after me.

"Where's that son of a bitch Oswald?" Ruby yelled.

Instead of replying, I saved my breath. I was going to need it. Any advantage that I had from being younger than him was washed out by my several head injuries. Each step I ran jarred my skull. From the footsteps, I knew he was closing in on me. I turned a corner out of the alley and saw a construction site across the street. I dodged in between the traffic ignoring the horns and protests from the drivers. Somehow, I managed to get across the street without being run over. Unfortunately, so did Ruby.

"Stop! You can't be here. Not without a hard hat!" a construction worker yelled at me as I passed him. Normally I'd have agreed and taken a hard hat as a precaution. Considering the number of accidents that I'd had in the last twenty-four hours, I should probably have just taken to wearing a hard hat as a matter of course. But I didn't have time to stop. I bounded over to the scaffolding, and in an uncharacteristic fit of athleticism, began to climb my way up.

I got to about three stories up when I made the mistake of looking down to see if Ruby was following me. I was pleased to see that he was not. I was displeased to see how high I was. Once again, the memory of the climbing tower entered my mind and I was hit with a wave of vertigo. Before I could freeze up, or fall, I swung myself off the scaffolding and onto the floor of the unfinished building.

"Thank God," I gasped. But God was not going to let me off so easily; he must have seen the mess I left in the confessional that morning.

"Where's Oswald? And give me back my hat!" Ruby said. Still panting from my climb, I looked up and saw him standing there. That fucker had taken the stairs.

"I don't know any Oswald," I tried to explain. "Do you mean that kid at the bar? I had just met him." Ruby advanced, he did not have a blackjack this time, but I was convinced that he could still cause me plenty of pain. I tried escaping again but only made it a few feet to the side before I ran out of the building. I found myself on the edge of the building with nowhere to go. Since flight was not an option, I had to fight.

When it comes to fist fights most of my experience is with the receiving end of a fist. But, from watching movies and reading books, I knew what I was supposed to do. I summoned up my courage and strength and punched Ruby aiming for the side of his jaw. When James Cagney, or Detective Hancock, did this his opponent always sank to the ground. When I tried it I somehow was the one who ended up on the ground.

"What the hell was that?" Ruby asked.

I could not answer him, I had missed him entirely and managed to trip myself.

"Oh no you don't," Ruby said giving me a kick as I tried to get back on my feet.

I was knocked precariously close to the edge of the building. I looked over the edge and started sweating. Another kick would send me over the edge and to the ground before. With a burst of adrenaline, I lunged to grasp a nearby beam for support.

Ruby mistook my quick movement for an attempt at escape

"Wait!" he shouted going and dove to grab me. In a stroke of good luck for me and extraordinary bad luck for him, he missed and lost his footing. He tumbled over me and off the edge of the building. I watched him fall while I clung to my beam. He fell two stories head first before he had a chance to try to save himself by grasping a piece of rebar sticking out of from an unfinished floor. His hands latched onto it, but his grip was not good enough to stop his fall. Rather than being his salvation, the rebar passed out of his hands and hit him in the gut, tearing him open and spilling his innards out in a gory mess. Ruby hit the ground with a thud followed by a sickening splattering noise as his intestines followed.

I managed to pull myself further back into the building's floor. Everything happened so quickly that it was just now that the construction workers were beginning to react. Work on the building stopped as the men gaped over the sides at the distended corpse. I could see the man who had yelled at us as we entered run over to the body, stop and then vomit into the dirt. A hard hat would not have prevented this accident.

Normally, I react poorly to emergencies. I don't think well on my feet and usually, Cohen is the one that handles anything unexpected that comes up at work. But Cohen was not here this time and it occurred to me that I was in a rather compromising position. A man I had just been in a bar fight with the day before was now dead under suspicious circumstances. Luckily, everyone at the construction site was still engrossed, emphasis on the grossed, by the grisly demise of Jack Ruby. No one was paying attention to me. I took off Ruby's hat, it seemed to be in bad taste to wear it now, and also incriminating to boot, and silently made my way out of the construction site before anyone thought to stop me or ask any questions.

* * *

I was definitely going to be late for work now. But truancy was the least of my worries. Nothing O'Sullivan could do to me could be worse than what I had observed that morning. Watching another human being suffer a grisly death certainly put one's life in perspective. If I knew that my life was going to get even further complicated and tangled than Jack Ruby's intestines, perhaps I would not have been in such a carefree manner.

Cohen picked me up a few hours after the incident at the construction site. I still had no idea where I was. Shock had set in and my mind was in such a state that I didn't much care where I was or where I was going as long as it was far from there.

"Hey, Richard!" Cohen yelled out the window as he slowed the car to match my pace. "Are you all right?"

I reeled back for a moment. It was not the first time someone had yelled at me from a car that day. But upon seeing Cohen's familiar face, I answered him truthfully: "No, I don't think so."

"We don't you get in and we can talk about it?" he replied.

I didn't have anything better to do, so when he stopped the car, I walked around to the passenger side and got in.

"So, rough day?" Cohen asked.

"Let's just say it pretty rough to stomach," I replied.

"Do you need to talk to a doctor or something?" Cohen asked.

"God no!" I answered. I hated shrinks. They'd just make more trouble for me.

"Well then," Cohen asked, "have you eaten yet? You look like shit."

I had not. In fact, I hadn't eaten for quite a while. Valarie had interrupted my dinner last night. "I could do with a burger," I answered. I felt nauseated, but since I had lost a fair amount of blood I figured my body couldn't take much more without some food. "I don't have much cash on me though."

"That's okay, you can put it on your tab," Cohen said. "After all, I have plenty of collateral," he added gesturing to the back of the car. I turned around and saw all my earthly possessions in the back.

"Shit," I replied. "You went over to Valarie's huh?" I had almost forgotten my domestic problems.

"Yeah. She's a fiery one, to put it mildly," Cohen said. "When you didn't turn up at work, Edna sent me out to look for you. She said you weren't in great shape yesterday when she dropped you off. I went to Valerie's first and then spent the rest of the morning driving around. Your sister had quite a bit to say about you."

"Sister-in-law. Well, former sister-in-law," I corrected.

"Well, after she calmed down a bit, she mentioned that it might be good for me to take your things to your new place," Cohen continued. I'm guessing he was white-washing the story a little. I wouldn't be surprised if he had found my things out on the lawn when he got there.

"Speaking of, where is your new place?" he asked.

"How about we stop here?" I blurted out pointing to a fast food joint and hoping it would distract Cohen from the current conversation.

I ordered two burgers and a side of fries and gobbled them down, I managed to get them to stay down for the car ride back to the B.R.M. By then it was the middle of the afternoon and I figured I was in for another berating from O'Sullivan. I was pleasantly surprised to find that he was absent when I arrived at the office. I was unpleasantly surprised to find a group of nine Boy Scouts waiting for me.

"Oh shit!" I said, remembering that O'Sullivan had assigned me to show a youth group around as punishment for shitting in a pornographer's alleyway. "Oh fuck!" I said remembering that I should not have said "shit" in front of children.

The Scouts were impatient and displeased, I was not sure if that was because I had kept them waiting, or if they were just disappointed that they were at the B.R.M. I was certainly displeased to be there. When compared to the more exciting agencies, like the F.B.I., C.I.A., or even the U.S.G.S., the B.R.M. is pretty dull. As a result of this dullness, our schedule is fairly open, and we are often the last resort of school teachers, church groups and other youth leaders who procrastinated in scheduling field trips.

I was glad that Cohen had picked up my stuff and that I had changed my clothes in the car. It would not have been great to show up in front of a bunch of impressionable children covered in blood and vomit.

"Well hello children," I said as pleasantly as possible. I was greeted with stony prepubescent silence.

"Agent Cox is one of our investigators," Edna explained to the children. She had come up to introduce me and to try to rescue the situation. "Mr. Cox," she continued, "I already briefed the children on the history of the agency and how our staff was increased a few years ago by President Johnson. Would you like to tell the Scouts about how you became interested in the job?"

I supposed I could. But to make it interesting to the kids, I'd have to explain it in a that a young boy could appreciate. This was not as easy as it sounds. Even when I was my most clear-headed I had trouble relating to youth. And currently, my head was clouded by images of Jack Ruby's disembowelment.

"Well children, growing up I was always fascinated with detectives and crime. I loved those old pulp novels where the G-Man would shoot up the gangsters. I bet those guys got laid all the time and I decided that was the life for me. Guns, glory and pussy!"

"Cox!" Edna snapped over the laughter of the Scouts. "That's not appropriate."

"Believe me Edna," I replied, "After what I saw this morning, there is nothing appropriate about this job. It's time we told them the truth. Scouts," I said turning to them, "have you ever seen the insides of a man?"

"Why don't you talk about how you got the job instead?" Cohen suggested. "What advice do you have if the kids are interested in working as agents when they grow up?"

"Oh, certainly!" I said. Cohen always had great ideas. "Children, do you know what the word nepotism means?" I began to launch into the long story about my lonely childhood as the son of a senator. It was at the point that I was describing how my father, distraught and distracted by his wife running out on him, lost his last election that Cohen managed to interrupt me.

"So, Scouts, over here we have Agent Cox and my desks. This is where we do must of our work when we are not out catching bad guys."

"Technically they are not bad guys. Most of them are just bad at masturbating," I tried to explain before Cohen gave me a nasty look.

"What's this?" asked one of the Scouts. Normally I believe children should not speak unless spoken to. And there is no reason for a grown man to speak to a child. However, I was glad for the question as things were not going so well.

"That's one of the knots from a case that we were investigating," I explained picking up the piece of rope that the Scout had pointed out. It was the noose that we had picked up from the Franklin case the morning before that I had pocketed and forgotten about it. "Does anyone know what type of knot this is?" It was meant to be a trick question. It was not a knot that I had ever seen before and I did not expect any child would have either.

Unexpectedly, one of the older scouts in the back raised his hand and said, "I do."

"Fucking show-off," I said under my breath to myself. At least I think I said it under my breath. I may have said it over my breath since both Cohen and Edna cast me another set of nasty looks.

"Oh really," I said instead. "Here, why don't you tie one for us?" I tossed the kid a piece of string that I kept on the desk for practicing knots.

"It's called the Devil's Necktie," the scout explained. "It's not an easy knot, and it's a bit of an old Scout secret. Rumor has it that it is the one that Kennedy used, so it's a bit of a taboo."

"Taboo? What a dork," I muttered to myself. But I had to admit, the kid tied an impressive knot. I had difficulty following his fingers as he completed it. He threw the string back to me.

"Well, that's not fully correct, but I'll give you partial points for trying," was all I could manage to say to save face after the dork showed me up.

"What do you mean partial points? What points?" the kid complained.

"That is enough. Go away now!" I said declaring the tour over.

"And over here, is my desk," Edna explained continuing the tour despite my declaration.

"You sure you are okay? You were kind of a jerk back there," Cohen asked taking me aside. "I mean, more than normal. Maybe you should go see a doctor?"

"No, that's not necessary," I said waving Cohen away. "I'm just exhausted and need some time to relax."

Cohen went off and I sat at my desk. My head was spinning, and that kid showing me up bothered me more than it should have. I sat down at my desk and tried to replicate the knot. It took a while, I found that my fingers were exceptionally stiff.

"Hell, how did the young brat tie this?" I asked myself once I finally managed to tie the knot. Something about it bothered me. Not just the knot's sloppiness, but something more sinister. Maybe the Scout was right about the knot being taboo. Then somehow, in a rare burst of genius, my brain, even in its disturbed state, made a brilliant connection. "Forget the brat," I said to myself, "How did the old bastard shrink tie this?" When I had been rummaging in the Franklin's medicine cabinet the day before I had come across a prescription for Franklin's arthritis. I had not thought much about the case since we passed it on to the P.P.P. Looking at it now, things did not add up. How could the shrink tie a complicated knot with arthritis? Why had he performed the act in the bathroom down the hall instead of the one next to his room? Why did he pick such an obscure knot? The nerd child had said it was an old secret. Was it possible that the knot had been tied by someone else? And if so, who?

I was intrigued. The case was no longer mine, but if I could prove it was a homicide and not the Dallas Handshake maybe I could get transferred out the B.R.M. and into a real department. It was worth a shot; the job would be unbearable after Cohen retired. I looked around, Cohen and Edna were still occupied with the kids, so I snuck out of the office and set forth on my first, real, crime investigation.
CHAPTER 6

I couldn't ask Cohen to drive me around after he spent the morning looking for me. Desperate times called for desperate measures. And in Cleveland, nothing reeks more of desperation than the mass transit system. In fact, the busses reek with a lot more than just desperation. I snuck out of the B.R.M. office and waited for the bus at the stop down the block.

I did not have long to wait; a dilapidated bus careened towards the curb. I leapt back just in time to avoid being run over. The bus made a flatulent noise as it braked to a stop. The exhaust produced the accompanying flatulent odor. The driver and other passengers looked and smelled nearly as bad as the bus did. I made my way down the central aisle until I found an empty spot next to an elderly lesbian that did not smell strongly of urine or feces. Sitting down, I made a mental note to remember to burn this particular pair of pants and to check my medical records to make sure that I was up to date on all of my shots. The impatient bus driver had already started the bus in motion and I held onto the seat in front of mine hoping to hold down my lunch as I was jolted across town.

It was a relief when I got to my final destination without vomiting. Looking out the window, I saw the large sign for Euclid Erotica. I nodded goodbye to the lesbian and stepped off the bus. Quite a few of my fellow passengers got off as well. Well considering the location, the phrase "got off" may be premature. It would be better to say that they "disembarked."

As a B.R.M. agent, adult bookstores, if used properly, can be a treasure trove of useful information. Euclid Erotica appeared to try to cater towards a respectable clientele. It was not as seedy or dingy as other stores I've had to do business in. At the same time, it was a porno place so there was still a lot of room for upward social mobility. I entered the store and looked around the dimly lit shelves.

The front counter was staffed by a large middle-aged Sikh man. Even without his turban, he'd have towered over me.

"Hello," I said nervously intimidated by his height.

"How can I help you?" the Sikh pornographer asked.

I looked around the store, there were a few costumes browsing the shelves along with those that arrived by my bus. I spoke quietly to maintain discretion.

"Agent Cox," I murmured quietly. "I need some information."

"Sorry sir, I can't hear you," the man said.

"I'm Agent Cox. I need some information from you."

"I still can't hear you, sir."

"I'M AGENT COX. I NEED INFORMATION!" I yelled. Several customers turned towards me. So much for discretion.

"Agent of what?" the man asked. "Are you a cop, sir?"

"Sorry," I said fumbling for my badge. "Here it is, B.R.M."

"Oh, then I don't give a fuck," he said dropping the "sir."

"I'm a federal agent, you better give me a fuck!" I hissed back. There were definitely customers watching now.

"I don't keep records and even if I would, I wouldn't waste my time with you. Come back when you are a real cop," he replied coldly.

"I'm not here to get anyone in trouble," I lied. "You know anything about a Bart Franklin? He's a shrink that lives in a nearby neighborhood. I thought he might have stopped here once or twice. Maybe he bought something suspicious?" It occurred to me that I may have to be more specific considering the surrounding merchandise. "I mean little kid stuff, he was probably a pedophile. You know how shrinks are."

"I don't sell that junk here. And again, even if I did, fuck you!" the man answered. So far, my investigation was not going well. It was unlikely that I was going to get anything further here.

"Well, then can I at least use your bathroom?" I asked. It had been a long bus ride.

"Customers only."

"Fuck me," I said. "Okay, give me a second." I scanned the items on a nearby table marked as clearance. I was going to need something remotely tasteful if I was going to succeed in convincing O'Sullivan to reimburse me as a business expense. I chose the least offensive item I could find.

"One copy of Lactating Lesbians, that will be $1.45," the man said ringing up my purchase.

* * *

In my experience, the bathrooms in porno stores tend to be poorly maintained. Euclid Erotica was no exception. I'd have been better off using the alleyway again. Luckily, the bus ride to the store had desensitized me and the state of the restrooms did not faze me as badly as they normally would. The first stall was occupied so I had to use the other which was quite a mess. To avoid sitting on the seat I made a nest out of toilet paper and then attempted to flush the whole thing away. I was completing the complex multi-step operation when I heard someone whisper:

"Psst! Over here!" I turned around dropping what I was holding and saw a hole that was bored into the side of the stall.

"I noticed you in the store," the whisperer whispered. "Are we alone in here?"

I opened up the stall door and looked around. It was just me and the stranger. I have to admit, I actually felt a little flattered and even a twinge of curiosity.

"It's just us," I replied.

"Okay then," the voice continued. "Wait, what was that noise?"

"Nothing," I lied as I rezipped the fly on my pants. "I'm confused, what's going on here?"

"Fuck. What sort of half-assed agent are you?" asked the stranger. He gave up and came out of his stall and pushed open the door to mine. His face was familiar, but it took me a moment to place it.

"Hey, you're O'Sullivan's snitch!" I exclaimed. It was the confidential informant who ratted me out to O'Sullivan. "You got me in a lot of trouble yesterday."

"My name is Gunderson," he hissed. "Wait, fuck. I'm supposed to be confidential. Forget it. I have no name. I heard you asking about a customer."

"Yeah, but the Sikh wouldn't tell me anything."

"Shit man! That's racist. Don't call him 'the Sikh.' He has a name."

"Sorry, I did not mean to insult the pornographer," I said sarcastically. Gunderson was right, but I did not want to acknowledge it after he tattled on me. "He said he doesn't keep records."

"But I do," Gunderson said. "Come with me."

I gave my hands a thorough washing and followed him out the restroom. We went out into the alley behind the store to the scene of my earlier misadventure. Gunderson knelt down by one of the Dumpsters and pulled out a box of receipts and notes.

"I try to keep a record of everyone," he said. "At least the regular customers. It is arranged by their sexual preference, what was your guy interested in?"

"Little boys."

"Fuck man! That's despicable!" Gunderson said. "Wait, are you trying to get dirt on O'Sullivan?"

"No, someone else," I answered. "Do you have something on O'Sullivan?" I asked. It might be useful if he did.

"Fuck no. Don't you think if I had something on him I'd use it? Do you think I like working next to a Dumpster behind a porno place?" Gunderson snapped back.

"I think we are getting off track," I said. I described the dead shrink as best as I could.

"Nope, I don't got nobody like him in my files," Gunderson said.

"Damn," I said disappointedly. "It was a long shot, but they lived near here, so I thought that maybe they'd stop by."

"They? Who else are you talking about?" Gunderson asked.

"There were two stiffs. A man and a wife." I explained to Gunderson how Cohen and I were called in and how we initially thought the husband had flattened the wife but now I was having my suspicions.

"Describe the wife," Gunderson said excitedly pulling out some index cards. I had never seen Mrs. Franklin in life, just half of her in death, but I did the best that I could.

"This has got to be her," said Gunderson showing me a card. I could not read his scrawling handwriting. "Luckily there aren't many pedophiles around here,"

"Yes, that is lucky," I said feeling like I was stating the obvious.

"It narrows down your search. Especially women, there's only one in my box and you just described her. Turn over the card."

I flipped it over. On the backside, Gunderson had drawn a stick figure with large round breasts.

"That's her, right? It's got to be!" He said excitedly.

"I'm not sure," I said. It was not much to go on. I suspect that Gunderson had some unrealistic impressions of his artistic abilities. "Doesn't O'Sullivan give you a camera or something?"

"Fuck you man! I don't need no fucking camera! This is your bitch right here!" Gunderson said animatedly. It would be just like O'Sullivan to hire a mentally unstable C.I. who would murder me in an alleyway, so I felt it best if I diffused the situation and left

"Now that you mention it, I do believe you are correct, good sir. I shall now depart," I said. Gunderson was too excited to note my insincerity.

"Hey, when you solve the case, tell O'Sullivan that I helped you!" Gunderson added. "Maybe he'll promote me to an agent just like you guys!"

I smiled. This time I did not have to fake sincerity. "No one deserves this job better than you."

* * *

There was not much else I could do but to pursue Gunderson's meager lead. As it was a pleasant day, I decided to walk the short distance from the porno store to the Franklin home. After a short distance, I was out of the commercial area and in a residential neighborhood. Children were beating the heat by playing in lawn sprinklers and other people out for a walk would stop and wave 'hello' or chat with their neighbors. The 1968 election primaries were weeks away, so there were lawn signs for people's favorite candidates. Given that it was an upper-class white neighborhood, most were for Richard Nixon, but given it was also Ohio, Jim Rhodes also had a good showing. There were a few signs for the leading Democrat nominee, Humphrey, as well with a scattering for McCarthy. Two homes still had signs out for Robert Kennedy. I assumed that these served as a memorial to the slain senator as the alternative was that the homeowner really had not been paying attention to the news lately.

The Franklin house was further than I remembered. By the time I got there, I was sweating heavily from the August sun. The exterior of the home was as it was the day before, minus the police cruisers parked in front. I went up to the front, tore off the yellow police tape, and pushed on the door. It was locked.

"Damn! Who the hell would lock the door? I asked out loud. It was not like the couple could get any deader. I went around to the back of the house and tried the back door. No luck there either. I started to go around and check to see if I could pry a window open.

"Watchya looking at our house for mister?" a voice around the corner asked. I turned around and was confronted by a child. I felt just like the Grinch did when confronted by Cindy Lou Who. But at least I wasn't stealing Christmas from the kid, I just wanted to know if his dead parents were perverts.

"Hello there," I said. "You must be the Franklin kid?"

"I'm Tommy. I live here."

"Ah," I said, "You mean to say, you lived here." It was always good to instruct children on proper grammar.

The kid's eyes began to water up. He was not going to be any use to me if he was going to get so emotional.

"Was this your mother?" I asked Tommy holding up Gunderson's drawing.

"I don't know," Tommy said confused.

"I thought so," I said crumpling up the card and shoving it in my pocket. The boy confirmed what I suspected. Gunderson could not draw worth shit.

"Are you a Cub Scout? I saw all of the pinewood derby cars in your house." I asked trying to pry into his life under the guise of small talk. It occurred to me that Tommy was acting rather furtively and suspiciously. Was he the murderer? Did he find out the dirty secret about his parents and take them out? "

"Why were you in my house?"

This was as good as an opening as ever. I knelt so I was at eye level with the kid.

"Tommy, there is no good way to ask this, so I will do it as gently as I can. Did your father, or mother, diddle little children?

"HELP! STRANGER DANGER!" Tommy began to shout.

I grabbed him and covered his mouth. I immediately regretted the action considering the circumstances.

"No, no, no," I said urgently. "You got it all wrong. I'm a policeman." I wasn't, but I didn't have time to make the distinction clear in a way that a twelve-year-old would understand. "Look, here's my badge." I showed him my badge and he calmed down.

I realized then that when dealing with a child I could not interrogate him the same way as I would an adult. A child could not possibly understand the questions I was asking or the consequences of his answers. With any luck, I could use Tommy's trusting nature and naivete to my advantage and get Tommy to incriminate himself.

"Say, Tommy. Sorry that we got off on the wrong foot," I said placating him. "Forget that stuff I was saying about your parents. Here," I said handing him a piece of string. "Can you tie this knot?" I showed him the noose from his father's neck.

Tommy took it and frowned. He attempted the knot several times but did not get it anywhere near correct. Either he was a diabolical genius and knew I was trying to entrap him, or he honestly did not know the knot. I was disappointed. It looks like my hunch had come to nothing.

"Maybe David could show you," Tommy said giving up and handing me back the string. "He's an older boy that lives down the street and is in my troop."

"You and David can both go to hell," I mumbled. I was too disappointed about not solving the case that I could not fake politeness. Plus, I was not looking forward to the long trip back to the office.

"Dad doesn't like him either," frowned Tommy. "He and mom got into a fight about it."

I perked up

"How old is David?" I asked Tommy. "And does he hang out--Sorry, did he hang out with your mom a lot?"

* * *

Trying to get information out of Tommy proved to be one of the most frustrating experiences of my life. The kid could not stay on topic to save his life. When he wasn't on the verge of tears, Tommy proved to be quite the chatterbox. He talked about everything; the recent death of his parents, his class's pet hamster, how he wanted to be a fireman, and the mean kids who picked on him. I did not want to break it to the kid, but I suspected that there was plenty more bullying in store for him. I had only spent an hour with him and I already wanted to slap him.

"So, David and your mom spent a lot of time together?" I asked trying to prompt him back on track.

"Yeah," Tommy replied licking his ice cream cone I had bought him from a passing truck. "Tommy is seventeen and in high school, but he lives down the street and comes over a lot. I don't have many friends in my own grade."

"I can imagine."

"David was nice to me when he'd come over to my house. He'd help me out with homework or a merit badge for Scouting when he wasn't helping my mom upstairs."

"What did he help her with?"

"I'm not sure. But a Scout has to do a good deed every day," Tommy answered.

"Fucking dorks," I muttered.

"Whatever it was, it must have been hard work. There was a lot of grunting. I think they must have been moving the chifforobe."

"Shit kid. If you are twelve and are using words like 'chifforobe,' God have mercy on you because the other kids will not."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. I think I should talk to David."

A new idea was forming in my mind. Mrs. Franklin was obviously having an affair with the seventeen-year-old. Any fool, Tommy excepted, could see that. Her husband must have found out. Could she have then have tried to kill the shrink to keep him quiet?

"You can't," Tommy said. "He's at camp. All the older kids go."

"Fucking hell kid, why didn't you say so," I was losing patience. "Where is this camp?"

"You shouldn't swear," Tommy answered.

"Where is it?"

"Up north," Tommy sniffled. "In Michigan or Minnesota, I forget which."

"For fuck's sake!" I began to get up to leave, but a strong hand on my shoulder pushed me back down. I had been so engrossed in my interrogation that I had not seen anyone approach.

"Is there a problem here?" the man, who turned out to be a police officer asked. He was not as tall as the man running the porno store, but he was plenty large enough to be intimidating.

"Sir, is this your kid?" his partner asked.

"No, my dad died," Tommy explained. "This is a policeman."

"He don't look like no policeman," said the real policeman holding me down said.

"Well actually," I began to explain but was interrupted by the tall officer.

"Folks in the neighborhood called in a strange sweaty man yelling at a kid."

"Oh," I said tensely. Of course, it was just a simple misunderstanding, but I could see how it could look bad to an outsider. It was best to start from the beginning and explain everything so that there was no confusion. I wished Cohen was here, he would have no problem providing an explanation.

"Let me explain," I began, "the guy who ran the porno store said that he did not sell child pornography. But the guy who lives in the alley out back said that he could help me out. So, I--"

"You sick fuck!" said the policeman holding me down.

"Shit!" I said hurriedly. I was in a panic and explaining everything in the worse possible way. "Look, this is all coming out wrong. I'm not a pedophile. I'm the furthest thing from a pedophile! I hate kids. Look at him, covered in ice cream and all sticky. Gross. Who'd be attracted to that? I'm just interested in the seventeen-year-old!"

The officer's Billy club crashed down onto my head and split open the rest of my stitches.

* * *

When I returned back to consciousness I was laying on the floor of a dark and damp cell in what I assumed was the downtown jail. I slowly sat up, the effort caused my head to spin and I almost vomited onto the lap of the man sitting next to me.

"Watch it!" the stranger said, then added, "Oh shit, not you again."

My eyes adjusted to the dim light and I recognized the young man from the bar, Lee Harvey Oswald.

"What are you in here for?" he asked. "I thought you were an agent?"

"Shhh! Not so loud," I whispered. A jail cell is not the best place to announce that you work in law enforcement of any kind. It was safer to let the other prisoners think I was a common pedophile.

"What are you still doing in the cooler?" I asked. "Didn't they let you out with your friend? That Jack Ruby?"

"He's no friend of mine!" snapped Oswald.

"Well, who is he then?" I asked.

"None of your fucking business!" he snarled. Then softened momentarily, "You wouldn't want to know, let's just say I came down on the wrong side of the Mafia. Right now, I'm safer in a cell than on the outside."

"Ah, Mafia trouble," I said. A day or two ago I'd have thought that would be ridiculous. But after my conversation with Honey, I figured if it could happen to Charlie it could happen to anyone. "How long do you think you can hide in here?"

"Not sure, hopefully as long as I need to be. Eventually, they'll send their hatchet man off to another job." Oswald answered.

"Hatchet man? You mean Ruby?" I asked surprised

"Yeah? What about it?" Lee snapped.

"Nothing if you are going to be like that," I retorted, but then I couldn't bear to not spread the gossip. "He got chilled off at a construction site. The poor slob wasn't wearing a hard hat."

"Really? What was he doing there? How do you know? Never mind, I don't care," Oswald said plotting his next move.

