

APOSTASY

Copyright 2011 Cameron Cole

Original copyright 2001 under title _The Scalawag_

CHAPTER 1: SUPER SUNDAY

January, 2002

The second half of the Super Bowl had barely started and the Cleveland Browns had already scored again to take a whopping 37 - 7 lead. Realtor David Gordon worked frantically at his west Raleigh, North Carolina office, wrapping up the final details of his plan. He was plagued by uncertainties. What have I forgotten about? What's wrong with this plan? Have I skipped a crucial step?

Gordon got no answers and took it as a good sign. Exhaling loudly, he propped his feet on the corner of the desk and leaned back in his Knoll high-back chair. He reached over and shut off the stereo, set to the local twenty-four hour beach music station. It was Gordon's music. He swayed to Under The Boardwalk and did a shag step in his mind, while massaging the two extra chins that covered his Adam's apple. Even considering his barrel-chested stature, Gordon's face was extraordinarily fat. He ran his fingers through his dry-look blonde pompadour and attempted to predict the reactions of those directly affected by the plot implementation. He again considered alternatives, and shuttered, able to tag the sensation as natural for someone about to embark on the most extreme event of his life. Something this extraordinary was bound to arouse doubts in a sane person. Gordon checked his sanity and smiled. Again he concluded that his hand was forced. All the alternatives were simply incommensurate.

He pulled the chain turning on the dual bulbs of his desk lamp. The man about to do something extraordinary then went to the fuse-box at the back wall. He ran his finger down the listing and flipped number ten. The overhead fluorescent light went out, his desk lamp now the sole source of light. He flipped the switch back on.

Back at his desk, Gordon pulled the chain, extinguishing the lamp. He removed both bulbs and carefully separated the glass from the base that held the filament. Into one glass bulb he slowly poured about an inch of gasoline from the Tupperware container he'd brought. Gordon then laced a thin bead of super glue along the outside of the bulb's rim and, as carefully as his slightly trembling hands would allow, replaced the base by inserting the filament into the bulb, making certain the fragile filament remained several centimeters above the gasoline. After holding the parts together for thirty seconds and reminding himself to slow it down, breathe deeply, slow and easy, he screwed the bulb back into the lamp socket and repeated the process with the second bulb.

Putting on his Ralph Lauren coat, he cursed the Dallas Cowboys, then slid the two dynamite sticks directly under the desk lamp. He blasphemed the Cowboys again and made a move to turn off the TV. Deciding not to avoid temptation, he kicked the TV off its stand instead. Gordon fastened the lid to the plastic container and dropped it into the trash can, then returned to the fuse-box, and flipped switch number ten. The office was now shadowed in just enough light to avoid walking into the petitions that formed the cubicles of his associate Realtor's desks.

He popped his head out into the cold to ascertain his solitude. Seeing the street empty he grabbed his black duffel bag, locked the thick glass door and placed the key under the mat. He then looked at Bobby Pheiffer's apartment above the bicycle shop just diagonally to the right and across the street. Noting that Pheiffer's lights were on, David Gordon quickly proceeded in the opposite direction, across the street to the pay phone at Barber's Exxon.

He dialed Pheiffer.

"Hu-hu-hullo."

"Yo, Bobby, whaz'appnin? This is David."

"Oh, uh, j-j-ju-just watching th-uh th-uh th-uh Su-su-super Bowl."

"Yea, Bobby. Those lousy fucking cowboys getting whoopped, ain't they?"

"Uh yea, uh-uh..."

"Hey, Bobby," Gordon cut in, "Do me a small favor, I'll add a little to your next

check. I know you're watching the Super Bowl, but this will only take a few minutes."

"Sure D-d-d-avid, f-f-fucking C-c-cowboys..."

"I know Bobby, believe me, I know." Gordon cut in, "Listen, I need you to run across the street to the office. I've got a list of contacts that I left in my desk and I need those phone numbers. If you'll run over there, I'll call you there and tell you where the list is."

"Yea, sure D-d-david. Cowboy's G-g-g-g-ettin..."

Gordon cut in again, "Yea, I know Bobby. I've lost a bundle on them. Can you go over there now? You won't even need to lock your door. You'll be right back. Just turn on my desk lamp and wait for the phone to ring."

"O.K., sh-sh-sure D-d-d-avid, I'll go over th-th-there r-r-right now."

"Good, Bobby, you'll be right back. Yea, listen, just leave your car keys on the hook. You don't even need to take your key ring because I left a key under the mat. Okay? I'll call you there in about three minutes. Don't be late."

Gordon hung up, then phoned his wife at home. The phone kept ringing. "Oh, come on, Shelly, pick it up." He had a clear view of Bobby's upstairs apartment from the pay phone. Bobby was now walking down the steps. Shelly was obviously waiting for the answering machine to pick up, but he had disabled it just before he'd left home after the first quarter and 'The Boys" already trailing by seventeen. Maybe she was in the bathroom. Bobby was at the office door when Shelly finally picked up, using the kitchen extension.

"Hello?"

"Hi, sweetheart, I've got to tell you something very important."

"Oh, hey honey, I didn't know who was calling. The caller ID says pay phone. You didn't lose another cell phone, did you?"

"No, baby, it's around here somewhere, but I only have a few minutes, so..."

"You're always losing something," Shelly chided.

Pheiffer had located the key now, and Gordon watched as he went inside the office.

"Yea, yea, listen, Shelly, I only have a couple minutes, so would you be quiet and listen to me for a minute. First, erase this number from the caller ID. Can you do that right now? Did you erase the number?"

"Yes! David, what's going on?"

Then Gordon's brick and glass office building exploded in a horrific, deafening, ground shaking blast. The glass front blew outward and the roof went skyward, sending glass slivers, bricks and large chunks of wood into and across the street. The inferno blazed fifty feet into the dark sky, illuminating and warming the night, burning debris raining down from above. Gordon ducked inside the glass booth, hoping it too didn't implode from the repercussion. He could feel the heat and a fine bead of sweat creased his brow, for, even though it was cold enough to condense breath, Gordon knew he had now passed the peril point.

"What was that noise?" Shelly asked. "Sounded like an explosion."

"I didn't hear anything," David lied. "Must be static on the line."

Rooftops of adjacent buildings were now on fire, as was Gordon's Grand Cherokee, parked in front of the vacuous shell that was previously Gordon-Goldbaugh Realty. Bricks, glass and bits of smoldering lumber lay ubiquitously throughout the area.

"Shelly, the police will be seeing you soon, probably even tonight. Now, listen carefully, it is extremely important that you do exactly as I say."

"What's wrong, Honey?"

"Shelly, shut up and listen. They will probably tell you that I am dead. But as you can hear, I'm not. Now, you must not tell them you spoke with me. If you've ever done anything right in your life, Shelly, make it this. You're always saying you could be an actress, well, here's your chance to show that you are. I know you can do it. You must not let anyone know we talked about this. That is the most important thing of all. Do you understand, Shelly?" Gordon said, watching the angry flames stretch in all directions.

"Oh, David, you're scaring me. Are you alright?"

Gordon saw it before he heard the report. The Jeep actually jumped off the ground as it exploded into a fireball which spewed hot tidbits of metal for yards. He hated to lose the vehicle, hoped it would be spared. But it had to be there, same as Bobby had to be inside the office, to lend credibility to the feint.

"Yes, honey, I'm fine. I love you and I promise I will call you tomorrow to explain everything . Now tonight you just play along so..."

Shelly cut in, "What was THAT explosion, David? Sounds like you're in a war zone or something. Where are you?"

"Look, I'm serious. You've got to do this for us. I'm doing all the hard parts. All you have to do is act surprised when the police question you. You don't know anything. Act like you're in shock. Let them look around. Don't hide anything. And if anyone is there when I call tomorrow, don't use my name. Be smart. Do you understand, Sweetheart?"

"Yes. But where are you? When are you coming home?"

"Shelly, sweetie, I told you I don't have time now to explain it all. I'll call tomorrow. Don't worry, I'm OK. Remember – and this is extremely important – don't call anyone to ask about me. It must be a total surprise to you when the police arrive. This is an easy part for you to play, my little actress. All you have to do is act like you're in shock. You don't even have answer their questions. Do you understand, or do I need to go through it again?"

"Yea, I guess I understand."

Gordon wanted to scold her again for guessing, but he let it pass. "OK, I'll call you tomorrow. Good night."

Gordon hung up and hurried up the stairs to Pheiffer's apartment. The balcony floor and railing were already sporting decent flames, and the shingles were smoldering. The door had shutter windows, so he wasn't concerned about it being locked. He would just break the glass. It was open.

A Volvo and a Chevy sedan exploded nearly simultaneously and David heard glass, metal and chrome pinging the apartment balcony.

The apartment was three small rooms with paneled walls, shabby thrift store furniture and K-Mart curtains. A single floor lamp provided the illumination into the room. The TV was still on. In the midst of the mayhem the Cowboys had kicked a field goal. 37 – 10. "Assholes." Gordon found a set of keys on a coat hook next to the door and quickly left the apartment, closing the door unlocked behind him in case bobby's car keys were not on the ring and he had to return.

Staying in the shadows, Gordon walked through the alleyway beside the bicycle shop

to a gravel lot. Several people were scurrying down the street to see the ruckus. Gordon found Pheiffer's Subaru wagon and removed the tag, replacing it with one he'd stolen off a

Subaru at Crabtree Mall yesterday. He had to pump the accelerator to fire the engine and raced the engine for a quick warm-up. He knew this wasn't good for the old motor, but then, he wasn't going to be needing it long.

As he rounded the corner in front of the office, the first fire truck was arriving to join the police officers and pedestrian gawkers there. The former real estate building was so thoroughly burned the flames had already begun to subside there, but the fire trucks would be needed to contain the blaze and distinguish the cars and neighboring structures.

Gordon drove out the back entrance to the building parking lot, took two lefts and drove past Barber's Exxon, sincerely hoping the fire department got the fire out before it exploded the gas pumps, since that would likely mean more deaths and that emotional discharge would lead to more investigative work.

Heading down Wade Avenue toward I – 40, Gordon felt a twinge of remorse for Bobby Pheiffer. "Ah, well, I'm sorry, Bobby. You did a great job, though, my little actor. You played your part perfectly." This was all the sympathy he could muster for Bobby right now.

He had his own set of problems. Like, but unlike Bobby Pheiffer, David Gordon was also a dead man.

CHAPTER 2: SHAW'S EVIDENCE

Shelly Gordon sat at the kitchen table with her face in her hands and her elbows propped on the table. What was that all about, she wondered. What's he doing? What is he trying to do? What exactly did he say? She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs, absently chewing her lip in thought. She walked to the refrigerator and got out a bottle of

Michelob Light, popped the top and took it back to the table. Now she could concentrate.

From the living room she heard a constant repetition of "Bird, James Bird. Bird, James Bird." It was Shelly's beloved red-masked conure. He was a beautiful green with a red head and red spots on his throat but louder than a freight train. Full of himself, he'd stretch out and be sleek and slim, mean and lean bird. Then he'd fluff up and be chubby, fluffy bird. He was named after 007, and could repeat anything he heard, but mostly he was stuck on saying his name, and he said it just like James Bond.

Alright, alright, she thought. The police are on their way over to tell me he's dead. They'll ask questions and snoop around. I'm to act surprised, cry a little. She felt like crying already.

OK, I can do that. When he calls tomorrow he's got a lot of 'splaining to do ,' to quote Ricky Retardo from the old Lucy Show. Maybe I can. Then she wondered if David was in trouble, but knew - of course not – he never had been before. Could it be a joke of some kind? Was it a financial scheme? It had to be about money. David was all about money.

But, if the police came, they'd put her through a traumatic question and answer session and she'd then – then she'd have to go identify David's body. And if they have his body, then he really is dead. I can't do that. Tears started down her cheeks but she sucked them up, wiped her face on her sleeve and turned up the bottle of Michelob, pouring down a gracious plenty.

How could she do this? He'd always been there for her, and he'd said on the phone – at least she thought he'd insinuated that he was doing it for them both. She'd have to give him the benefit and do this for him. He'd always been there for her. He'd provided well, taken her places she'd never dreamed of. Now she needed to be reciprocal and act out her part.

Shelly tried in vain to get her mind off David. She took Bird out of his cage and talked affectionately to him, "Pretty Bird, James Bird – Yes." She sat Bird on her shoulder and he made quiet little happy sounding chirps as he fluffed up and pecked her blouse in one spot then the next. She turned on the TV but could find nothing interesting. She picked up the Sandra Brown book she was half way through, but couldn't concentrate. She tried country singer Patty Loveless's method and thought about Elvis, hairdos and tattoos, but that didn't much work either.

She wanted to drive over to his office but knew that would draw suspicion. Besides, she didn't even know what state he was now in. She had no choice but to follow his wishes and wait for the police, and wondered if she was mentally impregnable enough to endure the stress.

She didn't know the story, but it sounded exciting enough. Her gut said it was huge; her premonition was that life was ostensibly changed.

Finally, there was a knock at the door and detective Brian Shaw entered with two

uniformed police officers. Shaw flashed his badge and asked, "Is David Gordon here?" He had an air of grace and refinement, from the flawless parting of his hair to the crisp crease in his trousers.

"No, he's at his office. Is something wrong?"

"Could we sit down and talk?" He pointed towards the living room.

They walked to the living room. Shelly took the chair so Shaw and his comrades could have the couch. "What's the problem?" She felt extremely nervous and wondered if she was quivering noticeably.

"Why did he go to the office on a Sunday? Is that normal for him?"

"Well, yes. I mean, not always, but he said he had some important clients coming in tomorrow and wanted to be prepared."

"It appears that there's been an explosion at his office. We don't have all the details yet. That's about all we know at this point." The two officers stood with their hands behind their backs while Detective Shaw sat on the couch.

"An explosion? I thought I..." she stopped, realizing her near blunder. 'Slow down, relax,' she coached herself. "I mean, is David Okay?"

"We don't know, Mrs. Gordon. It just happened within the last hour or so and we've just started the investigation. We need to search your house for any clues we may find here. If that's OK with you, Mrs. Gordon."

"Ummm, yea, I guess . What are you searching for?"

"We don't know. Anything that might be useful." He waved his hand, a signal for Tolar and Ortega to fan out and begin searching the house. Ortega went up the stairs while Tolar headed towards the kitchen. Shaw pulled a small pad and pen from his pocket. "What can you tell me about David's financial position. Was he involved in any financial ventures other than real estate?"

"No, I don't think so. What's going on? Everything is fine far as I know. He hasn't said otherwise. Is David Okay?"

"Like I said, we don't know anything yet. We have not been able to locate him. Shaw was careful to hide his knowledge of bone fragments found within the destroyed building shell and Gordon's gambling activities. He knew about Gordon's gambling operation. Though he'd never gambled personally, he knew that some of his fellow officers, even some of his superiors, had used the service. He didn't want her hysterical nor did he wish to bait her for answers. " What other money-making activities was he involved in?"

"What do you mean was involved in?" Shelly asked, sounding on the verge of hysteria, proud of her performance.

"I mean is involved in."

"He doesn't have time to. Real estate is pretty booming around Raleigh."

"Has he acted nervous or different lately?"

Shelly considered the tone of the question accusatory, but she managed to remain composed.

"No. Not a bit."

"What about..."

"Detective Shaw?" It was Ortega speaking.

"Here's something you need to see." He turned and ascended the stairs with Shaw and Shelly right behind. They went to David's in-home office in one of the spare bedrooms.

"We found this in the top desk drawer," Ortega said. He and Tolar moved aside so Shelly and Detective Shaw could get to the desk. There was a hand written note on plain white which read:

Shelly,

I am so sorry it had to go down this way. I've been

running a gambling expedition on the side and I got

careless. I'm heavily in debt to some dangerous

people, and I can't get out of a bad situation.

By now you've heard about the explosion at my office.

If there was a better solution, I couldn't find it.

Please forgive me for so many things. Mostly, I

regret that I wouldn't start a family with you.

Maybe that would have made me wiser, and

things would have been different. Hopefully, now

you can find a better husband and have the

children you've always wanted. I hope you will.

Please understand I made this decision as the best

solution for you. You are a beautiful person and

you deserve the best. Thanks for all the happiness

you've bestowed upon my life. And remember, I

always loved you.

David

Shelly gasped for air upon reading the first few lines and fell to the floor. The police officers helped her to the chair and Brian Shaw sat next to her for several long minutes. Her knowledge that David wasn't dead didn't overcome her feelings of ambivalence.

"Mrs. Gordon, we can take you to a doctor if you'd like us to."

"No. Thank you." She wiped tears from her face with tissue from a box of Puffs that

Ortega had retrieved from the bathroom.

"We need to find some samples of David's hand-writing. So, I'm going to look through these drawers, is that okay?"

Shelly pointed to a box in the closet that contained envelopes with cancelled checks and the like.

"Would you like us to call someone to come over?"

"No. I'll do that. You've been so kind already." She blew her nose with the realization that this was not an act.

Shaw took the response as an opportunity to exit. He'd seen and heard enough. "We will follow up with you when we know more."

CHAPTER 3: THE GHOST

At Durham, Gordon took I – 85 and headed toward Greensboro. The old Subaru spit and sputtered. Most of the panel 'idiot' lights were on permanent glow but were covered with black tape, and the headlights seemed dim. But the bucket of bolts was running and wasn't smoking too bad, so Gordon gave it the gas. He tuned the radio to the Super-Bowl. Dallas was coming back, 43 – 23 early in the fourth. Gordon let off the pedal, thinking, if the Cowboys won he wouldn't have to leave town. Then he remembered Bobby Pheiffer, and gave it the gas.

He reminisced upon his younger days when he had to drive a similar piece of shit and momentarily felt fortunate, but that fuzzy feeling was soon over-shadowed by a dark cloud.

He thought about the first time he had met Bobby. It was early November when he'd first seen Bobby while looking out his office window. For the next several days, he noticed that Bobby would leave his apartment above the bicycle shop each day right at four o'clock and walk down to O'Malley's Irish Pub one block up.

One day, Gordon went into O'Malley's at a quarter to four, saddled up to the big round bar, ordered a scotch and water, and waited. He was somewhat surprised yet pleased to not recognize any of the bar patrons.

Bobby entered right on time, sitting directly across the thickly shellacked and scarred counter from Gordon, not speaking to anyone. The barmaid served him his regular without asking, a Budweiser. Gordon observed for several minutes while he finished his scotch and ordered another. Then he wandered over to Bobby's side of the bar and asked, "Want to play a game of pool, Bub?"

"N-n-no I-I d-don't think so," Pheiffer replied, "th-th-thanks."

"No problem. Hey, I think I've seen you in here before. I come in once in a while after work.

I work right down the street. You come here a lot, don't you?"

"Yea. P-p-pretty much. I l-l-live aba-aba-above the b-b-b-bicycle shop."

"No shit? I work across the street from you at Goldbaugh- Gordon Real Estate," Gordon

said, feigning surprise.

"You G-Goldbaugh G-G-Gordon?"

"Naw," Gordon laughed slightly, "I'm David Gordon. Where do you work?"

Pheiffer avoided eye contact but answered, "I du-du-du-don't work nowhere. I g-g-g-get a check ev-ev-every month from d-d-d-disability. And I do tem-tem-temporaty work s-s-sometimes."

"Yea? What kind?" Gordon asked, dreading the probable wait for the answer from this

bumbling feeb.

Pheiffer was plumper than a Butterball Turkey in November. He had a reddish complexion

with puffy cheeks above a Tarheel sweatshirt and green corduroy slacks, white socks and well-worn tennies. His straight hair had an oily sheen with bangs on all four sides autonomous to Moe of the Three Stooges. A truly bad haircut.

"Like c-c-c-c-construction clean-up, painting, p-p-p," Pheiffer said, then fell silent, realizing he'd gotten the word right the first time.

"Oh, yea, well. I may need you sometime myself, for some clean-up repairs or painting or something. I got to get your phone number – I'm sure I'll need you sometime." He handed Bobby a small pad and Parker pen. "What's your name?"

Bobby Pheiffer didn't answer. He continued writing, handed the paper to Gordon, and pointed.

They chatted a while longer. Gordon found out that Bobby had landed in Raleigh somehow. It was a long stammering story and Gordon wasn't interested in all the details. The particulars of interest were that Pheiffer had been here only six months, had no family in the area and rented from Stewart Mills Realty.

Over the past two months Gordon had superficially expanded his friendship with Bobby Pheiffer; at first meeting him at O'Mally's for a beer, then dropping by his apartment for a chat. He hired Bobby to run small, meaningless errands and do light painting and repairs to the office. Eventually, he paid Bobby to sift through local trade journals and newspapers for real-estate prospects. The job was a boondoggle, and only a few hours a week, but Gordon paid fifteen dollars an hour. For that money, there was no questioning Bobby's loyalty. He even gave Bobby a key to the office and had called on him several times to go in the office at night for phone numbers or information from the files. Gordon contrived the plan because the Cleveland Browns had caught a mid-season fire and won eight straight games. Nobody could believe the Cleveland Browns had procured the Super Bowl this season: they were gosh awful the previous year. He still had faith in the Dallas Cowboys, team far superior "on-paper". But, just in case, he was happy to know Bobby Pheiffer. The guy was a ghost. Who'd miss the dithering dufus?

Gordon exited outside Greensboro, drove through Wendy's for a burger and fries and filled the gas tank at a Crown station. It was now after ten o'clock and the Super Bowl was nearly over for the Cowboys, except for the crying and analyzing. "Fucking assholes," he said, and pulled a pint of Jack Daniels from his duffel bag and took a long guzzle. He made a horrible face and shuttered, then took another guzzle.

CHAPTER 4: ANGELO'S GAMBLE

A short minute later, when the reality hit his brain, he suddenly felt the agony of despair. He convinced himself that his plan was cogent; and it had to be done this way. It was a cycle, of anxiety, then conviction; of despair, then rationalization, as he thought about the life he was driving south from.

His thoughts moved to Shelly. She was a beautiful woman who had had her choice of suitors. Gordon felt elated to know he was the chosen one, but there was never any doubt in his mind, she'd married him for security rather than love. Her father was an orthodontist in Charleston, SC, and her mother had been a wealthy debutante herself. These were the footsteps Shelly was expected to follow. Gordon was unsure how these things were discussed between parents and daughter, but it was expected that Shelly find a man capable of supporting her as she had been raised: with all the good things in life and none of the middle class worries. If they couldn't afford a home with a pool, matching his and her Mercedes's, diamond bracelets and cuff links, she'd be viewed as a failure. She needed all the good things in life.

They'd been married now for five years, and he thought he'd brought her somewhat away from her parent's influence. She'd wanted a baby really bad, but Gordon was vehemently opposed to children at this time. It was about the only thing they had ever argued about. And even these disputes were short. Gordon would state his point matter-of-factly, and Shelly was non-confrontational. She didn't want to fight. He'd wanted many times to get into it about her parents, but he was way too smart, and avoided that argument like a steaming turd. He was confident she'd follow his instructions with curiosity, if nothing else, driving her. He'd kept the reins on her pretty tight, and she wouldn't want to screw her sacred marriage up at this point. He hoped. She was probably, at this very moment, lying to police on his behalf. Regardless, he faced a capricious future.

Gordon was from a family of derelicts like himself. His father, who was quite capable of conducting a scalawag clinic, had spent eighteen months in prison for tax evasion, and lived to tell about it. Often. With a stupid looking cigarette perpetually stuck on his lips, like a fifth grade redneck, bobbing as he spoke, he'd tell about it with that raspy voice that only got raspier as the emphysema, which eventually suffocated him, progressed. The jail time could have been avoided, but jasper Gordon felt with conviction that the federal government had no right to force his support.

The government didn't do anything for him, but if asked, he would have helped. He didn't think they had the right to demand money simply because he lived here and worked for a living. They would just waste or steal the money anyway. "They'll just give it to the Niggas and the Jews," David's father, Jasper, had said many times. Of course, he viewed himself as a patriot. Thoughts of our troops storming the beaches of France in World War II gave him chills. He would have gladly been there with them. The country was great back then, but since then the government had let him and America down. The government was not the country, the people were. So, he did his jail time, got out, and continued to hoodwink his government, his wife, his card buddies and his golf score.

David learned well. He became a top notch salesman, selling cars, food services, real estate, mutual funds and used restaurant equipment, among other creative methods of making a living. When his mother later died, he inherited over three hundred thousand dollars, bought a nice estate, and married Shelly. And he joined the right clubs and organizations to have influence in his circles around town. Having a deep family-rooted-contempt for the government in general helped lead Gordon to illegal activities. He loved gambling, and was a semi-regular in Atlantic City. He'd asked around Raleigh, everybody who should know, where he could place sports bets, and everyone wished they knew someone too. It was facile and natural, in a state that didn't have a lottery, and probably never would. With just a few hours research online he figured out how to book bets. He spread the word and in a few months was bringing in more money booking bets than the real estate company ever had. Gordon knew a CPA named Cecil Ludwig, who had prodigiously maintained a sterling reputation, and Gordon "purchased" a financial sheet showing several million dollars in assets. That was mandatory for running the operation Gordon envisioned: who'd want to bet with a bookie who couldn't pay? And bearing Ludwig's signature, the statement was never questioned. It turned out to be an expensive but wise investment.

His real estate partner, Hubert Goldbaugh, affectionately known as Goball, seeing the lackeys and scamps enter and exit Gordon's office, smelled illegal activity. He started attempting to persuade Gordon into buying him out, but Gordon played it coy. It humored Gordon to watch the paranoia grow inside good ole Goab. He knew that if he waited he could practically steal it. When Goldbaugh saw police chief Brinkman walk out of Gordon's office with a stack of bills, he knew it was time to surrender. After several months Goldbaugh settled for less than a forth of his original equitable offer. There was no way the business could flourish with Gordon in control. He just wanted out. Gordon wasn't pulling his weight with the business; was as worthless as flotsam and jetsam, and Goldbaugh wasn't up to a court battle. They had made no provisions.

After a couple years, Gordon had made clients of police officers, attorneys, school teachers as well as underground types. He felt protected. Even if he'd been busted, with his connections around town and his saint-like criminal record, he figured he'd lose at most thirty days receipts. Gordon knew he had very few real friends, but he wouldn't have it any other way. People, like telephones, were for his convenience. If they didn't like that, screw them.

He got to Charlotte around midnight and exited for a Jack & Cola break, but didn't linger. He had to see some pals in Atlanta, swap cars, and decide where to go from there. He rubbed his heavy eyes to fight the fatigue, and recalled the pivotal day in his life that lead him down this demented trail he was now on.

It had been a miserably humid Tuesday in late August when Boulder "Redneck" Resnek, one of Gus Angelo's errand boys, entered his office and plopped five hundred dollars down.

Gus Angelo was a local business man with mob connections. Resnek was nearly six feet tall, but looked shorter due to his huge neck and barrel chest. Because of steroid use during his earlier years, his skin had a reddish hew and his light brown hair had mostly departed. What stayed grew straight up and was whacked off into a rough flat-top. Below it, his face showed the intelligence of a Bassett hound. He was of the West Virginia Resniks and in high school had been reputed as the best lineman in the state. An editorial in the Charleston Gazette boasted that he could block a horse, and next practice, some semi-cowboy showed up on one. The horse limped home with three broken rib bones while Boulder only suffered one. He spent a year at the State University but couldn't seem to remember his way to class. Physically he could have made the NFL, but was too dumb. He wound up here, working as Angelo's lackey.

Angelo had met Boulder while on a business trip to Washington, DC. Boulder was living in Annapolis, Maryland, working on an assembly line at an auto parts factory, and had been to the Georgetown section of DC falling in love with and spending his paycheck on the scenery at "Good Guys," a totally nude nightclub. He stopped at a Seven-Eleven as Angelo was walking out, with a vagrant standing on his coat-tails. He'd started trying to bum money but then got threatening, demanding money. Angelo, who could be eloquent even in times of extreme anger, didn't want to communicate with a wino, but asked if he had a gun. The hobo said no, so Angelo told him that if he wanted money, get one and come back. He wanted to show the fool his own gun, but that's dangerous too. Then Boulder jumped up and grabbed the bum in a headlock, walked him to the dumpster and rammed his head on the dumpster door, putting him asleep until Tuesday. This happened at a time when Angelo needed a dirty-deed-errand-boy in his organization. Boulder soon moved to Raleigh, but he missed "Good Guys". There's no way you'll see twenty naked beautiful women in one room around Raleigh, North Carolina, home of the late, great Jesse Helms.