I filled Lee in on the details anyway. Well, not the details per se, but a rendition of the truth in which I heroically slew a mob enforcer. Then, as there was not much else to do in the cell, I embellished the story by mentioning my brother was an influential associate of the Mafia and how his wife was in love with me. After all, you don't end up in a prison cell for telling the truth.

* * *

"One wallet, one belt, one penknife, one paperback novel, a crumpled drawing of a busty woman, and one copy of Lactating Lesbians," the copper at the front desk said as he gave me back my belongings. The cops had found my badge and called the B.R.M. and Cohen had bailed me out. He raised his eyebrows at "Lactating Lesbians," but held his tongue until we were out of the station.

"Thanks for getting me out of there," I said to him.

"Well, you really caused a mess back at the office," he said. "They sent the P.P.P. down and when O'Sullivan saw them he panicked. Ran straight out of the building. The whole place is in chaos now. Edna is trying to get it all back in order."

"Hell," I said, "if that was all it took to get O'Sullivan out I should have got arrested a long time ago. But we don't have time for that. I solved the Franklin case."

"Cox," Cohen interrupted.

I ignored him. "Turns out the dame did it. What's her name, Mary, no Mabel, Marble, I can't remember."

"Cox!"

"Shit! We're going to have to find out her name if she's the murderer."

"Cox!" Cohen interjected again. "I don't think you quite understand how much trouble you've made for everyone. Our jobs are at stake. Even if he returns, I'm not sure O'Sullivan is going to let you come back."

Cohen made a good point. The only reason I got my job in the first place was because of Charlie. But my big brother wasn't around to bail me out this time. As desperate as I was to get out of the B.R.M., the job was better than the unemployment office.

"What should I do?" I asked Cohen.

"I don't know. Why don't you take some time off until things cool down?"

"I guess so, but I can't stay at Valarie's."

"I suppose not. It seems like you made a mess out of that too," Cohen mused. "I'll try going over there and talking with her for you once she has a chance to calm down."

It sounded like it was a good time as any for me to take a vacation. Unfortunately, I was short on funds and also had no idea where to go.

"Don't worry Richard," Cohen reassured me getting into the car. "Everything will work itself out. Just stay out of trouble, won't you?"

"Sure," I replied from the sidewalk. "Thanks, Cohen, say could you lend--" But Cohen was eager to be off and drove away before I could ask for a loan.

"Well shit," I said to myself on the sidewalk.

"Well nice to see you too," Lee, who must have come up behind me, replied.

"Well shit," I said to Lee.

"Yeah, speaking of," he asked, "how much of that bullshit you were talking back in there was true. About your brother being connected with the mob?"

"What? Do I look like a liar?" I asked indignantly.

We both waited in silence for Lee to answer. Finally, he said, "So, think you could help me out with my jam?"

"Your jam?" I asked confused, "Oh hell, you mean the mob?"

"Yeah, that is if you weren't bullshitting me back in there," he accused. "I figure you and I go see the boss in Chicago and get things sorted out. I'll make it worth your while."

"Well, shit," I said again.
CHAPTER 7

I had forgotten how great it felt to leave Ohio. My excitement mounted as we crossed the border; even the realization that I was now in Indiana was not enough to depress me. Lee and I did not speak much on the trip. This was fine with me. As far as I was concerned he was just the money man of the expedition. I planned to part ways with him as soon as I could squeeze some cash out of him.

"Finally," said Lee impatiently shoving his way through the crowd as the bus came to a stop in Grand Central Station the next morning.

"So, what's the plan?" I asked.

"What do you mean 'what's the plan?'" Lee glared at me. "We go to Don Rossi and then we are in your ball court."

"Well, yeah, that I what I meant," I said covering. "I just wanted to make sure you were on the same page. Lead the way!"

"Listen, Richard," Lee said, "these guys are the real shit. I'm not fucking around here, so I'll ask you one more time: Does your brother really have mob connections?"

"Shit Lee, I told you before. My brother is dead serious about the mob."

"Okay, well then," he said, "let's get on with it."

"Great!" I said. If worse came to worse, I figured I could swipe his wallet after the mob was through with him.

I followed Lee onto the "L" and we got off near Lincoln Park. Despite my repeated boasts to Lee, I had no experience with the mob except for what I had seen in the movies. I was curious to see a real-life mobster. After walking a few blocks though, I wondered if Lee was telling the truth on his end; it did not look like the type of neighborhood where the mob would do business. It occurred to me that perhaps it had been a mistake for me to place my trust in a man I had met in prison. My apprehension grew as Lee led me up the steps of a daycare center just off Clark.

"Say, Lee," I asked. "Are you sure we're in the right place? This doesn't seem right."

"You're kidding me, right?" Lee said, "Of course this is the place. Just a minute, let's see if Don Rossi can meet with us."

"Yes, of course. Don Rossi," I mumbled. I sat down in a chair made for a child and waited while Oswald chatted briefly with an elderly man. The old man looked displeased but shrugged and said something to Lee who returned.

"It will just be a few minutes," he said nervously.

"You know Lee, after yesterday, a daycare is the last place I should be seen. If you can lend me some money for cab fare, I think I'll just head--"

I was interrupted as the elderly returned with two large men. "Don Rossi will see you now," he said. The daycare center had defied my expectations, but the two huge strangers certainly fit my mental image of what mobsters should be like.

We were led into a children's play area. There were half a dozen toddlers in the room playing with blocks, coloring, and generally going about their adolescent business. A third mobster pushed an ancient man in a wheelchair into the room.

"Ah, Mario, Mario," wheezed the old man, who must have been the Don. "What business do we have today?"

"Good morning Don. Just a few matters that this morning," the man who led us in said. "Alderman Robinson asked for more time, Tommy Brewer is still uncooperative, and Johnny Bianchi had an accident."

"Ah," the old man wheezed. I was worried he was going to pass away right there in front of us. Finally, he opened his eyes and answered. "Give the alderman another week, whack Brewer and change Bianchi," the Don ordered.

"You heard the Don," Mario said gesturing to the two mobsters near us. One cocked a pistol and left the room while the other took a toddler to a changing area in the corner of the room.

"The Bianchi's could never hold their shit," the Don wheezed and coughed. "Why are these two malooks here?" he asked pointing to Lee and me.

"This is Lee Harvey Oswald here to see you about a debt he owes to the syndicate," Mario answered.

"Debt?" Rossi asked.

"For that unfinished business in Dallas?"

"Dallas?" Rossi asked in confusion. Then a sudden light came into his eyes. "You mean the motherfucker has the balls to come here after what he did?"

"Please, Rossi! Just--" Lee said before he was interrupted by Mario slapping him across the face.

"Do not interrupt the Don!" Mario hissed.

"Ha ha! He got an ouchie!" one of the toddlers giggled come up to the don.

"He certainly did!" Don Rossi wheezed as he helped the child into his lap. "And he's going to get a bigger 'ouchie.' Let me tell you what we are going to do to you, Mr. Oswald. We're going to cut off your dick and put it in the freezer. When your tiny pecker is frozen nice and stiff we are going to shove it up your-- Who is this other guy?"

"I'm not sure Don. I assumed it was Oswald's homosexual lover," Mario hazard a guess.

"Actually, sir," I said respectfully, I was unsure about who to address a mobster, "I'm Richard Cox."

"Cox, Cox, Cox," Rossi said thinking out loud. "That name is familiar. Why is your name familiar?"

"My brother was Charles Cox, from Cleveland, sir," I answered.

"Charles Cox?" the Don said drumming his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair. Mario went over and whispered something into his ear. The Don thought for a moment and whispered back.

"Well, Charlie Cox, the senator's son! I recall he had some business out East, some business that ended tragically," the Don said.

"Yes sir," I answered. "He died."

"Dead?" Lee gasped. "You lying mother--"

"How tragic. I am very sorry for your loss," the Don cut Lee off. "I only met your brother once on business. Now that I think of it, he did mention that he had a younger brother."

I was touched that Charlie mentioned me.

"He called you the 'King Midas of Fuck-ups' because everything you touch turns to shit."

I was less touched.

"Shit means poopy," the pigtailed girl explained.

"It certainly does princess," wheezed Rossi. "Mario! Bring our guests some refreshments while I consider what to do with this one," the Don gesturing to Oswald.

"So," I said trying to fill the awkward silence as Mario handed out juice boxes and animal crackers. "About the kids--"

"Don't you ever ask me about my business," the Don snapped.

"Sorry," I gulped.

"I'm just joking," the Don said uttering a chuckle that turned into a cough. "Of course, you want to know why the daycare. Everyone wants to know about the daycare."

I nodded.

"Well, you know what we are and what we do. We needed a legitimate side of the business. One day, my wife, God bless her soul, mentioned that the cost of childcare in this town was criminal. That is what gave me the idea. You see that kid over there," he motioned to a little boy drooling and staring absently out the window.

I nodded.

"That is a district attorney's kid. That paste eater over there," Rossi said pointing at another boy shoveling glue into his mouth, "is the mayor's grandnephew. Everyone in the city who is anyone owes us a favor. No one can touch us. As long as the bambinos are taken care of, their parents aren't going to complain about little graft here or a little homicide there."

"How interesting," I said. "Well, thank you for the snack. Lee and I better get--"

"Just a minute," the don said gesturing us back into our seats. "We have some unfinished business. Mario!" Rossi called out. Mario came over and handed the Don a manila folder. The Don coughed and handed the folder across the table. Oswald opened it and looked through it.

"Well, I'm going to give you a second chance to make things right," the Don said.

"Second chance?" I exclaimed. "I never got a first chance."

The Don ignored me. "We've been having some problems with the Minnesotans."

"The Minnesotans?" I asked confused.

"Yes," the Don explained. "They have been a real thorn in our balls.

"The Kennedy's were bad enough," Mario added, "but if either Humphrey or McCarthy will take the White House in November they will strangle us all out of business."

"What do the Kennedy's have to do with it?" I asked.

"Shut up Richard," Lee hissed at me. "So, if we get these Minnesotans off your case the slate will be wiped clean?" Lee asked.

"Listen, maybe it would be best if I just go back to Ohio." I never thought those words would pass my lips.

"Oh, I think it's a little too late for that," mused Rossi, he made a signal to Mario who pulled out a gun, "unless you want to end up like your brother."

* * *

"Get up Lee, let me out," I said. "I'm no snitch and I'm no assassin." Don Rossi and Mario were quick to dismiss us as it was almost nap time. Mario had seen us out to a black car which drove us back to Grand Central Station.

"Where do you think you are going?" asked Lee.

"I'm getting out of here," I answered. "There's no way I'm going along with this."

"It's your own fault for getting involved," hissed Lee. "Sit down!"

"Fuck off!" I retorted.

"Do you think you can just walk away? Don't you think I've tried that? I guarantee you there's someone watching this bus, and there will be someone in St. Paul reporting whether we got off it."

Lee made an excellent, if distressing, point. It was going to be more difficult to escape the Mafia than by simply getting off the bus.

"What did you do to piss them off so badly?" I asked.

"Nothing that needs to concern you," Lee said. "Just shut up and stay out of my way and I'll take care of everything."

The bus started, and we slowly left the Chicago metropolitan area. I kept track of the cities as we went past, I had never been this far west before. Growing up, my family never went on road trips. My father was too busy traveling between his constituents and D.C. and my mother was too busy with her photography lessons and adultery. When she finally got fed up and ran away to pursue a life of photography with her lesbian lover/photography instructor, travel took on a much more negative connotation of parental abandonment. Of course, that was also the summer that my father sent us to camp which put the last nail in the coffin of any wanderlust I had.

We went past Rockford, entered Wisconsin at Beloit and then passed Janesville. I was beginning to get carsick looking out the window. Since the bus was moving, and there was no danger of my escape, I finally convinced Lee to switch spots with me. I fell asleep once we were around Madison. I don't know how long I was out when Lee jostled me awake.

"Move over Richard," he said. "I got to use the can."

"Fuck you," I mumbled. I wake up poorly even under the best circumstances. And a Greyhound bus is never the best circumstances.

"Don't be a dick. Move!" he hissed.

Again, I hate the nickname Dick.

"Just cram a finger in it," I said. "Like that Dutch boy and the dike."

"Don't be homophobic. Just scoot over," he said giving me a little shove.

I returned his shove with a punch in his stomach.

"Shit!" he said shitting himself. I guess I should have expected some collateral damage. He did say he needed the restroom.

"Lee! That is disgusting!" I said half disgusted and half delighted. "It's a Greyhound, not a Brownhound!"

"What the hell! Fuck you!" he yelled. He tackled me. Or at least attempted to tackle me. It was difficult given the constraints of the bus seats. We both burst into the aisle with our few belongings flying with us.

Our wrestling was interrupted by the shrieking of the elderly woman who was sitting in front of us. She screeched at us while hyperventilating.

"Is that old bimbo having a heart attack?" Lee asked.

"What the hell is going on back there?" yelled the bus driver as he pulled the bus over to the side of the road.

The old woman started clutching at her chest and pointing to the aisle. By now the driver was rushing down the aisle towards us.

"What are you doing bringing this filth onto my bus?" he shouted at us. "Who do you think you are?"

I understand being upset about Lee's accident, but I thought it was unfair for him to blame Lee for bringing the filth onto the bus. After all, Lee couldn't help what was in his digestive tract. Then I glanced at what the driver and old woman were pointing at. To the shock and dismay of the prudish, midwestern passengers, my copy of Lactating Lesbians had fallen open into the aisle as Lee and I fought.

"Oh, like that old cow hasn't seen tits before!" Lee yelled defensively has the driver hauled him up and out of the bus by the ear. Rather than wait my turn to be hauled out, I hurried to follow them. As I picked up my scattered belongings, I took a closer look at the magazine's back cover. There was a profile of the photographer for the issue. Suddenly, I was as shocked as the elderly hyper-ventilating woman.

I gingerly held my porno magazine and gasped in shocked disbelief: "Mom?"

CHAPTER 8

"What the hell Richard? You just fucked us!" Oswald fumed standing by the edge of the road as the bus drove on without us. "What do we do now? In fact, what the hell am I even doing? Fuck! I should have left you in Ohio!"

I was still reeling in shock to respond to him. Instead, I was caught by the gaze of the woman in the porno magazine. It was a little older than I remembered, but it was still undeniably my mother. I had not seen or heard from her since she left us years ago. When she did not send a card after Charlie's croaked I assumed that she was dead herself.

"Wake the fuck up!" Lee yelled at me. "You can jerk off to your porno later, right now we have to do something. It's getting dark."

I snapped out of my fugue. Lee was right. Well, not about masturbating to my mother, but correct that it was getting dark out. During the day, the Wisconsin countryside had seemed idyllic, but as the sun set, the woods began to take on a sinister appearance. I did not relish the thought of spending the night alongside the highway.

"Any idea where we are?" I asked Lee. "I was sleeping, and you had the window seat."

"Yeah, I know I did," Lee shot back. "If I had the aisle seat I wouldn't be standing in my own shit in the fucking middle of nowhere."

"Such language Lee," I said reprovingly. "We have to be careful among these people. You saw how that she-geezer reacted on the bus."

"Fuck that cow!" Lee snapped., "What are we going to do?"

Given that we were in the dairy state, I did not think the local people would respond well to Lee's language about cows either. However, he was clearly upset so I decided to not push the matter. Instead, I just started walking along the road in the direction that the bus took. After a moment Lee reluctantly trudged after.

We walked along like that in silence for quite a while. Finally, right before the sun finished setting, he stepped up to walk alongside me.

"Listen, Richard, sorry about all that stuff I said before. I was just upset and covered in feces," he apologized.

"Understandable," I said. "Besides, I wasn't really paying attention," I confessed. I decided to tell him about my mother. It was a long story and quite emotionally involved. Lee seemed caught up in the story as well. It distracted both of us from our current predicament.

"So, you haven't seen her in all this time?" he asked after I finished.

"Nope, not a word from her," I said.

"Gee, that's really rough," he offered in an uncharacteristic mood of sympathy.

"Thanks," I said. However, the word "rough" brought to mind the condition of the road. I looked down. When we had started our walk, it was alongside a paved highway surrounded on each side by farm fields. Now we were on a gravel road with forest closing in on each side.

"Say, Lee," I asked. "Did we happen off the main road somehow?" I had been so engrossed in the conversation about my mother that I had not noticed.

"Do we keep going or head back?" Lee asked.

"Well, the road must go somewhere. No sense in retracing our steps," I reasoned. It was now dark out. Even if we made it back to the main road before full darkness we would be in no better shape than we were before. We might as well take our chances with whatever lay ahead. Lee and I quickened our pace until we saw a light ahead of us.

Here, the forest had been thinned out into a small field and pasture. In the middle of the clearing, there was a barn that had seen better days and a small house that was even more dilapidated. But at least there was a light in the window. Lee and I approached the house and Lee knocked on the door. We were greeted with mumbled cursing as the inhabitant struggled to open the door.

"Who is it?" said the voice from behind the door.

"We had some trouble along the road," Lee called out. "We were hoping that you could help us out." The door opened a crack and we saw half a face staring at us through the ajar door. We must have passed his inspection because the man opened the door the full way. I followed Lee into the dimly lit kitchen. The house was not much more than a cabin. There was an old kerosene lantern on the table and two chairs which consisted all of the room's furnishings.

However, I was more struck by the appearance of the man than the room. Outside, we had only caught a glimpse of half of the man's face. It turned out that was all the face he had; the left side of his face was severely mangled and scarred. It looks like he had been in some sort of accident or fire. His entire left eye was missing, and he stared at us suspiciously with the right.

"Thanks!" Lee said. "It was getting dark and we were worried that we wouldn't run into anyone."

"What can I do for you boys?" the farmer asked.

"We were hoping to get some food, someplace to stay the night, and maybe a ride into town tomorrow," Lee answered.

"I ain't got but the one room," the farmer said gesturing up to an attic with a shotgun he held. "But you can stay in the hayloft," he offered. "Grab some food."

Lee and I went to the table and helped ourselves to some stew and vegetables. The farmer was much more generous than his rough appearance and demeanor first suggested. Even so, something about him made me uneasy. I found the silence uncomfortable. The farmer had returned his shotgun to its place aside the door and sat back down to finish his meal.

"Thanks again," I said for the sake of making conversation. "I'm Richard and he's Lee. We're from Ohio."

"Alois," grunted the farmer. I assumed that was his name. He did not offer any further comment. To be fair, considering his injured face, it must be difficult for him to talk and eat at the same time.

"Guess we'll hit the sack?" I suggested.

Alois just grunted again and made a gesture that I could only interpret as meaning "Good night." Then added as we left, "Don't fuck any of my cows."

He did not rise as Lee and I went out the door and found our way into the hayloft of the barn. Below us, a handful of dairy cows mooed contentedly. But Alois did not have to be concerned; in fact, the cows' presence made me a bit uncomfortable as I could only assume one of their compatriots had supplied the meat in the stew I had just eaten.

"This isn't so bad," Lee said settling down onto a pile of hay. "A little itchy but better than out in the open. Or that jail in Cleveland."

"I suppose so," I agreed. "It's definitely better than Ohio. Even so, I have a bad feeling about our host."

"Don't be a dick," Lee said.

"I keep telling you, don't call me that," I snapped.

Lee ignored me, "You shouldn't be prejudiced against him just because he's injured. It's probably a war wound. The geezer's old enough to be a veteran."

"Yeah, but from which side?" I asked. The name "Alois" sounded pretty foreign to me.

I couldn't make out Lee's response. He was already half asleep. I sat up for a bit listening to the cows below and the crickets outside. I should have been exhausted after the long walk and the events from the day, but sleep eluded me. I pulled out the magazine and stared at my mother's face. Maybe I was too wound up from learning about my mom, or maybe I was still unsettled by our host. Either way, it wasn't until the dawn's light began to shine through the slats of the barn wall that I finally fell asleep.

* * *

Soon after falling asleep, I was woken up by the sounds of Alois milking his cows. We waited until he was finished and had gone back into the house before we made our way out of the barn. I was not sure what reception we'd receive, but I could tell from Lee's manner that he expected breakfast. He was not disappointed. Lee and I sat on the two chairs while Alois did chores about the kitchen.

"So," Lee said after quickly finishing breakfast, "We were wondering if it would be too much to ask for a ride into town? When you have time. We're in no hurry, we can just tag along on your next trip."

"Truck's broken," Alois said briskly.

"Well, then I guess we should just get an early start then," I said. It was disappointing that we'd have to walk but I was eager to get away. "Thanks for the food and place to stay," I added. Despite my uneasy feelings about Alois I had to admit that he had only been stingy with his words, with his home and food he had been quite gracious.

"Maybe you two boys owe me something," he muttered making his way to intercept us as we headed to the door. So far, he had not reached for the shotgun, but he was clearly able to do so if he thought necessary.

"Told you so," I said under my breath to Lee. My satisfaction at being right about Alois was tempered by the apprehension that we were going to be sodomized by a one-eyed farmer with a shotgun.

"Maybe you two boys can help me out with my chores," Alois continued. Lee must have assumed the worse like I had. He and I both gave a sigh of relief.

* * *

However, our relief was premature. No one had ever told me how difficult farm work was. If I had known how rough the day was going to be, I'd have gladly welcomed the alternative.

First, we had to muck out the barn. I now know how O'Sullivan felt cleaning out the confessionals each morning. I had no idea how much mess a single cow could produce. Luckily, the offending creatures had already been let out into the pasture by Alois. Otherwise, I'd have been tempted to vent my frustration on them. It took most of the morning to shovel all the shit into a wagon. Well, almost all of it. A fair amount of it had made it onto our clothes and hair. The state of our hygiene, already more than questionable after our experience on the Greyhound, deteriorated further.

Once the stalls were cleaned out, Alois gave Lee and I grabbed pitchforks and we filled the stalls with fresh hay. By then it was noon and I assumed that we had done enough work to make us even with Alois. Apparently, he had other ideas. After our work in the barn, he led us out to the edge of the clearing where he was working on clearing trees to make a new field. Lee and I were forced to spend the afternoon digging stones out of the rocky earth and piling them in the woods.

"Okay boys, it's supper time," Alois said as the sun began to set. We had spent the whole day working for him, now we were far too exhausted to think about leaving. Lee and I followed Alois back to the barn. It was time for the evening milking and the cattle were eager to get back in the barn. After the last cow had been milked by Alois. We ate in silence. I had no trouble falling asleep that night.

* * *

I was determined to get an early start into town the next day. I woke Lee at dawn and we both met Alois at the barn for the milking. We figured we'd help him, earn our breakfast, and then be on our way.

"What am I supposed to do?" I asked Alois staring at the cow he led me to.

"Well, milk her of course," Alois said briskly.

"But how?" I asked. I had no experience in this realm.

"Grab her teats and squeeze," Alois explained.

"No, seriously," I asked. I may be naive, but I was not going to get tricked into becoming a rural sex offender.

"Less talking, more milking," Alois snapped. I looked over at Lee, he had already milked one cow and was moving onto the next.

"Shut up Richard and work so we can get out of here," Lee advised.

I took a deep breath and placed my hand on my cow's udder. I have never experienced anything so uncomfortable. The cow just mooed pleasantly. Apparently, she found the process enjoyable. That just made it feel even dirtier to me. It was clear that I was not cut out to be a dairy farmer.

"I can't do it, Lee," I said throwing up my hands in frustration. "Help me out, you seem to have an unnatural knack for it."

"Just shut up and do it, Richard," Lee said.

"No, I really can't," I complained. "I'm not sure if I'm lactose intolerant or what, but I'm not touching a cow's boob."

"Grow up Cox!"

"No seriously. I'm not even sure what it is. Is it one boob with four nipples or what?" I asked studying the udder.

"Move over and get out of my way," Lee finally caved in and pushed me aside and milked the cow. By this time, he and Alois had finished with the rest of the herd and it was time to let the cows out into the pasture and for us to go inside for our breakfast.

"Well, this has been great," I said after eating. "I've never been so intimate with a member of another species. But we should really get going."

"You spent another night. Another day's work," Alois said gruffly.

"Bullshit!" I exclaimed. He was right about spending the night, but it did seem like a vicious cycle.

"What do you expect from us? To live in your barn forever?" Lee complained.

Alois just grunted. Lee and I exchanged glances. Then I made a break for the door with followed closely by Lee. Alois had seen our glances and guessed we'd try to escape and was ready with his shotgun. With one eye he couldn't be a great shot, but at this range, he did not need to be.

"Let's get to work boys," he said.

The second day was much like the first, except in three regards. The first was that my body, already exhausted from yesterday's work, ached unbearably. The second was that Alois forewent helping us with the work and instead oversaw us cradling his shotgun. The third is that instead of picking rocks out of the field, Alois had us pull thistles out of the pasture with our bare hands. The cows joined us in the pasture. The one that I was supposed to have milked had developed an attachment to me inspected each thistle I pulled out of the ground to see if it was worth eating. She was disappointed each time, but not as disappointed with the situation as I was.

By evening my hands were bloody and raw. Having open sores on my hands did not excuse Lee and I from the evening milking, however.

"Don't get too used to this," I said to the cow. This time I was in too much pain to complain.

With the milking was finished Lee and I started towards the house for dinner. We expected that the evening would follow like the two previous. Instead, we found that Alois had shut the barn door before as we finished milking the last cow.

"Oh no, not tonight you don't," he said. "Tonight, you stay here." He opened a crate next to the door and pulled out two sets of shackles. He threw them at our feet. "Chain yourselves up here in this empty stall," he said.

"Hell no," Lee said.

"You've got to be kidding," I added.

It was hard to tell given his injuries whether Alois was serious or joking. However, when he cocked the shotgun I could only assume that he was deadly serious. Reluctantly I picked up the chain and fastened it onto my ankles and a bar in the stall. Lee did likewise.

"See you boys tomorrow morning. Don't fuck any of my cows," Alois said leaving the barn.

"Shit, this is terrible," Lee said to me after Alois had left

"What? Did you want to fuck one of the cows?" I replied.

"Fuck off! You know what I mean," he snapped.

"I told you I had a bad feeling about Alois," I said smugly.

"Fine. You were right," Lee said. "Right now, I have a bad feeling about these shackles. Why did he have them ready? How many other people has he done this too?"

"And more importantly," I added, "what happened to them?" We sat in darkness in the barn. I was exhausted from the day's work, but I was not ready for sleep. I had found myself in rough spots before, but never anything like this. Nothing in my experience or education had prepared me for this.

"Lee, have you ever been in this situation before?" I asked.

Lee gave me the answer I expected: "You mean being enslaved by a cyclops farmer with a shotgun," he said his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Gee, no."

"Wait, Cyclops?" I said in one of my rare moment of inspiration. Maybe it was not quite true that nothing in my education had prepared me for a situation like this. In my sophomore year in college, I had been assigned the Odyssey. I only read the first half or so, but I had gotten to the part where Odysseus tangled with the Cyclops.

"Lee, did you read the Odyssey in school?" I asked.

"I wasn't much for school," Lee admitted. I summed up the relevant part of Homer's poem for him.

"So, what? You want to blind him?" Lee asked.

I nodded.

"Really? That's the full plan? Poke the fucker in the eye? Did you really need the ancient Greeks to come up with that?" Lee said shitting all over my idea. He had no appreciation for the classics.

"Fuck you!" I snapped. "Do you have a better idea?"

"How do we blind him? He's the one with a shotgun, remember?" Lee asked.

"I don't know, throw some cow shit or hay in his eye," I answered.

"Cow shit versus a shotgun?" Lee said skeptically. "Look, you do what you want, but I'm not going to risk a stomach full of lead."

"Fine, then stay chained up in this barn forever," I retorted.

"Hey, like I said, do what you want," said Lee.

"I can't do it," I reasoned.

"Why not?" asked Lee. "Why do I have to do everything?"

"It's your fault we are in this mess," I said. "You shitted yourself on the bus."

"You lied to me in prison!"

"Everyone lies in prison! It's fucking prison! Besides," I continued, "I don't have a handle on this farming business. He keeps his eye on me and would suspect me. You're better at it and he won't see it coming." I said immediately regretting my wording.

"Keep thinking!" Lee said.

However, by the time Alois and his shotgun woke us up neither Lee or I had come up with any better ideas. I was even less effective at milking my cow than I was the night before. We let the cows out to pasture and then it was with uncharacteristic glee that I took to shoveling cow shit.

"Any time now Oswald," I said to myself waiting for Lee to throw a shovelful into Alois' face. He was positioned perfectly for it. Like I had predicted, Alois had no suspicions about him. Instead, Alois supervised me carefully as I muddled through the work while Lee worked diligently near to him.