Gordon picked up the bills, counted them, and looked at Boulder. After a few seconds, Resnik broke the silence, "Mr. Angelo wants to put this on the Cleveland Browns to win the Super Bowl."

"Whew, you sure you got the right team?" Gordon was tempted to follow it with 'jerk-wad,' but still wanted to live so he let that chance slip on by.

"That's what Mr. Angelo said."

"They aren't very highly thought of." Gordon said. Resnik shrugged and glanced down at his hands. He then raised the longest of his well gnawed nails between his nubby front teeth.

"Maybe he meant the Dallas Cowboys," Gordon proposed.

"Fuck you, Gordon. He said Cleveland. Now I come back with Dallas, how long you think I'm going to last? Give me a fucking receipt."

Gordon got up, went to a wall safe, dialed the combination, removed a ledger with a black binding and returned to his desk. He made some entries, returned the ledger back to the safe along with the five bills, closed the safe and replaced the picture on the wall. "OK, if he wants to lose his money that way, I'm happy to help. You tell Angelo to keep the money coming." Gordon couldn't help himself; he loved to chaff Resnik, "Maybe he wants the Bengals too?" Nor did he mind irritating Angelo. After all, to his knowledge, he was the only bookie in town. "He can afford it. He's got enough money to burn a wet elephant."

He knew now that he should have hedged that bet: he knew it then. He should have taken four hundred dollars and made the reverse bet with another bookie. Just a simple hedge. Since he had just bet against the Browns with Angelo, he should have then bet eighty or ninety percent of Angelo's money on the Browns. He knew that the strategy of any successful bookie was to take asure ten to fifteen percent profit or loss on every bet. It worked almost like a brotherhood of bookies; Bookie Mutual, if you will. All the suckers who gambled big and won occasionally, those losses ( for the bookie ) would be spread out and absorbed by several different groups. This security had to exist, since it wasn't gracious to pass up any bet no matter how large or hare-brained. Since a great majority of the bets favored the house, there was only one way to lose - greed. That was the beauty of the business – out of thirty two teams in the league, thirty one would lose.

Cleveland had won only three games last year and was a thousand to one underdog to win it all on the day Angelo had made the bet, after only one pre-season game, which Cleveland had lost. Though it bothered Gordon when he thought about it, he decided not to hedge this one. He'd recently purchased the Grand Cherokee and added the in-ground pool at home and felt squeezed. He'd chance this one. Seemed like a small chance at the time. As the season went on and Cleveland started winning, the odds changed dramatically. Even if he had hedged the bet during the past few weeks it wouldn't help him. He'd still go way past broke to pay the debt. Even as late as this afternoon he still had faith in the Cowboys.

Around Greenville, SC, the terrain got much more hilly as he drove over the southern Smoky Mountains. The Subaru sputtered and the temperature gauge bordered hot, but it kept running. Around three o'clock, at Commerce, Georgia, unable to hold his eyes open, Gordon exited at a truck stop and parked in the shadows along the side of the building. He took a leak behind a stinky dumpster, set the alarm on his wristwatch, reclined the seat and fell into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER 5: TILLY

Gordon woke up in a sleazy nine dollar motel. It was still pitch dark, but there was a rapping at the door that woke him. It was a constant, sharp, RAPP...RAPP...RAPP with perfect rhythm. Gordon walked to the window, parted the curtain slowly and looked out. It was someone in a long black hooded coat, using a sickle to tap the door. He noticed every door of the motel had a reaper knocking and Gordon wondered where he'd taken the wrong fork to wind up here. He jumped out of his sleep. Some mutt was tapping on his window with a broom stick. The old geezer was slender, with a wrinkled but friendly face, and a truck-stop shirt with a smiley face logo on the pocket, holding a push broom.

"Can't sleep here, feller," friendly face said with a smile.

"I can't?" Gordon asked.

"No, you can't. State law."

"Oh, wouldn't want to break one of those. Problem is, I already did," Gordon laughed. The sun was starting to peak over the horizon, so Gordon knew it was almost time for his wrist watch alarm to sound, anyway. He opened the door and stepped out of the cramped Subaru. "Thanks for waking me. I feel like a sardine. Just needed to rest my eyes, buddy."

The old guy didn't reply, just shook his head and continued sweeping the near empty lot.

Gordon went inside for coffee and a honey bun, then filled the tank with gas. He noticed a sign that read, 'Georgia Lotto sold here. Current jackpot, fourteen million - Lottery proceeds go to public education.' Sure they do, Gordon thought.

He exited just inside Atlanta city limits, bought a city street map, a cup of coffee and a ten dollar pre-paid phone card at a Seven-Eleven. Blowing steam from the dark brew he looked up the address he had for Tee-Dub Salvage.

He found the junkyard closed at eight-thirty. Two dogs were trying to chew through the front gate to eat him for breakfast. One was a huge German shepherd. The reddish Doberman pinscher beside him, dwarfed in comparison, nonetheless seemed to have the same nasty spirit bugging him, too. Together, they were louder than a Fourth of July celebration, puffing steam in the cold air. Both were lunging at the gate, but to their amazement, Gordon wasn't backing away. He'd already checked the gate and felt secure with it between them. The pinscher got too close to the shepherd, who jumped him, rolled him and appeared to have a jaw-lock on his throat. The dobey yelped, spun out and lunged back at the fence toward Gordon, without even a scratch. "You ought to feed those dogs occasionally, Tilley," Gordon said to himself while getting back into the car. He cranked the heat to full blast, and waited with the car idling.

Just before nine o'clock, a tow truck pulled to the gate and Steve Tillman, owner of Tee-Dub Salvage got out to unlock the gate. "Hold it there partner, don't let those man eaters out yet," Gordon said, sitting with the door open.

"What's that, Bub?" Tillman said glancing over at the well-traveled Subaru. "Gordon? David Gordon? Damned, I ain't seen you in years. What brings you to Hot-lanta?"

"I need to trade cars. I thought of you, since I need maximum discretion. But I was afraid, when you weren't here, that you'd been eat up by those dogs." The dogs were wagging their tails and hopping around playfully now.

"Who, Roscoe and Red? Shit, they're just doing their job. Actually, they're a couple teddy bears once you get to know 'em."

"Yeah, but how many legs does it take to get to know them?"

Tillman laughed, and said, "They don't have much sense of humor. They're very serious about their jobs. Follow me through and I'll put them away so we can do business." After chaining the yard dogs in the back lot and feeding them, Tilley unlocked the front door to his metal sided garage with a large glass front and David stepped in. "I see, you do need a car.

Where'd you get that? I know people don't steal cars like that," he flipped a thumb towards the old beater.

"That? The truth is, I need to dispose of that car, and I know I can depend on you. I'll throw in an extra couple hundred to have it crushed. It's very important that you destroy the tag."

"Sounds like it," Tilley said after a short pause. He knew not to push for more information.

"I need to buy a dependable car, nothing flashy. Need one that's all legal and everything. I might need it for six months. I got cash to pay," Gordon said, nervously flipping the edges of a wad he'd pulled from his pocket.

"I need a change of ID, too, can you handle that?"

"Well, no, but I can put you in touch with the right guy. Floozy Fleming."

"What did you call me?"

Tillman laughed. "That's his moniker, Floozy Fleming." Tillman dropped anchor in his squeaky office chair and removed a cigar from a desk drawer. "He's up town, you can see him today. He'll make up a set of papers for you, credit record and everything. He's good. And he's proud of his work. I see you got some cash there. You'll need it."

"About the car you need, you see that Old's Regal there?," Tillman said, pointing through the window off to the right somewhere. Gordon walked over to the large glass store front.

"How about that Firebird next to it? That looks better."

"The Firebird!?" Tillman gasped while unwrapping a Corona cigar. "I thought you wanted discretion. Cops'll be pulling you every time you even PASS a titty bar." He pulled out a Barlow pocket knife and sliced the tip off the stogie and pulled it deep into his mouth, savoring the effluvium.

"I bet you ain't never just passed by a titty bar, have you Tilley? " Gordon smiled. " You still a regular down there at the Gold Club you old scruffy dog?"

"The Gold Club? Hallelujah Brother. Don't even mention that place."

"Yea? Why not?"

"Fell in love there. Thirty times. Six honey snatches would leave the stage and six more would come out, just as fine as the last six. Nothing but a rubber band on their thighs to hold all the money."

"No Shit? The law won't allow that up in North Carolina. Some poor sap might go home and jerk his dick off or something. "Wouldn't that be a shame?"

Tilley just laughed.

"Yea, I guess you're right about the Firebird. How's the Regal run?"

"Real good. Insurance is paid for six more months and here's the title. If you get pulled you say you bought the car from me, but you ain't been back to Georgia to register it. Show them your receipt and have them call me."

They settled on four grand for the car. Gordon knew he'd overpaid, but he didn't care. In a few months he'd be living the good life. Or in jail, awaiting prison. Or dead. He picked up the car title, put it in his duffel bag, and fastened the keys to his Cherokee key chain. He removed the keys from the late Bobby Pheiffer's key ring except the two car keys and handed the ring to Tilley. He suddenly felt an ephemeral moment of remorse for Bobby, but it passed.

"I'll get the paper-maker on the horn." Tillman asked, " When you want to see him?"

"Couple Hours."

Tillman dialed. "Hey, Flooze. How's it going Budro? Yeah, Tilley. Yeah.

Hey uh, got this buddy named Gordon, he's a shiffless shonk, but he's alright." There was a short pause, then Tilley answered, 'Bout a couple hours. Ah-ight, see ya." He hung up the phone.

"Easy as that. Here, I'll draw you a map."

"I really 'preciate it, Tilly. You,re a good man," Gordon said as he offered his hand to Tilley to shake.

As he drove out of the lot it started to drizzle, but the drizzle soon turned into a solid rain. Gordon threw Pheiffer's house keys out the window.

He found a costume shop and bought a wig, bushy eyebrows and a couple moustaches. He considered glasses, but he'd never worn them and didn't care to start now. He felt conspicuous in the store, and made as little eye contact as possible. He quickly got together everything he wanted and paid.

Down the highway, he wanted to call Shelly, so he pulled into a Shoney's where he could use an inside pay phone.

Gordon went straight to the men's room. Inside, he checked the toilet stall, found it empty and locked the bathroom door. He quickly installed the disguise and marveled at the result. He then got a table and waited for the coffee to arrive before going to the pay phone at the restroom foyer.

Gordon withdrew the calling card and dialed. Shelly picked up on the third ring. Her voice seemed to have no special emotion, which Gordon took as a good sign.

"Hello."

"Good morning, sweetheart, it's me," Gordon tried to charm.

"Where are you, David?" She seemed more concerned than mad.

"I'm OK, Shelly, uh I," he stammered, trying to find the words. He'd purposefully avoided thinking about it until he had to. "I'll explain everything in a minute, but first let me ask you a couple things."

"What's going on, David?"

He ignored the question. "Who's there at the house with you now?"

"Just Pammy."

Gordon flinched at the name. "I hope you didn't tell her anything. Did you? She's not listening to us is she?" Gordon couldn't stand Pammy. Not many people could. She was a Yankee, from Vermont, and not a very good representative of that state. She was a drunk, but that's not what turned Gordon off so much. It was that she was such an obnoxious drunk. She was stupid but had to dominate every conversation. She'd begin rambling, and thought she was so smart she could teach. She surely couldn't learn anything flapping her jaws like that. Others would try to get in the conversation when she'd pause for air, but her pauses became very short, then she'd come back louder and faster: what she had to say was of such grandeur.

She'd say things three times. The second time was because she couldn't believe she'd said something so prolific; to confirm it as valid in her own mind. Then, she'd say it a third time to make sure you understood something so profound, because she figured you must be just as stupid as she was or you wouldn't be talking to her.

That's why Gordon couldn't stand her, she was just boring. Fortunately, Shelly generally abided by his wishes and kept Pam away when he was home.

"No, of course not. I don't know what's going on myself. The police were here most of the night. Reporters, too. What's the story. What kind of trouble are you in? I can't wait to hear this. Like Ross Perot, I'm all ears."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that. How did you do, my little actress."

"I did OK. I acted surprised and started crying. I thought I'd have to go ID your remains, but they said there weren't any. She pulled tissue from her pocket and dabbed at incipient tears.

"What did the police say?"

Shelly sniffled, "Excuse me a minute." She unfolded the tissue and blew. "They informed me of the explosion, and I acted horrified. Which of course, I was. I didn't know anything about that. They asked all kinds of questions about your business and friends and enemies. They wanted to know everything I saw you do yesterday, they went on and on. Didn't think they'd ever leave. Your explanation better be real fuckin' good."

"Did they mention anything about tapping the phones?"

"No, why would they?"

The door to the bathroom behind Gordon opened slightly and a small boy slipped through the threshold. Gordon didn't even notice the kid standing behind him.

"They probably won't," he assured her. Gordon explained about the bet and the five hundred large he'd lost to Gus Angelo. "They say he's in the mafia, so I couldn't very well march into Angelo's office and declare bankruptcy, and we sure don't have the half a million." There wassilence for a few seconds that seemed eternal.

Finally, Shelly said "And?"

"So, here's my plan. It's simple, really. I'll hide out for a while. You collect on all my life insurance policies, stocks, sell the properties and cash in my retirement plans. Then we'll meet up in the Caribbean or somewhere. You've always wanted to live there anyway. I'll get a facelift or something, maybe lose weight, get rid of one of these chins," he joked.

"So, where are you now?" Gordon looked down at the annoying tug he suddenly felt on his pants. The boy looked straight in his eyes and asked "You going to get a facelift mister?"

"Shut up kid, beat it!" Gordon demanded with a knee to the boy's chest, driving him back against the wall. The child nearly fell but regained his balance and ran off wailing. "Goddamned Kid!" Gordon croaked, looking around in fear of having to deal with a big mad mama now. None were coming his way.

"What's that?"

"There was this kid here: never mind that, but I shouldn't tell you where I'm going. I'm not even sure myself. Nobody needs to know. Above all, please don't say anything to Pammy or your parents. Have you talked to them yet?"

"Of course, David. They're my parents. They're probably on the way now. My husband just died, remember?"

"Oh yea, that's right. So, you're sure the police aren't suspicious? They didn't act like it, did they? They didn't ask you if you thought I may have had a scam going or anything like that?"

"Yes, they asked all that. But when they found your suicide note they seemed satisfied it was you who died in the blast. Was there someone in there? They did say they recovered bits of bone fragments and human tissue," Shelly paused in thought. "What's the story on that? You didn't kill someone, did you?"

Gordon wished he'd thought this conversation through beforehand, but he had dreaded it so. Shelly wasn't the brightest student in the class, just the prettiest, but she didn't have to be drowning to know she was in deep water, either. So, he needed something believable. Then the inspiration struck him. "I have a client who is a mortician. He had a spare body, sort of. I can trust him. He owed me a favor. Don't worry about that. Don't think about it. The less you know the better. Listen, one more thing. I don't think they will, but in case the police put a bug on the phone, I need to call you somewhere else. I've got the number for the Waffle House pay phone over on Six Forks Road. I want to call you there tomorrow at two o'clock. Find a reason to slip away. I've got the phone number."

"Aw," Shelly complained. "You know Mom and Dad will be here. Why not call me here?"

"No. That's exactly one reason. They might hear you talking and get curious. Just tell them you need to be alone for a while. We got to do it this way. I got to go now, remember two o'clock tomorrow at the Waffle House. I love you, Sweetheart, everything will be OK. Good-bye." He avoided further discussion by placing the phone gently into it's cradle. He went to a booth and ordered the breakfast buffet.

He watched a huge woman waddle around the bar. Her ass was perfectly suitable for a hippopotamus, yet it was attached to a human form. Her pants were stretch polyester, large as a small tent, and she tested the elasticity of the stretch as she negotiated the variety on flat feet inside loafers that needed but lacked the expansion ability of the pants.

As unpleasant as that sight was, it didn't affect his appetite. He scarfed bacon, eggs, french toast, sausage, biscuits and gravy and fruit, not realizing how hungry he was until he'd finished one plate.

After another cup of something advertised as coffee, but not very proud coffee, Gordon went back to the pay phone, pulled a yellow paper from his pocket which had been torn from the now charred Raleigh directory in his office, and punched in the seemingly forty-nine digits from the calling card.

"Stewart Mills Realty," said an attractive feminine voice.

"Th-th-this is B-b-b-bobby Pheiffer. I rent an ap-ap-ap-apartme-me-ment over on Da-da-Da."

"Hold please, I'll connect you to rentals."

Gordon wondered how many times he'd have to imitate Bobby. He didn't blame the lady for cutting him short. He'd found himself wanting to finish Bobby's sentences for him, and the thought now humored him.

After a few seconds, "This is Darlene Stafford."

"Th-This is B-b-bobby Pheiffer, I rented a p-p-p-place over on Da-da-Dixie Trail."

"Yes, Mr. Pheiffer, I'm familiar with you, how are you?"

"Um, I'm f-f-f-fine." Gordon was starting to chuckle inside and didn't know if he'd be able to finish.

"I move, moved away. M-m-my uncle in G-g-georgia died an-an-and left m-m-me a house an-an-and I won't n-n-need n-n-none of the st-stuff I l-l-l-left there." He was glad to have that out, and hoped Darlene Stafford had gotten it. He didn't think he could say it again; he'd reminded himself of the kid, Billy, facing Nurse Ratchet in _'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'_. He lowered the phone and covered the speaker with his palm as he let out a laugh, the suppression attempt forcing the laugh out painfully through his sinuses.

"I see. Sorry to be losing you, and I'm sorry to hear about your uncle." Darlene Stafford said. "So, when are you moving?"

Gordon got his giddiness under control and continued the conversation, "I al-al-r-ready moved."

"Alright. Good luck Mr. Pheiffer."

"Th-th-thank you."

Gordon returned the receiver and giggled his way back to his booth seat and drank another cup of limp coffee.

CHAPTER 6: FLOOZY'S FAKES

The Buick ran well. On I-75 Gordon gunned it several times to test the power, careful not to noticeably exceed the speed of traffic. He exited onto Edgemont Boulevard and hit an immense jam. Took ten minutes to drive the eight blocks to the nineteen hundred block, and he parked in a deck one block past. Nineteen fifty-four Edgemont was a two story brick building in the middle of a row of similar structures that shared walls and rooftops. The door opened to a staircase which ascended to a small landing facing three doors. Suite C was straight ahead, and the letter served as full nomenclature. He knocked lightly.

The man who opened the door was gaunt, with long blonde hair and a dark mustache. He wore ragged jeans, a faded purple tee-shirt and sandles.

"Floozy?" Gordon asked.

"Must be Gordon."

"Yeah."

"Come in." Floozy locked the door behind them.The room was simply furnished with a desk, wicker couch and several wooden chairs with wicker seats. There were no pictures on the walls.

"Have a seat on the comfy couch." Floozy sat behind the desk and pointed at the wicker couch. Gordon looked around, then dead-panned, "I would if you had one."

Floozy smiled, then said, "You need ID, I believe Tilly said."

"Yes, yes I do. Lost mine, you know?"

"Sure I do. Happens all the time. But, do not fret – I got a special this week. Georgia driver's license, social security card, credit history AND, employee ID badges."

"I don't think I'll need the employee badge."

"Ya might as well, it's included in the price. And it can't be verified, the company's bankrupt and out of business."

"Humph," Gordon pondered, "Might as well. Sounds strong. How much is it?"

"Two grand. Tilly said you can afford it."

"Good ole Tilly. It's no problem."

"Well, step right this way. Everybody's waiting." Floozy stepped through a door-less doorway and Gordon followed. On the right sat a camera on a four foot tall tri-pod. Across the small room was a plastic chair in front of a blue curtained background. "Everybody's waiting?" Gordon asked.

Floozy waved him off. "Words from a song."

"Oh, had me scared for a minute there."

"Sometimes they call me 'scary'. Scary, Floozy, Chuck - sometimes worse. Have a seat right there and smile."

The paper-maker took two photos, then removed the blue curtain from behind Gordon. Now the background was dark beige, which he would use for the company ID card."

"Good," he said, and walked through the door-less threshold. "Come back in here, back to the comfy couch."

"Where is this comfy couch?"

"Public TV, I think," Floozy answered, confusing Gordon. He sat behind the desk. "This is where I like to collect the fee, if it's OK."

Gordon felt the tension thicken like syrup. "Oh sure, sorry I didn't offer it earlier." He reached into his pocket and removed a thick wad of 'one color'.

"So, what's your name – on your new driver's license?"

"I don't know."

"I got to have a name. Pick one."

"Oh, how about, 'Timothy Leon Kirby'."

Floozy wrote it down. "And your address?"

"Oh, how about twelve forty-nine North Elm Street."

"I like it. In Atlanta?"

Gordon hesitated.

"You could be from Marietta, Conyers, Stone Mountain."

"Conyers. I'm from something North Elm, Conyers, Jaw-ja. How's that sound?"

"Like a local. And you work at Schneider Engineering."

"How about a passport?" Gordon asked.

"Don't do passports. Too dangerous. Don't do green cards either."

"Why do they call you Floozy?"

"Well, you don't have to be a woman to be a floozy. Sit back, Mr. Kirby. I'll be a few minutes. By the way, I really like your wig." Floozy went through a door at the rear and shut the door behind him. Gordon picked up a two year old magazine from a table. He heard clacking on a keyboard and machines buzzing, and imagined Floozy with a room full of monitors and gauges and printers. After ten minutes he began pacing the room, examining knick-knacks from the wobbly bookshelves. He considered knocking on the door, but decided to wait a while. He still heard a keyboard being punched. He imagined Floozy playing a recording and slipping out the back door. But Tilly knew him. He'd wait a while before getting antsy.

A few minutes after that Floozy entered with plastic encased cards, still hot off the press.Gordon accepted them, thanked him, and left quickly.

CHAPTER 7: GRAPEVINE

Gus Angelo heard about the explosion around ten o'clock Sunday night. He'd watched the Super Bowl on the large screen in the bar at Il Campano's Italian Restaurant on Raleigh's fast growing north side. It was one of the many establishments Angelo owned around town, and like all his endeavors, this was on the upscale side of Raleigh's restaurant selection, serving true Italian food. He was full of scotch, ravioli and angel hair pasta with meatballs, and cheese grated so fine and delicious it melted on his tongue. His driver was waiting in the warm Caddi, and Angelo already had on his knee length Krizia wool coat and scarf when Frankie Denardo, his nephew and head chef at Il Campano came into the bar. Frankie was twenty eight, squatty and husky, with muscles giving evidence to his weight lifting regiment. He had a wide hawk nose and black hair combed Elvis style above full cheeks. His beard was so thick that even freshly shaved, his face appeared to be gray. "Gus, Gus, I guess you heard about David Gordon, didn't you?" Frankie asked.

"You bet. I heard he owes me half a million. I almost hope that fat obnoxious fuck can't pay," Angelo laughed heartily and slapped Frankie on the back. "I love it when life gets interesting."

Frankie laughed, too, but not heartily. "Be careful what you wish for . You might just get it."

Angelo's expression soured . "What you talking 'bout, Frankie?"

"You haven't heard, have you? His real estate office exploded and police are saying he was in there. He's dead. Committed suicide."

"What? What are you telling me Frankie?"

Frankie shrugged. "Yeah, I drove by there over on Dixie Trail when I heard about it, and saw the place that the office used to be. Blown up to the sky. Two blocks were on fire. I called Earl Woodall at RPD. I know he bets with Gordon. He said yeah, there is evidence Gordon was in there. I knew you'd want to know first thing."

"Shit, shit, Frankie. Fuck!" Angelo huffed while peeling off his coat. "Shit, the guy gets blown up the day he owes me five hundred grand? Now, that's hard to believe. Shit! No fooling-You're not joking with me, are you Frankie?" He started pacing the bar, which was nearly empty, and touching chairs, thinking.

"It'll be on the news tonight."

"Yeah, good idea. I'll go home and call Jack and Dan. Angelo put his coat and scarf back on, and walked to his waiting car.

CHAPTER 8: STONE COLD PSYCOPATH

Johnny, self-proclaimed, "Highlites" Berkley grabbed the phone on the third ring. Before answering, he sleepily looked at the alarm clock, which reported 7:52 AM. He pressed his palm to his throbbing temple and remembered the private party he'd had with Dawn, while Jack and Gin provided the spirits. He'd only had about four hours sleep. He regretted that he'd forgotten to take aspirin before falling asleep, and his mouth felt as dry as desert sand.

"This better be real fucking important," Berkley barked into the phone.

"Oh, it is," Jack Milan replied softly. "Good morning, Johnny."

"What the fuck is it this time?"

"Mr. Angelo wants to see you ASAP. Something has come up and he needs your services. He has a meeting at 9:30 and wants to see you before nine."

"Fuck you Milan, I'm sleeping, Good-bye, Asshole."

"Ten thousand dollars," Milan said quickly.

Berkley had started the phone towards the cradle when he thought he heard a voice say 'ten thousand dollars', and he was pretty sure it wasn't the voice of an angel. "What was that?"

"I said ten grand. Mr. Angelo will tell you the rest."

Before nine, OK? Regular place." Milan waited for a response.

"Alright, I'll be there." Berkley hung up and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples. He didn't dare lay his head back down on that pillow. He reached for his pack of Marlboro's and lit one with the silver Scripto he'd owned for many years. He was cold but wouldn't own slippers or a housecoat: they were for sissies. His need to consume liquid seemed stronger than his urge to expel liquid so he popped a can of Pepsi before going to the bathroom.

His current girl, Dawn, was dark haired and vivacious with the eyes of a cat. After a healthy piss, Berkley, still totally naked, looked at her all wrapped up in blankets, her head covered.

"Dawn," he called, but she didn't even move. "Fucking cunt. If you didn't have that cunt you wouldn't be worth a fuck. There'd be a bounty on your head," Berkley said, pulling the covers off Dawn with one hand, the other stroking his penis.

"What?" Dawn startled.

Berkley grabbed both ankles, spread them, and pulled them towards him. He dropped to his knees on top of her.

"No! Not now, I'm sleeping, I don't feel like it," she complained, kicking her legs to no avail.

"Who asked ya?" Berkley said. She was semi-dry but he pushed on in. "Just shut up."

A few minutes later Berkley squealed, then quickly moved away. Dawn rolled over, feeling the sticky wetness in her crotch.

Berkley put on his jeans and sweatshirt, slipped on and laced his LL Beane hiking boots and his Saroj International Allano black leather jacket, and walked out into the cold January air to his jet black BMW.

Morning traffic was extremely heavy on the downtown beltway, which sent Berkley into a semi-rage. "What are all these pussies doing out here. Got to go to work, work nine to five," he raved sarcastically. "All you stupid fucking assholes, why don't you just get the fuck out of my way," Berkley ranted, with all the articulation of a junior high school drop-out.

Berkley was five-eleven, one-ninety, with dark brown hair that hung half way to the shoulders and deep set eyes with dark brows that seemed perpetually tense. His face wore a constant smirk to match his pernicious disposition.

He was a born and raised North Carolinian, from an area of Charlotte then called North Charlotte, which was predominantly poor and white. His family had helped Charlotte develop the reputation as one of the highest crime cities in America. Johnny was the middle and smallest of three boys. His older brother got new clothes since he was the oldest and his younger brother got them since he was the largest. Johnny knew that his new clothes were coming from either his older brother or his bigger brother or some brother from the flea market. And his grand-ma could get some great deals from those flea markets and yard sales. She was a heavy-set woman who sweated heavily, and she'd go to yard sales and try on a shirt and say, 'this ain't worft fiddy cent, it's been worn, I'll give ya a quarter.' His father, a roofer during sober spells, was a cur with skin so sun-baked it looked like elephant hide. He'd backhand his boys for back-talk or looking like they might be thinking about it. He'd hop a whore like a bee on the first flower of spring. Johnny grew to hate the man, but nonetheless inherited many of his most malignant traits.

Johnny's body was so covered with tattoos he looked like the back wall of a ghetto school house. He'd come to Raleigh three years ago to work for Angelo, and brought a very disreputable past.

When he was twenty he'd gone to a West Charlotte crack house with Ricky Breeden to get back money they'd lost in a drug deal gone south. They thought they'd shoot the money out of the drug dealers, and they did kill three of the dealers. However, Ricky got killed in the melee and Berkley was caught attempting to carry Breeden to safety. Otherwise, he'd have gotten away. He got fourteen years to think about it, courtesy of the state. He'd have been sentenced to more time, except, well, they WERE drug dealers that he'd sent to pitchfork lessons. For fourteen years he'd thought about carrying Ricky Breeden's dead body, and how obtuse it all seemed now. He knew he'd never be loyal to anyone again.

Berkley got fourteen years to pump iron, and that's what he did. Everyday. Nobody'd mess with him when he got out of there, that was his plan. He became a psychopath who cared about nothing but Johnny "Highlites" Berkley, as he called himself. This attitude had served him well for eight years now, since his release. He had become a butcher; a stone-cold killer.

Upon release, Berkley moved to Chicago to learn the trade, and spent five years there. He'd been working for Angelo enterprises in Raleigh for three years.

Angelo ran a branch for the Intreri Family, headquartered in Chicago. Angelo's former heavy hitter had the misfortune of sticking his head in line with a speeding bullet, so he requested a man from the Chicago office, where they seemed to grow in abundance. The Don Intreri wanted Berkley out of town and unaffiliated to the family in the Chicago metro area. He observed Berkley's virulent temper, and he had the common sense to distrust him.

Berkley once found a magnetic sign lying on the road which read 'Metropolitan Taxi.' He attached it to his Crown Victorian on the passenger side, and picked up an unsuspecting passenger who appeared wealthy due to his business suit. Berkley drove him outside of town and made him get out of the car, then shot him. Chucklehead only had eighty-two dollars in his pockets.

Berkley killed another man one day while pumping gas. A black guy drove up for gas with rap music at full volume, got out, and started the pump without turning the music down.

"Cut that crap off," Berkley barked.

"What?" the guy asked, disbelieving his ears.

"I said turn that shit down." Berkley screamed, louder.

"Fuck you. I can listen if I want to. Who the fuck are you to tell me to turn it down. Fuck you, honkie. That's just like a Caucasian. Fuck you, whitey."

Ordinarily, Berkley would be on him like stink in a swine farrow, but today, he had a better plan. He drove half a block around the corner, parked the BMW, and hurried back to the station. While the guy was inside, Berkley filled up a coffee mug with gasoline and hid behind the dumpster, only fifteen feet from the vociferous vehicle. When the guy started the car and put it in gear, Berkley quickly took the three large steps to the car and splashed the gas on the driver. His other hand held a Bic lighter, and it sparked within a half second of the splash.

The burning guy jumped out of the flaming car, which rolled on down the street forty yards before exploding, and dropped to the asphalt with a three foot flame from the chest up and started crawling towards the grass. He didn't make it, went into immediate shock and collapsed there. Berkley ran to his own car, flapping his flaming right hand against his side.

One reason for Berkley's success was that he wasn't scared of anything. Not an irate landowner, a red-neck bearing arms, a bear, or stepping on a rattlesnake. He'd drive out a dirt road to a wooded area in the middle of the night in total darkness, carry a body and shovel several hundred yards into a thicket, dig a hole three feet deep and bury it. He figured the chances of this land being cleared and plowed in the next several years was remote. The hard part was not being seen. The rest was just labor. He wondered why people dumped bodies in rivers where they'd be found. Laziness, he figured.

Most criminals, he figured, were such because they were too lazy to work, and equally indolent in regard to their criminal activities. He'd watched shows on TV about forensic pathology, and knew that dead bodies told tales. His carnage would never be found, and that one characteristic would keep him in business.

Berkley wasn't big but he was strong and as quick and explosive as a spark in a fume filled chamber, possessing the perfect warrior psyche. He was a totally non-caring human being, and when the curtain went up, he had a fierce determination.

But he was beatable. He knew that because he'd witnessed it. A marine once drove into a mall parking space Berkley had his eye on. It was his parking space. The marine had stolen from him, and he'd have to learn about taking from Johnny Berkley. So he cursed the marine and told him to leave. The marine calmly said he wouldn't, and Berkley threw the first punch. But he missed. Then somehow, the marine was behind him. Berkley found himself on the ground and didn't remember a thing about it. Every time he'd get to his knees he'd be sprawled back down on his face. Every time he'd look up he'd get an elbow in the eye.

That was a sad day for Johnny, who preferred thinking he was the baddest of the worst. Wished he didn't know now what he didn't know then.

Berkley liked to think he was in control but he knew that he wasn't. he was controlled. Some nights he'd circle the house, peeking out every window. He'd pull down on the edge of a blind slat ever so slightly. He kept hearing noises. Every ten minutes he'd walk out on the porch with a butcher knife in the back pocket of his jeans. Then he'd hear the call: the call of the crack pipe. "Coming, master." His addiction to crack cocaine was so extreme that he purchased by the ounce rather than the gram as most addicts did. He could afford to. Imagine this – a crack addict is going to make it last. No.

Gus Angelo couldn't be seen in the company of the likes of Berkley. Everybody that knew Berkley had a vague idea of what he was into. So the "usual place" to meet Berkley was front of the duck pond at Pullen Park, on the downtown edge of N. C. State University. It was a nice, shady park with kiddy rides and picnicing. College kids liked to lounge on the lush green grass in the large clearing, throwing frisbees and smoking reefer.

Berkley sat on a bench with his back to the pond and lit a Marlboro. "Where is that fucking asshole?", Berkley asked himself in disgust, letting out a burst of smoke with each word. Ducks were splashing their wings on the water and constantly dipping their heads under the frigid water behind him. But Berkley didn't notice, wasn't interested.

A few minutes later, the white Cadillac Sedan of Gus Angelo with the tinted windows pulled in and stopped at the corner of the lot nearest Berkley. Berkley violently stomped the butt out in the grass and got in the back seat next to Angelo. "What's up, bossman?" Berkley asked as pleasantly as was possible for him.

Gus Angelo folded up the morning paper and looked at Berkley with indignation. Even a rogue like him should dress better than this. "Good morning, Mr. Highlites, sorry for the late notice. I was planning to talk to you later today, but something else has come up that I've got to deal with later today," Angelo said, forcing aside his abhorrence. He put the paper down and tugged the cuffs of his Fabio & Grazzi shirt exactly a half inch beneath his Canali sport coat. Angelo had salt and pepper hair that he kept well-trimmed yet fairly long, and combed it straight back without a part on either side. He wore a more salt than pepper fu-man-chu style mustache and goatee, a wide smile that revealed perfect teeth, and had deep brown sensual eyes that instantly earned most people's trust and belied his true age of fifty-nine. He looked distinguished and carried himself like so.

He spoke clearly and eloquently, sounding like a man who could be anything he wanted to be. Angelo gained eminence in the Intreri crime family and moved to Raleigh from New York twenty years earlier during an expansion into southern metro areas. He'd established legitimate enterprise with Intreri Family money all throughout the triangle area, and these businesses made real profits. Combined with the drug money they laundered, the enterprise returned incredible returns to the stockholders.

"So, how you been doing?" Angelo asked.

"Groovy."

"Groovy?" Angelo laughed. "That doesn't sound like Johnny Berkley."

Berkley smirked. "Yea. What's so important, Angelo?" Berkley asked with typical disdain. "What couldn't wait until after lunch, like usual? You know I'm not an early bird. Why you do me like this?"

Angelo thought about answering that question directly, but knew there was no sense in trying to explain rationale to Berkley. Berkley didn't want an answer, just an argument. So, Angelo got to business by pulling out a snapshot and handing it to Berkley. The photo showed a tall young man in cacky pants and a golf shirt with curly black hair, clean-shaven and a cleft chin. The photo was clear enough that Berkley could discern a rough complexion with large bluish eyes and puffy lips.

"Trevor Teague," Angelo said. "Owes me twenty grand and he doesn't show respect. He's an idiot. Thinks he can just walk around with my money in his pocket."

"Just what the world needs, one less Trevor." Berkley said, mostly to himself.

"He takes my money, then tells me to screw-off. Not with those words, of course, but with his actions. Won't answer my calls. Yea, I know his daddy, but, fuck."

"Can't believe some asshole would talk that way to a man of your stature, Angelo, but, I don't need to know his name or his transgression," Berkley said with petulance.

"Let's not forget that, Berkley. You need to know what I tell you. You work for me, I don't work for you. You got that?" Angelo countered with an edge of scorn.

"I need to know the numbers and the place, Angelo." Berkley said slow and quiet, still arrogant but apparently more in his place, Angelo thought, feeling a small victory. He wondered if he would ever call the shot on Berkley. He wanted to, and knew the world would be a better and safer place that way. But he needed his talent. Nobody was more dependable at his skill, which was valid for the success of the enterprise.

"I'm getting to that."

"I ain't got all day," Berkley said with a shrug, then folded his hands in his lap.

Angelo wanted to just pull his gun and shoot him, but what he did instead was simply hand an envelope to Berkley. "Mr. Teague plays hockey in a league every Wednesday night at the Triangle Ice Palace. He gets there around 6:30. Make sure he isn't found. Your usual way, I don't need to know about it."

Berkley rolled his eyes to signify that he knew that and counted out fifty hundred dollar bills, half the fee, always paid up front. Berkley got five thousand on the first day of each month simply to be available when needed, plus fees for any actual work done. He typically got ten thousand for each hit and two thousand to change someone's attitude. It was always one or the other; no other jobs seemed suitable for Berkley's aptitude.

He wasn't always required to assassinate an adversary. Sometimes he just delivered a clear message. Berkley had, in his Doctor bag, a two foot length of two-inch diameter underground electric cable. It weighed about five pounds, with a thick rubber coating. The elasticity of the rubber coating allowed him to crack someone behind the ear fairly hard without cracking the average skull. It raised one hell of an above average welt, though. He liked it.

He was no negotiator. His first visit was often a painful explanation, and nobody wanted to see Berkley twice. The second time meant harp lessons. But Teague didn't warrant any explanation. He had apparently stomped Angelo pretty hard. Berkley didn't need the details. The amount of money in the envelope told Berkley what the job was.

Angelo tapped on the glass that separated the front and back seat. His driver knew this meant to get Berkley back to his car and out of this one ASAP.

Angelo studied the News and Observer financial section while Berkley just stared out the window.

CHAPTER 9: QUICK THINKING

Angelo got to his office on the penthouse suites of the downtown Enterprise Center, which had been designed by Luciana, Tallent and Wellborne from Atlanta, and built by Myrick Mechanical of Charlotte. It was one of the largest buildings in uptown Raleigh and sat only one block from the main square and four blocks from the golden domed State Capital Building. The structure's exterior was brown glossy marble and glass with a large fountain out front and it served as a metaphor of Angelo's ubiquitous influence throughout the city.

He went straight to the conference room without going to his office first or checking his messages. He entered the large room with the twelve seat Thomasville table and found Jack Milan, his vice president, along with George Pilcher, the chief financial officer, company lead attorney Dan Davenport and Chris Medley, who managed the legitimate branches of Angelo Enterprises, which consisted of clothing stores, restaurants, construction and real estate among others. This arm of the company was extremely profitable and important, giving the company an air of lawfulness, as well as laundering the cash from the covert but lucrative sectors of the conglomerate.

Medley was a manifest genius, possessing a law degree as well as an MBA from Harvard, and much admired by Angelo. He was articulate and decisive and most of his advice had rung true over the eight years he had been on board.

Angelo fixed a cup of coffee and sat at the end chair, facing all his main players. "I think we all know about the unfortunate situation a fellow named David Gordon has left us in. Seems he has supposedly blown himself up, coincidentally on the same night he owed me a half million dollars." Everyone was fully aware of the wager Angelo had placed with Gordon: it had been the butt of many a joke around this very table over the weeks leading up to the Super Bowl. "I find that rather too coincidental. Jack, what have you and Dan found out about it? Are the police calling it a suicide, or what?"

"That's their speculation. Say they need time to investigate," Jack reported. Jack was short and thin, with a full head of dark Italian hair, tanned features and a hawk nose. He possessed a comforting smile full of perfect white teeth, and he dressed on par with Gus, and was nearly Angelo's age. He was Angelo's right hand man, was qualified and deft at all of Angelo's duties, and took care of things the boss considered too detailed and mundane.

Often, Milan seemed to have his lackey boy, Tommy Russ, glued to himself. Russ was a trained bodyguard and master marksman. He was tough and quick with the heart of a lion. He was tall and thin, blond with a noticeable under-bite and a ruddy complexion that was indicative of an adolescent acne problem as a kid; his junior high school nickname was 'Gravel Face'. Russ sat quietly, as usual. Milan admitted Russ was smart and good at his job. But he was stodgy and annoying when he started talking. He ended every sentence with "you know." Only, when it came out of Russ's mouth it didn't seem like a rhetorical question, as if he really expected an answer.

Davenport, the attorney, was the next to speak. "I may be concerned that they might start thinking that we set the hit. There are cops down there who know you gamble with Gordon, knew of this very thing. It's something to be aware of. Could create headaches."

"Yeah," Angelo said, "I thought of that. But who'd knock him off before he has a chance to pay? Hell, we'd keep him alive, if we had to hook him to life support, at least for a week or two, milk the sucker for what he did have first."

There was light snickering around the table, then Medley mused "I wonder what enemies Gordon had?"

"Yeah," Angelo said, "Jack, check that out too. And find out anything the cops find out over the next few weeks."

Pilcher theorized, "Just seems too fishy. I think there's some chance he may not be dead. If so, we need to find out now."

"Yeah," Angelo said, "If he ain't, he will be." There was laughter again. "We need to stake-out his place. Make sure he's not there. And tap his phone, too. See what that pretty wife of his has to say. You handle that, Jack?"

"Sure," Jack said with a shrug. "I'll get Pete Crouch on that. Bell South has a tap-into-a-friend-plan."

Davenport spoke up, "I think we should probably just let it go."

Everyone looked his way so fast you could hear cartilage crack. "Say what?"

"It's only a half a mil. If he is alive, he won't have it. And the trouble could cost well over that to get out of."

"Well, Don, we're not going to forget about it. It's personal."

"Yes, that's my point; it's way too personal."

* * * *

Milan was working on details of the Gordon situation while Tommy Russ ran in and out of his office.

"You got nothing to do, Russ?"

"Nothing."

"Here's something. Take my Lexus down to the tire store and get the best set of new tires you can for a thousand dollars." He gave Russ a thousand in cash and the keys.

"What tires you want."

"You choose. I don't have time to fuck with it. Prove your worth."

"Ssss," Russ hissed at the insult. Had he not known that the company thought highly of his skills, he may have been insulted being called a common errand boy.

Russ stopped by a hardware store and had a spare ignition and door key made for the Lexus. He also purchased a black marker, a pair of scissors, a roll of duct tape, a screwdriver and a key ring. He tore the top panel off a cardboard box he pulled out of the trash. In the car he put the two new keys on the new key ring and trimmed up the cardboard. With the marker, he wrote on the cardboard 'LOST TAG MRX-6322', and drove to the Goodyear dealer, but stopped a block short. He used the screwdriver to remove the tag, which he concealed under the passenger seat, and used the tape to afix the sign he'd written to the rear windshield, and drove to the store. He ordered the best tires in stock, and showed a fake ID, then walked up the street to a nearby deli. His watch said ten-thirty.

At exactly twelve thirty he returned to the tire dealer, walked to the Lexus, used the original keys for entry, and drove off the lot. Around the corner, he quickly removed the sign from the rear window and replaced the tag behind the car. Back at headquarters, he threw everything he'd purchased into the dumpster and fingered the thousand dollars in his pocket.

CHAPTER 10: COMPASSION

Shelly's parents arrived and it was real somber, strange. She had to cry and play it up big until she figured everything out. Her parents, Charles and Maureen Stephenson, wanted to constantly hug her to protect her from her grief. Shelly felt awful about lying to and betraying them, but she had no choice. Lots of friends dropped by with food and flowers, and offered help with anything Shelly needed. Pammy stayed sober and fairly quiet, not quite knowing how to act.

Shelly stayed up all hours of the night, slept late and moped around, cried, complained and acted like the confused little widow she was supposed to be. Basically, she let everybody do everything for her. They cooked her meals, cleaned her house, took out the garbage, read her books on grieving.

They took her to Raleigh Little Theatre for _Cleopatra_ , which everyone agreed was a wonderful production, took her to the movies, rented videos and kept her mind occupied playing Canasta and board games. There was very little serious conversation about the future. Not once did any of them call the tragedy a blessing in disguise. This they said only behind her back.

It was obvious to Shelly that someone had died in the explosion, and it bothered her tremendously to think that David could be involved in something so abominable. He had his faults, yes, but she had trouble believing he was culpable of such an egregious act. Surely he hadn't planned that.

Jeff Shaw, the lead investigator, came by with more questions that seemed to center around David's gambling business, and Shelly again denied any knowledge. She cried and accused Shaw of trying to taint David's good name and sterling image.

Shaw informed her that arson investigators had determined that dynamite had been used, but was uncertain of the detonation devise. They were trying to determine where Gordon may have gotten that, and again, Shelly was of no help.

Shaw then told her that the case was being classified as a suicide until evidence to the contrary became available, and that David's financial data was being collected.

Shelly got the impression that the investigation was nearly complete; RPD was convinced David had reason to end his life. His Grand Cherokee was parked in it's usual place, human parts were found and Gordon was missing. They saw no reason to spend resources investigating further. The case was closed, even though Shaw didn't say it. That's just the way David thought and hoped it would go. They had all the answers, and they were the answers right on the surface.

CHAPTER 11: COUNTRY FUNERAL

Shelly talked to David at the Waffle House phone at 2:00 on Tuesday as planned, and explained her discussion with police. He was happy everything was going as planned, and reminded her to get the death certificate and start collecting insurance and retirement funds.

David praised her courage and assured her everything would be great. He asked her, when she got depressed, to imagine herself running barefoot in Caribbean sand and dancing in the rain.

****

The next day Shelly rode with her parents through a steady rain to David's hometown of Whiteville, NC for the funeral service at the Whiteville First Baptist Church. The church was newly painted white lap siding surrounded by rhododendron bushes and locust trees. The sanctuary was attractive with stadium seating and rustic beams up the walls to the pinnacle of the ceiling and large stained glass windows.

The closed casket rested in front of the pulpit on exalted legs and encompassed by flower arrangements. There had been no viewing, of course, and plenty people wondered about the necessity of a symbolic coffin; just something to bury. Shelly assumed the few found bones were in the casket.

Over a hundred friends and family members paid tribute to the assumed deceased, most of whom 'belonged' to this church but hadn't seen the inside since it had been remodeled nearly three years ago. David's sister, Jessica, spoke and reflected upon the magnitude of the loss her family and the world had suffered. Through tears she told of personal memories and expressed the love she'd felt for her brother. Uncle Tom spoke of his overall greatness and respectability. Reverend Scarboro then gave a solemn harangue about how David was surely in Heaven with God.

They then caravanned to Whiteville Memorial Cemetery where David's remains were thought to be buried in the Gordon family plot next to his parents. It was still raining steadily, so the service was somewhat rushed while everyone crowded under the McEwen Funeral Home tent or umbrellas.

****

Over the next few days, Shelly grew more and more disconcerted without David. She missed him immensely already and knew she would miss having him to lean on for daily decisions. She had never in her life had to pay the bills or decide when to have the car serviced. She thought of herself as content with her daily routine, and more than anything, was scared to change.

Both her parents had come from wealthy Charleston families. Her great-great-great-great grandfather on her mother's side was John Gibbes, reputed as being the largest plantation owner in the area before the Civil War when Charleston had been the wealthiest city in the old south.

Her father, Dr. Charles Stephenson, had a thriving dental practice with four other DDS's under his employment. Shelly had been raised in a large Charleston style home on Elizabeth Street, full of antique furniture and pool in the back yard, bordering the old historic district and only a block from both the Aiken-Rhett House and Joseph Manigault Mansion.

Shelly was taught the piano and ballet very young, was a member of the prestigious Charleston Swim Club, learned tennis at the Mt. Pleasant Country club and was enrolled in the Prometheus Society, The Sesqul-Q Club and Vitruvian Society. She despised the brainiak clubs but remained forever stoic of those feelings. They were regulars at the Dock Street Theatre, on the site of one of the nation's oldest playhouses. The Stephenson's also owned a beach house on nearby Sullivan's Island that stayed rented out for top dollar forty-eight weeks a year. The doctor also had a pilot's license and owned his own Cessna.

She'd always been protected and spoiled by her parents and then by David. He was certainly different from her folks in that he lacked an understanding of being brought up as one of the fortunate ones, and would thus laugh and make jokes at some of her ideas about leisure activities. But he kept her occupied enough with membership in the Raleigh Country Club and frequent trips to Margeaux's, Wickedsmile or Greenshield's restaurants.

She missed her nights out. She couldn't go alone and was scared to take Pammy: there seemed no limits to the troubles Pam's mouth could lead to. She wanted her man back home to take her, but she accepted it could never be that way again. Soon, they would be living in the Caribbean, which would be a marvelous place to live. If that's what he required, she'd be there for him.

The following Tuesday Shelly told David that over a hundred people had attended the service in his honor. It was the first time he'd thought about how he had affected so many lives, making them take off from work and all. Wow! He couldn't imagine that many people giving up their afternoons to mourn him. He was certain he wouldn't have done it for any of them.

CHAPTER 12: BERKLEY MEETS TREVOR

Johnny Berkley arrived at the Triangle Ice Palace just past six o'clock for his surprise appointment with Trevor Teague. He drove a 1986 Crown Victoria, a vehicle Berkley kept legal with insurance, inspection and tag. He kept the car for nights just like this one, for several reasons. First, if he had to carry off a body with a bullet or two in the head he didn't want blood on his Beamer. Secondly, there was extra room in the trunk, enough for a body to lay flat. Most of all, he liked the car for the same reason the police prefer them: at high speeds it's weight and rear wheel propulsion helped it handle better, and the 410 CC motor would fly. Not as fast as the BMW, but as fast as most police cars. For that reason, he kept it in immaculate running order. If he got caught, there would be plenty of evidence, so he couldn't get caught. He'd never get out this time, and Berkley wasn't going back to prison.

He parked near the middle of the parking lot. All was quiet, with only a few cars parked near the front of the lot. He shut off the motor, rolled down the window and lit a Marlboro. He wished he'd asked Angelo what kind of car this dead guy drove, but he had not. It was just past dark. Berkley checked his Lorcin L-22 automatic, slipping out the clip and sliding it back in. It was something to do. He laid it on the seat next to the the full face toboggan that he possessed not for cold nights.

He almost always used the Lorcin for this type of mission, where he didn't expect a shoot-out. It was only five inches long, clean, weighed only one pound and fit easily in his Allano jacket pocket. Angelo always gave him a gun to use for each hit, usually a .45 or .38, and thought Berkley was burying the gun with the body. This one was an Enterprise Elite P500 forty five with a double diamond checkered stock. He preferred the much smaller .22 dum-dums bullets for these quick errands because they were very dependable at this range and caused much less bloodshed. He hated it when a stiff bled on him or his car, or squirted gray matter on his clothes. Most of the time, the .22 short projectiles didn't even exit the skull. They just rattled around, creating the same result as the larger bullets with less drama.

A Mustang pulled into the lot driving quickly and parked in the center spot nearest the front door. Berkley started the Ford and glanced at Teague's photo. Curly black hair, clean shaven, rough complexion. A flash of adrenaline surged through him, seemed to start in his stomach and run to his brain. It felt good. He drove behind the Mustang and circled the car, not looking suspicious. A stocky blonde male got out of the Mustang, carrying a gym bag and a hockey stick. "Mario," Berkley mused. "Good thing you don't look like the dead guy in this picture."

Several more cars entered and Berkley proceeded the same ritual for each. No Trevor, yet. He parked, left the engine running, and lit another butt. He checked all his mirrors to make sure nobody was approaching, especially police or security. Then a late model Volvo entered the lot and parked next to a van in the fifth slot from the door. Perfect, Berkley thought. He parked next to the Volvo and noticed there were three people in the car. He leaned back into the shadows of his car and watched. Two guys got out and pulled hockey sticks from the back seat. Berkley got a clear view of both, and sure enough, Trevor Teague was the driver. Then a young woman got out of the back seat, stood there while the guys retrieved their gear from the trunk.

While they were in the trunk, Berkley slipped on the toboggan, chambered a round in the Lorcin, pressed the trunk latch, opened the door and got out. He walked quickly to Teague and pointed the shooter right between his eyes.

He'd usually just walk up behind a mark and shoot the back of the skull. But today he was feeling really playful, so he said "Freeze!" Both guys raised their hands over their heads and looked at the Lorcin with wild-eyed stares.

Berkley wondered about that. He was proud to say he'd never aimed a gun at someone that he didn't shoot. He knew if anyone ever pulled a gun on him he'd run in an arch pattern. He wouldn't just stand there and hope the fucker didn't shoot. If he's not going to shoot he won't shoot a fleeing man. If he is going to shoot, Berkley'd give him a moving backside target. Something a little more challenging than a watermelon at two feet.

But people didn't do that. Like Teague, they just froze and gave it up.

Bang! Teague's head snapped back and he dropped like cut timber. The girl ran into the Ice Palace, screaming and flailing her arms every step. The dweeb just stood there with his hands in the air and his mouth agape, in shock. Berkley wanted to shoot him just for being stupid. "What the fuck? What do you want? Please don't shoot me," he cried, with tears running down his face. Berkley decided to play it like a robbery. "Give me your money!"

The guy reached into his pocket and took out some bills and handed them to Berkley, who pocketed the cash without looking at it. The poor sap sobbed and pleaded, "Please don't shoot me."

"Beat it, Mario," Berkley demanded, and the guy took off like a scalded dog. "Oh, uh, have a nice game, dickhead."

Berkley looked around in every direction. He then put the mask and gun on the front seat of the Crown and retrieved Teague's carcass, laying it in the trunk. There was a few drops of blood in Teague's eyes, a streak running down his cheek. Death was instantaneous and his heart had stopped pumping almost immediately. Since he'd fallen flat on his back, gravity had carried the blood to the backside of the body and not onto the ground. Berkley felt for a pulse on Teague's neck but all was quiet. He slammed the trunk shut, hopped in behind the wheel and drove through the lot with lights off. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw nobody watching. When he approached the boulevard he hit the lights and turned towards downtown.

Berkley drove south, on Highway 401, into Johnston County, turning right on an unmarked dirt road. The road wound down a ways, to a few houses at the end of the road. He'd used this place before; it was remote, traffic almost non-existent. Where the road curved left, Berkley turned off onto a farm lane for tractors and parked in a clearing in the middle of a thicket of trees. If a homeowner were to drive down the road, they would not see Berkley's car. He quickly got Teague's body draped over his shoulder and grabbed the wide spade shovel. Berkley walked through forest in total darkness. He had to move slowly to avoid branches, even in the winter. About fifty yards away from the car, Berkley dropped Teague's body, grabbed the shovel, and carefully cleared away the leaf ground coverage on a large area.

He then started to dig. There were roots everywhere, making the work much more tiring than it should have been. But finally, Berkley had the hole three feet deep and four feet long. He wiped sweat from his forehead and rolled Teague's cadaver into the hole. It landed face down, which was good enough for Berkley.

"Comfy?" he asked, then laughed. "Look at the bright side, you don't owe Angelo no more. Your slate's clean, buddy." He made a cross sign, and chuckled. He wasn't catholic and didn't believe in God. He covered the body with dirt and packed it down best he could with the shovel. After scraping the leaves on top of the grave, Berkley returned to the car and drove home, thinking of what he'd do to Dawn all the way home.

The killing had made him horny, as murder always did.

Berkeley was the kind of guy who should date ugly women. Most guys know that the price of dating a good looking woman is that other men are going to look. Accept it. Be proud of it. It's a gender risk. Most men know that when he passes by a beautiful woman, he too, will look. Probably even stare. It's a gender flaw. Women look away, lest they become a target. Men seek eye contact. They can't help it themselves. Most men accept it and get along. Not Berkley. Berkley was one of those men, so insanely jealous, people had to steer clear of him and his. Fortunately, there aren't that many guys like him. Unfortunately, when you meet one, you often don't know it till it's too late.

In a pool-hall he once attacked a guy for looking at his lady. Just started punching the guy so fast he was down before realizing he was being attacked. He liked to surprise attack and render his opponent beaten without a fight. He knew that most fights are decided by who gets "zinged" first. Just a semi black-out and it's all over. In the real world, there are no Clint Eastwood fights that go on for fifteen minutes and both beat the shit out of each other.

Fortunately for the general public; unfortunately for his neighbors, Berkley generally kept his at home, and stayed there with her.