Apparently, Lee could not bring himself to throw a shovel full of shit into another man's only eye, even if that man was holding him prisoner. We finished mucking out the stalls and turned to fill them with fresh hay. This was Lee's last chance to overcome his cold feet. I watched him take a pitchfork full of hay. He made eye contact with me signaling that this was our chance. I tensed, getting ready to run. Then, Lee quickly flung the hay at Alois' face.

The flaw in the plan was apparent immediately. The pitchfork full of hay scattered harmlessly to the floor before even getting near Alois. We'd been better off with the cow shit.

Oswald took a few steps closer to Alois with another pitchfork full of hay. His target was still oblivious of his intentions. This time, Lee was not going to leave anything to chance. In retrospect, he overcompensated terrifically.

He took another lunge toward Alois and threw the hay into his face. Either he slipped or misjudged the distance because he also sent the pitchfork into Alois' face. The tines pierced his forehead and came out the back of his scalp. Ironically, Alois' one eye was untouched.

"HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! HOLY GODDAMN FUCK!" Lee screamed in shock as Alois dropped to the floor and started a sickening gurgling noise accompanied by convulsions.

"Now, Lee! It's our chance!" I yelled running towards the exit. Our plan had gone awry, we had just planned to blind the farmer, not kill him. But who was I to sit around and complain?

Lee, however, was not handling the situation well.

"Lee! Come on!" I shouted from the barn door. Lee was pulling on the pitchfork handle trying to get it out of Alois' head. Instead, the fork was so lodged in the head that he ended up just dragging Alois along the barn floor.

"He's gone, Lee! We need to get out of here!" I said rushing over to him and grabbing the sleeve of his jacket. He brushed my hand aside and put one of his boots over Alois' mouth to pull the pitchfork out of his brain. It made an unholy popping noise as it came out of the skull. Blood began to ooze around the head and intermittently spurted out the hole in the head. I had not seen such a gory scene since seeing Jack Ruby get disemboweled earlier that week.

"What are you doing?" I asked Lee as he grabbed the shotgun.

"I have to put him out of his misery," Lee replied.

"Why? He was an asshole!"

"It's just the right thing to do," he replied aiming the gun.

"I don't think Mrs. Manners covered this situation. What if someone hears the gunshot?" I asked trying to get Lee to lower the gun.

"Get out of the way Richard," Lee said shoving me. "Shooting is one thing, but this, this is just disgusting.".

He was right that the scene was already disgusting, but I doubted blowing Alois' head off would improve it. "No Lee! Someone will hear the shots," I argued.

Lee ignored me and fired the shotgun into Alois. I clenched my eyes shut, but nothing happened. The gun clicked harmlessly.

"What the hell?" Lee asked. He broke open the shotgun to find no. Even in death, Alois was a bastard.

However, by this time, the lack of ammunition was moot; it was very clear that Alois was very dead. We could make our way out of the farm at a leisurely pace, the traffic, if any, on the gravel road would be light to non-existent.

"Goodbye girl," I said waving to my cow as we trudged along the pasture to the road. She trotted up eagerly at the sight of me. I patted her nose and she mooed happily.

"Come on Richard, let's get the hell out of here," Lee said morosely.

I followed him down the lane taking one look back at my cow. She looked at me expectantly. I wiped a tear away, then followed Lee into the trees.

CHAPTER 9

"Oh God, what have I done?" Lee moaned. After escaping the farm, we managed to make it back to the main road. None of the passing motorists seemed inclined to pick up two filthy hitchhikers, so we had kept on walking until we stopped for a break at a rest stop.

"Jesus Christ, grow up!" I advised. It was clear that Alois' death was weighing heavily on him. However, that was hours ago. The past was the past, it was time to focus on the future. In my case, this meant wrestling a candy bar out of a vending machine by the men's room.

"Now whenever someone thinks of the name Lee Harvey Oswald, they will think of murder!" he continued to moan. If all he was going to do was whine and complain, we might as well have just stayed prisoners at Alois'. Or even back at the Cleveland jail.

"Listen Lee, live and let live. Carpe diem, et cetera," I mumbled. I had almost got the candy bar but just couldn't get a good grasp on it. "Besides," I added, "Nobody knew we were even there. No one is going to even notice he's dead. Except for his cows. And who's going to believe them."

Lee was not to be consoled. Between his sourness and my failure with the vending machine, I was beginning to feel depressed. I decided a walk in the sunshine would cheer me up.

There was not much to see around the rest area. A car or two would pull in, the passengers would get out, use the restroom and move on. Lee and I seemed to be the only long-term visitors. There was a historical plaque near the entrance that I decided to stroll over to read.

"Holy shit Lee! This is awesome, come and check it out!" I called out after skimming the sign. There was no response from Lee. I ran back to the picnic table he was laying on.

"Leave me alone," he moped.

"You have to see this," I said tugging on his arm. "Apparently Dillinger and all his friends would drive through this part of the state and hang out," I summarized the sign. The old gangsters had apparently stopped in Wisconsin as they went in between Chicago and St. Paul.

"I've had enough of gangsters," Lee said.

"I bet they buried a shit ton of treasure out here," I continued trying to not let Lee's mood dampen my enthusiasm.

"Just leave me alone."

"Fine, your loss," I replied. I left Lee moping on his table and went back to work on the vending machine. My mistake the last time had been that I was too gentle and subtle. This time I gave the entire machine a shove. It tipped and rocked back to its place. "That's the ticket," I muttered to myself giving it another shove. This time, the machine tipped all the way over and fell, shattering the glass. "There we go!" I exclaimed happily gathering up candy and bags of chips in between the shards of glass.

"Lee Harvey Oswald?" I was startled to hear a man ask. I glanced up, my arms full of looted snacks, and saw two large men in dark overcoats standing in front of me. They seemed displeased.

"It was like this when I got here," I explained to the two men. I prayed that they weren't from the vending machine company.

"Are you Lee Harvey Oswald?" one of the men asked. Something about his tone set off an alarm in my head. Even if they weren't from the vending machine company, they seemed to wish us ill. No one knew that we were heading through the state. No one that is except Don Rossi and his button men.

"No," I said truthfully. "I don't know who that is," I added less truthfully. I took a step back and the other man lunged at me.

"Holy shit!" I yelled. I escaped his grasp losing my snacks in the process. "Lee get up!" I yelled running towards him.

"I told you, I don't give a damn about the sign!" snapped Lee. Then he glanced in my direction and saw the two men following me.

"Holy hell!" he yelled.

"No shit!" I agreed as I neared. I passed him without slowing and dashed into the woods. A shot suddenly rang out and a chunk was blown out of a tree in front of me. I looked behind and saw Lee and the two strangers following. I was not sure if Lee was going to make it, but I wasn't going to wait around to find out, especially now that there was lead flying. I weaved in between the trees as a second shot rang out. This time I did not look behind me, instead, I concentrated on making my way through the forest; one stumble over a branch or root would be the end of me.

To this day, I have no idea how long I ran from the mobsters. All I knew was that neither the two men, nor Lee, were within view when I collapsed in front of a large oak tree, gasping for breath, and too exhausted to run on. While I spent a few minutes on the ground nursing the shooting pain in my side I wondered what to do next. Perhaps the mobsters would be satisfied if they caught and whacked Lee. However, I couldn't bet that they wouldn't keep up the chase in order to eliminate me as well. The best thing to do would be to seek shelter. Ideally somewhere where I could keep an eye out for the mobsters while still remaining covered from bullets. I decided to limp on. Suddenly, I was pleasantly surprised to come to a clearing with a narrow gravel road and old abandoned inn.

"Finally! Some luck!" I exclaimed. The decrepit sign in front of the inn labeled it as the "New Bohemia Lodge." The front door was boarded up, luckily one of the front windows was shattered so I hauled myself through the opening. When my eyes adjusted, I found myself in a large bar room. There were cobwebs and dirt everywhere, overall, the place was about as clean and crowded as Kimberly's place back in Cleveland. The shattered window would allow me to keep an eye out on anyone approaching and the heavy oak bar would protect me from bullets, at least for a little bit. I went behind the bar and stretched out. It was my intention to keep watch out the window, but after my run, I was too exhausted to stay awake. I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

"Cox! Get the fuck out of behind my bar!" Kimberly snapped at me.

"Kimberly? What are you doing here?" I asked startling to my feet. At first, I thought I had fallen asleep at the Lobster and that the past few days had all been a dream. In fact, I hoped that was the case and that Lee, Ruby, and the mafia were all just figments of my disturbed imagination. But I was disappointed to see that I was still in the bar room of the Little Bohemia Lodge, but under much more favorable conditions than how I had found it. The cobwebs and dirt were gone, the door and windows were all fixed, and a dim light emanated from a chandelier hanging above the bar.

"Shit, Kimberly," I asked taking a seat on one of the plush bar stools, "where did you get the fancy chandelier?"

"Fuck Richard," she replied, "have you ever seen an un-fancy chandelier?"

"Well, I suppose not," I said begrudgingly. "Give me a beer."

"Pay first!" she demanded holding out her hand.

"Put it on my tab," I said.

"Cohen has a tab, you don't," she said. "And no, you can't start one," she added before the words could pass my mouth.

"Hell Kimberly, why do you have to be such a bitch all the time?"

"That's it!" Kimberly finally snapped. She was halfway around the bar to throw me out when she was interrupted.

"There won't be any need for that," a man's voice intervened. "It's on me."

"Thanks!" I said to the stranger. He was a dark-haired man with similarly dark eyes. He was dressed neatly in a white suit cut in a style that was popular in the 1930's. He was roughly my own age but seemed much more mature, experienced, and world-wise.

"What will you have?" he asked.

"A martini?" I asked. The situation seemed to call for something fancier than my normal order.

"Neat or on the rocks?" he asked.

"Neat." I was not properly attired for a geological excursion.

He ordered one of the same and motioned me over to his table as Kimberly made our drinks.

"That is very kind of you," I thanked him again.

"Don't worry about it," he said waving me away. "Actually, Mr. Cox, I had my own selfish reasons for making your acquaintance." I must have been noticeably startled that he knew my name. "I'm sorry," he said. "Let me introduce myself. I'm John Dillinger."

"Dillinger? As in Public Enemy #1, John Dillinger?" I asked. He nodded. "I must be dreaming," I said in shock.

Dillinger ignored my comment and said, "I have been keeping an eye on you the past few days and believe that you are a man who knows how to handle himself."

"Really? How did you get that impression?"

"I need someone to do a favor for me," said Dillinger who appeared to be a poor listener. No wonder he had so much trouble in his life.

"Hell," I said. "I'd like to help you, but I'm already up to my balls with trouble from organized crime. I don't think I'm your man."

"As you know, us dead," Dillinger continued, "haunt a place where we have unfinished business. I amassed a great fortune and hid it in the woods near here. But I was never able to return to it."

"Fuck!" I exclaimed. "I was right! I told Lee so, but he was too busy moping around to listen."

"I need you to find my treasure and get it to my descendants. That way my soul will finally be at peace."

"That sounds quite tedious," I answered.

"Of course," Dillinger said responding to my reluctance, "I don't expect you to do it for nothing. You will be welcome to take some for your troubles."

"Well, that sounds less tedious," I said more agreeably. "So where is your treasure?" I asked. Dillinger leaned in to whisper it to me. Unfortunately, just then everything around me faded into a mist.

"Did you hear me, Richard?" Dillinger asked.

* * *

"I said, 'did you hear me, Richard?"

"No," I said.

"Richard, wake the fuck up!" Lee said kicking me.

"Hell, what is it?" I said sitting up. I was still in the New Bohemian, except it was back into the ruined state I had found it in.

"God, I should have just left you asleep," Lee said sitting down next to me.

"What happened?" I asked Lee while looking around to see if Dillinger was still around.

"You ran like hell and left me with Rossi's men. Thanks for that," Lee answered sarcastically. "I lost them soon after entering the woods and just happened to come across this place."

"Huh," I said. "Did you see Dillinger's ghost too?"

"For fuck's sake Richard, don't mention ghosts to me. Not after the other day."

I racked my brain trying to remember the directions Dillinger had whispered to me. "It must be this way," I said getting up and leading Lee out of the ruined lodge.

"What must be this way? What are you talking about?" Lee asked.

"Shhh!" I snapped. "I'm trying to remember Dillinger's instructions."

"Richard," said an exasperated Lee, "It was just a dream."

But as he had no better alternatives he followed me out the lodge and back into the woods. I walked a hundred paces back from the lodge. And then two hundred to what I guessed was to the west. There was nothing there but trees.

"Nothing," I said.

"What did you expect?" Lee asked. "Now let's go back to that lodge and make plans. We need to figure out how to get Rossi's men off our tracks."

"I swear it was supposed to be here," I replied. Before he faded, I distinctly remembered him mentioning the direction "west." Maybe I had gotten turned around in the wrong direction. "Let's try the other west." We retraced our steps and went two hundred paces in the opposite direction. This spot looked only slightly more promising. The trees thinned a bit and we came to an old outhouse.

"Come on Richard, you can't seriously expect to find anything. Are you delusional?"

"Well, at least it isn't a total waste," I said trying to find the silver lining. "I have to take a dump." I opened up the door to the outhouse and stepped inside.

"Fuck me!" I yelled as I felt the floor give away. I waited to be plunged into human waste. It was going to be even worse than the run-in with the septic truck I had years ago back in Sandusky. I was pleasantly surprised when I just hit the regular dirt. It hurt like hell, but I was glad to just be in a figurative rather than literal pile of shit.

"Holy shit!" Lee said exclaimed.

"There's nothing holy about it," I called back up to him. "But I think I'm okay," I added as I got back on my feet.

"Do you see anything?" Lee asked.

I scanned the darkness. At first, I saw nothing, then I made out the faint outline of an old wooden door. "Here's something!" I called out. "It looks like there's another door here."

Lee was intrigued, and he climbed down after me. He lit a match from his pocket and we broke the rotted door open and went into a small cavern. On each side of the space were shelves stacked with John Dillinger's treasure.

"Moonshine?" Lee asked in disbelief. After a few minutes of awed silence. He lit another match. "That's the treasure?"

"What the hell?" I asked. "Now you just accept that there is a treasure? A few moments ago you called me delusional. What happened to 'Gee Richard, I guess you were right'."

"I suppose it would have been worth more back during prohibition," he reasoned. I gave up on hoping he'd admit that I was right about seeing Dillinger "What are we supposed to do with forty-year-old bootlegged liquor?" Lee asked.

He was, of course, right. Even if we found buyers for it, without a car or truck we were in no condition to actually sell it. Still, I thought it was pretty neat that we found Dillinger's treasure and did not want Lee's bad attitude to spoil my success.

"I guess we could drink it?" I said. "It is liquor after all." I opened one of the bottles and took a sniff of it. It caused me to gag and then to nearly vomit.

"That strong?" Lee asked impressed.

"It's pretty strong," I replied. "On second thought, I think I'll abstain," I said recorking the bottle. I had already had a dream martini with the ghost of John Dillinger, that was enough imbibing for me in one day.

Lee, however, took the strength of the moonshine as a challenge. Plus, he was still dealing with his emotions from murdering Alois. He took an armful of bottles and somehow, we managed to get them, and us, out of the outhouse. Lee used his matches to make a small campfire and then proceeded to down a bottle of moonshine. A good friend would have discouraged him from seeking solace from alcohol, especially as dubious alcohol as this. However, I considered myself more of an acquaintance than a good friend, so I let him drink himself silly. I was actually curious to see how much he could consume of the vile moonshine.

By the end of the second bottle, Lee was unquestionably intoxicated. He spoke at length about his mother and brother. I kept encouraging him to go on, not because I was interested in his family life, but because I was hoping he'd finally reveal why the mob was after him. We had traveled together several days and had been imprisoned together in a variety of instances and I still had no idea why he was on the lam. I was disappointed though when he passed out around the fifth bottle without providing any explanation. Still, I had to give him credit. I had never seen a man drink so much. To this day, I still haven't. Neither, I suppose, did Lee. In fact, after that night his seeing days were over.
CHAPTER 10

"Richard! Richard!" Lee said urgently waking me the next morning. "Something is wrong!"

Nothing seemed wrong to me, it looked like it was going to be another pleasant day in the woods.

"You must have a terrible hangover," I said looking at the empty bottles. The worse I could complain of was a slight backache from sleeping on the ground and a stomachache from hunger.

"I can't see!" Oswald said.

"Can't see what?" I asked.

"Anything!" he replied.

"Damn," I replied. I picked up one of the empty bottles and smelled the remaining liquid inside. Whatever it had been, it was strong. I tried to think back to college chemistry, but I couldn't remember much.

"Say, Lee," I asked. "Can you smell the difference between ethanol and methanol?"

"Pay attention!" Lee snapped. "It's my fucking eyes, not my nose!" Then after a pause, "This must be how Alois felt."

I doubted it. We had never actually successfully blinded him. And whatever Lee was feeling now could not be as bad as a pitchfork through the cerebral cortex.

"What are we going to do?" he asked.

"We?" I couldn't help blurting out.

"You can't just leave me here," Lee said. "I came back for you yesterday."

"Not really, you just found me," I corrected.

"Richard!"

I racked my brain for a reason why I couldn't leave and only came up with that it would be dishonorable to leave him behind. I had sunk to a lot of new lows the past few days, there was no reason why I should add more to the list if I could help it.

"No, I guess I can't," I said. "Come on, let's go."

It was slow progress helping Lee make his way through the woods. Even more distressing was the fact that we were totally lost. After the flight from the rest area, I was uncertain of where we were and didn't want to go back to the main road if Rossi's men were still on our trail. I led Lee through the woods. The forest floor was littered with branches and brush and it was difficult for him to find proper footing. I was forced to lead him by the hand.

"If only we had a seeing eye dog," I muttered as I held Oswald's hand and walked him through the woods.

"Richard," Lee said, "you have to be my eyes, what am I missing?"

"A tree," I said. "Another tree. A third tree," I continued. After I pointed out the seventh tree Lee interrupted me:

"Richard," he said, "you don't have to be my eyes anymore. Just shut the fuck up."

.It was just as well, at times I swore we were walking in a giant circle, all the trees looked the same to me. By nightfall, I was in a panic about what we were going to do. Particularly about what we were going to eat. The two mobsters had interrupted my raid of the vending machine the day before and I had eaten nothing since escaping Alois' farm.

My panic subsided with a good night's sleep. By morning, I had reassured myself that it would be days until we starved. Besides, now that Lee was newly vulnerable I could easily murder and eat him if necessary. Now, with cannibalism as my contingency plan, my biggest concern was boredom. All I had to occupy my brain were my hunger pains. Even before his blindness, Lee was a terrible conversationalist.

"This is pointless," I said to Lee.

"What is?"

"Just wandering around the woods in circles," I answered.

"In circles? What the fuck Richard! Why didn't you say anything?" scolded Lee.

"Uhm," I replied, "I thought you knew."

"How the hell would I know?" Lee yelled.

"Calm down, yelling isn't going to bring your sight back," I reasoned. However, Lee must have thought it was worth a try. He yelled obscenities at me for about an hour until he was hoarse.

Finally, after he had calmed down, I asked, "So, what are we going to do now?"

"I suppose," he said sadly, "we might as well just sit here and wait to die."

"I did learn at camp," I said thinking back to my one experience, "that when you are lost you are just supposed to sit tight and wait for someone to find you."

"That's fucking stupid," said Lee. "If you're lost, you're lost. You might as well wander around until you aren't. Besides, no one is looking for us. At least no one we want to find us."

"Yes," I agreed. Then after a few minutes, "Say, Lee, how many matches do you have left?" I did not want to eat him raw.

"Let me see," he said going through his pockets. The first thing he took out was a paperback book. "Damn," he swore. "I'll never get to read this again."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Catcher in the Rye," I always carry it around.

"Kind of ironic isn't it?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Well, 'rye.' And now you have alcohol blindness."

"Fuck you."

That gave me an idea to prevent the boredom. Not fucking, but reading. Our library was rather limited, but I had my detective Hancock novel and the copy of Lactating Lesbians crammed into my back pocket. Both had seen better days. The book's binding was cracked and the cover worn from all that it had been through. The magazine was crumpled, and other than the short profile on my mom it never had much text to read in the first place. I picked up Lee's paperback instead. I took the book from him and started reading:

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born--"

"Screw it," I said interrupting myself. "It's already lost me. I have had enough troubles leading from my own birth, I can't be bothered with this whiny kid's."

"Give it a chance," Lee said.

"No," I answered, "Giving things chances just leads to trouble." I threw the book back at Lee who obviously did not catch it. "Here," I said taking out my damaged detective book, "here's some real literature: Detective Hancock and the Zealous Zookeeper," I read the title and then began at the first page:

The Manhattan sky was black and angry. A terrible storm was approaching, it sounded like all of heaven's angels were having an orgy-

"What the hell is this? Lee interrupted.

"Shut up and listen," I said and continued reading:

I had made it back into my office just before the storm broke. I mixed myself a drink. It had been a terrible day. I had solved my last case, but it had left my employer dead along with an innocent man. It was unlikely that I'd ever be paid for my efforts. As I was nursing my drink and musing on my misfortune there was a knock on my door. Visitors to my office were unexpected, the knock was all the more surprising given the lateness of the hour and violence of the storm.

"Come in," I called out.

The knob turned, and a gorgeous raven-haired beauty walked in. She was wearing a tight, low cut dress advertising her remarkable breasts. She had a rack so tight you could bounce a quarter of it. They were not so much mammary glands as mammary grands. Mammoth mammary glands the likes of which the planet had not seen since the Pleistocene age. I imagined that beneath her dress, her nipples must--

"It goes on like this for some length," I said skipping forward several pages. With only Lee and I alone in the forest there was no need to dwell on that portion. It would just generate sexual frustration. I returned to reading:

I finally managed to pull my eyes up from her breasts. I was greeted with a forlorn and despairing face. She must have been about twenty years old. Her dark brown eyes were brimming with tears.

"Detective Hardcock?" she asked.

"Hancock," I corrected.

"I'm in dire trouble and have no one else to turn to. My mother, before her passing, always mentioned that I could go to you for help."

"How dreadful!" I exclaimed. "Here have a seat and a drink and tell me more. Get everything off your chest," I added taking another look at her magnificent display. The fact that she was young enough to be my daughter only further -

"Richard!" Lee interrupted.

"Yeah, I know. Don't worry, I'll skip this part too," I said moving several pages forward to where the story recommenced.

"No, did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" I asked. Maybe it was true what they said about how losing one sense heightened the others. Or maybe Lee was less entranced by the Detective Hancock novels than I was. I had been paying my full attention to the story.

I listened carefully. All I could hear was the wind rustling through the leaves. I was about to return to the reading when I heard a soft grunt from behind me. I turned my head around and found myself face to face with a gigantic bear.

"What is it, Richard?" Lee asked.

The bear must have been listening to me read as I could see he was fully aroused. It turns out I was right about those paragraphs leading to sexual frustration.

"It's nothing," I said calmly to Lee replacing my book in my pocket. I did not want to make any quick movements. "I'm just going to go get help."

"Get help? Get help for what?" Lee asked panicking. He bolted up which was the wrong thing to do for two reasons. The first was that he could not see where he was going. He tripped and fell onto the forest floor. Secondly, his movement captured the attention of the bear. This was a lucky break for me as it was my opportunity to escape.

"Goodbye Lee! Sorry!" I shouted.

"Richard you bastard! Get back here! What is going-OH SHIT! IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!"

I did not look back, but I assumed that the bear had made contact with Oswald.

"OH GOD! MY LEG! MY SPHINCTER! HOLY CRAP! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! DAMN YOU TO HELL COX!"

I did not know how long it would take the bear to finish Lee off. In my plans, I had been allotting for three days of meat myself. However, I assume that aroused bears have a greater appetite than I. It might only be minutes. I looked for a tree to escape up. There was a suitable candidate just in front of me, a large aspen. Shimmying up the tree brought the now familiar flashback and vertigo of the climbing tower at scout camp.

I swallowed and forced my vertigo to the back of my mind. I was about halfway up the tree when another memory from scout camp returned to me: Bears are excellent climbers; there was nothing stopping him from climbing after me and I had nowhere to escape to if he did.

"SHIT!" I swore and dropped out of the tree. I landed on my ankle and twisted it. "DOUBLE SHIT!" I swore.

I limped as fast away as I could from Lee's shouting. Suddenly, a rope came out of nowhere in front of me and tripped me. Three teenagers wearing Scout uniforms appeared threatening me with sticks they had sharpened into spears. In the near distance, I heard the noises of pots and pans being banged together along with shouting other Scouts scared the bear off. Once again Lee, at least what was left of him, and I found ourselves prisoners.

* * *

The Scouts led me by spear point back to their camp. They had to drag Oswald as he was in no condition to walk. Unfortunately, he seemed to still be alive.

"I see you bear-ly made it," I joked to him when they sat us down. It was in poor taste, but I thought it would lighten the mood.

"You bastard," was his reply.

"Hey, I said that I was going to go get help, and I did," I lied.

"You son of a bitch," Lee mumbled.

"Leave my mom out of this!" I hissed back. I know that he was upset and in pain, but that was a low blow. He knew that I was going through some maternal issues.

"Quiet! Both of you!" one of the Scouts said in a breaking voice. I guessed that he was their leader. He seemed a bit older than the rest.

"Look, kid," I began, "We appreciate you saving our asses, but you can't treat adults this way." I tried to stand up and was prodded back to the ground by a spearpoint in my back.

"We'll decide how to treat you at the troop meeting," the lead Scout said.

"Fine," I said humoring him. "But go ahead and make it quick. Lee here is bleeding pretty badly."

"We can't begin it without the flag ceremony first," the troop leader said. So, began one of the most tiring and pointless experiences of my life. I knew the Boy Scouts of America were big on ceremony, but I was totally unprepared for how much time it took to raise a few flags. First, they brought out the American flag with all due pomp and ceremony. Then they brought out a state flag. They raised both onto a flagpole, a stripped tree that they had installed a rope onto. At this point, I assumed that we were done, but instead, the boys had a number of troop flags and patrol flags that they had to trot out. I swear some of the kids had their own personal flags. By the time it was all done with the sun was beginning to set.

"Now the troop meeting can begin," the lead Scout announced. "What is the first order of business?"

"The latrines have not been cleaned in some time," one of the Scouts spoke out.

"For fuck's sake, let us go!" Oswald snapped. This brought out a bunch of angry muttering from the scouts.

"Lee," I whispered. "You can't say 'fuck' to kids."

"Maybe we should deal with these two guys first?" another Scout suggested.

"Very well," their leader said. "Please state your names and rank."

"Richard Cox. B.R.M. agent!" I answered sharply. I figured it was best to play along. The spears didn't look that sharp, but still, I didn't want to take any chances. Oswald obviously had different ideas. He just sat huddled on the ground and silently sobbed over his bear wounds.

"Tsk," muttered the leader. "So old and still hasn't made Eagle. What were you doing trespassing on our camp and harassing the wildlife?"

"I'd like the record to show," I said, even though there did not appear to be anyone to be keeping a record, "that the wildlife was harassing us. We just got lost. My buddy here recently went blind. It is a long story, but we just need some food and directions to the nearest town."

"We can't let them go after they've seen our flag ceremony," said one of the Scouts.

"I'm afraid he is right," the leader said. "It would be against the Scout code to let outsiders view our ceremonies."

"Well," I said struggling to think of a way to get out of this trouble without getting speared in the ass, "Lee here," I said nudging his prone body with my foot, "like I said, he's blind so he didn't see your ceremony." There was a general murmur of agreement to the logic I had presented.

"But you saw it," pointed out a Scout. "You can't just trust him," he said to their leader. "Remember the Scout motto, 'Don't trust anyone over thirty.'"

There was another general murmur of agreement.

"Let us consult the Great Scouting Spirit," the troop leader suggested. A handful of the older scouts went into a nearby tent. Within minutes, the unmistakable smell of marijuana floated out the tent flap. After what must have been thirty minutes, the teenagers came out visibly stoned.

"We have consulted the Spirit and you can be freed if you succeed a set of three trials," the leader announced.

"Can one of them be first aid?" Lee said speaking up for the first time.

"What happens if I fail?" I asked nervously remembering my multiple failures, and bone fractures, that summer at camp.

"Then it is up to you. We will either be merciful and burn you at the stake, or we will tie you up and leave you for the horny bear," the leader said.

The thought of being tied up gave me an idea. With my experience with nooses from the B.R.M., I might actually stand a chance at knot tying.