CHAPTER 13: THE APOSTASY

Charles and Maureen had been Shelly's guests for ten days. Shelly and her mother had been shopping at Crabtree Valley Mall and were returning home. Maureen, who was driving, shut off the engine, looked at Shelly and asked, "When do you plan to go back to work, darling?"

It struck Shelly with the subtlety of a wrecking ball. She'd been thinking about David's plan to meet up in the Caribbean after she'd cashed in everything. For several days, she actually had not even considered any alternative. That was David's plan, and he'd always been the planner in the house.

Now, it hit her like a tidal wave; the problems this would necessarily create. What would she tell her parents? They'd be worried sick. The house would be foreclosed. Her career would end. Her friends would be stunned. What if she got caught?

And she probably would get caught.

"Shelly?" Maureen said with stark alarm. "Earth to Shelly."

Shelly's face suddenly turned beet red. She gasped, then bent over and covered her mouth, suddenly feeling nauseous. She looked at her mother, then down and felt her sweaty forehead, and took several deep breaths. Of course, Maureen wasn't especially alarmed. She'd just lost her husband, for Christ's sake. Emotional eruptions were expected. She'd been faking it all week, anyway. But this was different. This was real and tears ran down her face. For the first time she realized the ambivalence of her emotions. Maureen came beside her, put an arm around her and felt her forehead.

Shelly bucked. "Get away. When are yaul leaving so I can deal with this?"

She looked in her mother's eyes. Maureen's mouth nearly fell open, and the heartbreak registered in her eyes.

"No, no. I didn't mean it," Shelly said, then started wailing. "I love you, so much."

"I know, I know." Maureen said, then hugged her daughter.

"I love you, Mama," Shelly repeated.

"I know, I know darling, I love you, too, so-o-o much." She kept brushing her hand down Shelly's hair, as her head bounced between sobs.

It seemed, at that moment anyway, to them both, that this was one of those defining moments in their lifetimes that neither would ever forget. Maureen had just gone from level to way down to way up in two seconds. She, too, cried like a six year old who had just missed his ride to the pool, and they held each other for several minutes with neither of them speaking. Finally, Shelly got herself together enough to walk inside, and walked right past Charles without looking at him and went straight up to her bed, where she continued the good cry, knowing she needed it. Finally, she fell asleep.

She awakened several hours later, feeling refreshed. She went downstairs and watched TV with her parents. From the living room she heard the reiteration of "Bird, James Bird." He wanted some attention, too. They watched a true-story movie on Lifetime about an abused, cheated upon woman who sought revenge; a real Earl-had-to-die type of show. Charles had seen it before, or one just like it, but he didn't complain. They had been married for over thirty years, and by now, he was well trained. When Charles and Maureen went to bed, Shelly was wide awake since she'd had her long nap. Good, she thought, she had some things to think about.

She got Bird from his cage and put him on her shoulder. "Bird, let's talk about somebody, David." David the dumbass. He'd wedged himself and now wanted her to understand and save him from his desolate journey. To join him in his misery because misery does, indeed, love company.

She began counting his flaws. His drinking. His refusal to bring a child into the marriage. Now, she was glad they hadn't. His arrogance, self-righteousness, and venality. He'd become a rogue bird who believed in obeying the small laws so he could more easily break the big ones. He earned his living illegally. Now he'd killed a man and wanted to escape retribution. He expected his wife to commit wanton insurance fraud then deliver him the ill-gotten gains. He'd become a scamp, a knave, a scalawag. He had the ethics of a Johnny Rook.

Bird bobbed his head up and down like he understood, and squawked uncontrollably, "Bird, James Bird."

David could never turn down an opportunity to prove his duplicity. He'd have a conversation at a party, and be pleasant. When his associate walked away he'd say, "He's got an IQ of about forty."

She just today realized she had been growing weary and bored of his guile, but had subconsciously refused to give cerebration to that idea. He was above the law. He was not a good lover, and too fat to be sexy. It kept coming back to the same thing. He was an hegemonious scamp who wanted her to give up her life, family and friends. Why? Because HE had gotten into some trouble. She thought of his good points. He was a good provider. A money maker and a money grabber. Greedy and tight. No, those weren't all good points. He could actually be funny and fun, when he felt like it. He had taken her to places she'd only dreamed of. Europe, Mexico, California. But even then, he'd been an arrogant asshole, a jingo. Planning everything his way, like she didn't have a brain in her pretty little head. Well she did, he'd see, and now it was on the loose.

Now she was in an amalgamation of emotions. She was so tired of his disdain and condescension. Yes, she had allowed it, welcomed it, and grown accustomed to it. Yes, she had been a milquetoast. Now that she had made that concession, the healing could begin.

For the first time, she thought of turning David in. And maybe she just would. But not yet. David's simple plan had thoroughly tricked the police. They had jumped right on the obvious, not even checking DNA. Detective Shaw had performed perfunctorily and had it all resolved. Good for him. Maybe she could use that to her advantage. She was the one receiving the money, not David. She'd play it cool for now, and go along with everybody.

She didn't know what she would do later, but with her apostasy now complete, she knew damned well what she wasn't going to do.

****

Dr. Charles Stephenson was scheduled to be the keynote speaker at a dental seminar in Columbia, SC, so they reluctantly left Shelly to deal with her doldrums in her own way. Maureen volunteered to stay, but Shelly insisted that she needed time alone to grieve her loss, but promised to call if she needed anything. The Stephenson's were proud of their only child's courage, and gave her comforting hugs on their way out. Shelly, of course, loved them dearly, and knew she would miss them immensely, but she had a particular detail on her mind that required solitude, and she was anxious to get started.

The Stephenson's Mazda was barely out of the long driveway when Shelly ran upstairs to get started. She taped the bottom of a large cardboard box and went to David's dresser drawers and began loading. His underwear, socks and handkerchiefs, tee-shirts, short pants, and blue jeans. His jewelry box went in next, and she was feeling better already. Then she went to the closet and threw in his hang-up shirts, pants and suits. But the box was full before the suits went in, so she taped the top and bent over to lift it, but it was far too heavy. But that was OK; she wasn't going to break her back over the stupid asshole. 'I have,' she thought, as opposed to 'we have', a hand-truck in the garage just for that sort of thing. "I have is in, we have is out" she said out loud and giggled, pushed the box off to the side, taped a second box, and continued. Shoes, coats and sweaters, anything she couldn't use. She got to the back of the closets and pulled out boxes of personal papers and mementos, and carried them straight to the trash can outside. Back issues of Playboy and Sports Illustrated Magazines went directly behind the personal papers into the round, dark file. Ka-chunk. She was sweating and the house felt extremely hot in her euphoria: this was more fun than she'd imagined. She was in control; indeed she was.

She took a break to pop a beer and cool off, and to call a locksmith to re-key all the locks. They had not used the security system lately, and she made a mental note to have it examined. Then, she pulled out the hand-truck and hauled the boxes down to the garage and loaded them into her Gallant, then thought; she knew she was forgetting something. It was a sensation from deep down that she was overlooking something of significance. The feeling worked itself into a fervency. Then she remembered, and laughed with great garrulity, his friggin' golf clubs! They HAD to go. She retrieved the bag from the utility room, threw them into the car, except, she thought, I'll keep a couple of these skinny metal ones just in case he decides to drop in suddenly, they might come in handy.

She drove the car load over to Goodwill on Creedmore Road. Fortunately, on the way, it did occur to her that she was in a period of grieving and she wiped the smile off her face and put on a face of tribulation.

CHAPTER 14: THE PENTECOSTAL AND THE REVIVAL

David Gordon woke up at nine-o'clock, looked at the clock, got up and went into the bathroom to piss, then went back to bed. This had been his morning routine for a month now. He'd been up most of the night drinking and worrying. It was the worst kind of worry, since he was essentially helpless to solve anything. His life was in a limbo between old endings and new beginnings, and he could only wait it out.

He woke up again at eleven fifteen and stretched, but did not rise. Rather, he rolled over, closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Sleeping was the quickest way to get where he wanted to go. But, realizing he was wide awake, he soon rose and put on jeans and a tee shirt. It was early February, but quite comfortable in Madison, Texas.

He drank strong coffee and listened to the termites eat hungrily on the tattered screened porch of his decrepit apartment. The wood was grey and looked as if it had never seen a coat of weather sealer. Soon, however, he was bored and went inside to watch some TV. Turner Classic Movies channel was showing an old western, Ride In The Whirlwind one of Jack Nicholson's first movies. He would have never recognized him, except for the voice. Unmistakable. Gordon tried to concentrate on it, but soon realized he didn't have the aptitude to do so. His mind kept trying to find a solution to his problem, like one would miraculously appear out of thin air. That's the way he'd solved every problem he'd ever had up to this point in his life. His grandmother had always preached, a problem is something solvable: but if there is no solution, it is not a problem; rather, it is a fact of life, and you just had to live with it. One of his most vivid memories of her was when she'd preached this sermon to the seven year old David, who was worried about something petty. The example she used for a fact of life was that of a person losing an arm in an accident. It won't grow back, she explained, so you have to live with it, which was to say, without it. He was determined to somehow make certain this was a problem rather than the other, but it was making him a wretch.

He decided to go to Lake Burton and fish for bass. He'd heard they were plentiful there, and now was the time to find out for himself.

He stopped at the Cashwell Country Store, only a short ways from the public fishing area. It was an old clapboard building with long front windows and a large metal canopy. He'd noticed the young woman behind the cash register as soon as he'd entered; he couldn't help but notice her. He'd smiled at her as he entered, but her return smile was very luke warm, and he understood that. She was ethereally beautiful, as gorgeous as any movie star, and it reinforced his long held belief that there is no 'most beautiful' woman in the world, only hundreds or maybe thousands tied for the top spot. His egotism said he wanted her, but his sense told him he'd go absolutely crazy trying to hold onto a woman like that.

He thought about that. What a challenge it would be to try to date her without being so jealous as to become stark raving. Looking away, he said, no, she's not that gorgeous. Which required another look. Oh, yes she is. No, she can't be. Look. Yes. No. Look. Yes. Alright, fishing poles.

As Gordon studied the revolving rack of rod and reels, he stole glimpses as she bagged groceries for her customer, then made change. She was alone now, so he carried his selection to the counter and smiled.

"Going to try your luck, huh?" she asked.

Gordon paused, trying to think up something witty, but with time running out, finally said, "Yea, with the fish. Maybe I can get lucky with fish. I'm new in town, and, well, maybe you could show me the good fishing holes."

She lowered her head, looked at him under her eyebrows, and smiled. She then started pushing buttons on the register as she sorted through his selections.

"For big bass, you know. I bet you catch them all the time, don't you?" Gordon asked. "I mean, being this close to the lake."

"Are you crazy? It's kind of a barbaric sport, if you ask me. Pulling fish out of their world with a hook in his mouth. It's got to be traumatizing for the fish."

"Yea, I guess, but I don't think they remember it for long. I mean if you throw them back, you know. What are you, in one of those PETA groups or something?"

"No, nothing like that, I just think it's cruel."

"Oh, the poor things," Gordon chided. "Seriously, what are people catching them with around here? The best bait?"

"I've heard these double deep lures work well." She held one of his selected lures that looked like a minnow pulling three hooks on its tail. "Or live minnows. But I'm no expert. By the way, you sound like you may need a license. We sell them, twenty dollars. I'd strongly recommend one. The game wardens are pretty heavy on this lake."

Realizing he hadn't thought of that, and was certainly in no position to cause a hassle with any type of law enforcement officer, he accepted her advice. Plus, it gave him more time with her without being a palooka trying to think up something interesting to talk about.

Looking at his drivers license, she said, "Georgia, huh, what brings you around here?"

After a long pause, Gordon replied, "That's a big secret, I can't go into it right now, here, there may be some hidden mikes, you know."

"Awe."

"Really. It's a top secret mission for the government. Two weeks ago, I can't tell you where I was, but I shot a polar bear."

"Alaska?" Laurie guessed.

"I can't say, but then last week, I can't tell you where I was, you understand, but I danced with a hula girl."

"You were in Hawaii last week?" she asked with a smile of beautiful white straight teeth.

"Well, I can't say, but this week I went to the doctor, and while I can't say which doctor, I can tell you what he said. He said, and I'm paraphrasing here; he said I should have danced with that polar bear and shot that hula girl."

"Why?" Her countenance changed at once to one of wonderment. "Oh, I get it." Laurie giggled, "You're bad."

"Yes, but I notice things other people don't."

"Like what?"

"You've heard about how dogs resemble their masters? Well, I've noticed that sometimes wives and girlfriends often resemble their masters – I mean, their husbands and boyfriends."

"Oh yea, how so?"

"Well, I knew a man who loved alcohol so much, he married a Sherry. And this guy who was such a money miser he married Penny. And this other dude was so selfish, he married Mi-mi. It's kinda weird."

"Yea, that is weird."

"I don't mean to be making fun of them, I'm the guy who married Fanny."

Laurie got it and hooted with laughter, "You're really bad now!"

"Terrible. No, actually I'm harmless. Maybe over dinner I can tell you more. It's all fascinating. Really amazing stuff. You'll love it. What you think? You're old enough, aren't you? Your daddy lets you out of the house doesn't he?" Gordon teased.

"Yea, but I don't date," she answered.

"Why not? I'm too fat?"

"No, it's not that." The door opened and an elderly couple entered and went towards the meat counter in the back. "Do you go to church?" she asked.

"Do I need to?"

"You sure do."

"What are you, psychic? Do you know me?"

She laughed again.

"As you know, I'm Tim Kirby, what's your name?

"Laurie Cashwell."

"Cashwell, Cashwell, I've heard that name somewhere."

Laurie laughed again. "We're having a tent revival tonight, if you want to come to it."

"Holy Rollers?"

"Praise the Lord," Laurie answered.

"Let's see, what have I got planned tonight? Yea, that might be a great idea. I could probably use a few hallelujahs." He was really thinking, anything to be with Laurie.

He also picked up a tackle box, a cricket cage with a couple dozen chirruping crickets, and a folding lawn chair. He got directions to the revival from Laurie and went to the Burton Lake Public Park. He kept Laurie's beautiful face in his mind and a smile between his chubby cheeks. Life was suddenly better.

Gordon's religion was atheism. He'd spent considerable thought on the subject and his deep down honest opinion was that there was no higher power. He didn't doubt more intelligent and advanced life on other planets, after all, he'd heard there are more celestial bodies, stars in the sky, than grains of sand on every beach in the world. But as far as a deity who ruled from above, he thought not.

He'd been raised by a God-fearing mother and an apathetic father, and forced to attend church by his insistent mother. His father, Jasper, went along with it and made him go to church to please his wife's commitment, and because it gave him time with his mistress.

Young David was raised in a Baptist Church, full of church-goers, but few true believers who would cry a river when the Holy Ghost got in them, or ask God to make their decisions, or put God before all else. Church-goers - to be seen and thus not labeled 'heathen'. He imagined that they looked at the two alternatives and chose the safest. If they chose to believe there was no god, and were wrong, they were destined for hell. If they chose to believe and God turned out to be false, they would feel like an idiot. But, they'd be a dead idiot with no soul, and that's not nearly as bad. They were church-goers and Sunday Bible thumpers who chose to believe in order to avoid a perceived threat. His opinion was that most people just believe without ever pondering the question. Most people simply feel better believing there is a God. They really need there to be one. When they get in a jam, don't they say, "Oh, God!"?

Evolution seemed more believable to David than Adam and Eve. What - God created dinosaurs, gave them eighty million years to rule, killed them off, waited sixty million years, then created man? He could see God "taking some of his children," as people often said after a sudden, unexpected death, but that didn't answer the question about Ted Bundy. He understood the Christian answer - that God knows all and could prevent, but he gives us all free will, which means that since someone could pull a gun and cap you in an elevator, you'd better be ready. But he didn't understand about Ted Bundy. How a "loving God" could allow Bundy to operate long enough to take at least thirty-six young women to the Bundy back yard cemetery, many of them tortured for weeks before he killed them, or they died from heartbreak, despair or thirst. Bundy was the kicker. He couldn't understand that God at all.

David's young mind had been indoctrinated to associate atheism with "bad people": that everybody who didn't believe in God was necessarily a murderer, thief and rapist. But as an adult he believed that morals based on the ten commandments could be simply common sense values, not strictly Christian values: that sane people know right from wrong.

But, he'd go to the revival with Laurie anyway. Why not?

The far left of the park had kiddie rides, grills, and covered picnic tables. The waterfront had a T - shaped pier that stretched over a hundred feet, with a rain shelter on both ends. Gordon went to the right hand side of the park, where the trees hung out over the water, with small openings every several yards.

The park was nearly empty now, Wednesday morning, but he imagined it got quite busy on Saturday afternoons. He carried his rod, chair and tackle box around the lake and picked a spot, sat, and started to rig-up the Zebco.

A few minutes later, a fat guy with stringy, greasy long hair came nearby, actually staggered. Gordon noticed he was drunk, or on qualudes. " Whas Sappenin?" the drunkard said. He wore a short sleeve dress shirt that was worn and stained, but his jeans appeared new, brand new, and not pre-washed. The creases were thick and solid.

Gordon didn't particularly want a conversation with a drunk, but he was feeling quite giddy and wouldn't let anything spoil it, so he was tolerant. The slovenly one mumbled about this being his favorite spot, so Gordon decided that once he was baited, he'd share the spot, or move to the next clear area. But above all, he'd be happy. The goof sat on the ground with his pole and a box of night-crawlers, and spit a big stream of tobacco juice on the ground between them, then pulled a bottle of Strawberry Boone's Farm Wine from his back pocket, and took a large guzzle.

Then the portly sot with the stupid haircut did something amazing. After putting a worm on his hook, he started to wipe his hand on his jeans. But they were brand new, and he paused, looking at the dirt and wet brown worm gunk on his fingers. He put both fingers deep into his mouth, pulled them out clean, then spit. Then he took a pull from the Boone's Farm Wine, swished, and spit that out too. Amazing. Gordon said, "Now there's something you don't see every day."

"What?" the drunkard asked, looking around for something unusual.

Gordon gathered up his gear and chair all at once and moved down to the next unoccupied clearing and cast. He scanned the water's surface and waited, but never saw the lure plunk through. His line was in the tree to his right whose branches stretched above him. "Good grief. Son of a bitch." He tugged gently to prevent snagging, but it didn't drop down. He tugged harder and the tree branches shook. A few leaves broke loose and fluttered down. He'd have to cut the line and re-rig.

Then he noticed his line was tangled all around the spool. "Well, Goddamned and shit a brick," he griped. "Now I remember why I don't fish." Feeling on the verge of becoming really enraged, he thought of Laurie, her beautiful face and lithe, young body, and decided not to get too upset. He cut off fifty feet of line and threw it up in the tree.

He fished absent-mindedly for several hours, first using a bobber then not. He thought of Shelly and other acquaintances back in Raleigh, and relatives in south-eastern North Carolina. How were they taking the news? But ultimately, it didn't matter. He caught a few bream and catfish, even one small bass, which he'd deep hooked and did irreparable damage removing the hook. He threw them all back, but heard the bass splashing off to the side, most likely trying to keep the turtles away while he died in peace. He felt sympathy for the bass, knowing that he should have cut the line, leaving the hook for the fish to spit out in a day or two. He thought it strange he'd feel that way about a yucky fish, but never for Bobby Pheiffer, that there was something fundamentally wrong with that. Maybe Laurie's right, I really do need that revival, he thought.

****

That night Gordon met Laurie at the Pentecostal Revival like he promised he would. He had never been to a gathering like this, but had heard about it. Gordon thought, if these were God's people, if these were the folks going to Heaven, there would sure be a lot more women in Heaven than men. The crowd was at least eighty percent women. He was also amazed at the semblance these women vested; most of them were over forty and overweight, wearing their hair in a bun, with knee length skirts covering their generous derrieres.

The revival was held near Bloomenthal College football stadium, in a grassy area used for game parking. A circus tent was erected and the revival would proceed regardless of the weather. And that tent was full of happy people.

Gordon found Laurie and met her with a huge smile, but was disappointed to not get even a hug. She was too busy introducing him to her relatives and friends. She introduced each by name and David wondered why. He'd never remember. Seemed everybody except Laurie needed a hug from him. He'd never hugged so many men and fat women in his life. Then everyone found a seat and Gordon was again disappointed that he wasn't seated next to Laurie.

They started singing. Some were already crying, which David found curious, since nobody was even getting married. They swayed and hugged and sang and Gordon wondered if they would ever stop singing. One song would stop and another start with hardly a pause.

Then they got quiet, and the Reverend Paul Howerton told a couple light jokes then got down to business. He screamed, cried, exaggerated, shook his fists and stomped. Then he got loud and serious. The congregation loved it. "Hallelujah," they yelled every time the preacher paused to catch a breath. The Holy Ghost was present and full of vigor.

Reverend Howarton finally asked for all those who had not received the Holy Ghost to step forward. "Hallelujah, Brother Howarton," the assemblage cried. "Praise Jesus."

Gordon shook with fear. From the corner of his eye, he saw Laurie, from three seats to his right, lean forward and look at him, but he stared straight ahead; wouldn't dare look at her. Nobody moved forward. The preacher demanded again, for a sinner to come forward to receive the Holy Ghost, and Gordon felt sweat run down one side. "Hallelujah Brother," Gordon yelled along with the masses. Finally a young male moved to the front of the crowd. His name was Elvis Ervin, and he was a teenage, freckle-faced nervous type kid who seemed to be making some sort of excuse for something.

But the Reverend Howarton ignored this gibberish, and placed his large hand upon the boy's head, forcing him to bend over. "We pray to you most loving Lord, we pray to You in Your Son Jesus's name..." then from the congregation, "Hallelujah Brother. Praise the Lord." "...and we ask you to cast the devil out of this young sinner. Yes, please God, cast out Satan and replace him with the Holy Ghost." The youngster tried to back away but was held in place by the immense hand, as the preacher trumpeted, "Lord almighty, cast out Satan. Satan,-I command you! Depart from this innocent child!"

The Ervin boy started muttering. "Halalluah!" the crowd screamed over and over. Finally, the bent boy coughed. Then he gagged and spit upon the ground at his feet. That was it. There, in front of all the witnesses, the devil manifest himself in the form of a quid. A common hocker. Everyone rejoiced the Omniscient. They sang and hugged and swayed and cried, with chills from the Holy Ghost coursing up and down their spines. Finally, the group dispersed and went home feeling joyous and enriched.

Gordon was impressed. The revival did not turn his mind; Bundy was still the kicker, but he left knowing that these people definitely had tremendous conviction.

.The next day, word got around. Reverend Howarton had cast Satan out of the Ervin boy, who had bent over, choked and spit out the largest spider they'd ever seen. Brown, black and hairy, the devil had jumped out of the boy in the form of a spider and high-tailed it; ran for the hills.

Gordon started to explain that he'd been there, and that just wasn't what had happened, but quickly realized he was just passing through, and didn't need to be accused of blasphemy. So instead, he said something else, having no idea what it meant; something he'd heard his grandfather say a hundred times, "Great Day in the Morning! Hallelujah, Brother!"

CHAPTER 15: GOBALL'S DEAL

Shelly heard vibrations from an approaching vehicle, which was rare and really surprised her. Usually there was a knock at the door before she knew anyone was there, the house being very well insulated. This car must be a diesel, she thought, to have such a bass trill. She walked to the front door and onto the porch.

Looking down the sidewalk to the driveway, she saw a very small man getting out of an old Mercedes. The stranger approached, removed his hat and asked, "Mrs. Gordon?"

"Yes, what can I do for you?"

"My name is Hubert Goldbaugh. I used to be your husband's partner," he put his hand out for Shelly to shake, which she did, lightly, anticipating another maudlin endowment of sympathy. She didn't know if she could stand one more, but this visitor soon proved himself different from his predecessors.

Hubert was only five-four, one-fifteen, with jet black hair, slicked back, a long, thin nose and a pencil line mustache. But his most prolific feature was his eyes, which sat way deep and were as dark as those of a bird. He walked with a slump and always smoked long, thin cigarettes.

"So, what brings you around these parts?" Shelly quizzed.

"Well, I got a little secret."

"Oh yea, what's your big secret?"

"I said little secret. Well, it's not a secret at all to you. You already know." He looked at her sternly through what looked like dark holes in his eye-sockets. "It's the thing you wouldn't want everybody else to know".

"Yea? What's that?"

"Ah, I think you know."

"Well, I guess that settles it. You have a great day now." She turned towards the door.

"Ah, Mrs. Gordon!"

"Mr. Goldbaugh, please stop being so mysterious. You're killing me."

"Well," he laughed nervously and Shelly wondered why he began every sentence with 'well'. She wasn't surprised to find that David would be partners with this greasy little slimeball. She had heard David speak of him many times, yet had never met him. Gordon called him Go-ball.

"Well, I could go to the police, but I don't think you want that."

"The police? About what?" Shelly laughed lightly. "What are you talking about, Mr. Goldbaugh?"

Goball took a short toke off the cigarette that looked a foot long. "Oh, I knew your husband," he shook a long finger at her. "The gambling, most likely drugs. I don't think you want that information spread around," he said, blowing smoke with each word.

"How dare you come over here with that? I'm grieving over his death and you come over here with this trash? What's wrong with you?" She was close to tears.

"Well, I guess I'm sorry for you, but not him. Listen lady. I knew David Gordon. Worked with him every day. I was in the business before he was born. Then he got greedy. He got into so many other activities, he wasn't even selling real estate. Scared me right out of business, forced me to sell out." Goball took another puff.

"What did he do, did he hold a gun to your head?"

"I know he was into gambling, probably drugs. I threatened to turn him in, but he laughed, said he owned the police. Finally, I sold out to him. But, he stole his half from me. Now I'm disabled, got a bad heart, and I can't work."

"I didn't have anything to do with that, Mr. Goldbaugh." They both remained quiet for a while, Shelly not volunteering anything, but almost certain of what was coming next. He probably wouldn't even go to the police, and he had no proof. Surely he had no proof, she thought, and considered walking away from the little man, but she hung in for more of Goldbaugh's fallacious rationalism.

"He stole a lot from me, my whole life's work, really. How am I supposed to feel about him? Now I'm out of money," Goball shrugged and turned his face sideways from Shelly, and looked down.

"So, what do you want?"

"I know you're getting life insurance money, no telling what else."

"Stop boring me Hubert," Shelly scoffed, "Get to it. You got something to say, spit it out."

"Well?" He'd intended to demand twenty thousand, but backed down. "Five thousand would help me a lot right now. That's what it will take to keep me from going to the police."

"To the police? About what?"

"My information about how he ran business. I knew him. Mrs. Gordon, your husband was an asshole. He'd do anything for money. His gambling scared me, and I got out. But he still owed me."

"Looks like he died with your money in his pocket, and I expect your proof has exploded. I'm not responsible for his debts. I should call the police and have you arrested for distortion. You're a despicable son of a bitch."

"So, you're going to call the police?" Goldbaugh smiled with derision, showing tall white teeth. "The number is 9..1..1," then he laughed wildly, bending backwards.

"Hold on for a minute, Goball," Shelly said, turning immediately and walking back inside.

Goldbaugh slowly followed to the porch and sat on the front stoop. He took off his hat and rested it upon his knee, allowing small chuckle to escape his throat. It briefly occurred to him that she might come back with a gun, but he dismissed it, preferring to think that the hard part was over. Now he'd get some of the revenge on David Gordon, the selfish prick.

Shelly returned with fifty one hundred dollar bills and handed them over to Goldbaugh, who spread them in his hands, folded it and put it in his pants pocket. "I believe some of what you say, Mr. Goldbaugh. So, I'm going to give you this. But don't come back for more. If you do, I promise I will go to the authorities."

"Oouu, not them! Well, nice doing business with you," Goldbaugh said and chuckled again as he replaced his straw hat. Half his cigarette was left, which he put in his mouth as he got into the old Benz. He started the car, thumped ashes in the floorboard and giggled. He laughed all the way home.

Shelly immediately regretted capitulating to Goball's sophistry and extortion, but was happy to be shed of the impudent feist. The money was gone and forgotten as was Goball. She hoped.

CHAPTER 16: RETIREMENT PLANNER

Swish Lofton was an eternally optimistic job hopper who'd lived in nearly a dozen different towns since graduating from the University of Charlotte with a degree in economics eighteen years ago. He was the kind of guy that things just happened to. He'd made bad decisions. Still, he took pride in making quick rational decisions based on the facts at hand. They always seemed like good decisions that just went bad.