"Fine, but I get to choose the first trial," I announced.

"First aid?" Lee repeated.

The troop leader and the other Scouts agreed when I suggested tying knots as the first skill. They brought out two ropes. Their leader announced the knots as I tied them. I breezed through the easy conventional knots like the square knot, timber hitch, and bowline and soon forgot that I was in a trial for my sphincter's sanctity.

"Hangman's noose, Heinrich's Garrote," I said showing off with some of the more common nooses I had encountered at the B.R.M. The Scouts gathered around impressed. The applauded after each one. It was then that I went one step too far.

"Devil's Necktie," I said tying the knot that I had learned while investigating the Franklin case. I had only learned it days before, but I figured it was a complex enough knot to impress the kids who were obviously geeks about such things. I held the knot and looked around expected them to congratulate me on such a complicated job well done. Instead, I was met with stony silence.

"Where did you learn that?" the leader asked menacingly.

"Uh, Cleveland?" I answered truthfully.

"That knot is taboo and among our darkest secrets," the leader said to me. "Only a villain would know it."

"Let's burn him!" someone in the crowd called out.

"Yeah, burn the motherfucker!" Lee added.

"Fuck you, Lee!" I yelled back, "I told you to not speak about my mom!" I kicked him in the ribs but before I could do further damage the Scouts pulled me back.

Like Icarus, my hubris had been my downfall. Now, unlike Icarus, I was about to be burnt to death by a much of pre-teens.

"Wait a second," I said as he prodded me towards a pile of kindling and logs. "What about the other trials? Isn't there a grown up around that I could speak to?" In retrospect, that should have been my first question after finding myself captured by children. There was no way I could reason or bargain for my life with a bunch of hormone-addled teenage boys.

Hormones. That gave me an idea. It was a desperate ploy, but my situation was equally desperate. In my pocket, I had one last bargaining chip.

"Wait!" I shouted and reached into my back pocket and pulled out my magazine. "I have pornography!"

* * *

It turned out those were the magic words. The Scouts were certainly serious about their flag ceremonies and secret knots, but they were still teenage boys. The opportunity to look at naked women was too much for them to pass up. Their attitude towards me went a complete turnaround. Rather than setting me on fire, I became an honored guest. The bonfire that was meant to burn me was retrofitted into a celebratory campfire. The Scout leader ordered marshmallows and s'mores to be roasted in a feast of thanksgiving for the great bounty that I had brought them.

Once we were settled around the fire, and after the Scouts had seen to the worse of Lee's gashes, I told them the story of how Lee and I had found ourselves lost in the woods. For the sake of their young ears, I cleaned up the parts about Ruby's death, getting arrested, the murder of Alois and all the alcohol Lee had consumed.

"By any chance, are any of you David?" I asked as I finished. It was a long shot, but telling the story reminded me of the Franklin murder. I had no idea if I was near the Boundary Waters or if this was the right group of Scouts, but it was worth asking.

"Which David?" the Scout leader asked. "We have a David O., David C., R., S. and T. I am one of the David Johnsons, the other one is over there flinging a flaming marshmallow at Louis."

I should have asked that Franklin brat for a last name. To narrow it down, I asked the Davids: "Have any of you been sexually involved with an older woman?"

All their hands shot up.

"She let me touch her butt," David T., who could not have been older than eleven, contributed.

"I've been involved with three. At the same time," said David O., not to be outdone.

I seemed to hit another dead end. I was pretty sure that there was something about honesty in the Scout code, but apparently, it did not extend to making up sexual exploits.

"That case you mentioned," David Johnson asked, "is that were you learned this knot?" He held up the rope that almost got me burnt at the stake.

"Yes, the man had it around his neck. We thought it was a suicide at first, but I suspect it was a murder," I said.

"It wouldn't be the first time the knot has been used for evil," their leader, David Johnson, said. "This knot has a dark history." The crowd grew quiet and somber as David explained. "It has always been one of our forbidden knots. Only those who have strayed far from the Scout path should ever attempt it. Legend has it that it was invented by Jack the Ripper's very own Scoutmaster and they perfected it in the brothels of foggy old London."

"That seems rather unlikely," I interrupted but was shushed by the audience. Apparently, rationality went by the wayside when it was time for campfire stories.

"In 1963, the Secret Service found the knot around President Kennedy's neck in a Dallas hotel room," David continued. "The powers that be told the world that it was an accident, but we know better."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I interjected again. "Of course, it was an accident, he wouldn't do it on purpose."

"He wouldn't do it at all!" David snapped. "He was a Boy Scout himself when he was younger. Why would he use that knot knowing its history?"

"That's ridiculous," I said. But now I had my doubts. Maybe I had secondhandedly breathed in some of the Scouting Spirit earlier, but I had to admit that he had a point. Not about all the conspiracy and secret organization crap, but it did seem like an awfully complicated knot to tie. Anyone going through the trouble of tying it should know not to use it on themselves. Especially the President.

"J.F.K. was not murdered," Lee moaned from his spot near the fire. "Just drop the subject."

"If it was murder," I said ignoring Lee, "then why didn't they use a less obvious knot? Why leave a clue like that laying around?"

"To send a message of course," David answered. We're not the only secret society that knows of the knot. There's the Masons, the Illuminati, the U.S.G.S., the Mafia, hell, even the F.B.I. is involved in nefarious crap. Any of them could have been involved and wanted to take credit."

It was hard to argue with a teen who used words like "nefarious." Either way, all this talk of conspiracy was getting us off of topic, none of this helped me out with the Franklin case.

"So, you're saying that the wife in my case didn't kill her husband? Or that it had nothing to do with this David kid?" I asked.

"Shit man," David Johnson said, "how the hell am I supposed to know, I'm only sixteen."
CHAPTER 11

The days that I spent with the Scouts served as a relaxing break from the recent troubles I had experienced. This was in large part due to the fact that the time also served as a break from Oswald. I left Lee alone in his tent as he recovered from his many wounds. While not professionals, I was impressed with the first aid that the scouts administered to Lee. He was going to have some nasty scars on his face, but I doubted they'd bother him; after all, his mirror looking days were over.

While Lee recuperated, I made the most of my time with the Scouts. Back when I was twelve, I hated camp. Eighteen years, later I found it quite enjoyable. The kids had been kind enough to give me my own tent. It was fine for the August weather, but I doubted it would be adequate come fall and winter. I went about constructing a small cabin for myself. The Scouts that were too young to help with the cabin I set to gathering kindling and firewood.

It was several days after our rescue that Oswald and I experienced our next setback. I had woken up early that day to oversee the Scouts who were laying the foundation of my cabin using flat stones we found in a nearby streambed. Suddenly, the sound of the kids laboring away was interrupted by a car honk. All my workers stopped and ran off to their tents and started packing their things.

"What the hell is going on?" I asked their leader.

"Oh, camp's over. Our parents are here to pick us up," he answered.

"What do you mean it's over?" I asked in distress. This was definitely going to impede on my construction schedule.

"Well, what did you expect? We can't stay out here forever. It's mid-August, school starts in a few weeks," David answered before brushing me off to go pack his things.

It was pretty embarrassing that it never occurred to me that the camp was just temporary. I guess I had some sort of Peter Pan Neverland idea in my head that I'd live in the woods forever and have the Scouts do my bidding. But in a non-creepy way.

"Oswald," I rushed over to where Lee had been resting. One of the Scouts had already taken down the tent and packed it away just leaving Oswald stretched out on the ground. "What are we going to do? Camp is ending!"

"Thank God," Lee gasped. Apparently, he had enjoyed our time in the woods less than I had.

With Lee not helping, it was up to me to decide what to do. My two options were to either remain at the camp and finish my cabin by myself or to get a ride back to civilization with the Scouts' parents. I did not have much time to think about it, the camp was rapidly becoming deserted. As much as I wanted to remain in the woods, I did not think I would survive long without the Scouts, especially with that bear roaming around.

"Come on Lee," I said sadly helping him up. "We have to leave." I helped Lee hobble along in the line of kids leaving the camp. We walked about half a mile until we came to the freeway.

"What's that noise?" Lee asked as we arrived by the road. "Is that... is that traffic?"

"Yeah, I guess help was closer than we thought," I said surprised.

"Don Rossi was right, you are the King Midas of Fuck-Ups," mumbled Lee. Needless to say, the parents were unpleasantly surprised to find that two filthy men had spent days with their kids in the middle of the woods. I assured them that nothing inopportune occurred. My assurances fell on deaf ears. The adults, minus Lee and I, deliberated for a long while to decide what to do with us.

"For God's sake," Lee yelled at them after the conversation had gone on quite a while, "please take me to a hospital!"

Oswald's plea seemed to convince them. They hustled him and me into a sedan driven by David's dad. The car's upholstery felt luxurious after sleeping for so many nights out on the ground in the woods. We had only been driving for a little bit when I fell asleep.

* * *

I was awoken hours later, not at a hospital but at a police station, by two uniformed cops pulling me from the back seat of the car. I had been sleeping so soundly that I had not noticed our arrival at the station.

"Goodbye, guys!" David called out as his dad got back into the driver's seat and the sedan pulled away.

"What's going on?" Lee asked confused.

While I still retained my sight, I was equally confused. "Where are we?" I asked.

"St. Paul," the cop who had pulled me out of the car said simply as he led me into the station.

"Aw shit!" I said to Lee. "David's dad ratted us out!"

"God Richard, don't say it like that," Lee said. "It makes us sound guilty."

I had no time to explain to the officers their mistake. They marched Lee and I into the police station. The cops parked Lee in a chair outside of an interrogation room and led me inside. They were going to question us separately.

"Officers," I began. "This is all a mistake. I'm a federal agent, Richard Cox, B.R.M."

"B.R.M. huh?" the other officer said. "Well, let's give them a call and see about that."

"Ah, just a moment officers," I said hurriedly. "I'm actually on a bit of sabbatical." I had no idea where things stood back at the office. Besides, when it came down to child abuse allegations, O'Sullivan was not the best character witness. I tried to tell them the full story of how Lee and I arrived in Minnesota. Well, the full story minus the numerous crimes we committed. I didn't get too far into the story before one of the cops stopped me.

"What was that about Vice President Humphrey?" he asked.

I told them the story of how Lee, very much against my will, dragged me to Chicago to meet with the Mafia and how Don Rossi asked him, and not me, to "take care" of the Minnesota problem.

"I think the sheriff needs to hear this," the cop said to his partner after listening to me.

"Which one?" the other officer said.

"Probably should bring in both," the first officer replied.

The two cops left me in the darkroom and were gone for quite a while.

"Why won't anyone take me to the hospital?" I heard Lee complaining from the hall.

I was about to lay down and take another nap, being interrogated was tiring work, when the door opened and two middle-aged men in uniforms entered the room. They looked nearly identical except the man on the right had a grey mustache while the man on the left was clean shaven.

"I'm Roger Stevenson, sheriff of Ramsey County," the mustached man said. "This here is my brother, Robert Stevenson, sheriff of Hennepin County."

"Fuck, not another family business" I complained.

"Well it is the Twin Cities," one of the Sheriff Stevensons said.

"Why don't you go back and tell us what you told the officers," his brother said.

"And this time, don't leave anything out. Don't try to shit us like you shitted them," the other brother said.

So, I went and retold the whole story again. I told them how I barely knew Lee but how he had forced me to Chicago. While I waited outside the hall while he met privately with the Don, I eavesdropped on the door and heard how Lee and Rossi were planning on conspiring against the vice president. While I tried to escape to warn the authorities, Lee had prevented me, and it was only now that I was able to turn him in.

"So, you're saying this Oswald character forced you to Chicago?" a sheriff asked.

"The blind guy?" the other one added skeptically.

"He wasn't blinded back then. That came after we found Dillinger's treasure," I explained.

"Dillinger? Treasure?" he asked.

"Oh fuck," I swore to myself. In the effort to extricate myself from Lee I had forgotten to tell the part of the story where we were lost in the woods. "Let me begin again--"

"I think you've said enough," a sheriff said. "Let's see what the other one has to say." A cop came in and swapped me with Lee. I sat in the hallway for quite a while until they brought me back in.

"Don't worry," I said to Lee, "I didn't tell them a thing."

"Fuck you Richard!" said Lee. "Fuck you to fucking hell you scrotum-licking-sad-sack-motherfucker!"

"You boys have quite the tale," said a sheriff.

"Or quiet the tales," said his brother.

"Shut up Robert," the first sheriff said. "Normally we'd just throw you in a cell or put you on a bus out of state, but with the convention coming up we can't take the chance. We'll have to take you to Summit Avenue and see what the boss wants to do with you." They led us out of the room and out of the police station and into a squad car.

"What's going on? Where are they taking us?" Lee asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "But it must be a good sign if they are taking us away from the police station, right?"

"That's being optimistic," Lee said pessimistically. "Maybe whatever they want to do to us is so fucked up that they can't do it in front of other cops."

We pulled in front of a large fancy house and were led inside by the sheriffs. The house was hectic with young men and women hurrying around and answering phones, it appeared to be a campaign headquarters. A big sign on one wall read "Humphrey '68." The two sheriffs spoke quickly to one staffer and then led us upstairs to a quieter office.

I sat down in a cushy chair but immediately rose to my feet when the door opened again and a man with a round jolly face entered, I recognized it from the posters downstairs, it was Vice President Hubert H. Humphrey himself.

When Don Rossi had told me about his problems with the Minnesotans I never imagined that in only a week or so I'd find myself in a room with the vice president. Then I remembered what Don Rossi had sent Lee to do.

"No!" I yelled leaping onto Lee and tackling him to the floor. As a federal agent, I wasn't going to allow anyone to harm the vice president.

"What the hell!" Lee shouted. I had forgotten that he could not recognize Humphrey.

"Stevensons, what's going on?" Humphrey asked taking a step back while the two Sheriffs hurried to separate Lee and I. "Who are these filthy men, and why did you bring them into my office?"

"Sorry Boss," one of the sheriffs said. "We picked up these two up early today and they said some interesting things. We figured it was best to bring them to you with the convention coming up and all."

"Well, go on I suppose," Humphrey said sitting down behind his desk.

"Tell the vice president what you told us down at the station," the sheriff ordered me.

I began again to tell the story. By this point, the different versions were beginning to get all jumbled up in my head. This was the third time in succession I was telling it, fourth if you counted when I told it to the parents outside the Scout camp. I was beginning to forget which parts I had told the different groups, and which parts I was keeping to myself.

"Well, I don't know what to say," said Humphrey, "that's a very... well, I suppose... interesting story."

Just then another figure emerged into the study.

"I thought we both agreed that I'd be included in any important meetings," the figure said. The man was about the same age as Humphrey but had a full head of hair and a sterner expression.

"Sorry Eugene," Humphrey apologized. "It wasn't on the schedule. A bit of a last-minute sort of thing."

"Ever since I entered the race you've been pulling these stunts, now you're meeting with law enforcement privately? What kind of shady deal is going on here?" asked the newcomer.

"There's no harm done," Humphrey said. "I can assure you, senator, that it is nothing. Just a false alarm."

"False alarm?" said one of the sheriffs.

"I told you so," said his brother.

"Nonsense," the first sheriff argued. "You," he said pointing to me. "Tell Senator McCarthy just what you told the vice president."

"Not again," Lee said who must have been as tired as I was of hearing our story.

"I agree," said Humphrey, "I hardly think that is necessary."

"I'll be the judge of that," said Senator Eugene McCarthy. "Tell me what you told them," he ordered.

I began at the beginning and my voice was hoarse by the time I finished. In the end, McCarthy straightened his tie and said, "Well, that hardly seems credible. Why are you wasting my time with this?"

"I tried to tell you, Gene," said Humphrey.

"Just two wackos running their mouths off," said McCarthy.

"But," argued a sheriff, "they're talking about conspiring against you! That's a threat. It might even be treason!"

"They're also saying Kennedy was assassinated. If we paid attention to every conspiracy nut out there we'd have no time to campaign," said McCarthy. Then pausing, "that's what this is about isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" asked Humphrey.

"You're trying to deflect me with this wild goose chase while you sneak around and get Johnson's endorsement," accused McCarthy.

"Now Gene, that's nonsense. I didn't--"

"Well, it's not going to work!" announced McCarthy as he stormed out of the room.

"I'll be glad when the convention is over," said Humphrey. "The stress is getting to the senator."

"What I'm concerned about is what this means for P.R.," one of the sheriffs said. "If Nixon's people gets ahold of this whacko how much damage will he cause?"

"Again Stevenson, he's obviously a lunatic," Humphrey said.

"Hey," I snapped. "I'm sitting right here."

"Yes, but lunatics can be dangerous," the sheriff went on. "All this talk about conspiracies and murders. Especially after Robert Kennedy's death. People are afraid and desperate. Who knows what they'll believe. It could make news and do damage."

"I still wouldn't discount them being assassins," said the other sheriff. "We have to take these threats seriously. Like you said, with Bobby's assassination after all. We should probably be on the safe side and work them over a bit for a bit more information."

"Absolutely not!" Humphrey said. "We don't torture folks here in St. Paul. This isn't Texas. The Senator is right, they are lunatics and need professional help." The vice president got up out of his chair. "Especially this man," he added pointing to Lee. "Hell, it looks like he's been mauled by a bear for goodness sakes!"

"Thank you," Lee said gratefully.

"I've got to get back downstairs," Humphrey said tiredly. "I have a nomination to win. Take these men to the hospital and then get on with your jobs. Evening gentlemen."

The two brothers looked at one another after the vice president left the room.

"What are we going to do with them?" One asked.

"You heard the vice president. There's no torture in St. Paul," Robert said.

"Agreed," replied the other. Then looking at us, "It's off to Minneapolis with you two."

* * *

The sheriffs put us back into the squad car and then blindfolded us so we could not see where we were being taken.

"This is really not necessary," Lee said muffled through his hood. I heard the car start and felt it drive through St. Paul.

"Oh crap," I said. My car sickness was returning and not being able to look out the window was making it worse. I managed to keep everything down for the half an hour ride, it helped that I had not had anything to eat since leaving the Scout camp. When the car stopped, the two sheriffs unblindfolded us and pulled us out of the car and led us into a stairwell.

We started down the stairs. How many, I don't know. I lost count after the sixth flight. It was slow going given that we had to wait for Lee to feel his way down. By the end of the trip, there was no longer any railings or lights and the stone stairs became wet and slippery. It felt like we were deep in the earth. One sheriff led the way with an old-fashioned lantern while his brother brought up the rear.

Finally, we got to the bottom. The two sheriffs pushed us through a doorway and into a long dark hall. Passageways branched off to both the right and left, but we were guided straight ahead to a dimly lighted room. Inside the room were two figures, I couldn't make out their features in the dark room. The sheriffs sat us each down in a chair. The room was empty except for the chairs and a large block of ice in the corner.

"We've already told you everything," Oswald said desperately. "What more do you want?"

"Really?" one of the sheriffs asked. "It seems like your friend keeps adding things to the story each time he is asked."

"And we really haven't heard much out of you," the other sheriff said.

"Your friend's lunatic act may have convinced the vice president and the senator, but it won't work on us," his brother said.

"It's not an act," Lee said desperately. "Believe me, he's fucked up my life since I met him."

"Bullshit!" I said. "You are the one the mob was after!"

"Shut up Richard!" Lee said.

"See, that's the kind of information we want to hear more about," a sheriff said.

"Let's see if you tell anymore once you are on the Minnesota Ice Rack," said the other sheriff. He must have signaled the other two strangers in the room because suddenly I was grabbed from behind and carried towards the block of ice.

"No Robert," the other sheriff said. "No use putting that one on the rack. He blabs plenty without it. Hang up the quiet one instead." Robert must have agreed since the two strangers sat me back in my chair and grabbed Lee instead.

"Wait! What's going on!" yelled Lee as the strangers took him over to the block of ice and stood him on it. They hooked his thumbs to the ceiling with chains. At first, it seemed like a poor torture technique. But then, I noticed that the ice was melting and getting slippery.

"What is going on?" Lee asked again. Then his foot slipped, and he fell. It was just for a moment before he regained his footing, but it was enough to pull his thumb out of place.

"HOLY CRAP! RICHARD WHAT'S GOING ON?" He exclaimed in pain.

"It's only going to get worse as the ice melts," one of the sheriffs said Then they began their questions:

"Who sent you?"

"Are you here to assassinate the vice president?"

"Are you here to assassinate the senator?"

"Are you a communist?"

"Are you from the mob?"

"Did Nixon send you?"

"What do you know about Robert Kennedy's assassination?"

"What do you know about King's?"

"What about J.F.K.'s?

"Wait, was J.F.K. murdered?"

"You! Shut up!" said a sheriff to me after I asked about J.F.K. I forgot who was supposed to be interrogating who.

"God Richard! Don't bring up Kennedy!" Oswald gasped. It was harder and harder for him to stay on the block of ice, especially as the block was losing its edges and become more of a lump than a block.

"Finally, he says something," a sheriff said. He went over and kicked the ice from out under Lee.

"OH CRAP! WHAT HAPPENED!" Lee screamed.

"Anything you'd like to change?" one of the sheriffs asked me.

"Well, yeah of course," I said. "Where to begin? First, I guess I'd have liked better parents, and maybe an older sister instead of a brother. That way--"

"Not you! Shut up!" the sheriff snapped.

"Fuck! This is worse than the bear!" gasped Lee.

"The bear?" asked a sheriff. "I knew the Russians had to be involved."

"Let me down!" Lee begged.

"Not until you give us something more to go on," said a sheriff.

"I've told you everything!"

"Bring me a lantern," a sheriff asked. One of the featureless strangers handed him a lantern. He unhooked one of Lee's hands. Lee gasped as all of his weight was shifted to one thumb.

"What are you after?" the sheriff asked Lee again. Oswald did not answer. The sheriff stuck Lee's free hand into the lantern.

Lee screamed, and the sheriff pulled his hand out.

"Do I need to do it again?" he asked.

Lee must have realized he was out of options. "They paid me to kill Kennedy. President Kennedy," he gasped. "Years ago. But I didn't do it. They wanted their money back."

"They?" asked the sheriff.

"The mob!" Lee sobbed.

"You didn't do it? Why not?" the sheriff asked.

"He was murdered when I got there!"

"Murdered? By who?" the other sheriff asked.

"I mean dead. He was dead when I got there."

All the time traveling with Lee I knew there was something off about him. I never suspected that he was a presidential assassin though. Well, a near assassin. Considering his reaction to Alois' death, it was no wonder he chickened out.

Lee was sobbing, whether it was from his story or from the pain I could not tell.

"Take him down, he's had enough for one night," one of the sheriffs said.

"Do you think we can believe him?" asked his brother. "It does correspond to some of what we heard out of Chicago."

"Who knows," his brother said. "We'll question them again tomorrow. But you were right, we can't have these guys running around and riling up Nixon's people."

"Put these two in a cell and keep them safe for the night," a sheriff said to the two strangers. "My brother and I will have to consult with the vice president."

"And the senator," the other sheriff said.

"Forget the senator," his brother said as they left the room. "God, ever since school you've been such a brown-noser."

* * *

The two strangers led us out of the room and down the passageway. Even in close proximity, I couldn't make out their faces in the dark. One nearly had to carry Lee, who was near unconscious from being tortured. The other held the lantern and guided me. We turned down one of the branching passageways, I wondered how far the tunnels extended and what they had been built for.

Suddenly, and without warning, the stranger guiding me swung the lantern into the other cloaked stranger. We were bathed in light as the man's robes lit on fire. He started screaming and running down the passageway, dropping Lee as he went.

"Holy crap!" I exclaimed.

"What's going on? I smell barbecue," moaned Lee.

"Quick Dick! this way!" The cloaked figure who was not on fire said and began running the way that we had come. There was no time to wonder how he knew my name. I grabbed Lee and followed as best I could.

We ran down the passageway and into another. It was pitch black, I could see no more in the tunnels than Lee could. All I had to guide me was the sound of the stranger's steps. I kept one hand trailing along the wall so that I would not run into it.

"This way! Over here!" the stranger yelled. I was trying to place his voice when I saw a dim white light ahead. When I got closer, I realized it was moonlight, we had come to an exit. The hot August night hit me after the coolness of the tunnels. There were bushes and shrubs on either side and a great river in front of us.

The stranger had cast aside the hooded sweatshirt he had been wearing to obscure himself and I gasped in surprise, "Clarence? What are you doing here?"

"I needed to get out of Ohio after your partner busted us," he explained.

"Oh, he's not my partner. He's just a guy I met at a bar," I explained.

"I meant your partner at the B.R.M. God, what did my sister see in you?" Clarence continued. "Anyway, Honey tried to get me a job with the McCarthy campaign, but I got involved with the sheriffs instead. Off the books of course. That's more my style. Here, help me with this," he said giving me an edge of a rubber object. Once unrolled I saw that it was a large rubber raft. Clarence started pumping it up.

"I kept some supplies here just in case. Boy, I never thought I'd find you here," he said.

"Me neither," I said equally surprised. "Thanks for saving us!" I guess he must have felt gratitude for me not turning him into the police back in Cleveland.

"Shit," he said, "I'm not doing it for you. It's not every day you uncover an assassin. My Panther friends will be interested in talking to him. Those damn sheriffs were all concerned about Nixon's people. They never suspected that there was one of Cleaver's among them."

It appeared that Lee and I were not as free as I thought. Instead, we had traded one set of imprisoners for another.
CHAPTER 12

From what I could see of it, the Mississippi River was a vastly superior river to the Cuyahoga. This was largely attributable to it not being on fire. The fact that it had provided the means of our escape from an underground prison cell was also a mark in its favor. The night before I had helped Clarence get the raft afloat and together we managed to haul Lee aboard. We floated underneath a large stone arch bridge. I fell asleep as the Minneapolis night skyline faded into the distance. It was just after dawn when I woke up and stretched. There were peaceful forests on each side of the river. With the exception of our inflatable raft, I could almost imagine that little on the river had changed in the last one hundred years. It felt like a scene straight out of Mark Twain's writing.

"I feel like Huck Finn," I commented to Clarence and Lee.

"I guess then I'm Tom Sawyer," Lee said.

"Shit, what does that make me?" Clarence said, "You better not say Jim."

"What's wrong with Jim?" Oswald asked.

"You can't make the only Black guy a slave," Clarence snapped.

"It's not because you are Black," said Oswald. "It's just that neither Richard or I am Black."

"So, what? You can pretend to be a twelve-year-old boy, but you can't imagine being another race?" Clarence retorted.

"What Oswald is saying is that there are not a lot of other characters to choose from," I said trying to intervene.

"Yeah, who else do you want to be?" Lee said, "Injun Joe?"

"Shit!" I said.

"Woah!" Clarence exclaimed simultaneously.

"You can't say that!" I said.

"That's even more racist than making me a slave," Clarence added.

"What? That's the character's name," Lee said confused.

"Yeah, but we aren't in the 1800's anymore," Clarence explained. "You have to say 'Indian' now."

"Actually, Clarence," I pointed out, "Native American is the correct term."

"Bullshit," Clarence said. "It's the American Indian Movement, not the American Native American Movement. It was in the Star-Tribune last month."

"Titles of organizations don't mean anything," I said. "After all the NAACP uses the word 'colored,' but I wouldn't."

"You sure as hell better not. At least not on this raft!" Clarence agreed. "But that's different. The word 'Indian' is used all the time. Look at the Cleveland Indians. Now a sports team wouldn't be racist would it?"

Clarence made a convincing point. Also, my white guilt made it difficult to argue with a Black man about race. Still, "Indian" did not seem right to me.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I still have some reservations about the term."

"Reservations? Really? That's the word you want to use?" Clarence said in disbelief. "My God, you are as racist as this fucker."

And so, began our great argument. I doubt that the Mississippi River had seen such civil strife since the days of Grant and Pemberton at Vicksburg. Our rhetoric extended beyond the works of Samuel Clemens to Harriet Beecher Stowe, Frederick Douglas, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Theodore Grisel. As we got carried away, allegations of both communism and fascism were made. Hitler storming the Reichstag was alluded to not once, nor twice, but on four separate occasions. The fall of Rome and the Council of Trent were evoked. Tenuous allegories to Martin Luther's treatises were thrown about with abandon. H.L. Mencken was confused with Herbert Spencer. William Jennings Bryan was repeatedly crucified on crosses representing the full spectrum of precious metals. As we got more caught up in our fight, we left the constraints of historical arguments and civility aside and resorted to arguments involving each other's mothers and sexual organs. Finally, as late morning approached we found ourselves, exhausted, dehydrated and constipated both physically and morally.