As a youngster, everyone thought he was destined to do well. He was anything but lazy. But blunders followed.

Lofton worked his way through college in a summer sales program for students. He eventually broke every record in the Vanguard Company for personal sales, and recruiting. It seemed to transcend greatness at the time, but was veritably the genesis behind his next great error - majoring in liberal arts. Though he didn't particular enjoy sales, it was his proclivity, and he was destined to climb the career ladder and make a fortune in sales as Zig Zeigler had, and it would be worthwhile because of the money. That's why he'd majored in economics. For a sales career, it didn't matter what the major was.

Upon graduating, Swish worked as a full time field manager with Vanguard and again had the top team in the company. His division sales manager was leaving for bigger things, and the job appeared to be his. Then the big boss called him in for a meeting to announce that the sales manager position would be filled by someone from outside the company. Swish slammed the door so hard pictures fell off the wall.

Over time, he came to understand the decision. He wouldn't have made a good sales manager because he couldn't look a man straight in the eye, lie to him, and feel good about it.

His sales career didn't pan out. He'd sold for a home food service company that specialized in restaurant quality foods for two years, leaving that due to the monotony of giving the same presentation time and time again. Then seven years with a major mutual life insurance company, where he lost his contract along with two thousand other agents when the company downsized to save money on benefits and commissions to managers. That's not the way it was fed to them, but Lofton knew that's what happened. To avoid payment of unemployment compensation which would have been a contingency in event of termination the company simply withdrew the agent's contracts. Lofton, thus, became a broker, but the loss of bonus money, company support, the office, medical and retirement benefits, his secretary and renewal commissions made it impossible to hang in there. He sold Medicare supplements for a while, but when the Commissioner of Insurance in North Carolina standardized Medicare supplement policies, his company decided to fold up the tent. Sticking with insurance, Swish sold for a debit company selling rip-off life policies to poor folks and collecting the premiums due every month. He did well for a while, but when his policy-holders started hiding from him and the policies started dropping off like flies, he faced a dilemma - though he liked to eat AND live in-doors, he could not afford to do both working the debit route.

He wanted a job as a manufacturers rep who traveled to companies who needed a raw material his company sold, but nobody ever retired or died from that job and when they did, the company already knew who they were going to hire. He never even got an interview for a job like that.

Realizing he lacked the passion for sales, and that he was still as broke as the day he had graduated from college, Swish tried many times to make a break to a new occupation, but had to start at the bottom and knew he couldn't pay bills on seven-fifty an hour; didn't even need to try. So, he sold meats off the back of a freezer truck for a while, using cheesy tactics like, "Your neighbor ordered this box of steaks, but they aren't home right now and I can't just drop them at the door, so tell you what, I'll give you a great deal if you'll take them off my hands." Then he worked maintenance at the mall before gaining employment as a courier for a company too tight to put air conditioners in their vehicles, then enrolled in what he believed to be a top flight tech school and earned an associates degree in computer programming.

He was interviewed by a government contractor which was a division of a subsidiary of some German Company he'd never heard of and offered a technician's job performing computer installations at government facilities. Lofton turned that down, citing that he preferred to work as a programmer. Then the manager, Dave Beckman, said something very surprising, "Well, we do have a junior programming position available, and I am so impressed with you, I'd like to offer that to you." To which Lofton happily agreed. When he went to work the first day, Beckman explained that he'd been with the company twenty-eight years and had just found out that the government required two years of experience to work as a programmer, and his school only counted for one year, "but I decided to hire you anyway for the technician job, and after a year we'll move you to the programmer position."

Lofton had already signed a year's lease on an apartment in Newport News, Virginia, and was tired of interviewing, so he took the job.

It wasn't bad. The work was pretty easy, and he got to see places he'd never seen. A month in Puerto-Rico in the spring, Minnesota in December; he'd always wondered what fifty below zero felt like, and dreary Tacoma, Washington in January where people said things like, "There's Mount Olympia, right over there."

"Where?"

"Right over there. Come back in the spring you can actually see it. It's beautiful."

The technicians always traveled in pairs. One trip he got stuck with this dweeb who bragged that he'd never been laid, but he'd been in the Navy and had spent over a year in a submarine. Lofton constantly resisted the urge to kill him.

After a year, Swish had his annual review, where he was graded good on everything. And Beckman said, "But to get a raise you have to be promoted to a new title, but you're still a

Technician I. But you do get a cost of living raise, from nine-forty an hour to nine-eighty." Wow!

"Dave, what about the programming position?"

"Well, Swish, I don't think you'll ever be a programmer with Syscon. They like people with four year degrees in programming."

"Then why did you promise me that last year?"

"I never said that."

More slamming of doors and more pictures hitting the floor.

He felt like suing the tech school. Looking back, it was the teachers that had failed him. They should have confided in him. He'd never make a programmer; he didn't have the temperament or the talent for it, and they should have said so. But then, that was forbidden: he would have wanted his money back. So, to keep their jobs, they joyfully worked with him towards his degree.

So, Lofton learned three things. That Beckman had filled thirty positions with the same promise, that to be a programmer with an AA degree you had to be a genius and dazzling at the interview because companies don't train anymore, and when the first payment on his school loan came due, he learned that that tech school had been more expensive than Duke or Stanford. Lofton never did get a programming position.

So, yes, Lofton had made many professional mistakes. But he considered his biggest blunder to be his decision to lose the love of his life, Amy, when he was twenty-two. He was going to have a tremendous sales career and have his choice of women. Two years later, he realized his error, but was so heartbroken to find he couldn't have her now, or ever. He hurt now, that he'd lost many years of happiness without her, the only woman he'd ever really felt he loved. To his credit, Lofton was generally successful in not dwelling on somber reflections. Melancholy made life seem less worthy, so, he just didn't think about that.

Then he married the wrong one. When he was offered a chance to move to Delaware to work with his uncle who made a quarter million a year selling insurance, he turned it down, partly because his southern belle wife wouldn't even consider moving up north, and he wasn't ready for a divorce for another three years after that.

But Swish didn't blame her. He was responsible for his own errors and he knew it. He blamed himself for his mistakes and nobody else.

He'd have happiness one day. He was certain of it. That tenacity enabled Lofton to maintain a seemingly happy disposition. Like Billy Joel, Lofton was Keeping The Faith.

Lofton almost always had a girlfriend but she was never anyone he would truly love. He'd meet the right ones, but those relationships never lasted more than a couple months, and he knew why. Those women were in high demand and they knew it. They weren't interested in a forty year old with the financial sheet of a twenty year old. It made him feel bad every time, but he understood it. He'd been through it enough times that he could deal with it. Eventually, he'd find the right one. He was only forty and planned to live forty more. He'd get there. Someday.

Lofton possessed patience and probity. He'd been fired more than once for refusing to kiss ass, or follow orders that were immoral or illegal. He'd just go find a new job. And he was a man of conviction. He'd stand up for what was right. He'd go down or take a beating for his principles. Every time. No regrets.

And he had an almost peculiar aversion to getting screwed. He was aware that it showed and made him look defensive so he fought to hide all outward displays. But getting beaten maliciously made him mad and he couldn't fight his inner desire to strike back against those perpetrators of woe - bubble busters of cheer. It was one of his principles, 'Thou shalt not take a screwing laying down.'

Once his car had been towed and he was charged seventy-five bucks to regain possession. Since the lot had no signs prohibiting parking, Lofton sued for four hundred dollars, claiming damage to the vehicle, and won in small claims court.

Then there was the episode at the bank. Banks were the world's worst for stealing money from it's patrons. But, since they did it in a legal way, it was more like a swipe than a steal. They have so many tricks and secrets. For example, every time a bank has a change in policy, a windfall of profits are generated. They can legally change policies at will, so long as they notify customers. An insert in the monthly statement, placed in the middle of the advertising inserts, serves as notification, though nobody reads them.

Lofton was guilty of floating checks sometimes. He'd write a check that was insufficient, knowing that it wouldn't be presented to his bank for two to three days. Cash deposits were credited immediately, so Lofton would deposit cash at four thirty to cover checks presented that night. He got notice one day that two checks had been paid even though his balance was insufficient to cover them, and his account was charged fifty-eight dollars, either as a reward to the bank for stellar service or as a punishment for his error - It didn't specify which. Lofton saw red, gathered receipts and hurried down to the nearest branch, where he waited patiently before being permitted to the branch manager's office, a Mr. Kenneth Kirksey.

Kirksey explained that the new bank policy was to treat cash deposits made after two o'clock like check deposits, crediting the account the next business day. Thus, the account was insufficient. Lofton thought of asking if that new policy made accounting easier for the bank, but didn't. It didn't matter, for he already knew the answer. Not the answer that would spew from Mr. Kirksey's mouth, which would be the official bank position, but the simple truth - that it would make the bank a lot of easy money.

Lofton calmly explained that the notification had not been inserted into his statement; he knew, because he always read every word in his statements. Since he hadn't been properly notified, he should be excused for it - this time.

Kirksey wasn't impressed, stating that though he often disagreed with bank policies, it was his duty to enforce them. He offered condolences, but that was as far as he could go.

That made Lofton more ill. This bank kiss-ass telling him, 'Well, now you know. Chalk it up to experience. Only cost you fifty-eight dollars. See ya.' But that would not be the final answer, Regis. Not this time.

"It's not fair, and I want my fifty-eight dollars."

Lofton had brought a copy of Stephen J. Cannell's The Devil's Workshop in case he'd had to wait long, which he picked up and commenced reading, as if to say, 'and that's final.'

"What are you doing, Mr. Lofton?" Kirksey asked politely.

"I'm reading The Devil's Workshop. It's very interesting. You should read it sometime."

"Would you mind reading somewhere else, I've got three customers sitting in the lobby waiting to see me."

"I'd love to. Soon as I get my fifty-eight dollars I'll be on my way."

"Sir, I explained the bank's policy to you. Now, I need to take care of those customers."

It sounded to Lofton to mean, 'those IMPORTANT customers.' He craned his neck to look into the lobby, then spouted, "You know, I'm a pretty important customer, too. Your bank just made fifty-eight dollars off me. Tell you what, I'll be a good sport. Bring them in. I'll just slide over here and read while I'm waiting." He slid his chair over about a foot towards the double windows and said, "I won't say a word," then winked.

Kirksey looked stunned. If he was humored, he wasn't showing it. "Mr. Lofton, I am trying very hard to ask you politely to leave."

"You are. Being very polite. How's it working? It's simple, you got three ways to get rid of me. One is to put a gun to my head. That will work. Number two, call the police, or number three, give me MY,..." he paused for effect, "MY,... fifty-eight dollars, in cash. Let's examine those three options. You'd regret number one, lose your wonderful job and spend the weekend in jail. Number two? As the police drag me through the threshold to your lovely office, kicking and screaming and grabbing furniture, how's that going to make your customers feel? You don't want that. Maybe you should strongly consider door number three."

"Why, I can't allow people like you to come in here and hold the bank hostage to your demands. It's stealing."

"Why not, your bank does it all the time. It is your best option. You have the authority." Lofton thought that was a pretty touch - telling Kirksey what his authority was.

"No, no." Kirksey shook his head slowly.

Lofton shrugged, "Your decision. Let me know. I mean, what you going to do when five o'clock gets here? Lock the doors with me in here?" He picked up his book.

Finally Kirksey said, "I'll be right back." He got up and walked into the lobby. Lofton, without looking up from the pages from which he wasn't absorbing anything, just reading words, wondered which Kirksey would return with - a gun, a police officer or cash. Kirksey returned with cash and said, "I'll do it for you this time. But don't expect it again."

"Oh, no sir. Like you said, Now I know."

If anyone ever had reasons to hang his head in sympathy it was Lofton. But Swish never did. He was never depressed because he kept the faith. He joked about being broke, "I've found there is one good thing about being broke. The sex - it's regular and predictable. If I get out of bed today I know I'm going to get screwed." He kept plugging, never looking to scam or sue somebody. The world had enough of those people in it and he wanted no part of that.

Lofton had a rooted distrust for politicians, and government in general. He knew the Federal Reserve Bank was a privately owned firm that was robbing the country blind. That US Senators and Congressmen were giving the country away for their personal gain, accepting millions of dollars from the Chinese and Japanese businessmen to push their dockets. That there was no war on drugs: the government could stop cocaine from entering the country by making it impossible for drug to get the money back home. But, they wouldn't do it. The banks were making too much money laundering the drug money. And it would cost billions less than the government's current "war" on drugs. Paying literally millions of police officers – federal, state and local – and clogging up the courts and prisons with users and low level dealers – for what result? Cocaine is cheaper today than it has ever been because the supply is higher than it has ever been. The government allows the drugs into the country and then tries to catch it on the back end. Lofton mistrusted the government because he knew that the government was being run by the corporations – foreign and domestic – who paid the politicians to drive their agendas. The people are spectators – while they watch, our government slowly takes more and more for the privileged few. Lofton could clearly see how the government diverts our attention toward religious-based issues like gay marriage and prayer in schools to distract us from the real issue – political corruption. He felt it a shame how we had been turned into a service economy. We don't produce much except for food. He saw it as a colossal disgrace, because when you produce goods, you change raw materials into products that are so much more valuable that the company can afford to pay thousands of people enough money to pay mortgages and raise families. It was all changed by the greed of the stockholders with the blessing of our federal government. He had firm conviction that Monica Lewinski had done nothing wrong, for she loved the man, but Bill Clinton and prosecutor Ken Starr had cost the American people billions of dollars and thousands of jobs. That ordeal cost Clinton so much money, he betrayed his people to reap it back by accepting bribes. Then he said, "The North American Fair Trade Agreement is good for everybody." "Well, Bill, go to High Point or Winston-Salem, North Carolina, or better yet, Martinsville, Virginia, and tell the people NAFTA is good for America. But be advised, cover your balls when you say it. You might want to wear a plastic jockey cup, or even a steel one when you go there. NAFTA - what a lie. You're telling us that wealthy business owners don't make enough money, but middle class, working Americans make too much? That shits the bed." Just one guy's opinion.

And Lofton had a retirement plan, of sorts. Virginia had a lottery and he planned on winning it. That was his plan. So, every month he'd make the forty minute drive from his rented two room cabin on Lake Jordan across the line and buy the same twelve numbers for each drawing for the month. That's where he'd just been.

His optimism was a perpetuity. Lofton never suffered the bouts of depression that most people did, always felt things would eventually work out well for him. Somehow. Of course, he knew he could also end up a wino laying in a ditch with a red nose. Swish didn't think so. It probably wouldn't be the lottery, but someday he'd do something - write a book, sing a song or invent something. He wasn't going to make it in the nine to five world, that he felt certain of. He just didn't fit the mold.

Of course, some people considered him a loser.

But Lofton knew; his day would come. His patience grew with age. He'd paid his dues, suffered the hard times. Things had to turn around soon, and even the score.

Currently, Swish considered himself between jobs, so he was temporarily, only temporarily, back in sales, selling Electrolux vacuum cleaners three hours a day. That was all the motivation he had for it; just couldn't make himself get out there and sell these fine American made machines. He'd sit around all morning. After lunch, he'd think about starting work; go do a few demo's, pretty soon. Others, with less natural sales talent than Swish had could sell them, but Swish could no longer stand the boredom. He was starting to feel that he was intruding on people, knocking on their house to tell them that they needed a new vacuum, like they weren't bright enough to make that decision for themselves. It was a fatal trait for any salesman and he'd have to find something else, and soon. He was tired of having the piece of shit Hyundai Excel so cluttered with machines it barely had room for his ass. And this goddamned car, it would do zero to sixty in like - never. So, time to make some changes - either get out there and get belly to belly with the customer or go do something else.

And that's exactly what he was thinking when he noticed the blue beacon flashing behind him.

The deputy sheriff asked, "Do you know why I pulled you?"

"To buy a new Electrolux?"

"No. Do you know how fast you were going?"

"A hundred?"

"No. Do you know the speed limit on this highway?"

"Eighty?"

"No."

"Eighty-five?"

"Mr. Lofton, what are those on your seat there?"

"What, these? These are lottery tickets."

"Would you step out of the car please?" Deputy Poindexter stepped back and waited. Lofton stepped out slowly. What happened next was almost surreal. He was patted down, handcuffed and read his rights. Poindexter's spiel said something about being in possession of lottery tickets. Lofton had no idea it was illegal to have them. He could not believe he was being arrested for such a petty, victimless - what, crime? And a speeding ticket to boot.

But it was no dream. His car was searched and locked, and Charles Robert "Swish" Lofton was swished off to jail processing.

CHAPTER 17: SECOND JOB

Pete Crouch was on staff and paid a full-time salary by the Angelo Enterprises for times like these. He didn't look like much, barely over five feet in stature with pale skin and a straight long nose that made his face look mousy. But he was an electronics genius, working full time for Bell South as a consultant and on call constantly by Angelo. To be available when needed, he was paid fifty grand a year in addition to his Ma Bell salary.

Crouch had the AT&T and Bell South clearances and knowledge needed to bug any phone, practically anywhere in the world. Every time Shelly's phone rang, the conversation was recorded to be listened to later. Same for her outgoing calls.

Milan and Russ had observed Shelly Gordon leaving her house each of the last two Tuesdays to go to the Waffle House to use the phone, then drive straight back home, to which Russ had the genius to note "Gee, that's suspicious, you know?"

"Don't I ever." answered Milan.

"Don't you what?"

"Don't I know it. You asked me if I know it. Remember?"

"Oh did I? I'm Sorry, you know?"

"Don't I ever."

Russ breathed in and opened his mouth as if to speak, then held his words. Milan looked at him and grinned.

Milan and Angelo had strong suspicions as to whom Miss Shelly was talking to every Tuesday at two PM. Next Tuesday, if Milan was led to the Waffle House, Angelo would be listening to and taping the conversation, thanks to the prodigious brilliance of Pete Crouch.

CHAPTER 18: METAMORPHASIS

For the next three weeks, Shelly played the confused widow, which was not a hard part to play, considering her state of perplexity. She suffered emotional flurries about her future and past. Pam came by nearly every day, often bringing a twelve pack, and talking her jaws sore. Some days Shelly had to suddenly think up some place she had to be in order to get rid of her politely. Occasionally, she'd play asleep with the phone off the hook. She was grieving. It was acceptable. She had nothing to do anyway, since she had decided to take an extended leave of absence from work, except wait for David's insurance and pension funds to arrive and worry about her uncertain future. She tried to think of things to busy herself with, but was in such a funk she seemed to have no interests at all.

Pam was constantly trying to talk her into going out to clubs, but Shelly had no interest in bars or meat-markets.

She did, however, agree to take Pam to a member-guest party at the Raleigh Country Club. The party was a recruiting drive as much as anything, and held in the ball room. The Catalina's were hired. They were still together, though some of them used walkers and others wheel-chairs, and they played beach music into the morning.

Shelly was consoled by all, and damned tired of hearing it. She wanted to scream 'HE'S ALIVE, HE'S ALIVE', like Gene Wilder did in the movie, _Young Frankenstein_.

Bob Walker, a balding, married bank manager with Branch Bank and Trust, who thought of himself as somewhat of a playboy, asked her to dance, but she declined. Chad Summerfield asked, as did Ralph Waters, Steve Denson, and Frank Holcomb. Shelly wasn't interested, and didn't want them to think maybe she was. They all seemed officious, offering half-witted come-ons and insincere platitudes. Then, Alex Harbison, a young attorney came over. He was one of David's regular golf buddies, and Shelly had always been secretly attracted to him. She had fantasized about being with him, and wondered why he wasn't married. She was pretty certain he wasn't gay. So, he was either a player, hard to get along with, or just really, really picky. She didn't know which, but maybe tonight she'd find out. Except that she really didn't feel up to it. She was nervous about being stuck in the middle of David's scam and all the unwanted attention she was harvesting. Although everyone was telling her otherwise, she sensed that a recently widowed person should have more grieving time.

She wore the face of depression, but Alex wouldn't allow it. Not tonight. The band started playing "Under The Boardwalk", and Alex grabbed her arm and started walking to the dance floor. With or without her body, her arm was going dancing. He was tall with dark hair and boyish good looks, and held her tightly while they shagged. Unlike the British meaning to the word, 'the shag' is an eight step dance done to beach music, where couples hold hands and do occasional tight spins, popular mostly in the Carolina's and Virginia. Done correctly, each participant would use only two square feet of dance floor. Over the years, 'the shag' has evolved into a more popular show-off version, called 'the swing', where dancers utilize the entire dance floor, using extravagant spins. Thus, shagging, for the most part, is a way to flaunt for the opposite sex. In the south, it is considered sexy to be a great shagger. Even Richard Nixon and Carrot-Top could get laid often if they were great shaggers.

Shelly held his shoulders and felt the veneer of smooth muscles beneath the silk shirt. He gently kissed her lips as the song ended and she offered no resistance.

They sat and talked for the next hour, and said their good-byes, both feeling a definite connection had been made. When they got to Shelly's car, Alex put one hand around her waist and the other behind her head, and brought her gently towards him. Their lips met gently and he rolled his lips around hers. Then they locked tighter and her tongue found his mouth, and they kissed non-stop for ten minutes in the parking lot like a couple of teenagers. It brought out desires in her she had not felt in years. As they broke the kiss, Alex held her tight against his body. The thoughts that ran through her mind were of those she'd always considered slutty, and she was surprised to find she enjoyed them.

'Umm' she moaned quietly, and shivered, not from the cold, realizing this was so unlike her, and she knew she had more desire for him than any man she'd ever met.

Driving home, Shelly thought about the mistakes of her life, and couldn't help crying. She'd settled on David too early in life, probably due to parental expectations. Never before tonight had she realized how interesting and appealing a man could be. Not until tonight did she consciously realize she had sexual desires and she needed a real man in her life. One to share real feelings with, without being laughed at and made to feel silly because she felt sexy.

Back home, she slipped into a pink nightgown, brushed her teeth, and went straight to bed. But sleep was a long time coming, and she tossed and turned, too hot, then too cold. She wanted to think only of Alex, but her mind was constantly nagged by reflections of David. She hated beating herself up over it, because everyone makes mistakes. Still, why did it take her so long to find out? Her life had been a settlement. Then she convinced herself that those feelings would pass when she had been away from David long enough, and she felt much better.

She thought of going to the police. The only crime she'd committed was not going there already, and since he was her husband, maybe that wasn't even a crime. She cried some more, then rationalized that it was just depression, and she'd feel better in the morning, and that made her feel a little bit better already. Finally, she drifted off.

The next morning, Sunday, Shelly got up and made coffee, Starbucks, sitting at the kitchen table in her robe and slippers as the coffee brewed. She poured a cup with milk and sugar and sat back down at the table.

Savoring the rich taste of the strong coffee, she attempted to piece together the strange life she had lived. She took a large gulp of the dark starter and leaned against the back of the high-back chair.

Yes, that was it. Her mother had subtly preached to her about marrying a high-income potential man. There were no outright conversations about it, but the hints were always prevalent. Maureen would have been embarrassed had Shelly married a plumber, unless, of course, he was a wealthy plumber.

So, as a student at local Meredith College, she met David at a party near campus, and they were bed buddies shortly thereafter. She knew David had some family help starting the real estate company at age twenty-four, but when they met he was a five year veteran and had purchased a comfortable home and lived a life of solace.

Ever so willing to please her mother, she, of course, accepted when he proposed to her. She quit school, and, though she had intended to at the time, never re-enrolled.

Now, he's screwed up and left her holding the gold. Then Alex shows up, and practically elicits an orgasm with a kiss. Uses a kiss to teach her about the desire hidden deep inside her.

A kiss to prove her mother wrong. The kiss, the kiss. She couldn't get that out of her mind. And she would have him.

Then the phone rang and it was Alex. "Hi, Beautiful."

"Oh, Hi, Tee-hee-hee."

"Did I wake you?"

"No, I've been up a while. Ten minutes."

"Wow, perfect timing." Alex said. "Hey, um, there's a party tonight at John and Regina McGlothlen's house tonight. He's one of my bosses. I was wondering if you'd like to go, Shelly. I'm sure it'll be perfectly boring, but we don't have to stay long."

John was a partner in McClary, McGlothlen, McKnight and Peterson Law firm, for which Alex worked and he needed to make an appearance to show willingness to kiss ass, though he didn't explain it quite that way to Shelly.

"Then we could go do something else."

She had an idea about the 'something else', and they made a plan.

* * * *

The party was as boring as advertised. The men talked about work, the stock market and golf while the women chatted mostly about their homes, children and shopping.

Alex and Shelly mingled among different groups for forty- five minutes or so, then took twenty minutes to say good-bye, which made Shelly feel extremely self-conscious and uncomfortable. On the way out she felt the stares on her backside saying, 'no wonder Alex isn't staying longer, single guy, he's going to snag some lag. Lucky stiff."

At the car Alex said "I'm sure glad that's over. I needed to take a guest and I should thank you for enduring that with me." He chuckled, "I know it wasn't fun."

Shelly laughed, too.

Alex started the car and asked, "You want to go to Lake Jordan Marina?" There was a pause and Alex continued, "I've got a key to a friend's boat and there's wine and food and we could take a nice ride. It'll be fun."

"Kinda cold for that isn't it?" Shelly asked.

"No, it's a thirty footer and there's a heated cabin."

Shelly tilted her head as if deep in thought and finally said "Well, I've never done that before. Sounds like fun."

"Yea, fun," Alex smiled largely. Shelly could read his mind but wasn't offended in the least.

The Marina had five wooden docks, each extending over fifty yards, with the first one nearly a hundred.

Shelly estimated fifteen to twenty boats docked tonight, and wondered why so many would be there in early February.

They climbed aboard a boat parked about half way down dock two. Opening the cabin door, Alex went in first and flipped on the interior lights and went straight to the heat controls in a wall box similar to a fuse box with a metal door that squawked in protest as Alex forced the rusted hinges open. He maneuvered a few switches and a fan motor came to life immediately, then he slammed the door closed again.

"I'll give you a tour later when it warms up. We've got to start the motor or the air won't get hot. We got to go up on deck, but it warms up fast in here. He put his hand on the vent blowing cold air.

He led her back out the door and to the deck and untied the two rope lines, then quickly moved to the bridge, inserted a key from his car key ring, shifted the throttle to neutral and twisted the key. The starter spun and the motor coughed, but didn't start. Then it hit on the second try as the old motor purred and water gurgled behind the boat.

"Sit down right here before I shift into reverse," Alex mentioned, grabbing her coat sleeve gently and pulling her to the seat behind the Captain's, then leaned over and kissed her. There was a large wind shield in front of the bridge and a canopy over it, so, though it was cold, it wasn't windy.

As Alex shifted into reverse the tran jumped into gear and groaned like an old sea hag, then pulled slowly away from the dock. The exhaust was thick and gray and it's odor dominated the air. Alex tapped down on the power lever and spun the wheel a full turn left to aim the stern towards the channel. Once past the dock, he shifted into forward and increased horsepower slightly until he past the no-wake zone, where he sped up to about twenty miles per hour.

Shelly looked at the mansions on the lake hillsides and asked Alex who owned them.

"Rich people," he said and they laughed.

Ten minutes later Alex shut off the motor and dropped down the anchor in the middle of the lake.

They went into the cabin, which was toasty enough to allow them to remove their coats, and pulled a bottle of Domecq Amontillado from the refrigerator and two glasses from the hanging locker and got into a conversation that started with work, then shifted to people they both knew, to their home towns and life's ambitions and such until the bottle was finished. Alex then popped the cork on another. It was a convenient sidetrack from the conversation, and upon pouring from the new bottle, Alex put his arm around Shelly and kissed her passionately and softly. Shelly was typically abstemious, but tonight the alcohol felt good swirling around her brain.

Alex locked the cabin door and they crawled onto the bed. The cabin was nice and warm now, and getting hotter by the minute. Alex kissed her breasts and tummy, and when he got to the soft wetness between her thighs, she moaned in ecstasy, soon grabbing him by the shoulders to bring him into her. He took the hint admirably and Shelly was screaming with orgasms within seconds.

He kissed her lips and neck roughly as he thrust deeper and deeper into her. His climax drove her into another orgasm that seemed even more powerful than the first.

Now they were snuggling, still kissing, and touching, without any verbal exchange. Shelly saw now how naive she really had been. Her animus towards David grew to a fury. He had never given her an orgasm because he had never even tried to get her excited before sex. It had been all about him and his quick needs. What a wuss HE was, and she was happy to be shed of him.

"Penny for your thoughts," Alex said, lying behind her with his arm around her, sensing her mind was way off somewhere.

"Oh, nothing really, just hold me. Feels so good." She kissed his hand, and he put two fingers in her mouth, which she sucked deeper in, which started a chain reaction, which culminated in them making wonderful love again.

Before falling asleep Shelly laughed out loud. Her loyalty had now undergone a complete metamorphosis and she had never felt better.

CHAPTER 19: TYPICAL DAY

David Gordon decided not to pursue Laurie Cashwell. He had a beautiful wife who would be joining him soon, and besides, the answer to the question was no, he couldn't date Laurie without going mad, and he needed every ounce of sanity he could muster. He knew the effort would be futile anyway, and that, too, had something to do with the decision.

So, he bought a set of Calloway golf clubs and played all the public courses in the area. His life in Madison, Texas became a routine. He'd sleep until late morning, have breakfast at the IHOP or the Ham-N-Egger, play a round of golf, and go to Murphy's Bar and Grill for dinner and drinks. Not a bad life. It could have been relaxing except for the constant anxiety that coursed through his veins, breaking into his every conscious effort to have a good time.

He purposely avoided making friends, since he didn't want people getting too nosy about his past, and avoided women like a plague. That was because he got real friendly with Rita Bohannon one night, who was a regular at Murphy's. They got to playing touchy-kissey-feely after trying to drink the bar dry and were not so politely asked by management to go grope in private.

They ended up at her trailer, and were naked within minutes on her squeaky bed. Rita went straight down on Gordon, who, since he hadn't had any in months, got excited and let go in about thirty seconds. The mouth-full surprised Rita, who jumped up and ran for the bathroom to spit. She came back with a vendetta and tried to squat on David's chubby face, but he wasn't going there, so he flipped her and got on top. This time he lasted about two minutes and Rita again ran to the bathroom to wash.

She returned with a different sort of vengeance, a game of "A Hundred Questions," and didn't believe his stories about his past, present or future. She became insulting towards his lies and about men in general, which made David ill. She called him a liar and a lousy fuck, so he called her a slut and trailer trash.

On his way out, she said "I don't need a man, I got Jesus." She didn't say anything about the vibrator in the bottom drawer.

He had to drive home drunk in the middle of the night, but he got there happy he hadn't punched her, which would have landed him in jail with his cover blown and in a large pile of do-do.

He didn't plan to stick to it long, but for now, he'd had it with women, at least until he thought up a story better than being independently wealthy looking for the best town in America to live his life. That just wasn't going to work in Madison, Texas.

For him right now, it was golf, fishing and drinking. But, he was content in knowing it wasn't forever. Within weeks, his sweetheart would be joining him in the Caribbean. He'd lose weight, get a face-lift, and live the life of leisure until the money ran out or he could think up another easy scam.

CHAPTER 20: SHELLY'S REWARD

Several weeks passed and Shelly started making plans for her new life and fortune. She had not told a sole about the scam; not Alex, not Pam, not her mother, no one. Whatever happened, she was almost certain she wouldn't be in any legal trouble. The only connection to David had been the conversations at the Waffle House phone. She felt safe.

She'd always wanted a horse farm, but this was not David. He didn't give a rats ass for riding horses. "They stink and they like to eat," he'd say. And he was the boss; he'd made all the plans for the two of them.

That was then. And why shouldn't she have that horse farm? She'd always wanted it. Now she could afford it. More importantly, she was now her own boss. Yes, she'd have it. The old Yancey Farm. She'd already started researching, and had found a nice eight acre tract of pasture, with a very suitable barn and a riding ring, only a few miles from her house over on New Light Road. The owner had died suddenly and his widow didn't have the spirit or desire to keep it up. There were eight stalls in the barn and only three horses, so she could board five for others and make some income from the venture.

She'd been to the farm last week and ridden the horses, did some barrel jumps like she'd not done since college. Her parents also owned a farm back home in Charleston and she'd been the county 4-H champion. Shelly didn't seriously believe she'd actually take the plunge and buy the place.

But this morning, Wednesday, she'd gone to the mailbox and found two checks, totaling $230,000. David's IRA and his 401-K, which, due to his death and the federal hardship laws, she was able to receive. There'd be taxes to pay, but she'd let the accountants worry about that. She'd also received nearly $100,000 from stock sales. She called her lawyer to prepare papers for the purchase of the horse farm, eighty thousand dollars. She told him she'd pay cash. She was excited, about to realize a lifelong dream, and she couldn't wait to get her hands on it.

Then she noticed another piece of mail in the stack that looked interesting. Wrapped in brown paper, like a magazine, but larger, she tore into it without reading the return address. Pulling out the magazine, it had a picture of some sort of panther on the cover, with a caption under it that read "A New Breed of Jaguar". "Not a panther," Shelly said, "a jaguar." James Brolin's business card from Scott Jaguar, Mercedes, Lexus was attached to the magazine cover. She was about to put it in the trash, when, absently, she opened it instead. Right to the XK8 convertible. "Wow," she said. "290 horsepower, V8." She flipped the page. Leather and walnut interior and steering column, computerized climate control. Zero to sixty in six seconds. CD player, five speed automatic tran. Then she saw the Vanden Plas and the XJR.

"Bird, James Bird," she kept hearing from the living room. She went to the living room and got bird, placing him on a cloth on her right shoulder. "Bird's a pretty bird," declared James Bird.

"Yes, bird is a pretty bird," she agreed.

Shelly took a head of lettuce from the refrigerator, tore off a couple succulent leaves and washed them. She returned to the table and put the lettuce on her shoulder. Bird bobbed up and down and side to side to show off a little. "Bird, you're such a card, you're the life of the party."

She put Brolin's card in her wallet and sat the magazine on the table, determined to think about the farm that was soon to be hers. She pictured herself driving it, with Jolie's I Would blasting out the speakers. She hummed, and picked up the magazine again. The color and upholstery guide fell out. She opened it. "Whoa." Sapphire blue, antigua blue, aquamarine, mistral blue and amaranth were her favorites. "Gorgeous." She laid the magazine down again. "Nah, not now. Maybe later," she told herself.

Then she went into the living room and started straightening up. She was planning to vacuum the carpets today, and had no other plans. She plugged in the upright vacuum and pushed it up and down the living room, with James bird on her shoulder, hoping this task would occupy her mind and block out the Jaguar magazine. It didn't work. Suddenly, she realized she was tired of the Gallant she'd had for three years. It was a good car, but..., she turned off the vacuum and called James Brolin, and was invited in this afternoon for a test drive.

The weather was cold and blustery, but the dealership on Capital Boulevard was thriving. The showroom was white brick with a full glass front, and she wondered around the Lexus and Jaguars while she waited for Brolin to finish with customers.

They looked at the Vanden Plas and then the XJR, and Shelly requested to test drive the XJR. Brolin put her into the driver's seat and went around. She looked at the custom - contoured sport bucket seats of Connolly leather. The console was beautiful and the sound system was by Harmon Kardon with a six disk CD auto-changer and nine 240 watt speakers. Brolin said "Now be careful, this XJR has a supercharged AJ-V8 engine with an air to liquid intercooler which generates an awesome three hundred and seventy horsepower."

"What does that mean in English?" Shelly asked.

"It means it will do zero to sixty in five point four seconds."

"I'm going to try for five point three. Hold your hat."

Brolin laughed. "Don't you dare. This isn't a Mitsubishi." Just a suttle cut at her current car.

They took off on Capital Boulevard north and Shelly immediately understood Brolin's admonition when she accelerated as if driving the Gallant and nearly gave herself a whiplash, inducing a huge grin on her pretty face.

Brolin explained, "This car has a double wishbone front suspension and extremely rigid crossbeam which helps it steer precisely and hold the road at high speeds."

"Wow. Write that down for me when we get back."

Brolin laughed. "I usually don't give out all the details, but you – I knew you'd appreciate it."

"Thank you."

When they returned to the dealership, Shelly said, "Order me one in Antigua Blue."

"Yea, sure, how 'bout two?"

"I'm serious."

"Let's go into my office. Bring your checkbook." Walking in, Brolin was thinking that she was very attractive and had a good sense of humor. He was having fun with her and besides, this was the slow season. He could waste time with company much less intriguing than her.

They sat in his plush office and he asked, "Well, how much can you pay down?"

"Pay down? How much is it?"

"Well it's eighty-seven thousands five hundred dollars."

"Pooh, I can pay that with nickels and dimes," Shelly boasted.

"Oh yea?"

"I'll give you seventy-eight thousand in cash and the Mitsubishi, for the display model we just drove." Shelly replied without humor. She pulled her checkbook from her purse.

After about five seconds Brolin could see she was serious. "Let me go ask the manager if he'll take that. I'll be right back."

Shelly knew the ploy. While he drank coffee, he calculated his commission, but spoke to no one. He returned after a few minutes and said, "Boss says eighty-two, five."

Shelly returned the checkbook to her purse and said, "Sorry we can't do business. I'll go to Durham. Nice meeting you." She rose.

"Now hold on. Let me go talk to him again."

A few minutes later Brolin returned and shut the door. "I had to call the owner. I talked him into it. We don't make anything off it, but we do get dealer incentives. Better than you going to Durham. But you do have to pay the tax."

Shelly just smiled at that malarkey. They spent nearly an hour doing paperwork and verifying funds, transferring tags and insurance and other technicalities, and Shelly drove it home.

She laughed most of the way home. This is what I get, David, for putting up with all your crap, she mused.

CHAPTER 21: REQUEST OF A DIFFERENT COLOR

Friday afternoon Berkley met Angelo in Pullen Park and they took the familiar ride. Angelo handed Berkley an envelope with twenty five hundred dollars. "Something different. Something I've never had you do before," Angelo paused for effect and studied Berkley, to no avail it appeared. Berkley was enraptured counting pictures of Ben Franklin.

"We had some clowns rip off our delivery people, and they killed one of our guys. We're ten grand down. I need you to go down there and collect my money. They are one of the biggest cocaine operations in South Raleigh. We supply them with the purest Coke they can find, and then they stomp the shit out of it and make crack. Last week, they took delivery and pulled guns on my employees. These customers have never been any problem before, and I can't understand it. They know I won't just let them walk. I guess they found another supplier, and gave us the finger. Tonight they'll be in business and they'll have a wad of cash."

"Oh, so I just walk in there and say 'Hi, guys'?"

"Um, no. I don't think I'd do it that way," Angelo said as his driver slowed and turned onto Valley Boulevard.

"You'll want to sneak in there, surprise them. Tonight. For five grand. And you might not have to kill anyone. In fact, I hope you don't kill anyone. Now, pay attention to where we're going. Right up here, off South Sanders, see that warehouse?" Angelo pointed to the right up ahead, on the corner lot, on Rogers Road, a two story modular metal building, maybe a hundred feet long, with large metal double doors in front. There were no windows.

They drove past the building and noticed one other door, a metal one in back. "Tonight, there will likely be a look-out somewhere out back here, where buyers go in that back door," Angelo said.

"So, I'm supposed to go in there and steal your money back? How the fuck would I do that Gus?"

"That's for you to decide. Cold steel to the forehead generally gets a good response. You got to get past that guard. Either capture him or slit his throat."

"No. I don't do that. I give not-so-pleasant-reminders to your loan shark customers. Or I pop them in the back of the head. But this is an entirely different breed of people. They have guns and my white ass will be red and white if I try that shit. It's a suicide mission."

"You'll have back up. I'm sending Boulder with you."

"No dice. "No, if I do it, and I'm not saying I will, I work alone."

"No, you arrogant son of a bitch. There's more than two of them. Maybe a lot more. Probably not. Usually just three or four."

"Best thing to do is just firebomb the warehouse. Kill all those jigs at once. Worthless drug pushers. Forget your money. You ain't broke." Berkley said.

Angelo could barely believe his ears. Drug pushers? What did Berkley think he was? Let it go? Then every customer he had would be stomping his balls. Angelo wanted to pull his gun and shoot Berkley in the ear, but he didn't want the mess. And as irascible as Berkley was, he was invaluable for the work he would do. So, Angelo took a deep breath, forced a smile and said calmly, "You work for me, and those are your orders. You and Boulder." Angelo wanted them to collect his money, and knew he couldn't trust Berkley to actually bring back the money. That'swhy he was sending Boulder Resnik.

"You better hope I don't come for you, Angelo." Berkley said with a snarl, a virulent look in his eyes.

Angelo was furious. "Don't you ever threaten me, Berkley. I don't intend to put up with that crap from you. You've never paid me a penny. I pay you. Don't tell me what you're going to do, and don't ever threaten me."

They sat in silence for a few seconds. Angelo tapped on the glass. "Listen," Berkley said as the limo turned around, "You tell Boulder I'm the boss. I don't want him getting me killed."

"I will tell him that, but I'm trusting you, Berkley. We don't need to go in there blazing rifles. Cops patrol here regularly. We don't need to get caught. In and out, quiet as possible."

CHAPTER 22: DAVID'S LOSSES MOUNT

On Friday morning Shelly woke up refreshed and happy. She drank her Starbucks and walked out to the garage, housecoat cloaked and barefooted, walking around the Jaguar and running her fingers down the smooth exterior. Opening the door she smelled the brand new interior, then closed the door too lightly to shut it, but it closed itself tightly, automatically.

Taking a large swallow of coffee she rubbed the hood ornament and smiled, then went back inside.

She fixed a second cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, planning her day. She'd go to the farm to ride and wash her horses, but then what? She had nearly two hundred thousand dollars left in the bank with another quarter million dollars coming from life insurance. She needed something new, something nice. She thought of Alex, and the night they'd spent on the lake in the old yacht. She wondered how much boats cost, picked up the yellow pages and noticed the Lake Jordan Marina ad. She called and asked how much yachts sold for this time of year and was transferred to sales.

"Mark Nesbit."

"Yes, Mark, this is Shelly Gordon. I was wondering what yachts cost this time of year?"

"Well, about the same as any other time of year. It depends on the boat. Which one are you inquiring about?"

"I don't have any idea." Shelly answered.

Mark winked to himself. He knew she'd say that. "Maybe you should come down and look at them. I've got a little time today to show them to you," Mark lied. He looked at his schedule and saw an empty slate. "Can you make it today?"

"Yea. Give me an hour or so and I'll be out there."

The marina office was a hundred feet or so off the water and constructed of simple wood siding, but a full glass showroom had been recently added on. Several motorboats with outboards were on display as were two large yachts. One of those yachts really caught Shelly's eye - The Sea-Ray 370 Aft Cabin. It looked huge to Shelly, three levels, and was a beautiful glistening white with gold trim. Mark brought over a tall stepladder and took her inside, where she visited two full bedrooms and two bathrooms inside the cabin. Mark explained the technical features, heating and air conditioning systems, size of the motor and so forth, but mostly he painted pictures designed to allow Shelly to visualize herself enjoying the luxury. "You could spend an entire summer on this baby. Cookout, party, sun-bathe, swimming, fishing, hey, you like water skiing? She'll do nearly sixty miles per hour. Comfortably sleep eight."

He then took her into the office fully expecting procrastination objections, which seemed like all he got during the winter.

"How much does it cost?" Shelly asked.

"Well, what did you think of it? Can you see yourself on it?"

"Sure. How much is it?"

"Seventy-six thousand," Mark said flatly. He expected her jaws to fly open with astonishment, but he was surprised.

"What does it sell for in the summer?"

Here we go again, he thought. If I tell her it's the same price, she'll choose to wait till then to buy it, when she can use it. "You know, many people use them this time of year. It's got a fabulous heater, and..., I can't say what they'll sell for this spring, but that is when the company sets the price for the year. The price I quoted is last summer's price. The average annual increase has been six percent over the past ten years, so I can't say for certain, what the price will be this summer, but I can say that now is the best time to buy.

Shelly withdrew her checkbook. "Who do I make the check out to?"

Mark chuckled. "Make it to Lake Jordan Marina."

Shelly did, but then she stopped and laid the pen down. "I'll give you seventy thousand for one exactly like that one."

"You got a deal."

"Can I get it for less?"

"I can only hope you believe I'm being honest with you, because I promise you I am. That six thousand you chopped off is the maximum I'm allowed to drop off. I promise you won't find that we sold one to anyone for one penny less."

Shelly wondered about that but didn't want to squabble, and completed the check. "How long until it comes in?"

"Since you're ordering standard with no extra features we should have it by end of next week or early the following week at the latest."

"Alright."

They stood up and shook hands with big smiles on both faces.

"I'll call you first thing when it comes in. Thanks Shelly Gordon, nice doing business with you."

It was his first sell in over a month. He waited until she'd left, then rushed the check to the office for verification of funds. No sense in getting too excited until the check turned green. Ten minutes later he whooped and went out for a three martini lunch.

CHAPTER 23: SURPRISE VISIT

Friday night, just past dusk, Orville Wilber sat at a desk in the same warehouse Berkley was due to visit. The warehouse was filthy, poorly lighted and nearly empty. Empty fifty gallon drums littered the floor, randomly scattered. The desk Orville sat behind was on a raised floor, almost like large stage, two steps up from the main floor. Straight across the large room was a metal, double door, chained and padlocked. To Orville's right sat Germaine Stephens, Orville's trusted friend and partner.

To Stephen's right and behind him was the only other door to the warehouse, which he could see by bending over the low wall to his right. Outside the door was Willie Mays, who leaned against the cold metal of the warehouse with an Uzi concealed behind his back.

Stephens sat behind a desk similar to Orville's. In front of him sat a Glock pistol, which he spun around like a game of spin-the-bottle. The pistol stopped pointed at Orville. "Oouu," declared Stephens.

"Stop playing with the gun, Germaine."

"The safety's on, man," Germaine replied, then spun again.

Orville was not his real name, but he liked to fly like the Wright Brothers so he adopted their names when he moved to Raleigh from South Philadelphia several years ago. He wore dreadlocks with colored beads on the ends that hung nearly to his shoulders. His Tommy Hilfiger jeans, extremely baggy, were donned well below his waistline and his red FUBU sweatshirt was, of course, worn outside the jeans. His FUBU lid rested on the desk beside the single burner electric hot-plate. A desk-lamp provided dim illumination to the warehouse.

He pulled out and opened a large zip-lock bag and licked his right index finger, tabbed it in the powder, and tasted. His entire tongue went numb almost instantly. "Wow!"

"Good shit, huh?" asked Germaine.

"Yea, man, good fucking shit."

Orville then poured the entire pound of powder into a sifter and added a pound and a half of baking soda on top of it, and gently shook it into a metal mixing bowl, stirred it with a large spoon and poured it back into the sifter. He sifted the powder into the bowl again, and scraped up most of the spillage from the table with a dirty piece of cardboard. He scraped the remainder into a small pile with his fingers, then mashed his moistened fingers to the powder and tasted again.

He plugged in the hotplate, then carefully walked the bowl to the sink behind and doused it with water. He stirred and added more water, about an inch over top of the powder, and carefully carried the bowl to the small stove. Every few minutes he stirred the mixture with the large wooden spoon until it was hot, but not nearly boiling. The concoction turned stringy when lifted with the spoon, almost like egg drop soup noodles, and Orville used a rag to carry the hot bowl to the sink and very deliberately poured most of the water off into the sink, returning to the desk with the bowl. After allowing the contents of the bowl to cool for only a couple minutes, he spooned out golf-ball sized chunks, ten of them, before the bowl was emptied. They were sticky and doughy, but would be solid within minutes, and he sat them on the cardboard to dry.

Each of those ten golf-ball sized rocks had a street value of over two grand. Within an hour, he expected a single buyer to take six or seven of them, and the crack would be all smoked up by midnight, and he'd be a productive member of society again tomorrow night.

That was about the time Berkley picked up Boulder in his Crown Victoria. He was still pissed at Angelo, but had it under control. After thinking it over he realized it wasn't a bad idea having backup on a job like this, but he wouldn't have chosen big dumb Boulder. However, if bullets started flying, and chances were they would, he could hide behind the big galoof. Boulder wore jeans and loafers with no socks. They looked at the map and turned a block before the warehouse, circle around, staying at least a block away. He parked, and said to Boulder, "Now here's the plan." He reached onto the back seat and grabbed an old dirty green jacket and handed it to Boulder. "Put this on."

"What for?"

"I'm getting ready to tell you," Berkley snapped. Their disrespect towards one another was apparent. "I hope Angelo told you I'm the boss on this expedition. I told him I liked to work alone. He's the only reason you're here. So, just listen."

Resnik rolled his eyes at Berkley's platitude.

Berkley reached back and picked up a plastic Food Lion bag with a bottle of wine inside. Cheap wine. Wild Irish Rose. "Now, what are you carrying. I want to see it."

Boulder reached under the jacket and pulled out a Wilson Combat .45 hollow point.

Berkley slid out the clip, re-inserted it, and handed it back. Boulder had an annoyed look on his face, but said nothing. Berkley was impressed. The gun's weight and balance were perfect, its grip very comfortable. "That'll work. Did Angelo give you that?"

"No, it's mine."

"What?"

"It's clean. Don't worry."

"Now, you step out and splash some of this rotgut on the jacket. Then you spread a little dirt on your face. Then you walk around the block around to the back of the building, and walk like a lost drunk. Slow. Then you come up to the guard and try to start a drunkard conversation. Offer him some wine, you know. I'm going to walk through these trees here and sneak up on him while you're talking. Can you do that?"

Boulder staggered around the side of the building, staying halfway between the street and the warehouse. He walked past, like he didn't see Willie Mays, turned up the bottle of rotgut and poured some in his mouth, letting it run down his chin. He staggered and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Then he noticed Willie.

"Hey, dude. Want a swigger?".

"Naw, man. I don't want that shit man."

Boulder noticed Berkley sneaking up behind Willie, with an eight inch buck knife in hand. He turned to the side to avoid looking at him. "More for me," Boulder shrugged. "It's good shit, dude." He took another guzzle, then just stood there.

"Beat it honky, you fuckin' wino." Willie brought the Uzi out in front of him and moved two steps from the wall, waving the military rifle towards the street, as if to say, 'hit the bricks'.

That's when Berkley surprised Willie and slashed his throat from ear to ear, like a long, low smile. He didn't even have the voice to scream. He fell, the only sound being low guttural, gurgling sounds, as blood filled his lungs on his last breath. Berkley picked up the Uzi and cast it off to the side. He planned to retrieve it later for his personal collection.

The back door was slightly cracked. Berkley now drew his Heckler & Koch USP45, which he liked for these maneuvers where he knew it would be used repeatedly. It felt good in his grip and would fire ten rounds quickly. He pulled the door open slowly, just far enough to stick his head in. There was a low, sloping wall to the left of the door and, glancing right, he saw no one. Boulder shed the bulky coat and slipped in behind Berkley. The wall to the left ended twenty feet in, and crouching to look around the corner, they could hear people talking. They were silent for several seconds, when Berkley looked at Boulder and made a 'follow me' signal with his shooter. They jumped around the corner with pistols out in front, "OK, freeze," Berkley said, looking at Orville and Germaine, who's eyes were the size of saucers.

Orville pushed over the lamp and they were in solid darkness.

Berkley and Boulder ducked behind a row of barrels as bullets struck the barrels and flew over. They heard one of the guys running towards the right, to the far wall. Berkley hoped they didn't have any type of night goggles. There were no windows, and the only light was faint moonlight which penetrated several small holes in the ceiling and walls. Berkley fired towards the sound of the footsteps. He listened to hear a body fall, but that was impossible anyway, with the gun blasts ringing in his ears.

Berkley had fired seven shots already. The clip held twelve. He looked at Boulder squatted beside him, then, for kicks and giggles, put the smoking barrel of his Heckler & Koch against one of Boulder's bare ankles. "Goddamn!" Boulder screamed, more reflex than anything else, and jumped straight up. Berkley saw the barrage of automatic gunfire that ended it all for Boulder.

The shots come from thirty degrees northeast, and he fired three shots just under the fiery gun-barrel. Germaine fell and rolled off the stage to the lower level.

The smell of gunpowder was thick, and Berkley saw Orville flea through the door they had entered, and fired two shots at him, but missed. He disengaged the clip and pulled a spare from his jacket pocket and ran to the door. In the moonlight he could see Orville running towards the patch of woods he himself had walked through.

Berkley fired repeatedly and finally wounded Orville on the sixth shot. He looked up at the moon and saw clouds blowing by, and walked to Orville. The shot had missed his heart, but had exited his upper chest and was obviously fatal. When Berkley approached cautiously, with his forty-five drawn in front, Orville was still conscious, but had totally lost all repose, and was too scared to even look for his gun, which was lying three feet away. Berkley put the gun barrel against Orville's forehead and said, "You ripped off your supplier last week and he wants to know why."

"No, man it wasn't us." He breathed uneasily and coughed. "It was a guy from Baltimore. I don't know who he was."

"Oh, yea, sure." Berkley pulled back the hammer until it made that click that sounded so terrifying to Orville.

"No," Orville raised his hand in front of the gun. "Here, take this. I wasn't even here that night, man." He handed Berkley one of the crack rocks he'd brewed up earlier."

Berkley accepted the gift, pocketed it, and squeezed the trigger. Orville lay in peace, and Berkley heard sirens in the background. He quickly searched all Orville's pockets, and withdrew a wad of hundred dollar bills, which he determined with quick judgment that Orville wouldn't be needing, then made way to the Crown Victoria. He wished he could go back for Boulder's body and the Uzi, but Angelo would have to understand. Besides, he'd learned that lesson years ago.

CHAPTER 24: BOAT RIDE

The next Thursday morning, Shelly was awakened by a phone call from Mark Nesbitt of Lake Jordan Marina. Her beautiful brand new Sea Ray 370 Aft Cabin was ready for her possession.

"Great," she said sleepily, "I'll be there Saturday morning. Can't wait to see it. Thanks for calling."

* * * *

Shelly and Alex went to dinner at the Steak & Ale Friday night, excited about the weekend on the lake. Shelly had let Pammy talk her into double dating, and the three of them were sitting in a comfortable booth enjoying a sweet brown loaf with butter, and an excellent wine, waiting for Pam's occasional boy-friend, Rex, to arrive. Pam was sedate due to Alex's presence; otherwise, her mouth would have been spewing like a volcano. Rex was late, as usual, and this transgression was redeemed after two glasses of the wine released Pam's inhibitions. She told Alex and Shelly that Rex was un-circumcised, and his penis looked like a chicken neck. They had a good laugh. When Rex finally arrived, Shelly greeted him with "What's clickin, chicken?" They all laughed, but Rex had no clue that the joke was on him.

Alex and Shelly went straight home, opened a bottle of Remelluri and made passionate love that seemed to last hours.

Shelly had not decided she loved Alex, and planned to stay single for a while, anyway. But Alex was great for her. He made her realize how inadequate David was in so many areas. He was optimistic, funny, amorous. And an excellent lover, who thrived on extended foreplay and wonderful, gentle kisses. He seemed to really know where to touch her and when he finally pushed into her he brought orgasms she never knew existed.

Saturday morning, Alex and Shelly had bagels, juice and coffee and got to the marina around eleven. It was early February and barely thirty-five degrees in the south, so, though excited about the boat, they were in no hurry to get started.

They were met outside the office by their proud salesman, Mark Nesbit. "Good Morning, Shelly, how are you?" he asked with a tremendously wide smile. It was no exaggeration. Mark was genuinely thrilled to see her excited about her new toy. It made him feel good. He was equally thrilled to see her take delivery.

"Right this way," he said gesturing towards the lake, and met them at the apex of their separate paths.

"Mark, this is Alex Harbison."

They nodded, and Alex sat down the two suitcases he was carrying and they shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.

Parked in the first dock floated Shelly's new baby. White with burgundy trim lines, it was magnificent, thirty-eight feet in length with a beam of fourteen feet. The deck sat over the cabin, a full ten feet above the water. The soft wind was chilly but the sun was gleaming off the tinted glass as they approached.

"Isn't she beautiful?" asked Mark. He grabbed the pull-down portside ladder and extended it onto the wooden pier. "Watch your step boarding. Get on and I'll hand you your bags."

"Yea, she's gorgeous," Alex agreed, stepping over the fiberglass hull onto the walking ramp.

As Alex sat the bags onto the sun shaded aft, Shelly was already ascending the steps to the open deck. She stood next to the captain's chair and looked over the numerous panel instruments and touched the steering wheel. She moved right and sat on the cushioned tanning lounger with an adjustable back. "Wow," was all she could think to say right now. It was hard to believe; this was hers. She was more surprised than she thought she'd be. To think that she'd had the guts to do this. Alex and Mark joined her there.