"So, we are finally agreed," I said bringing the conflict to a close. "I'll be Aunt Polly, Clarence will be Judge Thatcher, and Oswald will be Natty Bumppo." The last was hardly in the same genre as Mark Twain, but Oswald was proving to be as blind to logic as he was to everything else.

"Agreed," said Clarence and Lee as the three of us shook hands on it. It was a compromise, and in the true spirit of compromise, we were all dissatisfied with it.

"Where do you think we are?" I asked. I had lost track of our progress during the argument.

"I'm not sure," said Clarence. "Do you think we're out of Minnesota yet? If so, then I guess Iowa? Or is it Nebraska? I can't remember which."

"It's one of the terrible states," I said, but that did not narrow it down much.

"What the hell are we even doing here?" asked Oswald. "Who bothers hiding away a raft when you could have just thrown us in a car?"

"The type of person who saved you from the torture rack," snapped Clarence back. "I didn't see you providing any alternatives back in that dungeon."

"How are we supposed to even get to California? The Mississippi doesn't go there you know," pointed out Lee.

"Hell no," I said paddling towards shore. "I'm not going through another argument. I'm taking a break." We landed the raft on shore in what appeared to be a state park. There were a few trails leading to a rest area and picnic grounds. I walked towards these to see if they would provide any clues about where we were. I was pretty worked up from the argument on the river and I needed some quiet time to recover.

Unfortunately, I was denied a respite from conflict. As I strolled around the picnic area I was suddenly tackled from behind.

"I knew it was you!" yelled my assailant. "I got you now!" He turned me over and instead of the face of the mobster I was expecting to see, I saw the face of my former employer, Father O'Sullivan.

"O'Sullivan? What the hell are you doing here?" I asked. He did not look as how I remembered him. He was filthy, and his clothes were ragged and worn. I suppose I probably did not look much better. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if I was in worse shape. It was a wonder that he recognized me.

"Don't blaspheme!" he snapped. "I've been on the run ever since you brought the P.P.P. to the office."

"Really?" I asked. Cohen had told me that the B.R.M. was in chaos, but I had assumed that they had sorted things out by now. "Who's in charge there then?"

"I don't know," said O'Sullivan. "But I will be once I bring you back for punishment."

"Punishment?" I asked as he helped me up but still kept a strong hold on me. He started leading me towards the parking lot. "What do you mean? Punished for what? The police let me go that day."

"What?" he asked in disbelief. "That easily?"

"Yeah," I answered. "Cohen went through and straightened everything out."

"Well," said O'Sullivan uncertainly. "I'm guessing you are still guilty of something."

This was an accurate assessment of my character. Even so, I had no desire to return to Ohio, especially in the company of O'Sullivan.

"Help!" I screamed.

"Quiet!" he snapped. "There's no one here to help you." The park was indeed empty, but O'Sullivan had not realized that I had travel companions.

"What the hell is going on here?" asked Clarence coming towards us. Lee followed blindly behind.

"Nothing to concern you," said O'Sullivan hesitatingly. He might not be able to tell that Lee would not be much use in a fight. But Clarence by himself was still far more than a match of O'Sullivan. "I'm just taking my employee back."

"He's not your employee," said Clarence. "He's my prisoner. I own him."

"Hey!" I snapped. I thought Clarence of all people would be more sensitive to "owning" a person. Especially after the discussion of race and slavery that we had just completed.

"Listen," said O'Sullivan, "I don't want any trouble. You two can go on your way. Just let me and Richard go to my car."

"You have a car?" asked Clarence. It was definitely the wrong thing for O'Sullivan to have admitted.

I was quickly freed from the former priest's grasp as Clarence slugged him. O'Sullivan sank to the ground.

"Let's go," I said as Clarence grabbed the keys out of O'Sullivan's pocket. There was only one car in the parking lot. Apparently, it was not a popular day for picnicking.

"Who is this fucker?" Clarence asked pointing to the prostrate body of O'Sullivan.

"Just my boss," I answered. "He's nobody, we can just leave him."

"But he knows who you are?" Clarence asked.

"Yes," I answered. I did not like where this conversation was going. "But he won't tell anyone about us. He doesn't know where we are going, and nobody is going to listen to a disgraced priest."

"Priest? I thought you said he was your boss?" Clarence asked.

"He's both," I said.

"We can't leave a priest behind. It wouldn't be right," Clarence said. "I wish you had told me before I punched him."

"Would it help if I told you he was probably a child molester?" I asked.

"I suppose then it's probably a wash," Clarence said after thinking it over. He then picked up and swung the unconscious O'Sullivan on his shoulder. We trudged to the parking lot with Lee following. I have no idea what O'Sullivan had been doing in the park and picnic area. Considering his history, I wouldn't care to speculate. I do know that it was an unfortunate coincidence for him and I that our paths crossed. However, with my luck, coincidences did not surprise me anymore.

* * *

"I have to use the bathroom," Lee announced a few hours later, "can we stop somewhere?"

Clarence had thrown O'Sullivan into the backseat where he regained consciousness next to Lee. As his most trustworthy prisoner, and a longtime family friend, I had earned the passenger seat. There was not much to see out along the desolate Nebraskan highway we were traveling, but it was nice to have the front seat.

"Hell no," Clarence said. "We're only stopping for gas. Use the bottle if you have to piss."

"I don't have to piss," Lee snapped.

"Then use the jar instead," Clarence retorted.

"Don't you dare use a jar for that in my car!" O'Sullivan added in.

"I don't know Clarence," I said, "it might be better to stop. Did I tell you about Lee's accident on the Greyhound?"

"That's because you punched me!" Lee said.

"I'm not stopping and having the three of you run off," Clarence said.

"If we do stop, I could do with some snacks. Or the latest issue of Boy's Life. There's not much to do back here," said O'Sullivan.

"Where the hell should I stop?" Clarence snapped. "Do you see any bathrooms or newsstands around?"

"No! But you don't have to rub it in!" Lee said.

"Don't say the H-word in here!" O'Sullivan chided. "I may not be driving, but it is still my car."

"Everyone just shut up!" snapped Clarence. "We're not stopping anywhere!"

"Wait, where are we going to sleep tonight?" I asked. It was getting late. "I don't want to share a hotel room with O'Sullivan."

"We're not stopping at a hotel," said Clarence. "Are you crazy? In all the times you were captured in the last week, did you ever get any hotel room much less your own?" He made a good point, but this situation felt different. After all, none of my previous captors were my ex-girlfriend's brother.

"You can't drive all the way to California without stopping though," I reasoned. It was a valid point and Clarence did not have a ready reply. I could see him thinking hard about it. Eventually, he sighed and seemed to come to a reluctant decision.

"You're right, I can't. But I can't stop and risk those two taking off without me. You'll have to drive," he said.

"Me? Why do you think you can trust me?" I asked.

"I don't trust you. But I also know that you don't have the balls to pull any shit," he replied.

"But... I don't drive. There was a septic truck in Sandusky and I--"

"It's the only way," Clarence cut me off. "Would you rather the blind guy or the pedophile take the wheel?"

He was right, I would rather they did not. Lee was in no shape to drive and I'd rather be Clarence's prisoner than O'Sullivan's. I already gave him enough of my life back at the B.R.M.

"Fine," I agreed reluctantly. "Let's switch.

The highway was empty, so it was easy for me and Clarence to switch seats. I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white.

"You're going to have to go faster if we're going to make it to California," Clarence said putting his seat back to take a nap. The car was going at a crawl. I stepped on the accelerator and sped up.

The road was empty, and the highway ran straight. All I had to do was to keep the car on course and not steer off the road, a task that even I could accomplish. I looked around, Clarence had fallen asleep. The same was true for Oswald and O'Sullivan as I looked in the rearview mirror.

"This is actually pretty nice," I commented to myself. It was the first time in a while that I had some time for myself. For the last few days, I had been stuck with Oswald for every waking moment. Now that everyone else was asleep, I could pretend that I was alone and had my life back. Nebraska was as boring and awful as Ohio, so I could almost pretend that the past week had never happened.

I scanned the radio to try to find something to listen to. There was nothing but some religious stations. If I wanted preaching, I could just wake O'Sullivan up. I turned off the radio and put my eyes back on the road. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of a glare in the rearview mirror.

There was a large truck was coming up behind me. I slowed down a bit to let it past, I was still pretty gun-shy of trucks after the accident in Sandusky and did not want to take any chances. The driver gave me an appreciative nod as he passed me.

"Whew," I said with relief when the truck passed. It was carrying a trailer with cattle. One of them looked at me and mooed in recognition.

"I'll be damned! It can't be!" I gasped. I was so shocked that I forgot O'Sullivan's rule about swearing in his car. It was the same cow I had befriended at Alois' farm. I sped up to take a closer look.

"Hey!" I yelled, "It's me! Where are you going?" I yelled out the window greeting my cow.

"Richard, what the hell?" Clarence asked waking at my shout.

"That's my cow! I know her!" I said excitedly.

"Your cow? What the hell are you talking about?" he asked.

"No seriously!" I replied. "Look! She recognizes me!"

"Richard! Slow the fuck down!" advised Clarence, but I ignored him. I pulled into the other lane to run parallel with the truck. The truck driver, no longer appreciative, sped up to get away from me.

"Richard! Fuck! Watch out!" shouted Clarence making a grab for the wheel. It was the wrong decision. I panicked and let him have it. We swerve dangerously close to the truck. The horn blared awaking O'Sullivan.

"HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!" O'Sullivan yelled. If it had been anyone else, I'd have said he was swearing, but coming from him it had to be a prayer.

I grabbed the wheel from Clarence trying to regain control. I managed to pull even with the farmer again. By now, both O'Sullivan and Clarence believed the car to be out of my control and made grabs for the wheel; Clarence from the passenger seat and O'Sullivan from the backseat. With three different pairs of hands attempting to wrest control for the steering wheel we did not stand a chance. The car made a sharp turn into the ditch at high speed and flipped over.

* * *

"Is everyone all right?" Clarence asked. I had crawled out the broken front window and was shaken up and cut by the broken glass but was otherwise okay physically. Emotionally I was distressed that I had caused another accident and had nothing to show for it. It was especially embarrassing to have had the whole incident happen in front of my cow. I had watched as the farmer in the truck sped away into the distance, apparently frightened enough that he was not going to stop to help us.

"My car!" O'Sullivan exclaimed as he crawled out of the backseat dragging Oswald through the glass with him, "Cox, darn you! What have you done!"

"What were you thinking!" Clarence said agreeing with O'Sullivan.

"I told you guys that I shouldn't drive," I said defensively. Yes, I admit that I was partly to blame for the accident, but it would never have happened if Clarence had listened to me in the first place.

"What are we going to do now?" asked Lee.

"I guess we will have to wait until someone comes and gives us a ride," I said.

"Who's going to give four strange men a ride?" Clarence asked. "You've obviously never been Black in Nebraska,"

"There's no use in complaining," I snapped. "What else can we do?"

We sat on the ground, away from the wrecked car, and waited for another vehicle to pass. Every once in a while, we saw headlights approaching. However, as Clarence predicted, the driver would just speed up when he or she saw four hitchhikers waiting. We must have looked like a sorry bunch and indeed, the morale of our group, which had only formed that morning, was already at an all-time low.

"Here," said trying to raise everyone's spirits. "Let's read from my detective book." I went to the wrecked car and turned on the headlights to read by. Lee and I had made little progress in my Detective Hancock novel since we were interrupted by the bear. I opened it up to the middle and began to read:

...Miss Jones, the raven-haired beauty, directed the cab-driver to the zoological gardens. She and I got out and paid the cabbie who sped away to find his next fare. The zoo grounds were deserted at this time of the evening.

"This is the zoo my uncle owned," Miss Jones said. "It was here that he was found murdered three nights ago."

The zoo, at least in the moonless night, did seem a foreboding place. It was not difficult to picture it as a scene for a nefarious murder. I was not eager to see the crime scene, but I could not admit to the beautiful young woman that I was uneasy. Miss Jones took a key out of her purse and unlocked the gate. I closed it after me and followed her through the empty zoo. Empty of human visitors that is, various screeches and calls echoed throughout the grounds as we made our way towards the monkey house.

"They found him in there," Cynthia said. She had to stifle a sob, "pulled to pieces by the chimpanzees. But like I told you back at your office, it makes no sense. Uncle would never go into the chimp enclosure alone. He only entered with Professor Giggles."

"Professor Giggles?" I asked. She mentioned something about her uncle's assistant back at the office, but I had been too entranced by her cleavage to pay attention.

"Yes, of course," she replied. "Professor Giggles is the zoo's oldest orangutan. Uncle raised him as a baby. Professor Giggles always protected Uncle. The two were inseparable."

"And you believe one of the zookeepers, this Victor, killed your uncle by pushing him into the chimp cage?" I asked. I really should have paid better attention back at the office.

"Like I said," Miss Jones replied becoming exasperated with having to explain it to me again, "Victor was the head zookeeper. He tried to court me, but I turned him down. I thought he was just after my inheritance."

I did not blame him, with breasts like hers I'd court the shit out of her.

"It makes sense," I said, "But you don't have any proof?"

"No," sighed the young woman sensuously.

"Well, I guess I need to talk with this Victor and Professor Giggles," I answered. She only nodded in agreement. But before meeting anyone, I first felt obligated to investigate the scene of the crime. The ape enclosure was surrounded by a moat on three sides. On the fourth, there was a high wall. It was accessible from where we stood and if we went across it we could jump down into a shrub growing in the enclosure.

"After you Miss," I said gallantly helping Cynthia Jones onto the wall's edge. It gave me an excellent opportunity to look up her dress. I followed her, and we edged slowly towards the center of the wall. It was slow going, particularly as Jones was quite top heavy due to her prodigious rack. As we neared--

"Richard!" Clarence yelled, "Put that smut down and come over here!" I looked up from my book and saw that the others had long abandoned me. Instead of listening to my very excellent detective book, they were some distance away next to a Volkswagen van that had stopped. I was so engrossed with Hancock's zoo adventure that I had not noticed that someone had actually stopped. I put the book away and went over.

The van belonged to three hippies, in this case, young beautiful women. I had not seen many hippies back in Ohio. From what I heard in the news they were troublemakers, but if the rest of the sub-culture were anything like these three women, I had severely misjudged them.

"Richard," Clarence said introducing me to them, "This is Calypso, Summer, and Hope. Girls, this is Richard. He's the guy who wrecked our car."

I would have preferred that Clarence would have presented me in a more favorable light but was too tongue-tied by the beautiful women to say anything.

"We saw you guys had an accident," the woman named Calypso said. "We're on our way to the Summer of Love in San Francisco and thought we'd stop to see if you needed any help."

"Um... the Summer of Love was actually last year," Clarence said hesitantly.

"We travel at our own pace," said Summer. "We will get there when we get there."

"Any chance we could barter for a ride?" asked Clarence. "We're headed for Oakland."

"What do you have to barter with?" asked Calypso. It was a rather capitalistic question for a hippie.

"Um," Clarence said looking around at us. We did not have much.

"I have this," I said trying to help him out. I handed the Hope my copy of Lactating Lesbians.

"What the hell is this?" she asked holding up the tattered magazine at arm's distance.

"It's pornography," I explained. I figured hippies were halfway to perverts and would love it. I misjudged them.

"This is really degrading and disgusting," said Hope handing the magazine to Summer.

"This is offensive, homophobic and perverted," Summer added.

"No, it isn't," I corrected her. "It can't be offensive to women or lesbians," I said taking the magazine from her and showing the last page to her and Calypso. "See my mom took the pictures and she is a female lesbian. Plus women can't be perverts."

"I knew there was something wrong with you," O'Sullivan snapped. "No wonder you are so terrible. Your mother is a vile woman and nothing good could come out of loins."

"Fuck you to hell!" I yelled pouncing at O'Sullivan. Nobody talks about my mother's loins. Plus, I had wanted to shout at him ever since he hired me.

Clarence obviously saw the situation was getting out of hand and separated us with some difficulty. He grabbed the only thing he had to barter, which turned out to be O'Sullivan.

"How would you girls like your very own priest?" he asked them.

"Why would we want a priest?" Calypso asked. "We don't like men."

Ah, the women were lesbians. The disappointment among Clarence, Lee and I was nearly palpable.

"That's the great thing about priests!" Clarence said recovering. "They're celibate. Where else can beautiful young women like you find a man that won't hit on you? Isn't that right O'Sullivan, you would not try anything inappropriate with the girls, right?"

"Of course not!" O'Sullivan snapped. "They are much too old. But you still can't--"

"See!" said Clarence. "What better way than to stick it to the patriarchy by enslaving your very own priest?" I had to admit, Clarence was a natural salesman.

"I don't know," Calypso said hesitantly. But It was obvious that she found Clarence's offer tempting. "He doesn't look much like a priest."

"They lose half their value as soon as you defrock them," Hope muttered.

"He's just slightly used. You just give him a wash and he will be good as new," Clarence said.

"A bath?" O'Sullivan gasped. "They wouldn't dare bathe me! Would they?" he asked frightened.

"If you gentlemen will excuse us, the three of us have to go and consult the Great Sapphic Spirit," Summer said. The three women went to discuss the matter in their van.

I coughed as the smoke reached us. The Sapphic Spirit smelled a lot like the Scouting Spirit.

"Very well," Calypso said after quite some time in the van. "You have a deal."

"Grab your stuff and meet us in the van," Summer said.

"Great!" said Clarence. This was better than any of us expected. When life gives you lemons you make lemonade. Well, instead of lemons, life had given us lesbian aid. and I was going to make the most of it.
CHAPTER 13

Meeting the lesbians by far the high point of my adventure that August. For much of the trip, I even forgot that I was Clarence's prisoner. Oswald did not complain about his injuries as much and even Clarence seemed to relax. The only one of the group that did not enjoy the trip was O'Sullivan. For being hippies, Calypso, Summer, and Hope certainly took sadistic pleasure tormenting him; a fact that made them all the more attractive in my eyes. Calypso, in particular, demonstrated a particular talent in tormenting him. By the first day, she took to dusting all of his food and drink with laxatives and then refusing to stop the van when he had to go to the bathroom.

It was a few nights after we met the girls that one of O'Sullivan's midnight excursions to relieve himself led to my brief career in politics. We had crossed the border into Utah earlier in the day. Clarence and the lesbians were a bit apprehensive about traveling through the Mormon empire, so we made sure to camp far away from the road that night. Despite their precautions, they forgot to set a guard for the night. When we woke up, we found that someone had graffitied the word "HELP" across both sides of the van.

"What the fuck?" Summer asked.

"Which one of you dick swingers fucked up our van?" asked Harmony.

"It's been van-dalized!" giggled Calypso. She had already communed with the Sapphic Spirit that morning.

None of the rest of us responded.

"It had to be the priest of course," said Calypso added. Apparently being stoned didn't affect her logic. Clarence and I were happy as clams and Oswald was blind. By process of elimination, it had to be O'Sullivan.

"Me?" asked O'Sullivan. "I was too busy defecating in the desert all night."

"Come on now," I said. "Don't bullshit us. We all know it was you."

"Fine!" he admitted after a moment. "Do what you will, you can't make me any more miserable."

"We'll see," said Calypso.

"What are we going to do about this?" asked Summer. "We can't drive around like this. It makes it look even more like a rape-van than it did before."

Clarence and I pondered the situation along with the girls. Suddenly, an idea struck Clarence. He patted down O'Sullivan.

"Watch it!" O'Sullivan said.

"Fuck off, like you haven't done worse," dismissed Clarence as he found the marker O'Sullivan had used to vandalize the van in his front pocket. Taking the marker, he added to the word "HELP" the words "ELECT ELDRIDGE CLEAVER."

"There," he said finishing. "Now no one will stop us. Not in Utah."

* * *

We thought little more of the episode that morning, except for giving O'Sullivan a double dose of laxatives as a punishment for defacing the communal property. It wasn't until we stopped for gas some hours outside of Salt Lake City that we had cause to consider the implications of Clarence's quick fix.

Being Black, Clarence felt uncomfortable stepping outside the van in rural Utah, so he stayed inside to guard O'Sullivan and Oswald while I went out to fuel up. The three women got out to stretch their legs.

"Say, brother," a man with a desert worn face asked me as I approached the station. "Are you the Eldridge from the van?"

"I certainly am," I answered. It would only make sense to have the name on the van if one of us was pretending to be named Eldridge.

"Really? What are you running for?" the clerk asked.

I started to explain that we were running from the Mafia when it occurred to me he was asking about the "elect" part of the sign. "President?" I answered instead. I was unsure, I hadn't been paying too close attention to politics.

"Really!" the clerk asked visibly excited. "I had no idea that one of us was running for president."

"One of us?"

"We don't get much in the way of news out here," he continued. "But when I saw the name on the van, I said to myself, 'Eldridge,' I dare say is a biblical name if I ever heard one. When I saw your wives come out of the van I knew I had to be right."

"Oh, yes," I said trying to think on my feet. "Yeah, my wives--"

"Say," said the clerk, "As long as you are campaigning, why don't you stop by our temple in town and greet the folks? Maybe give us a reading?"

"Well, I don't see how I can refuse," I replied my brain turning trying to think of the proper refusal. Instead, all I could think of was what would be Clarence's reaction when I broke the news to him. Then I thought about what O'Sullivan's action would be. Forcing him into a Mormon temple would really stew his testes.

"Why yes," I said, "that would be fantastic."

* * *

"Fuck Richard," complained Clarence in the parking lot of the temple. "This is a terrible idea."

"It's not so bad. The guy at the station didn't charge us for the gas," I countered.

"Yeah, I'm sure the few bucks will come in handy after they tar and feather us all," Clarence said sarcastically.

"I'm also not a big fan of being in a polygamous marriage with you," said Summer.

"Whatever happened to free love?" Calypso asked. She had been skeptical of the idea at first, but really glommed onto the idea when I pointed out how badly it'd mess with O'Sullivan. "Just smoke a bowl and you'll be fine."

"I hate you all," O'Sullivan pouted.

The girls fixed up my clothes to be somewhat presentable and then dressed as modestly as they could. Once we were ready, they, O'Sullivan and I entered the temple. Clarence and Oswald stayed in the van in case we had to make a quick getaway.

The gas station clerk had phoned ahead and there was a considerable showing at the temple. I guess that is one plus of small towns; word gets around fast. Even if the word, in this case, was not fully accurate.

"And we are blessed today to have Brother Eldridge, who is running for President of the United States to speak with us today," one of the elders said introducing me.

I stood up and looked out at the small crowd. It just occurred to me then that these people expected me to say something. Suddenly it was as if the joke was on me, not on O'Sullivan who sat squirming in his seat. He looked like he expected to burst into flames at any second.

"My name is Eldridge Cleaver," I announced stalling for time. "I am running to clean up Washington and bring your-- I mean, our ways to the White House." I looked at my fake wives for support. Calypso was mouthing a word. I tried reading her lips. "I would also like to say, bubble?"

"Bible!" she hissed.

"I mean, I'd like to read to you from the bible." I opened a page at random. "This is from Matthew's book: 'Moses said, if a man die having no children, his brother shall marry his wife, and raise up seed unto his brother." I was taken aback and had to read the passage again. If only Valarie had been in the audience.

"Really? Well hell, this is some good shit," I blurted out forgetting where I was. After a very uncomfortable silence, a lone audience member started clapping in the back of the temple. Then others took up the applause. "Thanks for having me. Time to hit that dusty campaign trail. Cleaver in '68!" I said in conclusion.

"It's about time we had politicians who should some enthusiasm for our Christian values," the elder who had introduced me said. "Let's raise up a collection to send Brother Cleaver to the White House!"

We raked in over a hundred clams at that stop alone. After shaking hands, we raced to the van and headed to the next small town over and did the same thing. Calypso coerced O'Sullivan into writing a real speech with a bunch of Old Testament nonsense by threatening to show him her breasts if he refused. We were able to make three stops a day, sometimes four, and pulled in at least a hundred dollars each time.

All was going well until the morning of the fourth day of my campaign when two men in suits approached me outside a temple.

"Are you Richard Cox?" one of the men asked.

"No, I'm Eldridge Cleaver," I replied. I hadn't meant to lie; after several days of pretending, I had nearly forgotten who I was.

"Sir, this is a feature on the real Eldridge Cleaver from the Oakland Tribune," the other man replied. "If you don't come with us, we'll be forced to blow your story."

I studied the paper for a second.

"Well I'll be damned. He's Black!"

As I said, I hadn't been following the election closely. With this realization came the reminder that I was Richard Cox, and Richard Cox was being pursued by the mob.

"The gig's up!" I yelled making a dash for the van. Luckily, even when stoned, my fake wives had remarkable reflexes and did not miss a beat.

"Stop!" yelled out one of the men as I dove through the van door. It was a good thing that Clarence, O'Sullivan, and Oswald where in the van, or else we'd have left them behind to perish at the hands of the Mafia and angry Mormons.

"Are they the same ones as in Wisconsin?" Lee asked me.

"I don't know," I replied. "They all look the same to me, just big, scary and black."

"Hey!" scolded Clarence.

"I meant their suits," I replied.

"What did you guys do to get the mob after you?" Harmony asked.

"This fucker tried to kill J.F.K.," Clarence answered.

The girls and O'Sullivan were shocked.

"Did we forget to mention that?" Clarence said sheepishly.

"I had nothing to do with it," I said trying to explicate myself.

"I didn't do it," argued Lee. "The mob forced me into it."

"How does the mob force that on someone?" asked Summer. "Is there like a gate-way assassination? Do you start with the head of the P.T.A. and move your way up?"

"Are they following us?" asked Lee trying to change the topic.

"It doesn't look like it," said Clarence checking the rearview mirror. "Nothing but desert behind us."

I double checked the back window. Clarence was right. I settled back into my seat. "Fuck," I said, "now I'll never be president."

"Well," said Calypso, "On the bright side, at least then Oswald won't shoot you."

"Don't be so sure," both he and I said simultaneously.

CHAPTER 14

After our escape from the mob, we figured there was no need to push our luck in Utah any further. We had made a good haul off the fake campaign, more than enough to get us the rest of the way to California. For the first time in quite a while, I was comfortable and trouble free. The West agreed with me; there must be something to Manifest Destiny after all. Although with the make-up of our group, particularly the lesbians, I can only assume the Monroe Doctrine underlying our trip had more to do with Marilyn than James.

The trip came to an end all too soon. One day we were slowly trudging through the Donner Pass and the next we were in sight of the bay. Calypso stopped the van in downtown Oakland near Jack London Square.

"Look us up across the bay," she said as Clarence, Lee, and Oswald got out of the van. O'Sullivan made to follow us.

"Oh no you don't," Summer said grabbing him. "We own you remember?"

"You can't be serious!" O'Sullivan gasped. "Clarence, do something!" However, Clarence cared less about O'Sullivan than even I.

"It was great traveling with you," he said to Calypso ignoring O'Sullivan.

"Richard!" O'Sullivan was clearly desperate if he resorted to asking me for help. I ignored him as well.

"Here," I said tearfully handing Calypso the tattered copy of Lactating Lesbians. "I want you guys to have this." It was not much, but I did not have many possessions that I could give away. "Please think of me whenever you use it."

"Gross," said Calypso.

Clarence, Lee and I waved as the van drove off into the city traffic heading for the Bay Bridge. Despite the bright sunny California day, we were all in a somber mood after saying goodbye to our friends and O'Sullivan.

"Well, let's get going," Clarence said leading the way. He led us out of downtown Oakland and ended up in one of the city's seedier neighborhoods. "In here," Clarence eventually pointing to a large house. The small front yard was decked out in campaign signs for Eldridge Cleaver.

"Hey!" yelled a middle-aged man with a clipboard. "Get the hell out of here!"

"Some welcome. That's no way to greet a fellow Panther," said Clarence.

"Last I checked, you were a thug for the mob. So, don't try pulling any of that brotherhood shit on me," said the man.

"Mark, I told you last time, that stuff is ancient history," Clarence said placatingly.

"Some help you'd be," Mark muttered. "The feds are already up our ass. I don't need you cluttering up the place. Or your friends. Who the hell are these two?"

"Hello," I said introducing myself. "Richard Cox, former Eldridge Cleaver impersonator."

"Shut up Richard," Clarence said. "Don't mind him," he said to Mark. "It's this one that you'll be interested in."

"He doesn't look very interesting. Just a blind white guy," said Mark.

"Yeah," agreed Clarence. "He's that, but he's also an assassin sent by the mob to kill J.F.K."

"So, your mob work was all 'ancient history?' I knew that was bullshit. Just like this is clearly bullshit," Mark said.

"God's truth!" swore Clarence.

"God's not stupid," said Mark. "Neither am I. Why would you think I'd believe they'd hire a blind guy to assassinate the president? And even if I did believe it, why would you think that I'd want you and your assassin friend here? At a fucking presidential campaign office?"

"It's true," Clarence argued. "I heard him confess it. Oswald," Clarence said turning to lee, "tell Mark and the others what you said in that dungeon in Minneapolis."

"I'm going to stop you right there," said Mark. "Minneapolis dungeon? What the fuck are you thinking Clarence!"

"Just listen," said Clarence. "Humphrey and McCarthy's people believed him. They were keeping him from Nixon's people."

"Humphrey and McCarthy actually bought it?" said Mark hesitating for the first time.

"Hook and reel," exaggerated Clarence. "If Nixon is interested, then why shouldn't Cleaver be?"

"Well, at this point in the campaign," admitted Mark, "it really couldn't hurt."

"Face it, Mark," said Clarence. "Eldridge has no real chance. For fuck's sake, he's not even old enough to take office. This is all about making a splash. And if we can prove J.F.K.'s death was a cover-up, that's a pretty big fucking splash."

Mark thought for a moment. "Tell me a little more," he said finally. "Over here in the kitchen. It's time for a coffee break anyway."

We followed Mark over to the kitchen which was only slightly less busy than the front of the house. Mark pulled rank to free up a few chairs at the table for us to sit around. Clarence then prodded Oswald to tell the full story that he had begun under torture in Minneapolis. Lee was hesitant to admit that he had been a paid assassin for the Mafia, but at this point, the cat seemed to be out of the bag. It did not seem like he had any choice. He told the story of how he got involved with the mob and how eventually they had ordered him to assassinate the president and how he had failed to do so.

"That's when I first found him," Clarence said as he finished. "My, um, 'contacts' back home set me up with a mob enforcer who was hunting him. I didn't know what for though at the time."

"Hmm," said Mark. "After hearing the full story, I'm even more inclined to believe it is bullshit. But obviously, the mob is after you for something. There's no reason why you'd go through all of that for nothing."

"Mark," said a young campaign staffer, "there's a reporter here to see you. A really ugly white woman."

"Reporter?" asked Mark. "That's not on the schedule."

"She says it's important," the intern said. "Wouldn't go away."

"Send her in I suppose," said Mark. "You three," he said turning to us, "keep your mouths shut."

"Hello, I'm A. M. Scheitlin, from the Oakland Tribune," said the horrendously ugly woman who barged into the kitchen. I stared in surprise. Not at how ugly she was, but at her name.

"A.M. Scheitlin?" I gasped as Mark groaned. I had already forgotten to keep my mouth shut. "The same Scheitlin that writes the Detective Hancock books?" I asked bringing out my tattered paperback.

"Uh, why yes. I've not really met anyone who's read any of my books. They're just a pastime," she muttered.

"I've read them all!" I gushed. "Say, could you autograph mine?"

"Sure, I suppose so," she said hesitating. "But what I'm really here for is that I heard you had some information on the Kennedy assass--I mean accident."

"Hold up!" Mark said in a panic. "How could you possibly have heard that?" He paused for a second and then reached out and grabbed the reporter by the hair.

I leapt up to defend the celebrated author but stopped halfway when the hair came off as a wig in Mark's hand.

"Shit! Fucking COINTELPRO! IT'S A FUCKING RAID!" Mark yelled. The house erupted in chaos. Federal agents burst in through the front of the door. Clarence, Lee and I followed Mark and others out through the back door. The agents must have been getting in place while Scheitlin, or the man dressed as Scheitlin, distracted us. Mark had seen through the disguise quick enough that they weren't quite in position by the back door. He and several other members of his staff made it out the door and out the backyard. Lee was swept up with the crowd. Clarence and I were bringing up the rear. I was out the door and down the steps when I was tackled down into the hard cement.

"Freeze! F.B.I.1" a voice shouted. After less than a day in the state, I was a prisoner again. Manifest destiny my ass.

* * *

"You guys should be honored," said the agent who was hustling me out of the van and into the F.B.I.'s west coast headquarters in the Castro District. "The Chief doesn't usually take part in investigations, especially those so far from D.C. We had the campaign bugged for weeks. It was just a matter of luck that he was listening in when you guys arrived and forced our hand."

I felt more bruised than lucky though. I kept my mouth shut about it though as we were led up a flight of stairs and into what turned out to be Hoover's office. Most of the people at the house had escaped or been taken elsewhere. Apparently, Hoover had taken a special interest in Clarence and me.

Hoover sat on a desk that was propped up on bricks to make him appear taller. The room bustled with agents going back and forth bringing him files and answering phones. He had not changed out of the A. M. Scheitlin disguise he had worn at the house. He sat giving orders in the dress minus the wig.

"Tolson!" Hoover yelled out. "Where are those files!"

"Right here sir!" said an agent appearing by his side who must have been his deputy.

"So, Lee Harvey Oswald," Hoover said going through the pages of a hefty manila folder. "I didn't expect you to show up at a Black Panther Cell."

"It was actually just a campaign office sir," Tolson tried correcting the F.B.I. Director, but to no avail. Hoover didn't seem to differentiate between the two.

"And, I'm not Oswald," I said trying to get in a correction of my own.

"Let's not play this game," said Hoover. "We had the place bugged. Your whole story is on this tape." Hoover said holding up a cassette.

"No, really," I said. "Oswald was the other white guy. I'm Richard Cox."

"It's true," said Clarence with a smile. "You let the real Oswald get away. You can't even catch a blind guy."

Hoover glared at us, but then held up a photo of Oswald from the file and compared the face with mine. Apparently, he was not used to being mistaken. After a great pause, he finally admitted that I wasn't Oswald.

"Tolson, get the file on this guy, what's his name, Cocks?" Hoover burst out in anger. Tolson must have anticipated this was coming as he had left and gathered another file while Hoover had been examining the photograph. The file that he handed to Hoover was considerably thinner than Oswald's.

"And here's another one on his brother, Charles Cox," said Tolson placing a thicker folder on Hoover's desk. "And another on his father, the former Senator Cox," Tolson said placing an even thicker folder on top of Charlies.

"Well, Mr. Cox," said Hoover taking my thin folder. "It seems that you are the underachiever of the family."

"Don't I know it," I mumbled.

Hoover read for a moment, and then took a quick glance at my father's and brother's folders. "Looks like the family is relatively clean." Said Hoover. "Some work with the mob, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to suggest an integrationist radical."

"I take after my mom," I explained.

"So maybe you can tell me why when I listened in expecting to hear a bunch of Black Nationalists, instead I heard you and your friend talking about killing Kennedy?" Hoover asked.

I tried to explain the best I could about how I had met Oswald and how we came to be at an Eldridge Cleaver campaign office. The hustle and noise of the office quieted down as the whole room became engaged in the story. When I finished, even Hoover was momentarily speechless.

"Tolson," he said after a moment. "Do we have anything to collaborate any of what this guy is saying? Or is he as insane as the file says he is."

"I'm not insane," I shot back defensively.

"Very little," said Tolson. "You know what a mess the two Kennedy cases were."

"Cases?" Clarence blurted out. "So, it is true? It wasn't an accident? I'll be damned."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I muttered to him.

"Let's just say, there are certain suspicious aspects to both of the deaths," Hoover said choosing his words carefully. "We tried to investigate, but between the pissing contest that ensued between the military, C.I.A. and the White House, things got, well, muddled. I always had a suspicion that the communists and Black Nationalists had something to do with it though," Hoover continued eagerly. "Picking you up across the Bay just confirms it."

Clarence and I both started to protest but Hoover glared us into silence. "I tried to warn Johnson about you people--"

"You people?" snapped Clarence.

"--But he ignored me. Too concerned about the Civil Rights Bill, well look at what the consequences are." Hoover ignored Clarence's objections as he gathered papers and tapes from his desk and assembled them into a large manila envelope. "But he can't ignore me this time!"

"Sir," said Tolson cautiously, "Are you sure this is the best time? With the election and all?"

Hoover glared at Tolson, then his grimace relaxed. "I suppose it would look like meddling," he said drumming his fingers on his desk. Then his eyes fell on me. "But if a disinterested party brought the information to him, Johnson would have to take it seriously. And what's less interesting than the Bureau of Responsible Masturbation?"

"Wait, what?" I asked confused.

"As a federal agent, or a sort of agent," Hoover said, "I need you to go warn President Johnson that a Black Nationalist Organization has made contact with a potential assassin."

"Oh fuck," Clarence and I both said simultaneously.

"Here," said Hoover reaching out to hand me the thick envelope. I went over and took it. I read the Texas address across the front. "Tolson will make the arrangements."

"Texas?" read Clarence. "Oh hell no. I'd rather go to prison."

"That can be arranged," said Hoover motioning to an agent.

"Richard, call Honey," Clarence ordered me as the agent hustled him out of the room. "She'll know what to do."

I stood in front of Hoover's desk holding the envelope. I was unsure what to do next.

"Well?" asked Hoover expectantly.

"Well, what?"

"You asked me to sign your book. Remember?"

"Oh yeah. So, you are really A. M. Scheitlin?"

"It's just my pen name," Hoover said. "Having an extra persona sometimes comes in handy though for going undercover. Plus, I like the dress." He said taking my book and writing in it.

"Well, for what it's worth," I said. "I actually really do like the Hancock novels."

"You mean Hardcock," corrected Hoover.

"No," I said pointing to the title, "it's Hancock."

Hoover took a closer look at the title and then his face reddened once again in anger. "Tolson!" he shouted, "Get my editor on the phone! That bastard has been messing with my books!"

CHAPTER 15

"So," I asked Tolson as he led me out of the building, "is it possible to stop at a hotel for a shower and dinner before going to the airport?"

"What?" he asked.

"The airport?" I reminded him by showing the manila folder Hoover had given me. "To fly to Texas?"

"Oh, that," said Tolson. "You'll have to forgive the chief, he sometimes goes too far when it comes to his files."

"You mean blackmail?" I asked.

"More like Black males," Tolson answered. "Let me just take that from you," he said gently, but determinedly, ungrasping my fingers from the envelope.

I was confused. Hoover had been rather explicit in his orders.

"There's really no need for this information to leave here," said Tolson. "With November coming up, it would be inappropriate for the F.B.I. to be seen as trying to interfere with the election. Sometimes it's necessary to protect the Chief from himself." With that, he gave me a gentle push out the door. I stood in a confused daze as the door slammed shut leaving me on the sidewalk, broke and alone in a strange city.

"Well, I'm fucked," I said to no one in particular.

* * *

To occupy my time, I looked around at the windows of the Castro neighborhood shops until I was filled with new confusing feelings about myself. At the end of one block, I came across a pay phone and remembered Clarence's request that I call Honey. It was as good an idea as any other, and probably better than most; Honey always knew what to do.

I picked up the phone and asked the operator to make a collect call to Honey Potter from Richard Cox. After several tries, I finally succeeded in convincing the operator that I wasn't making a prank call.

"Richard! What the hell are you thinking calling me this late after what you put me through!" Honey exploded at me after accepting the charges.

"Honey--"

"Yeah, Valerie told me everything. I knew you had issues, but your sister? What a sick freak!"

"Sister-in-law!" I corrected. Everyone got hung up on the first word. "And Honey--"

"What would Charlie say? Your own brother's wife! I bet--"

"Clarence is in jail!" I blurted out hoping she'd let me finish this time.

"What?"

"Clarence is in jail."

"Clarence is with you?"

"No," I said frustrated, "I just said that he's in jail."

"Where are you then?"

"Let's see," I said looking out trying to identify a landmark. "Right now, I'm right outside a bar in the Castro district called the Crusty Seaman."

"What? You mean San Francisco? How did you get to San Francisco?"

"Well, the short answer is 'lesbians,'" I began. "But I think you are actually asking--"

"Shut up Richard!" Honey said. "God! I tried to get Clarence out of trouble and you go and find him and mess it all up again."

"He found me!"

Honey ignored me. "You need to stay away from him. Actually, just stay away from my whole family. Including me!" with that she hung up on me.

"Honey? Honey? What about me?" I asked the dead line. I hung up and sat dejectedly on the curb. I was far from home and totally alone for the first time. I looked around desperately for someone to help me. I saw a man in a suit leave the Crusty Seaman. He glanced at me coldly. After my experiences in Wisconsin and Utah, I was beginning to see a mobster in every suited man. I quickly got off the curb and walked on before my paranoia got the better of me.

As I walked, I racked my brain to come up with a plan. I thought back to when I had met Lee in prison and remembered his plan of staying in a cell until he was sure Ruby had stopped looking for him. Jail was no picnic, but at least it was a place to stay and was safe from the mob. I saw a police officer up ahead and ran up to him.

"Officer," I called out to him, "I need to confess. I killed Jack Ruby." It wasn't really true, Ruby had fallen to his death, but by the time the police had figured that out, I'd be ready to be let out. After all, I wanted to go to jail, not prison.

"Huh, is that so," the officer said. He did not appear to be too concerned.

"And, I work for the Mafia. My friend tried to murder J.F.K. We stabbed a Cyclops in the eye. My boss is a pedophile. Oh, and I took a lot of money from Mormons under false pretenses." I said listing out the various seedy actions and associations I had taken part in.

"Listen, move along sir," the officer said moving past me. The pig didn't believe me!

"Hey! Get back here!" I called out. It figured that the one time I wanted to be taken prisoner the police wouldn't cooperate. The cop obviously thought I was just a run of the mill lunatic.

"Uh..." I called out looking for something to get me in trouble. "What if I ate that baby!" I said pointing to a young couple with a stroller. I ran across the street to the couple. Against the confused and agitated protests of the parents, I picked up the swaddled infant and held it up for the cop to see.

"Mmmmmm," I called out. "Hispanic! South of the border flavor!"

"Hold it there!" The cop yelled out coming toward me.

"Thank God!" I muttered putting the baby back in the stroller. "I thought you were going to call my bluff."

I put my wrists out to be cuffed when a movement to my side caught my attention. It was as I turned to look that I noticed the mother of the infant was holding a can of Mace.

"How's this for south of border flavor!" she yelled as she sprayed me.

* * *

"Good evening Mr. Cox," Nurse Crescent said to me bringing me my nightly pills. "How are we doing tonight?"

"Okay," I mumbled. I was still recovering from being Maced. The day before I expected the officer to take me to another dark jail. After being caught so many times in the last week or so, I figured that I knew what to expect when it came to being a prisoner. Instead, I was surprised, and somewhat relieved, that he took me to a hospital in the mission district. At first, I assumed it was to recover from being sprayed in the face, but after a nurse had helped me wash the spray out of my eyes, they led me to an office with a doctor in a sweater in it.

"Oh hell," I said. The doctor had all the marks of being a shrink.

"Hello Mr. Cox," the man said reading off a chart the nurse had given him before she left. "My name is Dr. Goldberg."

"I don't really know why I'm here," I said anticipating his next question. I had plenty of experience with psychiatrists to know their modus operandi. Growing up, and even after college, my father had sent me to numerous doctors. In fairness, there were one or two instances that I found myself over my head and in trouble. What teenager doesn't? But my father had no empathy. Luckily, Charlie was better and allowed me to move in with him.

"It says here," Dr. Goldberg said reading in the file, "that you tried to eat a baby?"

Fuck, I should have expected that that was going to come back and bite me in the ass.

"Listen doc," I explained, "that was just a ruse. I just needed the cop to take me seriously."

"So, you tried to eat a baby?"

"No, I didn't try to eat a baby. If you wanted to eat a baby, you'd have to debone it first."

"Hmm, interesting," the doctor said writing something in a notepad.

"Oh no you don't," I replied quickly. "Don't take my words out of context. I've had enough experience with your type to know your tricks."

"My type?" asked Doctor Goldberg.

"Shit," I corrected myself. "I mean doctors, not Jews. You should probably make a note of that instead." Goldberg had stopped writing and I wanted it part of the record that I was not anti-Semitic. "My co-worker, hell, my friend, Cohen is Jewish," I added hoping that would help.

"I understand," said the doctor. "Tell me a bit more about this Cohen. Is he here with us now?"

"Here with us now? What the hell are you talking about?" A thought occurred to me. "Listen, I'm not crazy, you can ask the F.B.I. I just met Hoover down in the Castro and he has a file on me."

"I see," said Goldberg picking up his pen and beginning to write again.

"Oh, so you are going to write that down, but not that I'm not anti-Semitic. That's just fucking perfect," I moaned. "Here look," I said taking out my Detective Hancock book. "Right here, Hoover himself signed it."

"To my Dear Friend, Richard," Dr. Goldberg read the inscription, "I am glad to hear that you love hard cock as much as I do. Your friend, A. M. Scheitlin."

"Fuck," I should have read it myself first.

"So, when did you first suspect that you were a homosexual?" Goldberg asked.

"If I just give up and say 'at a very young age' can I leave?" I asked.

"Tell me more about your family? Do you have siblings?"

"I used to have a brother," I said giving up. "But now it's just me and Valarie."

"And how is your relationship with your sister? Valarie you said her name was?"

"Sister-in-law. How is that so hard!" I exclaimed.

"Calm down Richard. We are just here to help you."

"You guys always team up against me."

"You guys?"

"Again, not Jews," I hastily added.

"Hmm, interesting," Goldberg commented while writing something down.

* * *

"Mr. Cox?" Nurse Crescent asked again bringing me out of my reverie.

"What? Yes?" I responded.

"I was saying that your father will be here to pick you up tomorrow," she repeated. "Isn't that nice?"

"I guess so," I responded lazily. I had been lost in my thoughts about Dr. Goldberg and had forgotten that the nurse was even there. Suddenly, her words registered, and I bolted upright.

"Wait, what did you say?"

"I said," the nurse repeated, "Isn't that nice?"

"No, before that."

"Oh, that we were able to reach your father and he is coming out to pick you up."

"My father!" I exclaimed. "What about Valarie. I told the doctor to contact my sister!"

"Sister-in-law," she corrected. "I'm sorry Mr. Cox. But we have to notify a blood relative. It's hospital policy."

"Fuck!" I moaned.

"You seem upset. I'll go get Dr. Goldberg," Nurse Crescent said gliding out of the room.

"Holy Goddamn shit!" I swore leaping to my feet as soon as she was gone. There wasn't much time to act. If I knew Goldberg's type, again shrinks, not Jews, he'd come and pump me up so full of sedatives that I wouldn't be able to do anything except lie on the bed like a Louisville hooker. In the past week, I had been taken captive by the police, the mob, a one-eyed farmer, the Boy Scouts, Minnesotans, and Clarence. I'd be damned if I'd let my father take me though.

I went over to the door of the room and tried the handle. It didn't budge, "Just as I thought," I said to myself. "It's locked." Then it occurred to me that this was not the setting to be talking to one's self. On the other side of the room, there was a window. I looked out and saw a rickety fire escape on the building across from us. I'd have to leap across an alleyway, but luckily, it was a narrow alley. Even so, my reoccurring sense of vertigo returned, and I got nauseous looking down.

I found my clothes in a closet but didn't have time to change; there was no way to know when Goldberg or a nurse would return with an injection. I threw my clothes and few belongings onto the bed and wrapped them up in a blanket. Then, in my hospital gown, I opened up the window and perched carefully on the sill. I threw the bundle across and watched it hit the railing of the fire escape and bounce off to the street below.

"That doesn't bode well," I muttered. I leaned forward and kicked off the side of the building.

I didn't even get close to the part of the fire escape I was aiming for. Luckily, there was another platform on the floor below. I landed halfway onto the railing knocking the breath out of me. However, I had enough momentum from the jump that I spun over the railing and landed on the metal grating of the escape. It took a few minutes for me to catch my breath and slowly get to my feet. I limped down the stairway and climbed the ladder to the ground where I collected my bundle.

The hard part was over. Once I was out of the hospital I doubted that anyone would spend much effort looking for me. Even so, it'd be wise to put some distance between me and the hospital. With no clear idea of where I was and even less of an idea of where to go, I picked a random direction and started walking.

Eventually, I crested one of the city's many hills. In the distance, I saw what appeared to be the blades of a tall windmill. Considering my recent escape from the hospital the Quixotic connotations were irresistible and I made my way towards the windmill. As I neared the mill, I reached the perimeter of a large park. I took one of the side trails I found and followed it to a hill. At the top, I looked down and saw a collection of tents and camps. My breath caught in my throat as one of the campsites presented me with a familiar and welcome sight: a Volkswagen van with the words: "HELP ELECT ELDRIDGE CLEAVER" written on one side. I rushed down the hill, there was a figure wrapped in a blanket in front of the van door. I shook it awake.

"Don't rape me!" the figure startled awake.

"Lee!" I gasped. I never thought I'd be so happy to see him again. It took him a minute to place my voice.

"God damn it" he muttered.
CHAPTER 16

"How did you get here?" I asked Oswald.

"That campaign manager, Mark, dropped me off. They didn't know what else to do with me," Lee answered. "How about you? What took you so long?"

"Eh, I ran into some trouble on the way," I said. I didn't want to admit that it hadn't even occurred to me to look for Calypso and her friends.

"What happened to Clarence? Is he here too?" Oswald asked.

"No, he's in prison."

"That's a drag."

"Where's O'Sullivan?" I didn't think the girls would let him sleep inside the van with them.

"Oh, he wandered off the first night here. Word around the park is that he went into the wrong restroom and was sodomized to death."

"Oh, bummer," I replied.

"Yeah, literally."

"I suppose it's kind of ironic. From dust to dust and all that crap,"

"Richard? Is that you?" Summer yawned opening the door. "God, what time is it?"

"I have no idea," I told her. "I'm on the run again."

"Yeah, no shit," she said pointing to the hospital gown that I was still wearing. I hadn't bothered to change.

"It seems like that is becoming a habit for you. "You guys want any coffee?"

"Hey Richard," Calypso said as she and Hope joined us outside the van. "Did you hear about O'Sullivan?"

"Yeah," I answered.

"Died the way he lived. Where's Clarence?"

"Prison."

"Hmmm," she said simply. "Were you in the hospital?"

"Yeah, just for a bit," I answered.

"Calypso, tell him what you found!" Harmony said.

"Oh yeah!" Calypso said her face lighting up as she remembered. "Richard! I have a surprise for you!"

"Really?" I asked. "What is it?" I had received a lot of surprises in the past few days, few of them welcome.

"Come with me, I'll show you," said Calypso.

I groaned as I got back on my aching feet. The morning breeze blew my hospital gown up.

"Maybe you should change first," Calypso said.

* * *

"Summer, Hope and I were at a party the first night we got here," Calypso explained as she led me out of the park and a short way down Haight Street. "There were a lot of artists and other hip people there. I recognized her as soon as I met her."

"Her who?" I asked.

"The photographer from that porno you gave me. The one you said was your mom."

I stopped frozen in my tracks. "Calypso, what did you do?"

"Well, of course, I didn't think it was really your mom," she admitted. "I thought it was another one of your bullshit stories, like being chased by the Mafia or meeting John Dillinger."

"It was Dillinger's ghost," I said momentarily forgetting the main point of concern.

"Come on, don't just stand there," Calypso said pulling me along. "But then I started talking with her, asked her if she had a kid named Richard, turns out, you were telling the truth after all. Or at least telling a truth, who knows about the rest."

We had turned into the entrance of a small art gallery sandwiched between two cafes. Calypso rank the bell in front of one door and was buzzed in. I slowly followed her up the stairs to the apartment above. I wanted to turn and run away, but somehow my feet wouldn't let me. An older woman, dressed like Calypso but with longer and greyer hair opened the door at the top of the stairs. The face, of course, was older than I remembered, older even than the face on the back of the magazine, but it was definitely my mom.

"Richard? Is that really you?" she asked. She pulled me close and hugged me. "I almost didn't believe Calypso when she said you were in town, but here you are! Boy Richard, you are filthy, come in and have some tea."

"I just had coffee," I mumbled.

"He just showed up this morning," Calypso said. "Bare-assed."

"Oh Richard, you haven't changed a bit," my mom laughed.

"I wasn't 'bare-assed,' I had a hospital gown on," I said defensively glaring at Calypso. So far, the impression I was making was not the one I had envisioned.

"It's been so long Richard," my mom said. "There's so much to talk about." She got out three teacups for us. Calypso sat down in a chair and petted a small ugly bulldog that trotted up to her.

"That's General Tojo," my mom said. "He's ugly as sin, but he keeps me company."

"What an offensive name," I offered. The dog certainly only had a face that a mother could love. In this case, my mother.

"You must have a lot of questions and be feeling a lot right now," said my mom. "Just take your time. If it's one thing I learned after leaving your father is that you can't rush emotions."

I had nearly two decades since she left to process my feelings, and I only had one question: "Why did you leave?" I blurted out.

"I know that I was not the best mother to you and Charlie. But I just could not handle living with your father in that state that he was in."

"In which state?" My father had a variety of shades of assholery. He was a full rainbow of misanthropy.

"Ohio of course," she replied. "I simply had to leave and thought it would be best if I left you two with him. After all, he could provide a more stable environment than I could on the road."

"Than traveling with your lesbian lover and making pornography?" I asked sarcastically.

"Richard!" My mother scolded, "don't say the word 'pornography' to your mother. Besides, that's not really what happened. Boy, I guess your father must have told you some stories about me when I left."

"But the magazine?" I asked. "Calypso saw it," I pointed to her. She sat on the ground rubbing General Tojo's stomach as he drooled appreciatively.

"I admit, some of my early subjects were not as tasteful as I would have liked," said my mother. "I was just a beginning photographer and was trying to do something artsy. My editor took out all the good ones and just left the smut in."

I suppose if J. Edgar Hoover had trouble with his editors, then anyone could.

"But why didn't you contact me? It's been over 18 years?" I asked.

"I did at first," my mother said. But then your dad and brother thought it best to not excite you. Your dad was taking you to all of those doctors and he didn't want you getting confused." She was interrupted by the whistle of the tea kettle. She took the pot off the stove and added in a bunch of foul-smelling leaves of what I was pretty sure wasn't Earl Grey. "The tea is ready! Calypso, would you like sugar in yours?" Calypso nodded.

"What is new with you?" my mother asked.

"You mean in the last eighteen years?"

"I mean, what brings you into town?"

"Oh, Clarence. You remember Honey and her family?" I asked.

"Oh yes, you little friend from down the street," my mom said.

"Well, we were on the run from the mob. Her brother saved us in Minneapolis but then brought us here to meet with a bunch of Black Panthers. The F.B.I. caught us and I met J. Edgar Hoover."

"Richard, I'm disappointed in you," my mom said putting down her cup. "Dealing with such horrible people. You know how I feel about the F.B.I."

"I didn't have much of a choice!" I snapped. Then after I took a minute to calm down, "I know," I admitted. "Things have gotten a bit out of hand. I don't know what to do now. Maybe I should have stayed and had dad pick me up after all."

"Dad?" my mom asked nervously.

"Yeah," I said offhandedly. "I got picked up and sent to a hospital. Oh," I said remembering, "you may hear something about anti-Semitism and eating babies. It's totally taken out of context. I was--"

"Back to your father?" my mom interrupted hastily.

"Oh, the hospital called him, and he was going to come and pick me up. But I escaped," I explained proudly.

"Your father is coming here? To my city!" my mom said angrily. She was getting rather upset.

"I didn't know it was your city!" I snapped. "I hadn't heard from you in almost two decades."

"Yes, of course," my mom said collecting herself. "I'm sorry, it's just that your father brings out the worse in me."

"Runs in the family," I agreed.

"But I'm just afraid that if he's doesn't find you at the hospital, the next place he'll look is here."

It was a credible hypothesis. And I wasn't any more eager than my mom to test it out.

"What will we do?" I asked her.

"We?" said my mom distractedly. "Oh, yes of course. I suppose we should clear town for a bit." Her faced brightened. "You know what, this is actually a good thing. It will give us some time to catch up. Just some mother and son time."

"If you're going away, you aren't going to need this place?" Calypso asked interested in the conversation for the first time.

"I suppose not, I'll have to close the gallery for a bit," my mom said thoughtfully.

Calypso saw her opportunity. "How about me and my friend's stay and watch it for you? That way you can keep it open and we can house-sit and get out of that park?"

"What happened to the summer after the Summer of Love?" I asked.

"It gets cold in the mornings," Calypso admitted. "Speaking of, I'll loan you the van for collateral." It seemed to be a good deal. She and my mother briefly worked out the details.

"There's just one more part of the detail," Calypso said before swapping the van keys for the gallery keys. "You have to take your friend Oswald with you. That fucker is a real downer."
CHAPTER 17

"I'm really sorry about that," my mom apologized to Lee as we drove out of the Bay area. "Tojo so seldom bites."