"Let me show you the Cabin first, then we'll end up here, later." Mark said. He was trained to make the delivery this way. His experience allowed him to hide the sales pitch, his conversation was easy and questions were encouraged. This was the most enjoyable part of his job; delivering the product to a happy buyer. It was a well-rehearsed procedure, designed over many years, so that it didn't seem like the sales pitch it was, designed to bring out all the good, while eliminating buyer's remorse.

They walked back down the portside molded steps to the aft, then Mark opened the door to the cabin and they stepped into the guest stateroom. The cabin was already warmed up for them, and a gentle warm breeze flowed from vents built into the walls. There was a wet bar with a stainless steel sink on the left and a twin bed on the right. "This is the guestroom," Mark mentioned, opening fold down cabinets and drawers under the bed. "And here's the guest head," he popped his head into the small door then withdrew quickly so Shelly and Alex could enter.

Moving towards the bow, down two more steps, Mark pointed out a few of the galley features, including the three burner stove, microwave oven, refrigerator-freezer, stainless sink, and fiberglass counter top and fold-away cutting board. The starboard side salon had a twenty inch color TV with VCR, and an L-shaped sofa with electric retractable spare bed below and a fold down dining table. All appliances were powered by batteries which could hold power for two weeks between re-charges.

Then they moved to the master stateroom, which brought a smile Alex tried to conceal. There was a queen-size bed with fluffy pillows and color coordinated sheets and spread, with hanging lockers and a cedar trimmed closet with full length mirror.

Mark demonstrated the operation of the shower in the master head, while mentioning that the guest bath also contained a shower.

He showed them the twin engines behind the steps to the galley. They went up to the deck and he explained cockpit controls, and started the 7.4 liter Horizon MerCruiser motor, which fired up immediately with a low rumble. They went for a ride.

Mark put down the retractable deck roof for sake of demonstration, then snapped it back to the tinted tempered glass windshield. They practiced driving for a while and Mark returned to the marina and de-boarded.

When Mark waved good-bye, Alex took control of the cockpit. He was amazed how the outward-slanting glass, though well below eye level, diverted the wind over the bridge as well as water splashes. Moving into open water, they waved to the only other boaters seen. An elderly couple waved, heading towards the marina in their twenty-foot pontoon, dwarfed by the 370.

Shelly reclined in the sun-seat. Alex picked up speed, nearly in awe by the power in the back and the rising of the bow. He toyed with it on the wide lake, tilting the boat left then right, and watched the rise and fall of the bow, a full six feet below him and twelve feet in front, as he accelerated and decelerated between twenty-five and thirty-five miles per hour. "Can't wait till summer. This thing's going to be great for water skiing."

Alex maintained control, but let Shelly do all the work she could. She drove around the lake for several hours, reaching speeds over forty miles per hour, and it was thrilling. They heated the cabin quickly with the 30,000 BTU unit, dropped the anchor, and made love like they had that night a couple weeks ago. At dusk, they drove back to the marina, docked the boat, rented a spot in the marina shelter, and went to Shelly's house.

CHAPTER 25: LOUIE ON THE TRAIL

"I'd like some information on my cousin, who rents from you folks."

"Yes, have a seat and I'll get someone from rentals to talk to you," responded the receptionist with straight blonde hair, pretty blue eyes behind large fashion lenses, white teeth behind gleaming puffy lips.

"What is your name, sir."

Already walking to the waiting area, he turned and looked at miss puffy lips and said, "Louie Pheiffer." He turned and resumed his walk.

Louie wore black army boots with black Dockers and a brown leather jacket. In the waiting room, he reached over and plucked a copy of Bassmasters magazine off the rack and started looking at pictures of fish who looked pretty surprised to find they had a hook through their lips, meeting strangers they never wanted to meet and being complimented tirelessly.

Louie smiled at the thought and dropped the magazine on the table beside him, and leaned back in the slightly padded metal chair. He was alone in the waiting area, so he walked over to the couch in the middle of the room and leaned back, resting his eyes. He managed to keep his mind clear. He'd gone over and over the questions he'd ask; he didn't need to go over them again.

It was only a couple minutes before a chunky , middle aged woman came out to meet him. "Hello, I'm Darlene Stafford and I handle most of the rentals that we manage." She put her hand out and Louie took it gently. "What kind of information were you interested in?"

"My cousin rented from you, I'm told. Bobby Pheiffer."

"Yes, I remember him. He called me, must be five or six weeks ago. Said he'd inherited from an uncle in Georgia and had moved without collecting his deposit. We had to go over and clean everything out. He seemed to leave everything, even his clothes. He said he wouldn't need any of it. We just got a new renter in there last week, because we had to make some major repairs."

"You mean he tore up the place? That doesn't sound like Bobby."

"No. That's not what I mean. The building across the street from his burned down, and many of the surrounding buildings suffered damage. The roof on his building caught fire, and there was water damage. A few days later he called and said he'd moved to Georgia."

Louie leaned up in his seat. "You say he said he got an inheritance?"

"That's what he said," Darlene said.

"I know all his relatives, and he doesn't have any in Georgia, and none who have died lately. That sure sounds strange to me."

They looked at each other for a few long seconds, when Louie said "How do you know it was him calling?"

"Well, I remember him from when he moved in. Didn't he stutter pretty bad?"

"Yes, he sure did. So, you really think it was him? Do you know where he was calling from?"

"No, I don't.

"Do you have any information that might be helpful in finding him?"

"No, you might check the post office to see if he left a forwarding address."

"I already did that. They're still delivering it on Dixie Trail. What did you do with his belongings?"

"Gave some to Goodwill, threw out the rest, like he said."

"Well, we've called everyone in the family. Nobody's heard from him. That's just not like him. Something real strange is going on Mrs. Stafford, and I guess we'll have to hire an investigator or something."

"I'm sorry. Wish we knew more. I didn't think anything strange about it. People move out and leave stuff a lot. But it does seem funny that he didn't even take his clothes. And yes, it may be funny that he'd call just a few days after the fire across the street."

"Yes. I'm glad you mentioned that again. I almost forgot to ask you, what were the details on the fire."

"Horrible thing. It was a real estate office, and apparently the owner got deep in debt and blew himself sky high. It's a shame."

"Did they ID the body?" Louie asked.

"The newspaper reported that the explosion was so furious there were no distinguishable body parts. I felt so sorry for his wife."

"And then a couple days later you got a call from Bobby, saying he was moving?"

"Right. Except he said he had already moved."

Louie sat there for a few minutes thinking of any more useful questions, but he couldn't think of any. Then he did.

"Well, Mrs. Stafford, if we need it, can you give us the exact date you got that phone call?"

"Yes I can. If you need it, call me and I'll look in the file or computer. I usually note those things. I feel certain I did."

He thanked her and left, thinking what a significant coincidence. An explosion burns half the block and Bobby decides to disappear without a trace. Not Bobby. Why should he? What could he have to hide from? It just wasn't like Bobby.

Louie went to his car, but didn't get in. Instead, he walked down the street to consider his options. Bobby had disappeared without a trace and all Louie could get was false information and dead ends. The family didn't have a whole lot of money to spend, for nobody in his family was wealthy, and he had desperately hoped to find leads. It was obvious - Bobby had met a bad fate and Louie intended to search until he had the answer.

CHAPTER 26: LITTLE WEASEL

One morning, after coffee, Shelly was scouring the bathtub with Ajax when the phone rang. "Hello."

"Well, now, hello."

Shelly knew it was the voice of an older gent, then she knew who.

"This is Hubert Goldbaugh." He said his last name slowly, clearly pronouncing both syllables. "How are you, Mrs. Gordon?"

"What do you want, Goball?"

"Oh, well, you like to get right to business, don't you?"

She wanted to be polite, but it was too easy to see why everybody wanted to fuck with this little weasel.

"Look Goball, we aren't friends. We aren't going to be. So don't try to get all buddy-buddy. I know you want something, now what is it?"

"Well, you know I can't work, on account of my bad heart, and you know how David cheated me out of my half of the business. And he stole my sale."

"What sale Goball? When did he steal your sale?"

"While back few months, I reckon. My next door neighbor and good friend, Jim Houtz's lake cabin. Jim decided to sell and wanted me to sell it for him. Then David jumped in and sold it out from under me."

"You got the listing commission, didn't you?

"Yea. But I wanted it all. Worked hard on it. I deserved it all."

"It doesn't work that way Goball. You've been in the business long enough to know that."

"Don't tell me how it works missy, I been in the business longer than you been born. Now, I'll tell you what -- I'm going to get my fair share that he cheated me out of."

"Mr. Goldbaugh," Shelly shifted deftly into her lecture tone, "He didn't hold a gun to your head. He made you an offer, and you accepted it."

"Yea, but.." Goldbaugh tried to interrupt.

"Now you don't like the choice you made. You have sellers remorse, and.."

"Yea, but I'm going to get my goddamned share, you hear me lassie."

"Don't threaten me Goball." She had heard just about enough from this ostentatious scamp. "I never owed you a penny. Haven't you heard, you can catch more flies with sugar than with vinegar."

Goball paused a few seconds to think up a good come-back, then he had it, "David thinks you can catch more flies with dog shit than sugar."

"Look, you made a bad choice. Not my fault."

"Yea, but.." Goldbaugh tried again, but now he got a dial tone.

He dialed back, furious that she'd hang up on him. But there was a busy signal every time. She had her phone off the hook.

So Goldbaugh drove over there. For thirty minutes he rang the doorbell and talked to the door loudly. Shelly couldn't help but hear him.

"Come on out and talk, Mrs. Gordon. David cheated me."

That's probably true, Shelly thought.

"He's an asshole."

True.

"I can't work because of my health."

True.

"You're as asinine as he is."

No way, Goldbaugh. Nobody is. But you're close.

He finally left, but that wasn't the end of him. He'd come over, yell and leave notes. He was constantly calling. Night and day. He'd leave messages on her answering machine, complaining, crying and demanding ten thousand dollars.

Finally, he wore her down, and she answered the phone. "What do you want you fucking asshole. You're not a man, you're a little weasel. I should crush you like a bug, you wimp. Is that what you want?" Shelly scoffed.

"Well, ah no, Mrs. Gordon. You know about my bad heart, don't you? I can't do anything strenuous. You wouldn't want to give me a heart attack, would you?"

"Shit yea, Goball. You little shrimp of a man. Right now I'd love to give you one. A big one."

"Well now, Mrs. Gordon, your husband owed me money."

"Well, Goball, I guess your money got blown up in the explosion."

"But Mrs. Gordon?" He was starting to whine. Shelly wanted to reach through the phone and choke the impudent little bastard, "He owed me."

"I read the will, Hubert, and your name wasn't in there. I guess he forgot all about his old pal," Shelly chided.

"I don't want to go to the police or the newspapers about his gambling. But I could. I even know some of his customers, like Tony Meyer and Gus Angelo."

"I don't know them."

"You don't want everybody hearing about that." Goldbaugh said, and Shelly could hear him sucking on a cig and blowing smoke. Lazy asshole sounded like he was blowing out birthday candles.

"What do you want, Hubert?"

"Ten thousand dollars, and we're even. I know you're getting insurance money. You'll get it back."

"You'll keep coming back for more. It'll never end."

"No. It will. This is the last time. I should have asked for more last time we met."

"I'll think about it," Shelly said and hung up the phone. She dared it to ring again. If it did, she was going to invite him over and shoot him between the eyes with her Glock-forty. But it didn't ring again, and ten minutes later, she was able to forget about Goldbaugh because of her thoughts of the new boat, the Jag, the horses and time with Alex. She went back to scrub the tub.

CHAPTER 27: JIG'S UP

It was Tuesday, eight weeks after David had disappeared. Shelly went to the Waffle House for her 2:00 call from David. She knew he'd want to know about her progress in cashing in his assets, and she had decided to lie about the retirement accounts. She pulled the Jaguar next to the pay phone and rolled down the window. The cold wind cut through the Jag and the call was ten minutes late. Waiting, she wondered how he would react when she failed to meet him in the Bahamas. When he realized he'd been played like a cello.

Across the street, in a white Lexus, sat Jack Milan and Tommy Russ, watching Shelly get out of the car and pick up the phone. Milan dialed Angelo. "She just picked up."

"Yes, I've got her. Continue as planned." Angelo said. He had the conversation recording while he listened in his opulent office. He unlocked his bottom desk drawer and removed a bottle of Cutty Sark and poured a generous drink for himself, then sat back and listened. Milan started the car and drove away while Shelly continued her conversation.

"Hello, sweetheart," David said.

"Hi, David, how are you? Are you OK?"

"Yea, I guess, I'm just going crazy without you. I miss you so much. I'm so sorry for everything, but I know it won't be much longer until we're together again."

"Yea, I can't wait, either," Shelly lied.

"Have you gotten the insurance and the retirement money, yet?"

"No, I talked with Dwight Carson from Gulf States Insurance yesterday, and he said it should be paid soon. He said all the paperwork has been done, and since there is no contestable period on the policies, there shouldn't be a hold up."

"Soon, I hope," David said. "What else is new?"

"Nothing really." She didn't mention the Jag or the farm or the Sea-Ray. "Except Mr. Goldbaugh's been by to see me."

"Hubert Goldbaugh? What's that little shit want?"

"He says you stole the business from him."

"That puny dickhead's fulla shit too."

"He says you were gambling and dealing drugs."

"I wasn't dealing drugs. Not really. Goball don't know nothing. Fuck HIM! Cops won't be worried about any of that shit anyway."

"I hope you're right," Shelly said.

"Don't worry about him," David continued. "Hopefully, next week we can make some serious plans about going somewhere. I'm going crazy without you, darling. I think about you all the time.

Just keep faith, everything's going to work out."

"Yes, I know David. I can't wait either. Probably by next week." She wondered how long she could continue lying to him. She thought about putting a chain link fence with razor wire around the property and a state of the art security system. "Just keep your head up until then."

"I will, sweetie,. Thinking about you gives me strength. I'll talk to you next Tuesday, right there, OK?"

"Yea, OK, I love you." She winced as she said the words.

Angelo sat back and rubbed his chin. "Gottcha." He rattled the ice in his cup and gulped the last of his scotch. He blew out a long breath, checked his pocket for his keys and walked out the office door.

Shelly drove straight home from the phone call thinking about what an idiot she'd married. A selfish, asinine fool of a man who'd done all the damage to her life she'd allow. He'd told her that he loved her more times in the past few weeks than he had in the five years before his big screw-up.

She wondered if, after David got to the Bahamas and realized she wasn't coming, he would become violent. She wondered if she'd have to move away. But it was inextricable to think that he could return to Raleigh.

She walked in through the garage door and went to the refrigerator. She reached in, got a Michelob Light bottle and closed the fridge door. Where the door had been pulled open, Jack Milan now stood. Shelly screamed and dropped the bottle, which shattered bubbling beer all around her feet. She turned to run, but only got two steps before Milan had both arms pulled tightly behind her.

"Be calm, Shelly. We're not here to hurt you. We have to talk business with you." He held her for several seconds, then continued, "Our boss had business with your husband, and we know he isn't dead."

Almost as automatically she asked, "Who are you? What do you want?" She felt short of breath, and felt an almost blackness appear momentarily. Her sudden thoughts of being hurt or raped brought on a near panic attack. But she recovered somewhat and quickly realized he wasn't going to hurt her. If he was, he would have already done so.

"Mr. Angelo is on his way over to speak with you. Mr. Gus Angelo? You know him? Your hubby did, or does. Anyway, we're here to keep you company until he gets here. You just sit down and we'll get along fine." He always managed to leave off the "sweethearts, cuties, and darlings" from his speeches, which was why he served this capacity for the corporation. Still holding her arms, he walked her to one of the high-back chairs at the kitchen table and pushed her gently into it.

"Who are you?" she asked, her mind otherwise totally blank.

"I'm Jack Milan, and that is Tommy Russ," Milan said, pointing at Russ. Shelly looked at the tall blond with the extreme overbite and slightly scarred face, and thought how stupid he looked. Russ nodded.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Save it. Have a seat. Tell Angelo."

Russ disappeared into the living room and looked out the window to the driveway.

"I'd better clean up that mess," she said, standing, attempting to formulate some sort of distraction.

"No you don't," demanded Milan.

She sat back down. She had to figure out what was about to happen, and think up a story and some answers. She wondered if there was any way they could know David was alive? She suddenly realized it was certainly possible he could have been seen, or could have called someone else.

So, they know. And he owes them money. There goes the Jag.

She remembered David had said a half million. She'd be getting only four-hundred grand total, from stocks, retirement and life insurance. Much of it was already spent.

"Here comes Angelo," spouted Russ, moments before Angelo stepped out of his chauffeur driven Cadillac.

Good, Shelly thought, I've got a plan, let's get it done. She knew it was important to let Angelo talk, to find out exactly what he knew before giving anything away.

He parked and walked to the front door. Russ let him in. "Thank you," he said to Russ, and nodded at Milan. "Nice work guys." He looked at Shelly, then at the spilled beer on the floor. He stepped around it and sat across from her at the table. "Mrs. Gordon, I'm very sorry we had to meet this way," he said with a sincere smile. Russ stayed at the window, watching for unwanted visitors.

Shelly said nothing so Angelo continued, "I'm Gus Angelo. Your husband and I were business associates, we occasionally did business together. I won't bother to offer my comfort to you, since I was very pleased to find out today that he is still among the living."

"How do you know that?" She asked calmly, but without surprise.

"I recorded your conversation with him earlier today."

Shelly looked confused, so he added, "You remember, Shelly isn't it? The call you got from him at the Waffle House."

She remained silent, so Angelo took a moment to check both sleeves of his immaculate white shirt. He made certain both the gold cuff-links were out from the sleeve of his Hart Shafner & Marx jacket. He straightened two of his gold rings which had spun about two degrees. "No use denying it, Shelly, we know about it. The jig is up, as they say."

"So, you bugged that pay phone?"

"Well, yea. We had an idea, just a hunch, really. We've kept an eye on you. I feel bad about that, but you know business. Anyway, David owes me quite a large sum of money," Angelo shrugged and spread his hands, to signify that she knew the rest of the spiel.

"How much does he owe you?"

"About a half a million."

"Can I write you a check?"

Angelo laughed broadly, as did Milan.

"No, but I think we can work out some arrangement."

"Like what?" Shelly continued to play it coy.

"Oh, my sources, and let me assure you, Shelly, I have excellent sources, have determined you are receiving around four hundred grand from insurance, retirement, and other liquid investments. Now, don't worry that I'm going to leave you devastated. I have no intentions of that, but there's no doubt, I am very much responsible for your good fortune. And, a debt is a debt. You are only responsible for the debt because it is a scam. If he were dead, I'd feel bad because he died with my money in his pocket, but I'd live with it. Now that he's not dead, it becomes a scam against me, and I can't tolerate that. I'll settle for a reduced amount, but it has got to be substantial." Angelo was thinking that he'd deal with David later, but held that piece of information inside.

"Well, how about fifty thousand."

"That's not a very generous offer, Shelly. I need to be paid fairly for my part," Angelo raised his eyebrows and again spread his hands and shrugged.

"Tell me what's fair, Mr Angelo," she said, not at all disrespectful. She was obviously over-powered here and had no choice but to visualize the situation from his perspective.

"I'd say one hundred and fifty thousand would be fair."

"OK," Shelly said and paused, in thought. "But, I don't have near that in cash form now. But when the life insurance is paid, I can probably handle it."

"As I said, I have real good intelligence connections. My sources give me a certain, how do you say," he placed an index finger over his lips, "omniscience. I know you've already received the stock and retirement monies. You need to pay some now."

"You're right. I want you to know I understand your position and am being very honest with you. I have fifty thousand cash in a savings account at Bank of America on Hargett Street uptown, but I can't even imagine carrying that much cash out of a bank. I'd be attacked."

"So, you're offering fifty thousand now and a hundred when the life insurance is paid?"

"Yea, I guess so, if I can give it to you at the bank, maybe."

"No, don't worry about being attacked. We'll have you covered all the way home. That would show good faith. Can you go get it now?"

"If I say no, will you boys go on home now?"

Nobody laughed.

Finally, Angelo said, "I like you. You have a great sense of humor." Then they all four laughed. "Smart girl. Milan will follow you. And Shelly, don't make any stupid mistakes. We will be watching you all the way. My organization is very powerful. We have people in the Bank of America branch on Hargett Street right now. They will be expecting you, and know what you're there to get. Don't contact security there, and don't make any phone calls. Be very careful. By the way, who's this Goldbaugh guy that's been bothering you?"

"He was David's partner years ago."

"You won't have to worry about him bothering you anymore. And you let me know if anyone else hassles you."

Shelly looked at Angelo, but didn't question. She didn't want to know. She grabbed her purse and went to the Jag.

CHAPTER 28: THE GHOST RETURNS

Since leaving Stewart Realty the previous morning, Louie Pheiffer had been scouring Bobby's old neighborhood, looking for someone who knew him or something about him. Several people had said something akin to, "You mean that chubby guy that lived upstairs of the bicycle shop? I saw him but never talked to him." Louie knew that Bobby didn't talk much; it was so hard for him, he'd settle for the thought. Even in O'Mally's Bar and Grill, where the locals saw Bobby every day, nobody knew anything at all about him.

It seemed that Bobby had been abducted, just disappeared. And the phone call to the realty company was really curious. There's no way Bobby had just up and moved to Georgia. That was discounted. So, who made the call? Somebody right around here, he'd bet on that.

Louie walked to the vacant lot across the street from Bobby's apartment. The lot was clean, with only tale-tale signs of a fire occurrence. Winter grass had begun to sprout where the slab had been removed. Nearby buildings still had minor heat damage, like charred rafters. Louie could see where some shingles had been replaced on Bobby's apartment. He walked through the middle of the lot where the building had been. This was the spot where a debt ridden Realtor exploded himself into a million pieces. Right here on this spot, Louie thought, boom. Then he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise straight up. Then the hair on top of his head rose straight. He mashed his hair back down and ran over to the sidewalk. He glared at the empty lot, and moved quickly across the street to the bicycle shop, where he continued to visually study the vacant lot from a safe distance. For the first time in his life, Louie Pheiffer had felt an invisible presence. And he didn't ask, "What the fuck?" He knew what it was. It taught him so much. He knew what not to do; keep looking for Bobby. He knew what to do; go to the police.

The main police department building on New Bern Avenue, just east of downtown and was a modern white granite with glass structure and was massive, covering half a block. It was horseshoe shaped and six stories tall, housing local and federal cops. The receptionist was a young woman, profoundly feminine, with broad hips and a small waist, in full uniform and a name tag that read Prestwood, and Louie told her, speaking through a hole in thick bullet proof glass, "I have some information that may help the police solve a case they are working on. It's the case of the Realtor who blew himself up in his office over on Dixie Trail."

I know all about that case, officer Prestwood thought, what could this guy know? She was looking forward to finishing up her four hours as receptionist so she could drive the meter cart the afternoon. She liked that part of her job better.

"Could you tell me who is investigating that case, I'd like to speak with him in person," Louie said, almost as a demand.

"Just a moment, sir, have a seat and wait, please. What is your name, sir?"

"Louie Pheiffer."

Prestwood thought about asking about the nature of the information, but her training taught her better. Besides, she didn't even want to know.

She looked in her case file and saw the lead investigator on the Gordon suicide case was Jeff Shaw, and she dialed his office.

A few minutes later, Prestwood walked into the lobby and sat next to Louie. "What is the nature of your information?"

"My cousin was living across the street from the building, and I know he was involved somehow."

"I have Inspector Shaw on the phone. Please wait. He's on his way." She took down louie's name, address and phone number.

Fifteen minutes later Shaw walked into the waiting lounge and introduced himself. "Miss Prestwood informed me that you feel your cousin was involved in the Gordon Realty explosion. How so?"

"Well, he's disappeared and I'm almost certain he was one of the people killed there."

Shaw sat thinking. Louie wondered what his thoughts were. "Let's go to the conference room," Shaw said, standing, referring to the room affectionately called the interrogation room. Once there, Shaw didn't bother with the recording equipment, he'd moved the meeting here simply to avoid the discussion being overheard. The last thing he needed was some galoot off the street telling him how to solve a case. They sat and got straight to business.

"Now, why do you think your cousin was involved?"

"Well, he rented the apartment above the bicycle shop from Stewart Realty. Mrs. Stafford handles the rentals for Stewart Realty, and she says that a couple days after the explosion, she

got a call from Bobby."

"Un-hun," Shaw said while writing. "Bobby?"

"Yea, my cousin Bobby Pheiffer."

"Go on."

"Well, now, she doesn't know for sure that it was Bobby, but Bobby stuttered real bad, and the guy calling stuttered, so she wasn't suspicious of anything. Anyway, the message was that he had inherited a bundle from an uncle in Georgia and had already moved out without taking any of his things. Personal documents, his clothes, he didn't take anything. But I know he didn't have any rich uncle, or any relatives in all of Georgia. And he wouldn't go somewhere without telling his mother. He wouldn't. So, I know, he died in that fire."

"OK, It's not like him. But you don't have any actual evidence?"

"There is something else. It's not like evidence, and it's weird. I've never before experienced any spirits or anything spooky. I didn't believe in them, but I sure do now. I was walking around the vacant lot that burned, and I felt Bobby's presence. It was scary, but it was real. My hair stood straight up. There's no doubt in my mind, Bobby died there."

Shaw maintained eye contact when he asked, "So, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to investigate."

Shaw rolled his eyes and when he looked back at Pheiffer, his eyes looked more weary than they had previously. "You have an out of body experience and you want me to do something about it. Your lost cousin spoke to you spiritually and you want me to investigate. I got news for you, son, the Gordon case is closed. He didn't want to live any longer. He blew himself up. If your cousin was in there with him while he was blowing himself to smitherines, well, that's his mistake."

Louie could hardly believe his ears. "I knew Bobby, and I'm telling you what I know to be true."

"Look, the entire lot has been cleared. There's no way to prove anything now. You're late. I hope you find your cousin."

Louie struggled to find something else. He didn't want the conversation to end this way. "Did you check DNA on the human remains?"

Shaw turned red. "I would think we did, and I don't need you to tell me how to do the job. Hire a private investigator. Come back when you got more than a spiritual encounter."

He picked up the pad and stood up.

"I'd like to see the evidence packet."

Shaw scoured. "Like we're going to show that to every civilian that walks through the door. Talk to a judge and get a court order. Some advice - take him more than a feeling." He stood to leave.

"Well, Mr. Shaw, when you get the missing person report about Bobby Pheiffer, you better know the two cases are related."

He walked out, leaving the door open. Louie could hear his dress shoes clicking on the hard tile floor well down the hallway.

CHAPTER 29: WHEN THE TRUTH SHAKES OUT

David Gordon hung up the phone and returned to the circular bar. He was back at Murphy's Tavern, his second home. Ginger, the barmaid, glanced his way and he signaled for another vodka-rock-splash. Ginger had a rather long, sharp nose, and when she pulled her hair back, as she often did, with no make-up, like she'd left home in a hurry, it revealed her protruding ears, and rendered her attractive, but not really pretty. But some days, like today, she had her hair down with make-up, and Gordon had nearly cracked vertebrae snapping his head back for a second gawk. Damn, she was very sexy, something he'd never noticed.

She made him feel like really getting tanked so he ordered a vodka-martini with an olive.

Ginger asked, "Are you Randy?"

"As a matter of fact I am randy, very randy, but my name is David, I mean Tim."

"Oh. I thought it was Randy, but it's David, I mean Tim."

She didn't get the joke, but he let it go with only a small titter, concerned about his goof. The TV above the bar was tuned to The Animal Planet Channel. Ginger was watching that Australian crocodile guy, who was currently chasing a snake, a black momba, through the bush of Africa, grabbing him by the tail with nothing but a small stick, held in his left hand, between himself and deadly fangs.

"That fucker's worse than a child in a toy store, he's got to hold everything," Gordon mused.

Ginger smiled.

"Wow, he's pissed," Steve Erwin, the crocodile hunter, vehemently told his TV audience, "I wonder what's got him so riled up. I don't know what it is but something's sure got him mad!"

"Yea, maybe he doesn't like his tail pulled, you idiot." Gordon quipped.

Ginger laughed, squinting toward Gordon as her tongue jutted out with her laugh. "Do ya think?"

"You sure look nice today, Ginger. Better than usual, even. I don't know what, but something's different," he teased. "What's different?"