"It's okay," Lee grumbled holding part of my discarded hospital gown over his bloody hand. After making arrangements with Calypso, we had all walked to the park. Lee, my mom, Tojo and I then piled into the van and departed. When Lee and Tojo had been introduced, the dog had bitten him severely on the hand.

"Say, Richard, are you sure you couldn't find my finger?" Lee asked.

"I looked for it, but couldn't find it," I lied from the passenger seat. I looked in the back of the van where Tojo lay curled up on the floor contentedly gnawing on Lee's detached middle finger. I still had some issues to work out with my mom, but her dog had rapidly found a place in my heart. "It must have rolled under the seat. I'll check again when we stop for lunch."

"So, where did you two meet?" my mom asked trying to change the subject.

"Jail," I answered.

"A bar," Lee answered at the same time.

"Okay," said my mom.

After an uncomfortable silence, I added, "He's not really my friend. He tried to kill the president."

"Richard! That's not a very nice thing to say," my mom scolded.

"Yeah, I'm blind, not deaf," Lee added.

"It's true though!" I said.

"No, it isn't! Well, I mean I didn't try that hard. He died from an accident," Lee argued.

"That's not what Hoover said," I replied. "He said it was more suspicious than that. He called you an assassin. Hell, he even wanted me to go warn Johnson about you."

"President Johnson?" my Mom asked.

"Yeah," I answered. I should have learned better than to show off. The last time I had tried to impress someone it led Lee to ask me to go to Chicago with him to impress the mob. I guess meeting my mom led me to put my better judgment aside. Suddenly, I was telling her and Lee all about my conversation with Hoover and how he had essentially begged me to save the president.

"Well," my mom said. "If the president needs you, maybe you should help."

"How?" I asked.

"Like I said," she explained, "I'm no fan of J. Edgar Hoover, but if he asked you to see the president, then we should go."

"Really?" both Lee and I asked.

"Of course," she said. "I mean, it's not like we have any other place to be."

"I suppose not," I said uncertainly. I could still picture the address Hoover had written on the envelope. "He's in Texas now."

"Texas!" my mom, ever the optimist, said. "Why just think of all the exciting things we could see on the way."

"Yeah Lee, think of those," I said.

"All those landscapes to photograph. I could have a western exhibit for my gallery when I get back," my mom continued on. "How exciting! Boy, I feel like my hero Dorothea Lange."

"But," I said, "what am I supposed to do for the president?"

"Listen, Richard," mom lectured, "you really need to work on your self-confidence. Your father and I won't always be around to help you out of trouble."

"You guys haven't been around!" I blurted out.

My mother's eyes started to tear up. "I told you I was sorry Richard. I did the best I could do."

"God Richard, don't be such a jerk," Lee scolded. Even Tojo was making distressed whines from the back of the van.

"Sorry mom," I apologized. "Please don't cry."

"It's okay," she said cheering up suspiciously quickly. "I know you didn't mean it. But I'm sure President Johnson will be glad to have such a bright and handsome boy to help him."

"Mom, I'm thirty," I tried to point out.

"Plus," said Oswald butting in again on the conversation, "at this point if anyone can get the mob off our backs, it is the President."

I suppose Lee was right. I couldn't keep running from the mob forever. I'd only been doing it for a week or so and I was already exhausted. Dropping in uninvited on the president seemed like an unviable solution to my problem. But, like my mom said, I didn't have anywhere better to be.

* * *

"Don't look so glum," I told Lee. "You got your finger back. And stop fidgeting with it." I was fairly certain the string I had tied as a tourniquet around Lee's severed finger would stop his bleeding. I was also fairly certain that the tape I had used to reattach the finger was, at best, a short-term fix.

"Oh! Kansas City!" my mother exclaimed over the map we had gotten at the gas station across the street. The maps were spread over a table at the diner where we had stopped for a late lunch. "I always wanted to see that giant arch!"

"That's St. Louis, mom," I corrected. "And neither city is anywhere on our way."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure Kansas City has an arch too. After all, that is why they call them the Twin Cities."

"No, they don't, what are you... Mom, are you high?" I asked. Before she could answer, a waitress came over to take our order. I hunched over the maps to block her sight. Since we were still on the run, I didn't want to broadcast our itinerary.

"Don't be so distrusting, Richard," my mom scolded. Then to the waitress. "This is my son, we're going to meet the president."

"Sure, you are," scoffed the waitress. "You're not supposed to have dogs in here," she pointed to Tojo who was napping in my lap.

"He's a seeing eye dog," my mom explained.

"Whatever," the waitress said. "What will you have?"

After we ordered my mom leaned over and said, "She seems very nice. You should go over and talk to her some more."

"Mom, stop treating me like a kid. She is twenty years older than me. Besides, now is not--" I was distracted by a black car pulling into the diner's parking lot. I watched it through the window as the car stopped near our van and two men in suits got out. They went over to our van and inspected it.

"Shit," I swore. "Come on, we all have to go to the bathroom."

"You are really sending out conflicting messages," my mom. "You are plenty old enough to go by yourself."

"No, it's the mob. Or, it might be. I'm not staying around to find out," I pointed out the window.

"Oh," she said getting up and following Lee and I to the diner bathroom. After checking to make sure there was a window, I locked us in and then went and propped the window open. I helped my mom up and out the window who in turn helped Lee down and caught Tojo as I pushed him out. I then scrambled out myself and we made for the edge of the diner.

"Coast is clear," my mom whispered. The two men were either mobsters and had entered the diner to look for us or were innocent travelers who stepped in for a meal. Either way, we successfully made it to the van without them detecting us.

"Just a minute," my mom said and pulled a switchblade out from the front of her dress.

"Jesus Christ Mom!" I said as she slashed the tires on the black car.

"Come on, don't just stand there," my mom said getting in on the driver's side. I got in the passenger side and Tojo jumped in on my lap.

"Kansas City here we come!" my mom yelled tearing out of the parking lot.

* * *

"We should look for a place to stop for a bit," my mom said. Since leaving the diner, our trip had been uneventful. Lee mostly slept, I am pretty sure he had blood poisoning, while my mom and I traded stories about Charlie. The day had started out clear and sunny but was now ominously dark.

"Where are we?" I asked. I had lost track. My mom kept getting sidetracked, I had given up trying to keep our course straight in my mind.

"I'm actually not a hundred percent sure," she answered.

I looked out the window. By now the sky was black, despite it being mid-afternoon. As I was looking at the sky, the clouds opened up and we found ourselves in a downpour.

"Pull over to the side," I suggested to my mom. It would be safer to wait out the storm than trying to drive through it.

Tojo started barking in the back seat. I turned around to see if he had taken another of Lee's fingers. Instead, I saw the giant funnel cloud approaching from behind.

"Is that a tornado?" I asked.

"It certainly looks like it," my mom replied.

"I agree, Mrs. Cox," Lee chimed in who had awakened with Tojo's barking.

"Shut up Lee, you can't even see it," I said.

"Don't tell me to shut up," said Lee. "Mrs. Cox, Richard told me to shut up."

"Richard, that wasn't very nice. Say 'I'm sorry' to your friend," my mom chided.

"I'm thirty years old!" I exclaimed, "And he tried to kill the president!"

General Tojo began to bark more earnestly.

"We can't stay here," my mom said. Let's try to make it to that old farmhouse over there," she said pointing to a dilapidated structure some yards distant on the left side of the road. It, and a half-collapsed barn were the only buildings in sight. "Hopefully there's a cellar or something."

"I'm not sure, Lee and I have had bad luck with farmhouses," I said. But my mother was already out the van and was being followed by Lee and Tojo. It was either follow them or stay by myself in the vehicle and face the tornado alone. I got out and ran after them.

"Oh good!" my mom said as we rounded the house, there was a cellar. "Let's get in and out of the weather. I wonder if there is another family already down there?"

"I hope not," I said. The house did not look very lived in, so I doubted that there was anyone around. But if so, cramming an additional three people and a dog into a basement would be quite uncomfortable. It was going to be hard enough to be stuck underground even by ourselves.

"I'll meet you down there," I said. It occurred to me that we might be stuck there for a while. My stomach was a bit upset. I decided I should use the restroom while I could.

"Hurry up!" advised my mom and she went down the cellar. The door closed behind her. I saw an outhouse just a few yards away and I made my way towards it. It was not in the best of shape, but it was actually cleaner and more comfortable than what I was used to.

I tried to hurry, but I was engaged in a business that could not be rushed. The sounds from outside grew all the more frightful. The outhouse shook back and forth. Suddenly, it collapsed around me. The wooden boards that had composed the roof crashed down on my head knocking me unconscious.

* * *

"Easy Mr. Cox," a voice said to me in the blackness. I awoke into a featureless fog. A hand steadied my shoulder as I sat up.

"Where am I?" I asked. "Who are you?" I asked again. The voice did not belong to either Lee nor my mother. It certainly did not come from Tojo.

"It's your friend, Dillinger," the figure said, and the ghost came into focus. "I told you that I'd be in contact with, remember?"

"Oh yeah," I said rubbing my head. "So, am I dead?" It would just be my luck to die in an outhouse.

"Oh no, not yet," said Dillinger. "I just wanted to check to see what your progress was with my treasure?"

"Treasure? You mean the moonshine? It was no good. It made Oswald blind."

"No, not the moonshine, the gold in the safe next to the moonshine."

"Oh," I said awkwardly. Dillinger was going to be disappointed. "We actually didn't look that carefully--"

"God damn you!" Dillinger raged. I was right about him being disappointed. "I asked you to do one simple thing. Your brother was right! You are the King Midas of Fuck-Ups!"

"Wait, my brother?" I asked.

"Yeah," he's the one who told me about you.

"You know Charlie? Wait, how do I know this just isn't my subconscious?"

"Don't know, don't fucking care," fumed Dillinger. "Ask him yourself if you don't believe me." He snapped his fingers and the fog thinned to reveal another figure.

"Charlie? Is that really you?" I asked. The fog cleared, and I recognized my brother's features. A slightly more handsome and dignified version of my own, or at least, that's how everyone else described them.

"Hey Richard," said Charlie. "Sounds like things didn't go too well with Dillinger. You mess up again?"

"Again? That's a hell of a way to greet me," I said.

"Well, sorry. What did you expect?" Charlie asked. "You've been getting in quite the mess. Dealing with the mob? Bothering mom and dad? Committing murders?"

"Not everything was my fault," I said meekly.

"Yeah, that's what you always say," Charlie said. "But you're getting awfully old for that excuse."

"Don't get the kid too down," said a large fat man coming through the mist. He was naked except for a towel around the waist. "He's the only one who saw through my bitch of a wife."

"Who--" I began.

"Dr. Franklin," the man said extending one hand in introduction while using the other one to adjust his towel. "I was the murder victim."

"Franklin? Oh, sorry. I didn't recognize you un-smushed," I said shaking.

"That's quite all right. Say, you wouldn't by any chance have found any evidence regarding my murder?"

"Alleged murder," said a thin woman coming out of the mist. It may be too generous to call her a woman. She was simply a stick figure with large breasts.

"Shit, Gunderson was right," I mumbled.

"If I was going to murder you," the stick figure said to Dr. Franklin, "I would have done so in a way that didn't kill me. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck with you for all eternity."

"I still haven't made much progress in the case," I said trying to intervene before a domestic dispute broke out.

"That's just like him. The worse employee I ever had," the ghost of O'Sullivan emerged from the mist on my other side. "God knows why I ever hired you or what strings you had to pull to get the job."

"Ask him," I said pointing to Charlie. "And it's not like working for you was any pleasure for me. You were a real pain in the ass."

"You little--" O'Sullivan said starting towards me. He was grabbed from behind by two sets of hands.

"Believe us," said the ghost of Jack Ruby, "it's not worth it."

"It's just better to let him go," Alois' ghost said. "We've learned that the hard way."

"At least he remembers you," said another ghost emerging from the mist. "I bet he doesn't even know who I am."

He was right, I could not recognize him at all.

"Bill Houston?" the man said. "From Minneapolis?"

"Sorry," I said, "the name doesn't ring a bell, but I wasn't there that long. I couldn't have--"

"You and your friends set me on fire in the tunnels!" he yelled.

"Oh yeah," I said. "Sorry about that. I guess we did burn you up pretty good."

"You fucker. I had a wife and three kids!"

"Hell, Richard," Charlie said. "Making friends like usual?"

"Hey, most of these are only, at best, indirectly related to me."

"And like I said," Dr. Franklin added, "he's my best hope in clearing my name." Finally, a shrink that took my side. I was beginning to feel bad that he was murdered.

"He's my best hope as well," a voice with a thick Boston accent came through the mist. A tall dignified shadow followed the voice. It emerged from the mist revealing the late President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

"Mister President!" I said. "It's an honor!"

"The honor is all mine," said the President. "I have taken great satisfaction in watching you torment Lee Harvey Oswald."

"You're welcome, but I can't take all of the credit, Tojo deserves some."

"But Richard, the forces that ended my life are still at large," the President continued sadly. "They will not rest until they destroy the work that I began."

"What can I do?" I said throwing up my hands. "Ask the rest of these guys, I fuck up everything."

"Richard," J.F.K. said staring me straight in the eyes. "I ask this from you not because it is easy, but because it is hard."

"Now you sound like my mom with all of the self-confidence crap," I moaned.

"Your mom? She's the hot hippie chick who ran out on that one senator from the Midwest, right? I remember her."

"Yeah, that's her," I said uncomfortably.

"Nice," said Kennedy.

"Easy there, Jack, she's my mom too," Charlie said. "How's she doing by the way?" he asked turning to me.

"Oh fine."

"And Valarie," he asked. "Have you seen her?"

"Why, what have you heard?" I asked.

"I just asked if she was okay. Don't get weird about it," he said. Then his brow furled, and a frown crossed his face. "Wait, have you been messing around with my wife?"

"Not really," I said a moment too late to sound convincing.

"You fucker!" Charlie yelled.

"Now, there's nothing wrong with sharing between brothers. Why Bobby and I--"

"Shut up!" Charlie yelled. "I'm going to kill you!" he said turning to me.

"Whoa there!" Dr. Franklin said dropping his towel to hold Charlie back.

"I'm going to tear apart your fucking ass!" Charlie yelled at me.

"Too soon," said O'Sullivan returning into the mist.

"This," Dillinger said coming up to me, "well, this had just been far less productive than I would have liked. Remember: Wisconsin, treasure, focus this time," he said. Then snapped his fingers.

* * *

I awoke to General Tojo liking my face. His awful breath brought me quickly back to the world of the living. I sat up and pushed the boards of the ruined outhouse of me. Tojo barked expectantly.

"What is it boy, is mom in trouble?" I asked. The storm must have been over for some time, the sky was clear, and it was warm and sunny out. I looked around for signs of the house or our van. There was only a pile of rubble where the house had been. I found the cellar door and opened it.

"Mom?" I called down and received no reply. I began to sweat with dread. I had an uneasy feeling. I next inspected the van. Luckily, it had been untouched by the storm. Unluckily, there was no one in it.

"I knew we should have just stayed here," I said starting the van and beginning down the road slowly. I hoped to find my traveling companions further down the road. After all, I thought, recalling my experience in the Wisconsin woods, when lost the best thing one can do is wander around until you find help.

I went a mile or so until I saw a lone figure out in a field. I braked and got out of the van and ran towards it.

"Lee!" I exclaimed when I got within shouting distance. "Over here!"

"Richard!" Lee yelled out. "Is that you? What happened?"

"What do you mean what happened?" I asked. "We were in a tornado. Where's my mother?"

"Your mom?" Lee said, "Why, I thought she was with you?"

"With me? No, she went down in the cellar with you!" I said tersely.

"Yeah, but you didn't come down, so she went out to get you," said Lee. "No one came back. I figured you had abandoned me underground and I panicked and got out. I've just been wandering since then hoping to get to a town. Did I?"

"Did you what? Get to a town? Of course not, you are standing in a fucking field!" I yelled at him. "Why didn't you stop my mom?"

"Stop her?" asked Lee. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Not again," I moaned sinking to my knees. Once again, I had been left by my mother. This time it appeared to be an act of the weather that separated us. Still, I could not help but feel abandoned all over again. I thought back to when my mother said she had wanted to accompany me west. I agreed against my better judgment. She had been so excited to follow in the footsteps of her idol Dorothea Lange. Instead, she had gone the way of a different Dorothy.

"There's no sign of her?" asked Lee.

"Nothing," I said sadly.

Just then Tojo leapt up and bit Lee's taped finger off again. I chuckled, but only halfheartedly. Even Tojo's antics weren't enough to cheer me up.

"God damn it. Why not her little dog too?" Lee yelled.

CHAPTER 18

After much deliberation, Oswald and I decided that I should drive us the rest of the way to Texas. Neither of us were excited by the prospect given the accident I had caused the last time, but given Lee's condition, I seemed to be the least dangerous option.

"Don't buckle your seat belt," I advised Lee getting into the car. "In case there's another accident you'll want to be able to get out of the car quickly."

"Good thinking," Lee said sarcastically. I could tell by the way that he gripped his seat, all nine of his knuckles were white, that it was going to be a stressful journey for him. Tojo yipped expectantly wondering where my mother was. He paced back and forth in the back of the van looking for her. Personally, I was feeling quite Zen about the entire trip. I'd already lost my mother for the second time, I assumed that there was little worse that could happen. Like many of my assumptions that August, I was wrong.

I surprised both of us by not crashing the car for the rest of the trip. This was especially surprising as I used the full power of the van to exceed the speed limit in order to make up for time lost due to the tornado. My mother may have been interested in seeing the countryside, but neither I nor Lee was. Without getting sidetracked, we made excellent time. We made no stops, other than for gas until we reached the Texas border at evening the day after the tornado. Lee and Tojo were sleeping already and I was struggling to stay awake myself. Suddenly up ahead I saw a bunch of shadowy white figures.

"Shit Lee!" I said shaking him awake. "There are more ghosts up ahead."

"More?" asked Lee groggily waking up.

At first, I assumed that my dead brother had found me again, but as I got closer I saw that these figures were even more sinister.

"Shit Lee!" I repeated. "It's worse than ghosts, it's the Klan!"

"Fuck!" said Lee. "I forgot how horrible the south is."

"Forgot?" I asked.

"Uh, never mind," he said quickly and turned away.

I had no time to pursue questioning him. Klan members holding torches bridged the road forcing me to stop. I had no other option than to roll down the window as one came up to the driver's side.

"Welcome to Texas boys," mumbled the man through his hood. "You're driving awfully fast."

"Why the hell do you have torches? It's 1968, splurge on a flashlight," I answered in turn. But I suppose the Klan is nothing if not traditional.

"It sounds like you're not from here," the Klan member said.

"No crime in that," I said tersely.

"Just two members of the white race trying to get through," Lee added.

"We'll see about that," said the hooded man. "You've been hanging around any Blacks, Jews, Catholics or Homosexuals?"

"Shit," mumbled Lee under his breath. "Lately, we've been exclusively associating with them."

"Shut the fuck up Lee!" I hissed.

"We don't take that kindly to that kind of language here mister," said the man. He leaned in the window and took a closer look at Lee.

"Sir, are you all right? Did this hippie kidnap you?"

"At this point, he's one of the few people who hasn't imprisoned me," said Lee.

"Shut up Lee!" I snapped at him again. Then turning to the hooded man, "Don't pay any attention to him. Those scars are just from a bear."

"Bear? Was it a black bear?" asked the Klan member.

I didn't think his ursine and asinine question warranted an answer.

"You better come take a look at this," another K.K.K. member said coming up to the one interrogating us.

"What's up their ass?" Lee asked when they left.

The Klan member, assuming it was the same one, it was hard to tell given their hoods, came rushing back.

"Get out of the van! Get out!" he yelled furiously.

"What the hell for?" I asked. I had been captured and taken prisoner by a variety of groups. I was not going to give the K.K.K. their chance.

The Klan member was trying to open the locked van door.

"Why don't you just go on home and put your dick back into your sister," I suggested tersely holding onto the handle.

"You come down here, to our home," the man was muttering, "and try to get us to elect a--"

"Fucking O'Sullivan," I muttered. It was suddenly clear that they had seen the "HELP ELECT ELDRIDGE CLEAVER" sprawled on the van side. Apparently, they had a better sense of the current political scene than the people living in Utah. Impersonating a Mormon was not going to get me out of this mess.

"Fuck this," I suddenly said. I was upset and exhausted from losing my mother. I didn't have the patience to deal with these bigots. I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal.

"Stop!" the hooded man yelled trying to pull me out of the seat. The van lurched forward dragging him along. The Klan members in front of me hesitated. They then tried to leap to the side. One on the right managed to get into the ditch, but the one on the left and in the middle had hesitated too long.

"What was that?" asked Lee as the van jolted up and we heard a loud popping sound. I didn't answer him as I was too busy trying to free myself from the grasp of the Klan member who had stopped us. I wished I had followed Lee's example and buckled my seat belt earlier. The Klan member was now hanging on more in fear of his life than to try to remove me from the moving van. With my one free hand, I poked my thumb as hard as I could through his hood and into his eye.

"Oh God!" he yelled.

"Oh gross!" I yelled. My thumb had popped his eye making a stomach-turning popping sound. I yanked it out and wiped it on his robes. He made one last grasp for the steering wheel. I saw my opportunity and pushed him away and he fell out of the van. I slammed the door shut as I felt the back wheel go over his legs.

"What's going on Richard?" Lee asked.

"Don't worry about it," I said wiping my thumb against the van seat. I remembered how much he moped about Alois' death and couldn't stand another one of his tantrums. Worst assassin ever. My thumb still felt all gross and sticky from being inside the Klan members head.

"Oh, that's good," said Lee settling back down to sleep. "I was beginning to worry.""That's a good boy," I said to Tojo who had come up to the front seat and was licking the remaining eye jelly from my thumb.

"What?" Lee asked.

"Not you," I said.

* * *

"Here's the problem," I said pulling out a bloody white cloth from the undercarriage of the van. The front of the van had started to smoke after our run-in with the Klan. I had pulled over to the side of the road to see what the matter was.

"Can you fix it?" Lee asked.

"No, I don't think so," I said dropping the bloodied robe into the ditch. Tojo happily pounced on it and started to roll on it. "We shouldn't be that far," I added. Based on my mom's road maps, Lyndon B. Johnson's ranch should just be down the road. "There's nothing for it but to walk I guess."

"Just like old times," Lee muttered as the three of us headed down the road.

"Yeah, what was that, like two weeks ago? Less?" I had certainly gone through a series of implausible events of late.

"It's been a hell of a time no matter how long it's been," said Lee.

It must have been near midnight when we neared the ranch. I saw a gated drive leading to a large house. I shoved Lee down into the ditch.

"What the hell Richard?" he said loudly.

"Shut up," I whispered trying to see if there were any suits guarding the gate up ahead."

"Do you see anyone? Any mobsters?" Lee asked.

"I don't know," I answered. Secret Service would be more likely, but if what J.F.K.'s ghost said was true, the Mafia was a possibility as well. Given the fact that I was traveling with a former assassin, it would be a safe assumption that we would not receive a favorable welcome either way. It was best to just leave the gatehouse alone.

"Is there another way in?" Lee asked.

"Why are you so eager to get in?" I asked suspiciously. "Say, this time, can you try to not assassinate anyone?"

"I'm just exhausted and don't want to spend the night in a ditch with you on top of me," hissed Lee.

"Thank God you're blind," I said.

"Hey, I am still a good shot with or without my eyes," said Lee.

"God damn it, Lee, you're not convincing me. I should have just left you in the van." But it was too late to go back. Like Lee, I was tired and just wanted to get inside and rest. I hoped that President Johnson had extra guest rooms.

I crawled through the shrub and grassy field alongside the road. After several yards, the gated fence gave way to a short-barbed wire fence. I crawled through.

"Ouch, my scrotum!" Lee gasped as the wire caught him in the crotch. I hushed him as Tojo squirmed under. Luckily, there was no moon out, we were able to make our way across the dark yard to the house.

"Do we go through the front door?" I asked as we huddled behind a bush.

"How the fuck should I know?

"Well, I figure out of the two, you have the most experience at avoiding the Secret Service."

"How many times are you going to throw that in my face?" Lee said. "Aren't you a senator's son? Shouldn't you know the etiquette for meeting a politician?"

"We can't just waltz in there. We have to be careful. Especially if Hoover and J.F.K.'s ghost are right that there's something sinister afoot."

"J.F.K.'s ghost?" Lee asked. I had not told him all the details about my visit with the spirits. "What the fuck are you talking about? And also, 'sinister afoot?' What are you, Sher-cock Holmes?" Lee said exasperatedly.

"Well, that would make you, um," I thought furiously, "um, Dr. Twat-son."

"If I'm Twatson, then you are Francis Prick," Lee shot back. I had not expected him to pull a Nobel Prize winner out of the air.

"Ha!" I exclaimed thinking it through, Lee had punned himself into a corner. "Watson is the bigot of the two! I win!"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Lee. "Scientists can't be racist."

"Of course, they can," I snapped back. I wish Clarence had been there, he'd have agreed with me. "Here goes nothing," I said and summoned up my courage to knock on the door. But my hand shot back down. I couldn't do it. "Let's try the back," I said.

We crawled across the ground to the back of the house. Tojo suddenly barked.

"Quiet!" Tojo I hissed. He ignored me and ran ahead and was greeted by a beagle. After a noisy introduction, two other dogs bounded out a collie and a mutt. Tojo sniffed butts with them all. He was quickly accepted by his new friends and Lee and I followed the pack to the back door with a doggy door at the bottom.

"This is more like it," I said crawling through the door. Lee grunted from behind.

"Mr. President?" I called out. There was no response

"Maybe he's not here," said Lee.

"Or maybe he's in danger," I said. "Either way, something is wrong." We wandered around the first floor and encountered no one. I had no idea where the dogs went off to. I hoped Tojo was being careful. We went up the main staircase to the second floor.

"Look," I said to Lee, there's a light coming from under that door.

"I can't look Richard. Stop rubbing it in my face," snapped Lee. I gave him a push to the door. The light was dim, but we could hear movement behind the door.

"I don't even care if there's no one in here," said Lee "I'm exhausted." He knocked on the door. "Hello, anyone in there?" He called out. There was no response, so he grabbed the door handle and pushed it open.

There was a loud shot and Lee screamed and bent in half.

"Good God Lee!" I said kneeling to his side. "What happened?"

"Who's out there?" yelled a man from the room. "There's plenty more where that came from you cock-sucking commies!"

"Agent Richard Cox! Bureau of Responsible Masturbation!" I called out. "Don't shoot, I'm a federal agent!"

"What? A federal agent?" said the voice. "Shit son, I'm sorry I unloaded on you all. Come on in."

I grabbed Lee by one hand and pulled him into the room. The room was a library. Or I should say it had been a library. Books and papers were scattered all over the place. There was an overturned desk in one corner of the room. The man got up from crouching behind it, I recognized the tall figure. I dropped Lee and saluted.

"Good evening Mr. President!" I greeted Lyndon Johnson.
CHAPTER 19

"Here," said L.B.J. handing me an old newspaper. "You'd better put this under your friend. If he bleeds out on the carpet Ladybird will have both our balls." I spread the newspaper on the floor and then lugged Lee onto it.

"Sorry that we barged in on you," I said, "we couldn't find anyone downstairs."

"Who are you exactly?" asked L.B.J. I reintroduced myself and Lee. L.B.J. listened attentively to the short version of our adventures.

"So, Hoover sent you? Or was it Humphrey?" L.B.J. asked. "Both of them have been riding my nuts. Can't do enough to please either of them. Humphrey wants my endorsement, and Hoover, well God knows what the cocksucker wants. You should listen to the tapes he sends."

"He tried to give me one," I answered.

"I can't get any peace or quiet from either of them. And then there is the rest of the God damn country. And fucking Vietnam. Ladybird said go to Texas, take a break from it all, but even here I find myself a prisoner in my own house. Death threats in the mail, every day there is someone barging in, or in your case, the night."

"Sorry about that," I apologized again. "The ghost of J.F.K. said--"

"Jesus Christ son, now there are ghosts?"

"Well, it turns out that his death wasn't quite the accident as it was portrayed," I tried to explain.

"Listen, I was there when they found him," L.B.J. explained, "I had to call his brother. What do you think you can tell me that I don't already know?" he said. A tired expression came across his face and he placed the rifle on the upturned desk. I hesitated to tell him what I knew and who Lee actually was. It seemed wrong to add to his troubles.

"We actually came across some evidence that there was an assassin after him," I tried to begin.

"I've heard all the conspiracy theories," the President continued ignoring me. "They say that it couldn't be the Dallas Handshake, that Kennedy had too many women to resort to that. Bullshit! I've laid more women on accident than the Kennedy brothers did on purpose."

I was unable to respond to this. He went over to a bucket in the corner and pulled down his pants and started to defecate. I was unsure whether to leave the room or not.

'Uhm, would you like--" I began.

"Do you have any idea how hard it's been trying to get anything done with something like this hanging over the White House? I pushed through his Civil Rights Bill though, cost me all my friends in the South though. Did anyone thank me? Hell no. No one but me had the balls to get the job done." He finished and pulled his pants up. "Finally, I had enough of it. To hell with it all, let someone else struggle with it. If Humphrey wants it, he can have it. They aren't going to have old Lyndon left to kick around. What did Old Humphrey say to you anyway?"

"Well, to tell the truth, he thought we were nuts," I admitted.

"Did he at that?" chuckled the President. "Well, I suppose you are. But you seem like a harmless nut. Even though you went sneaking around at night."

"Well, my mom thought it'd be good for my self-esteem," I answered. "She thought I could help you out."

"Did she? Well, what exactly how did you expect to do that?"

"I was going to bring you, Lee, here," I nudged him on the newspaper with my foot. "He was hired to assassinate the president. The old one I mean."

"So," L.B.J. said hesitantly, "You thought you'd help me by bringing an assassin to my house? Maybe you aren't so harmless."

"Well, he claims he didn't do it. And he's blind. I think he also has some bear related trauma as well."

"I can see what Hoover saw in you," L.B.J. said. "He really has a soft spot for weirdos."

So far, meeting the president was not the self-confidence boost my mother had predicted.

"Well, I can't send you out," said the president. "Your friend is in no condition to move. And I've had enough drama I don't need the news of a shooting getting out. Make yourself at home."

I took his advice and settled down on the floor next to Lee. He was still alive as evidenced by his shallow breathing. He uttered a few moans now and again but otherwise was silent. It was going to be up to me to make conversation with the president.

"So, do you like being president?" I offered lamely.

"Do I like... does it look like I like being president?" L.B.J. sputtered and gestured to his disarrayed library. "Have you not listened to a thing I've said?"

I decided to try a different tactic. It was a last resort and I was reluctant to bring him up, but I had to do something to salvage the impression I was making.

"Say, maybe you know my dad. He used to be a senator. Harold Cox?"

"What? You're Harry's son?" L.B.J. said cheering up. "Hell, I knew Harry, we were in the Senate together. Well, why didn't you say something sooner? Here, have a drink!" He handed me a flask next to the bucket he defecated in. I cautiously took it and had a sip.

"Oh God," I muttered to myself. I few more sips and I'd be blind as Lee.

L.B.J. took no notice. "Whatever happened to old Harry?" he asked. "He just disappeared all of a sudden. I heard his wife left him and he had some trouble with his son."

"No, that wasn't the case," I replied. "My brother did not die until well after my dad left politics."

"Boy, I and Harry had some good times," L.B.J. said settling into an armchair and taking a sip from a different flask he had on a bookshelf. "Why, this one time..." he began a story about him and my father from back when they were both in Washington. Lee had started coughing up blood, so I went over to his side and tried to turn him to make sure he didn't choke and was as comfortable as possible. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

All of our preparations led to this night...

I had picked up my Detective Hancock book. The president had run out of stories, but the sound of voices seemed to help Lee relax. Besides, I couldn't bear to hear any more about my father, I hoped the adventures of Hancock would distract us all.

...Cynthia and I walked arm in arm up to the mansion. She was dressed in an elegant gown, cut in a way that I was able to look down the front if I held my head just right-

"That's the way to do it," mumbled Johnson half asleep.

Myself, I was dressed in a tuxedo. It had been a hard squeeze, I had not worn it in years, but Cynthia was adamant that the zookeeper's ball was an elegant event. We'd have to dress the part if we wanted to catch her uncle's killer.

"Invitations," a butler stopped us at the front door of the mansion.

"Mr. Jones and his niece," Cynthia answered. I kept my face downcast hoping no one would notice that I was not the late Dr. Jones.

"My apologies sir," the butler said. "I was under the impression you were deceased. Right this way," he said allowing us into the house.

"What do we do now?" Cynthia asked me once we were in the main room. An orchestra played quietly in the corner while the city's zookeepers mingled and danced.

"First, we need to get into zoological society library and access Victor's secret compartment," I answered. "Once we get your Uncle's real will out of hiding we can confront Victor in front of all his fellow zookeepers."

"Of course," Cynthia replied. "Once they see how vile he is, they will have no choice but to begin the Great Shunning Ceremony."

'Shunning ceremony?' this woman's delusions were as big as her tits.

"No, then we hand him to the police."

"Of course," Cynthia said blushing. "That is what I meant."

"There," I said letting go of her arm, "that looks like Victor over there," I pointed to a stern young man across the room. "You go distract him while I make my way to the library." I watched her glide across the room, momentarily envious of Victor.

I quietly stole across to the other side of the room and up the elegant staircase. I turned at the top and made to the library. I opened the door and caught my breath in surprise, it was huge, much larger than I expected. The secret compartment was supposed to be hidden under one of the shelves, it was going to take some time to find out which.

I was on my knees running my hands along the bottom of a shelf when I felt a large hand on my shoulder. I looked up.

"Professor Giggles!" I said shocked to see the orangutan in formal wear standing in front of me. "What are you doing here?" Before I had a chance to wiggle from his grasp, he threw me into the shelf. I knocked my head, and everything went black.

When I woke up, I found myself tied back to back with Cynthia in the library.

"Professor Giggles!" I snarled. "How could you betray Dr. Jones like this!"

"Oh, but he didn't," said a figure emerging from around the shelf. "He and Victor did exactly what I asked them to."

Cynthia gasp in shock. "Uncle? I thought you were dead!"

"Yes," chuckled the man revealed as Dr. Jones. "I bet you were upset. But not as upset as you were when you found that I had left all of my fortune. and the zoo, to my successor, Victor."

"Wait," I said. "Cynthia, is this true?"

"Well," she stammered. "I don't care what the will said. I'm his family, not Victor!"

"Some family!" Dr. Jones said sarcastically. "Always galivanting around town. Asking for handouts. And what did you use that money for?" he said sneering and gesturing to her breasts. "At least Victor tries to do good for the world through his conservation work."

"Hey, good is all in the eye of the beholder," I said coming to Cynthia's defense. I quite liked what I beheld. My fingers struggled behind me to try to untie the knot. They glanced over Cynthia's ass. Her buttocks were not as supple as her breasts, but they were enough to distract me.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

"Um, trying to escape," I hissed back. "Buy us some more time," I ordered.

"But Uncle," she said, "I would never kill you."

"No, I knew you were bad, but not that diabolical," her uncle continued. "The real reason that actually concocted this elaborate ploy was to get your attention, Mr. Hancock."

"Me?" I stopped fumbling at the knots in shock. "But why?"

"It's hard to settle an old score with a famous detective like yourself," Hancock explained. "But what happens if some stranger breaks into the Zoological Society? And if that intruder was torn apart by Professor Giggles in self-defense?"

"Ugh," grunted Giggles cracking his knuckles eagerly.

"But why him?" asked Cynthia confused.

"I promised a woman very dear to me, before she went into the insane asylum, that I'd punish the sleazy bastard who broke her heart and abandoned her with child," Dr. Jones said glaring at me.

"Did she have a tattoo?" I racked my brain trying to figure which one of the many women from my past he was referring to. I had numerous ex-girlfriends and limiting them to the ones in insane asylums did not narrow the list down much.

"She was my sister. And I knew," continued Dr. Jones, "that as soon as she needed help, her daughter, my slutty niece, would turn to the one person her mother told her to in times of trouble: her father!"

Both Cynthia and I stiffened. Suddenly, I was sick to my stomach. My own daughter. All that time I had spent ogling her breasts, all the times I had mentally undressed her, every excuse I contrived to touch her--

"Jesus!" Johnson interrupted me. "What is this smut?"

I had to agree. This was the second Hancock book in a row with an incest theme. It was a trope that was starting to get old. Plus, knowing now what I did about its author, a lot of the mystery and magic had gone from the novels.

"You know," I said. "I don't think I care for Detective Hancock that much anymore. Say, Lee, do you still have that copy of Catcher in the Rye?" Perhaps I'd been too hasty in judging it.

"Water, please," moaned Lee.

"Oh, Mr. President, do you have a glass of water?" I asked him. It looked like Lee didn't have much longer.

"Yeah, just go down the hall to the restroom," L.B.J. answered casually.

"Wait," I asked with a confused glance at the bucket he had defecated in. "If we can leave the library, why did you"

"OSWALD! WE KNOW YOU ARE IN THERE?" a voice with a heavy Chicagoan accent yelled out from outside the house.

"Who the hell is it now," L.B.J. asked going over to the window. I followed him and looked out into the backyard where a black car and two men in suits were standing.

"Shit," I swore. "It's the mob."

"The mob?" L.B.J. asked.

"Get out! We know you are in there!" the mobster yelled up to us.

"Don't worry son," Johnson said dismissively. "I'll show you how we handle the Mafia down here in Texas. Why, come into a man's home, yelling at God damn what hour in the morning?" he mumbled opening the door to the library. The pack of dogs came bounding in.

"Why hi Blanco, hi Yuki, good morning Edgar," he said greeting the dogs, and momentarily forgetting about the Mafia. "And who's this? A new friend? What a good boy!" he said picking up Tojo.

"Richard," gasp Oswald. "I don't think I'm going to make it."

"I don't think so either," I answered.

"Well come on," said Johnson interrupting us. "You came here to help me, didn't you? Well, are you going to help or stand there and piss and moan? Here," he said to Lee handing him the rifle from the desk. Make yourself useful."

"I don't think that is a good idea," I answered.

"Don't worry, Yuki is a seeing eye dog," said Johnson. "Now come on!"

"Richard!" Lee said trying to grab me before I left. His hands missed, and he clutched empty air. "Richard! Tell my wife that I--"

"Wife?" I stammered as Johnson dragged me out the door.
CHAPTER 20

I reluctantly followed the president downstairs and into the backyard. Up close, the two mobsters were all the more threatening. However, Lyndon B. Johnson was not to be deterred.

"What the hell is the big idea? It's nearly six in the fucking morning!" yelled the president. "I ought to--" he began and then looked around the corner of the ranch house to where his gate lay destroyed. "What did you cocksuckers do to my gate!"

"Listen, old man," said one mobster. "We only have instructions about Oswald and his friend. Rossi told us to tell you to stay out of this and we'll not make trouble for you."

"Not make trouble? Do you know what Ladybird is going to do when she sees that gate?" yelled Johnson.

"You," said the other mobster pointing at me with his gun, "where's your friend? Where's Oswald?"

"You take the two on the right, and I'll take two on the left," said the president took another sip out of a flask before he put it back into his jacket. However, I was in no condition to take on anyone, particularly an armed mobster.

"Where the hell is the Secret Service?" I hissed to the president. I could not believe I was desperate enough to ask for their help.

"I sent them away days ago," Johnson said dismissively rolling up his sleeves. "Couldn't make a drink to save their lives."

I debated on whether I should just give in to the mobsters in order to spare the president. This was due less to any amount of patriotism, rather it seemed the path of the least resistance. It was me and an inebriated Johnson versus two armed mobsters; there was no sense in delaying the inevitable.

"Listen," I called out to them, "if Oswald and I give ourselves up peacefully, then--" I was interrupted by one of the mobsters.

"Who the hell is that?" the mobster on the left said to his partner pointing to another black car coming through Johnson's destroyed gate.

I looked apprehensively at the approaching car. By the mobster's reaction, it was clear that it was not additional Mafia. I could only hope that by some miracle it would be someone to save me. However, such a hope seemed far too optimistic considering my recent run of luck.

The car slowed to a grassy patch equal distance from the two mobsters and the President and me. The two back doors opened revealing Vice President Humphrey and Senator Eugene McCarthy.

"Mr. President," McCarthy called out, "this has gone on far enough. You need to let us know before the convention begins tomorrow who you are going to endorse: me or Humphrey."

"Sorry Lyndon," apologized Humphrey, "I know how you wanted your privacy and all, and here we are, barging in bright and early... say," he said noticing me, "haven't I seen you before?"

Before I could answer, the front doors of the car opened, and the two Minnesota sheriffs jumped out.

"Careful," I heard one of the mobster's mutter to his partner, "they now have a second shooter on that grassy knoll."

"You!" yelled one of the sheriffs, "I knew you were no good!"

"Get down!" yelled his brother rushing over to the Vice President, "he's an assassin!"

"Another one?" asked Johnson. I couldn't tell if he was referring to me, or to the twin sheriffs.

"They're the assassins!" I yelled pointing at the two mobsters. The sheriff aiming at me seemed hesitant to believe me, but noticing I was unarmed while the two mobsters were not, he switched aim from me to them.

"Hold on," said Humphrey, "what all is going on here?"

"These cocksuckers fucked up my gate!" yelled Johnson. "Me and Old Harry Cox's boy were just about to jam their tiny peckers up their assholes."

The eight of us found ourselves in a tense standoff. Johnson and I were at one point, the president rearing to wreak vengeance for his destroyed gate, me ready to shit myself in fear. Across from us on when side stood the two sheriffs flanked by the candidates. On the other side of us stood the two mobsters. I thought back to my interview with Don Rossi and how he explained how he had set Oswald and I to "solve" his Minnesota problem. Now, two of his henchmen stood in front of us, wondering if they should follow their original plan of bringing Oswald and I back for punishment, or whether they should try to solve the Minnesota problem themselves.

One of the mobsters made a slow movement to his gun holster. I held my breath waiting to see who was going to be the target when we were interrupted, once again, by the approach of another set of vehicles.

"What the hell?" muttered McCarthy.

Two pickup trucks were zooming over the broken gate and through the driveway towards us. In the beds of each truck were half a dozen or so white-robed Klan members.

"That's him boys!" yelled one of the K.K.K. members. His hood only had one eyehole. That's the integrationist that ran me over!"

"More friends of yours?" asked Johnson.

"They must have found our van," I muttered.

Now, the armed members of our original group, the mobsters, and the two sheriffs, were unsure of where to aim their weapons.

"Listen, calm down everyone," Humphrey called out. "You all know whose home this is."

"You know Hubert, I'm not as popular down here any more thanks to you liberals," muttered Johnson.

"We sure do," yelled out the Klan leader. Figures that the president is an Eldridge Cleaver supporter."

"Cleaver?" asked McCarthy, "hell, I thought it was going to be one of us two."

"Easy," said Humphrey not to be deterred. "Let's just all lower our guns and--"

A shot rang out from above sending up a cloud of dirt in the center of the yard.

"Fucking Oswald," I said to myself. Even as he died he managed to cause trouble.

* * *

All hell broke loose with Oswald's shot. The mobsters fired at the Minnesotans while the sheriffs returned fire. As the first round of shots were exchanged, the K.K.K. trucks revved their engines and started towards us.

"The president!" yelled Humphrey and McCarthy who had been pushed behind their car for protection by the Sheriffs. "Protect the president!"

Instead of waiting for protection, however, Johnson had leapt into action.

"This way," he yelled grabbing me by the shoulder. We raced over across the yard, I followed him as he slipped into a shed.

"Get in!" he shouted. In the dim light, I made out the outlines of several cars. Rather than one of the stately Lincolns, Johnson had opened the driver's door to a light blue convertible. I would have preferred something sturdier, perhaps with a roof that could offer more protection, but I was in no position to complain. I leapt into the passenger's seat as Johnson set the car in gear and roared out of the garage.

We cut in front of one of the Klan pickup trucks and pulled out ahead. I looked behind and saw the two trucks following us along with one of the black cars; I couldn't make out if it belonged to the Mafia or the Minnesotans.

"Open up the glove compartment," the President ordered. I pulled the latch and the door to the compartment swung open revealing a minibar.

"There we go," Johnson muttered happily taking a drink.

"Jesus, I know you are the president and all, but have you considered talking to someone? Maybe cutting back while you're driving?"

"Hell no! Fucking shrinks!" the President muttered.

I could drink to that. I mixed myself one as a gunshot roared out and took out our windshield.

"Cock suckers!" Johnson yelled out shaking his fist at the vehicles chasing us. I glanced behind, the Klan members were yelling and brandishing rifles and shotguns. Another shot rang out and I ducked as it grazed our hood.

"Underneath your seat," the president said. I reached under my seat and came up with a pistol and a box of ammunition. I had not fired a gun since my time on the range during Scout camp way back. And like most of the week's activities, I had not been very successful at it. However, since at the moment, any thought was liable to be my last, I decided to not dwell on my many past failures. Instead, I gripped the gun, closed my eyes, and fired.

"That's a boy!" the President said chuckling. "Keep at it, I have a trick that will make them shit their trousers."

Johnson swerved the car through a field scattering the cattle that were grazing there. In between shooting, I took a look at the cows to make sure I didn't recognize any from Alois' farm.

"Watch it!" I yelled out to Johnson. He was headed straight towards a cattle pond. However, he was too drunk to notice.

"Daddy!" I yelled in panic. I don't know if Johnson was right about our pursuer's shitting their trousers, but I certainly shat mine. It was Sandusky all over again.

"What do you think of that!" Johnson said laughing. Rather than sinking, the car floated. In fact, it was being propelled to the middle of the pond.

"What--" I began to ask.

"Amphibious car!" Johnson answered still laughing at his joke. "That ought to throw them for a loop."

I looked behind me at the three vehicles. Rather than follow us in, they had simply pulled up to the edge of the pond. Shots rang out and hit the sides of our car causing Johnson and I to duck.

"What do we do now?" I asked.

Johnson was at a loss for words. He pressed a button and the convertible's hood began to raise.

"What else?" I asked. Out the window, I could see one of the trucks beginning to circle the edge of the pond to catch us on the other side. We were caught.

"Well," said Johnson, "I was afraid of this. Ever since they got Kennedy I knew they'd be coming after me eventually."

"I thought you said it was an accident?" I asked.

Johnson ignored me. "But they aren't going to get their hands on old Lyndon. By God, they aren't! We're going out in our own way. Should I do you, or do you want to do me first??"

"What?" I asked.

Johnson just nodded towards the gun in my hand. I moaned. All I had wanted was to solve a murder in Cleveland. And maybe get promoted out of the B.R.M., perhaps to a job that would impress Valarie. We'd have three or four kids and then we'd retire to an old farmhouse in the countryside and I'd die quietly in bed of old age, surrounded by my son-nephews and daughter-nieces. Instead, here I was, in God-forsaken Texas, about to be in a partner in a murder-suicide with the president.

"Well, don't just sit there hogging the piece," complained the President.

I was not like Oswald, I could not bring myself to be an assassin. I brought the gun up to my temple. I looked out of the car window for one last glance at the outside world. The vision that greeted me was a truck full of K.K.K. members yelling horrible racial epitaphs at me.

"Figures," I muttered. It was just my luck that this was the way I was going to leave the world.

However, after a lifetime of disappointment, my luck suddenly changed. The truck full of Klan members suddenly exploded into flames.

"What the hell?" Johnson muttered. A whistling noise came through the air and the black car next to the debris of the truck exploded. I spun back around and looked out the shattered windshield. A flock of black helicopters was approaching. The second pickup truck of Klan members that were trying to head us off also saw the approaching copters and stopped in its tracks. It saved their lives, at least for a moment. Another missile hit the ground right in front of them. The robed members leapt out of the truck and began to run for their lives. Two helicopters turned towards them and began to gun them down. Their white robes exploded in bright bursts of red. The third helicopter hovered towards us.

"Cox! Are you in there? Is the president okay?" a voice through a megaphone shouted down at us from one of the helicopters.

If I hadn't already emptied my bowels myself when Johnson drove us into the pond, the shock of hearing the familiar voice would have caused me to soil myself in surprise. I stuck my head out of the window and squinted up at the helicopter.

"Cohen? Is that you?"
CHAPTER 21

"Do you need a minute?" Cohen asked. He and I stood in L.B.J.'s library. Oswald's body lay on the floor in front of us, the rifle by his side. The dogs had already done a number on the corpse, it was covered in feces and urine.

"No, I think I'm okay," I said gripping the towel around my waist tighter. My pants had been unsalvageable.

My trousers were not the only casualties of the morning. Over a dozen K.K.K. members had been killed around the cattle pond. The remains of one mobster were found in the wreckage. The other one lay where the sheriffs had shot him. Except for a bullet in one of the sheriff's legs, the Minnesotan's were unharmed.

"Agent Cohen?" Hubert Humphrey asked coming up behind us. Cohen shook hands with the vice president. "I just wanted to thank you for your service," said Humphrey.

"How's the president?" Cohen asked.

"He's fine, just exhausted and hungover," said Humphrey. "But under the conditions, we sent him back to D.C. Mrs. Johnson will sort him out."

"I hope she doesn't know about the gate," I muttered.

"Before heading out," Humphrey continued, "I just wanted to let you know that when I'm president I'll make sure there is a full investigation into this mess. Along with Kennedy's death. The public deserves the truth, and you deserve the credit for saving us."

"I look forward to it Mr. Vice President," said Cohen, "at least the part about the truth. As for me, I'm retiring soon. I'm afraid this is my last mission." He shook the vice president's hand again and Humphrey departed.

"Shit," I said, "do you think I should have asked him to help me out with my Mafia trouble?"

"Listen, Richard, you are lucky to be alive. You jeopardized a long-term investigation and forced me to blow my cover at the C.I.A. Not only that--"

"So, you never left the C.I.A.? Not during the full time at the B.R.M.? Did O'Sullivan know? Did you get two paychecks? How did you find me?" I blurted out all of the questions that were bouncing in my head.

"I--who is that?" Cohen asked pointing to Tojo who had come up from downstairs and was now humping Oswald's dead leg.

"That's my mom's dog," I answered.

"Anyway," said Cohen, "to answer your questions, at least the ones that aren't idiotic, yes, the C.I.A. contacted me years ago. They were suspicious about Kennedy's death. They have the ranch bugged and we heard you arrive last night. Given your history, I was sure that you'd get into trouble quickly. Even without the bugs though, you weren't that difficult to track down. I mean, you guys killed a guy in Wisconsin and violated various campaign finance laws in Utah."

"Plus, I suppose Clarence did burn up that guy in Minnesota," I added remembering my run-in with the ghost.

"And if nothing else, it was pretty easy to figure out what you were up to after that doctor in San Francisco called up. By the way, Richard, eating babies? Making anti-Semitic remarks? I'm really disappointed."

God damn shrinks. I knew that would come back to bite me in the ass.

"It's not what it sounds like--" I began.

"It doesn't matter," said Cohen, "I'm just glad that you're okay and safe. I was worried about you."

"Gee, thanks Cohen," I muttered. I was touched. After Charlie died there weren't a lot of people who cared about me. Valarie and Honey were pissed at me and my mom was out of the picture again. Even my new friends were probably going to be upset with me. I'm not sure if Calypso would forgive me for wrecking her van, even if it was just collateral damage from running over Klan members. Clarence would probably get a kick out of it, but he was in prison. That left just Cohen as my only remaining friend. Well, him and General Tojo.

I picked up the dog with one arm while holding my towel in the other. Cohen walked next to me out of the room and down the stairs. We went outside towards a car waiting to take us to the airport and back home. Cohen lit up a cigarette.

"Just a moment Richard," he said, "there's another thing I wanted to talk to you about."

I stopped, his tone was serious, and I was afraid of what was coming.

"I tried to fix things with your sister, Valarie," he began.

"Sister-in-law," I corrected.

"Anyway, we were talking, and one thing led to another, and well, we're in love. We're getting married in October."

I can't say that I was not surprised. I had not seen that coming. I dropped my towel in shock. However, it was not an unpleasant surprise. If anyone but me had to take Charlie's place, I much preferred it was Cohen rather than someone else.

"Congratulations," I said smiling. Cohen gave a relieved sigh. I guess he was nervous about how I would take the news.

"Say," I said as we approached the car. "Now that you two are getting married, do you think she'll let me have my room back?"

"Sorry buddy," said Cohen putting his hand on my shoulder, "if it was up to me I would, but she made it a condition in our prenup."

I guess my good luck couldn't last forever.
EPILOGUE
NOVEMBER 18, 1968

"Shoo! Fly away!" Agent Gunderson, formerly C.I. Gunderson said waving a seagull off the erect penis of the corpse. Edna, who took over the B.R.M. office when O'Sullivan failed to show up, had sent Gunderson and I to investigate a suspicious looking body that had washed up on a Lake Erie beach.

At moments like this, I missed Cohen. He had retired the month before, but not before he had talked Edna into rehiring me as an agent. She was reluctant, but with Cohen's retirement, she was short-handed for agents. I was lucky to have the job. While I never successfully solved the Franklin case, I did manage to advance my career slightly in the end after all. Still, I was stuck back in a job I hated with all of its copious paperwork.

"Remember Gunderson," I called out from the beach, "don't touch the corpse."

"Right, boss! Sorry!" Gunderson yelled back, taking his hands off the corpse. He had the cuffs of his pants rolled up and was wading around the corpse. Edna had allowed him a camera and he took it out to photograph the body.

Even if I was lucky to have the job, I felt cheated in many regards. Vice President Humphrey had promised Cohen that he'd provide a full investigation into Kennedy's death and the incidents leading up to the events at Johnson's Ranch. I had assumed that as the main witness to these events, I would receive some protection from the Mafia as part of this investigation. However, November 5th left my hopes as dashed as Humphrey's presidential ambitions. Republican President-elect Nixon was focused on the future and showed little interest in spending any resources investigating any plots against his Democratic opponents.

I heard a loud splash.

"Damn," swore Gunderson looking at the now-submerged camera. "Don't worry," he said brightening up, "I can fix this!" He took out a pencil and pad of paper and began sketching the corpse.

"Jesus Christ," I swore. "You got this?" I called out to him.

Gunderson was too busy concentrating on his drawing to respond. He just nodded and waved me off. Leaving the artist to his work I wandered along the beach. I came along to a pier and walked out onto it and gazed across the dead lake.

"Agent Cox?" a voice asked me.

I swung around and came face to face with a man in a suit and dark coat. My stomach rumbled, and my sphincter began to loosen. This was it. Don Rossi's men had finally found me. They'd find my body in Lake Erie, just like Charlie's. At least I was keeping the family tradition alive. I closed my eyes and waited for the gunshot.

But no shot came.

"Agent Cox?" the man asked again.

I nodded.

"You are a hard man to find," the stranger said. "We briefly met in Utah."

"And in Wisconsin and out West," I continued. "Just make it quick."

"I think there is some misunderstanding," the man said. "I'm not who you think I am. My name is James McCord. I'm, let's say a consultant for the president-elect. I work with Gordon Libby, we conduct a range of special projects for the campaign."

"What?" I asked, slowly adapting to the realization that I was not going to be whacked by the mob. At least not today.

"You came across the attention of President Nixon," McCord continued, "we tried to contact you during the campaign."

"What do you want?" I asked.

"The question is," McCord replied, "what do you want? We'd like to help you out, maybe offer you work if you are interested. With your unique history and experience, we have a number of new projects coming up that could benefit from your rather... unorthodox approach."

"Really?" I asked. Finally, a ticket out of Ohio.

"Why don't we take a walk and talk things over," McCord offered.

* * *

So, it despite my failure with the Franklin case, it turned out that the Dallas Handshake, in an indirect and roundabout way, led to a new life in Washington D.C. The only condition was that Nixon, in the interest of honesty and transparency, traits that I assume will be hallmarks of his presidency, requested a full report of the incidents occurring that August.

"One last report. I suppose it's not government work without paperwork," I muttered to McCord as we were parting and he informed me of Nixon's request.

"What do you mean?" McCord asked, "we're offering you a golden opportunity here"

"I know, I know," I said hastily, "and I'm thankful for it. It's just that, well, in the novels, detectives and agents are always so glamorous. The thing that I hated about the B.R.M. was that it was so boring. All forms, paperwork and reports."

"Look," said McCord, "I don't care how you do it. Nixon asked for you because he like your style. He wanted the story about last summer from you in your own words. Personally, I'm too busy to care about the last election. I've got enough on my plate with the re-election in '72. Do what you got to do. Hell, write a fucking novel for all I care."

I looked out at Lake Erie and took a deep breath. The smell of the nearby Cuyahoga filled my nostrils.

"Maybe I will," I coughed.