"I put on my face, today," she smiled and showed her white, straight teeth; very hot, even if her lips were a little thin.

"Why did you do that, Ginger," Gordon asked, propped on an elbow, smiling back largely. "You knew I was coming in today?"

"Well, I figured you would, it does seem to be a regular stop for you," she replied, but turned immediately and walked across the bar to wash the few glasses that were sitting on the stainless steel drain.

"That's OK, walk away, I like looking at this side better, anyway."

Ginger wagged her ass at him. He laughed. He was the only patron at the bar now, and appreciated Ginger taking his mind off Shelly and his screwed up life. But it nagged at the back of his mind, and he knew he'd have to spend time thinking about it.

It was ponderous that he could not plan his future right now. There was nothing he could do. Thinking about it just got him worried, and worry led to drastic thoughts; ways to speed this thing up. But, that was impossible and he knew it. All he could do was wait for the insurance company to pay up. He couldn't rush them, couldn't even call them. He had to maintain a low profile, just bide his time and wait. Bide and wait. It was killing him. And it bred doubt.

He had started to think negative thoughts. Maybe Shelly wouldn't meet him in the Caribbean. If she did, could she commence with step two? What about her family? Could it work? Could they start new lives? He'd read that some historians believed it had worked for Buffalo Bill Cody. And Elvis.

At five-thirty, he felt drunk enough to go home to the dinky drab apartment. He turned right out of the parking lot onto the boulevard because the median prevented a left. Gordon doubted that a paving company could build a driveway without putting a median these days. At the first intersection he made a U-turn, as he had done probably fifty times. No more than a half mile later, he had a blue beacon at his rear. "Oh, shit!"

He pulled over and reached for his wallet, withdrawing the license that identified him as Timothy L. Kirby. He noticed it was a Texas State Trooper rather than a local police car. He repeated, "Oh shit!" rolling down the window. The trooper, a tall black man, walked to the window. His pride showed in his uniform: the slacks were sharply creased and there was not a wrinkle in his white shirt. He wore a black tie with shiny black shoes but no coat, and the wind blew his tie around his shoulder as he approached the Buick. His name tag said Parker.

He took the license before speaking. "Registration card, please, sir," he said with stodginess. Parker leaned in close to Gordon, his face right at the window threshold.

Gordon turned his head away. He was happy he'd drank vodka today rather than bourbon or scotch. He'd heard it didn't smell on one's breath as much, but he wasn't certain and didn't want to trust that bit of gossip. "Uh, I lost it, officer. It is registered to me though. I've got a bill of sale."

"Alright, I'll be right back," Parker said.

That's just like a trooper, not to mention anything about the drink until running the identity check, Gordon thought. The thought was a great compliment to Parker's professionalism, and that of troopers in general. His experience had been that state police either arrested you or let you go. They didn't lecture or try to dominate their subjects like many local police officers often did.

Gordon contemplated his probable fate and immediate future. A wild terror spread through Gordon. His face went flush, certain that he was in an inescapable jam. His thoughts ranged from future embarrassment to newspaper articles when the whole story was out, to prison, a cell of concrete and steel with a cell-mate, large and hairy, with a toothy smile. He was already embarrassed. He was in uncharted waters, far and away the worst situation he'd ever been in. "God-dammit, fuck," he moaned with his face wrinkled and a small tear in the corner of his eye. He considered starting the car and making a run for it, but knew that Parker would just run him down and beat the shit out of him with a truncheon. He said a quick homage to the paper-maker. Looking in the mirror he saw Parker getting out of his car and approaching. He wiped his eyes and made a small smile in an attempt to regain composure.

"Mr. Kirby, how much have you had to drink?" Parker asked, leaning into the window.

"Uh," Gordon thought about saying 'a couple beers,' but he didn't want to piss him off already, so he said, "Uh, just had like, um, two or three drinks."

"Unh-hunh," replied Parker. Gordon thought he saw a small grin crease Parker's face. "Step out of the vehicle, please, Mr. Kirby." Parker opened the door and stood back cautiously. Parker gently pushed Gordon against his car and frisked him quickly. "Have a seat in my car, please."

Gordon started that way and slightly stumbled, "What are we going to your car for?"

"Don't worry." Parker said, and Gordon relaxed. "It ain't a date." Parker retorted and Gordon's anguish returned. "Got a little breath test I need you to take, that's all. You don't even have to study for it."

"Oh, I'm not drunk," Gordon assured him.

"No, but you may be past the legal limit for driving a vehicle in this state."

He led Gordon to the front passenger seat, shut the door and hurried around the big Ford. Inside, Parker ripped open a transparent envelope containing a plastic tube about four inches long, which Parker fastened atop an electronic device with a display screen that resembled a game-boy. "Mr. Kirby, please blow into that end of the tube." He held the device in front of Gordon's face.

Gordon reached to take the portable breathalyzer, but Parker pulled it back. "I'll hold it, you just blow for three full seconds."

Gordon did, then Parker held the machine at chest level, looking into the display window. Several agonizing seconds went by, until finally, Parker shook his head and let out a small grunt, then opened his door, got out and went around to Gordon's door. "Mr. Kirby, please step out of the vehicle."

After Gordon stepped out, Parker said, "Please put your hands behind your head." Gordon did so, and was cuffed. Then Parker notified him of his arrest for driving under the influence of alcohol and read him his Miranda rights. With his hands cuffed behind him, he was gently guided into the back seat. "Don't bump your head," Parker said.

For some reason, Gordon felt better than he thought he would, not on the verge of a breakdown. Maybe it was Parker's manner, firm but professional, respectful. Whatever, Gordon felt he saw a glimmer of hope. Texas will have a friendly arrangement with Georgia, and he'll be processed and let go on his own recognizance.

They pulled up in front of the Merritt County Courthouse, a plain brick three story with a large brick porch and red brick columns. Parker led Gordon through a set of double doors and sat him next to a desk occupied by a technician with curly reddish hair and freckles, and removed the handcuffs. Gordon continued to hyperventilate. He blew into a long hose, which led to an analyzer.

The technician, after a brief pause while the machine calculated, said, "point one four."

With those words, the feeling of despair crept back into Gordon's mind. His face went flush as he thought about how screwed he was. They'd find out who he really was. That would lead to charges of insurance fraud, which would lead to questions about who died in the explosion, which would cause the police to drop the fraud charges in favor of murder charges.

'That evidence is pretty circumstantial,' he thought. 'Damn!! It's so circumstantial they won't need proof.'

Then Parker gently grabbed Gordon by the arm, and took him to the processing room, where he was fingerprinted and photographed, then taken to a waiting room with a row of chairs along a glossy concrete block wall. Another codger was brought in shackled, probably for drunk driving too, and sat at the other end of the row. Thirty minutes passed. Gordon tried to maintain his spirits, but the more he tried to dry his palms the sweatier they seem to get. He thought of the best case scenario: Georgia and Texas would have a reciprocation agreement, and he would be released on bail. Fortunately, he had several hundred dollars in his pocket.

He wasn't worried about the fingerprints since this was his first arrest. His prints weren't in any national database.

He was taken in front of a young magistrate, plead guilty, posted a five hundred dollar cash bond, was given a court date, and released sans driver's license.

Gordon walked down the street and flagged down a passing cab, which he directed to his car. He told the cabbie that his car was broke down, and needed to go there to get his things. It seemed the only English the cabbie could speak was 'Si, Senor'.

He had anticipated this situation arising, so he kept his cash stashed in the trunk, in a paper bag under the spare tire. He felt insecure about the possibility of the car being stolen, but took solace in the knowledge that this model car wasn't highly sought by car thieves. After retrieving his duffel bag containing cash and valuables, Gordon left the keys in the ignition and got back in the cab.

He had the cab deliver him back at Murphy's tavern. There, he had another Jack and Coke and went to the head. He locked the door, opened the duffel and pulled out a blond mustache, eyebrows and wig. Working quickly, he used glue on the mustache and brows, and attached the wig with self-contained clips, and put on non-prescription glasses. Looking in the mirror, he was pleased. Not as good-looking, of course, but different. He smiled. He'd survived a scary adventure, but that's all it was, a close call, since he wasn't going to court for Timothy L. Kirby. The main inconvenience was that he'd have to re-visit Floozy the paper maker for a new alter-ego.

****

About the time Gordon was cleaning out his car, police technician Shondae Jones was receiving results from AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. The system had come up with a match to the fingerprints in front of her, and they didn't belong to Timothy Leon Kirby. Shondae picked up the phone.

"You're not going to believe this, but, these prints ring a match for David Joshua Gordon of Raleigh, North Carolina," Shondae calmly told her immediate superior, Claude Gentry. She flipped her black hair back and subconsciously clacked her long nails on the desktop while she listened for instructions. The interesting part is, sir,-..he's dead.

"Yes, isn't it amazing what some people can do from the grave. I had an uncle who..., well, that's a different story. Shondae, how about getting all the information on Gordon and bring the file to me, please," Gentry said.

"OK, I already know he has no priors. His fingerprints are from North Carolina DOT. Gordon had a chauffeurs license nearly twenty years ago. I'll get started on it." Shondae Jones hung up excitedly. She enjoyed doing the computer research she was instructed to perform, and she was good at it; she knew the appropriate federal databases to access.

Gentry called in detective Glenn "Rooster" Fortner. Fortner was short and chunky, with a broad reddish face and thinning black hair, and a crooked, well-chewed mustache. His white shirt was wrinkled with a ring around the sleeves and a loose worn tie. "Rooster, Shondae will be bringing up a file for you to research. I'm too busy with Operation Clandestine to handle it."

Jones found Gordon's DOT photographs, employment record, driving records, former addresses and known associates, and delivered them to Fortner, who scanned them, and went down to the holding area. He asked jail supervisor Hal Brower about Kirby, and was told of Kirby's release. Fortner's blood pressure shot up, but he remained calm. "What do you mean released, Hal?"

"Rooster, it's SOP."

"This soon?"

"Yea, Rooster, he posted bail. He's from Georgia.

Fortner's water backed up. "Fuck!" He then checked the DUI arrest report, then called Lamont Parker of the Texas State Police to find the location of Gordon's vehicle. Parker told him where he'd pulled Gordon over, and also that he'd seen him pull out from Murphy's Bar and Grill. Fortner directed an officer to the area where Parker had pulled Gordon to check for the presence of Gordon's car.

Fortner then called the Raleigh Police Department and spoke with Detective Russ Driver, who was familiar with David Gordon.

"Right. He was part owner of Goldbaugh-Gordon Realty, until he blew up his office with himself in it. It's been classified as a suicide with no reason to suspect foul play," Driver apprised.

"Oops," Fortner smiled on his end of the phone.

"What's that buddy?"

"He's not dead."

"Come on one more time with that," Driver asked.

"We had him here, Madison, Texas, earlier today, ..DUI charges. Didn't think there was any reason to hold him. Released on his own recognizance. But, now it's obvious he used a false ID. AFIS positively identified him as David Gordon."

"That is news," Driver exclaimed, after a long pause. "I don't see how that could be possible. No body was found, though there was evidence among the rubble, that someone died there. Bits and pieces, not hardly dental records. I remember he had Gambling problems, and no one questioned the obvious, but I'm Certain DNA evidence was matched. Surely."

Both of them instantly knew the story. If someone had died in Gordon's office and Gordon had subsequently disappeared, well...due to budget cutbacks and rush to judgment, assumptions were likely made.

"Can you fax me the records, anything you have on him. I'll send you these prints and a copy of his arrest report here. Then I'll get to work on recapturing him. We have an address in Conyers, Georgia," Fortner said, authoritatively, trying not to sound like the idiot someone around there should feel like.

When he heard back from the patrolling officer, he was surprised to find the Buick Regal was still there with the keys in the ignition. Not good. He checked with everyone at the station upon Gordon's release, and found that Gordon had quietly and quickly absconded when released. No one saw him leave in a cab; and he had not asked for a ride. He'd just left while everyone was too busy to notice.

Fortner then went to the fax and took the papers from Raleigh back to his desk. He reviewed the local information also, on Tim Kirby from Conyers, Georgia, who had several credit cards.

He put out an all-points-bulletin for David Joshua Gordon, a.k.a. Timothy Leon Kirby, and drove to Murphy's Bar with Gordon's file on his seat and photograph in his pocket. He also instructed junior investigators to interview cabbies as well as employees of bus and train terminals and the airport.

He cursed the system. "We should have kept him until the prints were run," he complained to himself. He knew the complaint wouldn't go any further than that. He'd been there, and it's a boring, losing argument. They had no means of holding him: Kirby wasn't wanted for anything; neither was Gordon. Texas and Mississippi had a reciprocation agreement. If someone were pulled for speeding and didn't have the cash on hand, they didn't have to spend the night in jail. It was a good accord for all. Still, they should have held Gordon longer, but he knew the routine and constant excuses. The superiors were too scared of being sued to use common sense, but that's the system, just like it was when he had decided to make this his career, and by now he should be comfortable with it.

When Fortner pulled up to the Murphy's Bar he saw two skinny guys with long hair standing on the back deck smoking a reefer. It made him want to beat the dope out of the punks, but he ignored them, took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer, and attempted to get friendly with Ginger. He'd found it helped to relax a potential informant first, rather than charging in like NYPD Blues, flashing badges. "How are you tonight, pretty one?"

"Pretty one's fine," Ginger responded, southern bellish. She flipped her hair around in mock.

"You been working here long?" Fortner asked, knowing he was sounding boring, like most bar patrons with their silly, simple questions.

"Good while," she said. Now there's a relative term, he thought.

"Listen," Fortner leaned over the bar. "I know I'm boring you. Let me just cut to the chase. It's not what you think."

Ginger thought he was about to ask her out. Happened all the time, some chubby geek who'd never seen her expected to date her because she was a barmaid. She was infuriated, but remained calm-it was part of the job, unfortunately.

She was somewhat pleasantly surprised when Fortner said "I'm Rooster Fortner, and I'm a cop. I'll show you my badge if you want, but I'd rather keep this quiet."

Ginger stepped back with a curious look on her face in wonderment of what was coming next.

Fortner pulled out Gordon's picture and asked, "Have you seen this guy in here tonight?" He was speaking very quietly, so she leaned closer to hear.

"He's a regular in here for the last month or so," she explained, "He's been in here a couple times today. Was here an hour ago. Maybe less. But I don't think he's here now."

Fortner gave her his card. "Call me if you see him again, will you do that?"

He considered putting Gordon's car, apartment and Murphy's, Bar on surveillance, but he'd never get approval. Think of all the man hours. They didn't have the people: no police department did. Fortner figured Gordon was hiding from something. But what? Why else would he be using a false ID? He wasn't wanted for anything except using a false ID, though that was likely to change in the near future, from what Driver had told him. But for now, the APB would have to suffice. When Gordon screwed up again he'd be taken. Until then he'd remain at large.

CHAPTER 30: LOFTON BONES UP

No jail cell was required for Swish Lofton. It was a misdemeanor offense carrying a five hundred dollar fine or thirty days in jail. He was processed, posted the small cash bond and was released. He took the entire incident with humor. A trial date was set for sixty days hence.

Over the next few days, Lofton created strategy that guided his research. For thirty days, Lofton was a regular at the main library in uptown Raleigh, where legal resources were extensive.

He tried to look at both sides of the issue. This one seemed much different from abortion or rights for homosexuals, controversial because both sides created valid arguments. The state seemed to lack cause in his case. Purchasing a few tickets a week didn't hurt him or anyone else. The offense was utterly victimless. He'd done nothing wrong. It was against the law but it was no crime. No judge would ever convince him that it was criminal. He'd simply broken a law created by a bunch of Bible-thumpers who were already rich and didn't want others to benefit from sheer luck. Many of them had waited many years for their inheritances.

And as a man of principle, he'd have to do the time. No way he would support the state with five hundred dollars. He wasn't willingly paying one thin penny.

He'd often heard that knowledge is power, and Lofton thought of the days when nations did battle with knives and swords. Then, with the invent of firearms, he imagined the less knowledgeable felt rather obtuse bringing knives to a gunfight. Lofton's research was giving him considerable power, he thought. As he planned the defense, he got more excited about his plan. He looked at all views. From this angle his plan was brilliant, that angle, stupid. For sure, this defense strategy was curious and interesting. He was solicitous for the trial to begin. He wouldn't win, but he'd show he was right.

Lofton imagined a Clint Eastwood character playing his part in a movie, and he was an extreme Eastwood fan, possessing all his films on tape or DVD. Swish found a lesson in every Eastwood movie. For example, from _Dirty Harry_ , he learned 'Nobody puts ketchup on a hotdog. _' Hang 'em High_ taught him that, 'When you hang a man you'd better look at him mister.' _High Plains Drifter_ stated that 'Ain't nothing like a good piece of Hickory,' and _Outlaw Josie Wales_ proved that it's better to pull your pistol than whistle Dixie.

Lofton understood that lotteries were government swindles. He suspected that a large chunk of the proceeds were stolen by the bureaucrats and accountants that guarded it. Of course, it was pure speculation; he'd never be able to prove that. The best he could do was write for the annual report, but what good was that? It was produced by the same accountants stealing the money!! In many states, the lottery proceeds were never paid out anyway; rather, they were annuitized for twenty years, so that the pay-out didn't even amount to the interest on the money, and then it was taxable. What a crock. It was a definite money-maker, yet North Carolina wanted no part of it. That was curious.

Lofton knew that most people would do the practical thing and just pay the fine, consider it an experience and forget it over time. Rather than losing a month's income while hanging with jail trash, they would just pay it, most people.

But not Swish Lofton. We have federal income tax, FICA tax, medicare tax, state income tax, sales tax, alcohol and tobacco tax, real estate tax, personal property tax, state auto tag tax, county sticker tax in some states, and if you're still successful or provident with what's left, federal and state estate and inheritance taxes in the end. So many ways to pick our pockets. Why do so many governments need so much money? And now they seemed to be singling him out for an individual tax. To him it amounted to a government conspiracy to pick more money from his pocket.

Nearly every state has a lottery. Lofton considered it almost noble not to have one. They are certainly detrimental to the economy. Poor people would spend that twenty dollars a week on something more profitable for the merchant than the lottery, but they certainly wouldn't save the twenty. Lottery opponents had a point there. A lottery might have a slight negative effect on the state economy, but not nearly to the extent of NAFTA. Still, it's such a money maker and a no-brainer. For a state that is technically broke, it seemed pretty stupid not to have one. Still, if the rulers of this state didn't want one, fine, so long as they understand that money is going to flow out of this state into neighboring state lotteries. To criminalize that inevitable fact is simply ludicrous.

He thought about something else, too. He was a born and bred North Carolinian and had always been proud of it. It had moderate climate, a decent economy (before NAFTA, anyway), beaches, mountains. It is a fine state, but with some of the stupidest laws in the country.

So, he'd have to do the time. He'd done his research. The law was pretty simple. He'd been caught and, whether stupid or not, it was a law. Either pay the fine or do the time. Rather than pay the bandits, he'd go live off them. He thought of men who had paid the ultimate price in wars over causes and principles. He'd pay a small price for this principle, to take common sense to the legislature. He needed to quit smoking anyway.

Lofton considered representing himself for the trial. A lawyer would cost him money, if he could find one to take this loser. Public defenders were overworked and employed to get confessions, thereby saving the state money and eliminating the risk of losing the case. Neither option looked attractive.

Lofton was on-the-air with several radio morning talk shows, some of whom thought the travesty would be good for a few laughs. It was, and they commended his decision to bring common sense to the state legislature.

That led to interviews with several newspapers. Lofton told each that he had a secret defense planned, and that he would create so much bad publicity for the state that many politicians would wish he'd chosen another state in which to be born.

While he was not the first person in North Carolina to be arrested for the offense, he was the first defendant to question the absurdity of the law.

CHAPTER 31: REAL EVIDENCE

Jeff Shaw walked out of Police Chief Brinkman's office twitching like a gigged frog. He'd just had his balls stomped on hard for sloppy investigation of the Gordon case. He'd wanted to remind Brinkman that he himself had approved the procedures, but knew that would be akin to stomping around in a mine field.

He was chastised by name in this morning's edition of The Raleigh News and Observer, and the embarrassment was not nearly complete. Now he had to find that Louie guy who'd had the missing cousin, and apologize. He got the information from Paula, and left two messages on Louie's answering machine. Finally, Louie returned his call at three PM.

Shaw said, "This is uncanny. We got proof David Gordon, the owner of the real estate company that blew up, is still alive. We also know that someone did die in the explosion. Since we know it wasn't Gordon, I mean I don't believe or disbelieve in spirits, but," Shaw paused and shrugged, "combined with the facts we do have, it is conceivable that maybe it was your cousin. So the questions now are, why was he there and can we prove it."

Louie didn't say anything. Shaw asked, "Did the lady at the realty office say whether they've cleaned out Bobby's apartment?"

"Yes, they threw everything away and someone else has moved in now. I know what you're thinking about, DNA, right."

"Yes, we did get some bodily tissues from the scene, and if we could find something from Bobby, we could check for a match. We've already petitioned the Supreme Court for a court order to exhume the remains we thought was Gordon. We haven't received approval yet, but, we will."

"What about Gordon?" Louie asked. "Where is he?"

Shaw wanted to scold Pheiffer but had to embellish him with respect. So he stayed calm.

"He's being hunted. No luck so far. Last we know he was in Texas. There are APB's everywhere for him. But meantime, maybe you could help us."

"How?"

"Go with me over to his mom's house. We need to find something that would contain his DNA. Where does she live?"

"Right here in Asheboro."

Shaw wrote down the address, told Pheiffer he'd meet him there around five.

****

The Pheiffer house was an older brick Cape Cod style on the north side of town. Shaw pulled over to the curb directly in front of the house. Louie's Ford pick-up sat in the driveway on cracked pavement under a bald elm and skinny pines.

They met at the concrete porch with brick columns. "Thanks for coming Louie. I hate to bother Mrs. Pheiffer. I hope she understands."

"I'm sure she does. She wants to find out what happened to Bobby. But listen. Before we go in, you have to promise me total discretion. We should find what we're looking for, since she considers Bobby's room his private sanctuary. My aunt hasn't bothered anything in his room. But, if word gets out to the media, it would crush her. She's already under extreme duress. I think the conclusion will be hard enough for her."

"I certainly understand that. I'll do everything I can."

Louie opened the door without knocking and they walked in. The foyer contained an antique bench/coat-rack with mirrors. The living room had three shut doors which led to rooms in the small house. Shaw hung his heavy coat. Louie wore a light jacket he didn't bother to remove.

"Aunt Leese. We're here," Louie shouted.

Shaw fiddled with his tie as Mrs. Pheiffer entered through the door on the right. She was dainty with an attractive face even though it bore a look of eminent sadness.

"Aunt Leese, this is Detective Shaw."

"Hello, maam." Shaw put out his hand for her and she raised up a tiny hand to his.

"Nice to meet you, detective. I'm Melissa Pheiffer. We sure hope you can help us find Bobby."

"Going to do everything we can. I'm sure sorry he's missing. I know you've been through a lot, so I'll spare you all the questions. I think Louie's done a great service to you on that. I think he's already answered all the questions," Shaw told her.

"I sure do appreciate that, Louie."

Louie didn't know quite how to respond, so he pointed to the door straight ahead, "This is the way to Bobby's room. You ready to go up, Detective Shaw?"

"Yea. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Pheiffer." Shaw nodded and followed Louie through the door, which opened to a set of stairs. Upstairs, there were two doors and Louie entered the room on the right. The air was cold and stale and the room un-kept.

"As I said, she hasn't been in here. She's still waiting for Bobby to come back."

"And I hope he does."

There was a computer desk to the left of the door, which Shaw decided to ignore for now. Maybe later he'd pillage the files, but not now. Wouldn't be needed. He knew the story on Bobby Pheiffer's demise. He only needed a DNA source. A TV stand, a stereo cabinet, chest of drawers and unmade double bed made up the accessories. Bobby's world.

"How often did he come home? He had the apartment in Raleigh."

"Yea, he came home every several weeks."

Shaw pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and started to pull them on. Then he stopped, , put the gloves back in his pocket. "Won't need those." He then pulled out a black trash bag and several small manila envelopes. He handed an envelope to Louie, then pulled the bed from the wall. The sheets were a crusty color and wrinkled. The pillow thick but lumpy. "Look down on the floor for any loose hairs. Around the pillow too. They probably won't help. Generally, to extract DNA from hair, the root is needed. Most of these are hairs that fell out naturally, and won't contain roots. But some of them might."

Shaw picked up a hair brush from the drawer's chest and dropped it in the bag. He opened several drawers which were scarcely populated and shut them.

"Look at this," Louie said. He held out a magazine to Shaw.

Shaw studied the cover. It was an issue of 'Swank' magazine, several years old. The cover had a nude photo of a French "actress", identified as Rebecca Lord. She was brunette with a pouty pose and a mole beside her lips. Shaw thumbed through and found many pages stuck together.

"Good." He dropped the magazine in the bag and looked at Louie, who pointed to a dirty yellowed rag lying on the floor. "Yea, might need that." He laughed. "Good thing I got these gloves ."

Louie turned to the side to hide his faint blush.

They collected some unwashed articles of clothes, his toothbrush, and went back downstairs. Mrs. Pheiffer got up from the couch when she heard footsteps on the stairs.

"No. Don't get up," Detective Shaw told her. "We got some things that might help us find Bobby."

"I hope so," she said, as tears started streaming down her face.

Shaw hugged her, but couldn't think of a helpful thing to say. "We'll be in touch. Goodnight."

* * * *

A few days later the court order was received for the exhumation of David Gordon. A handful of bone fragments were recovered from the casket and sent to Shaw's office packed in dry ice.

Subsequently, the DNA from the two sources proved identical, and new charges were levied against David Gordon, first degree murder. Gordon had already been suspected of insurance fraud, but the investigation was still underway, thus, no federal charges had yet been filed. Now that a federal charge was assessed, the real manhunt could begin, nationwide.

CHAPTER 32: TABLE REVERSAL

Lofton decided to act as his own lawyer. He'd heard the old axiom, "A person who represents himself in court has a fool for a client." But what the hell, he'd done the research. General Statute 517-75(a) of the North Carolina criminal code. Credit for introduction of this bill to State Congress was bestowed upon Ira Pickrell, Democrat from Beaufort County, which is so far from both Virginia and South Carolina that it probably never saw a lotto receipt, and passed by a majority of Congressional voters on May 10, 1997. Misdemeanor offense. Maximum sentence was thirty days or five hundred dollar fine. The worst he could get was thirty days, since he was determined not to pay a fine. He'd do the thirty after he savored the opportunity to show that if he had chosen law as a profession, he might have done well.

Judge Cecil Rawlings presided. Lofton plead not guilty and was chastised for not accepting the state's generous offer of a free lawyer.

The Wake County Assistant District Attorney David Lynch called Wake County Deputy Sheriff John Poindexter to the stand. The deputy was clean shaven and slight of build but had a certain arrogance in his walk that said he belonged as he entered the box. Poindexter testified simply that he pulled Lofton for speeding and saw what looked like lottery tickets on the front seat. Lofton had confirmed that they were indeed, lottery tickets from Virginia. The lottery tickets were produced into evidence and fingered as being the exact tickets in Lofton's possession, Virginia pick six. They were, of course, all losers. Lofton then refused the opportunity to question this witness.

Poindexter was excused, and Lynch announced to District Court Judge Rawlings that the prosecution was resting it's case.

The defense portion started without adieu, and Lofton called his first witness, Wake County Assistant District Attorney David Lynch. He'd checked the court docket as part of his extensive research and knew he'd get Lynch. It was the kind of misfortune that seemed to follow guys like Swish Lofton.

There was a small murmur in the courtroom and Judge Rawlings stared at Lofton, a stare of contempt and near outrage. Lofton met his eyes and didn't flinch. "I fail to see how the prosecuting attorney can help your case, Mr. Lofton. It is highly unusual."

"Unusual, yes, but not at all illegal. Please bear with me, Your Honor, and you will soon see the resolution."

"I'd better, I will warn you, Mr. Lofton."

Swish nodded and Judge Rawlings nodded to Lynch, who took the stand with a broad grin of bewilderment stretching his face. He stated his name as David Starnes Lynch and Lofton started.

"Mr. Lynch, is it of your opinion that there are laws in this state that aren't intended to be enforced?"

"I object Your Honor.." Lynch paused to inhale, but was halted.

"Sustained. Don't call for speculation, Mr. Lofton," Judge Rawlings scolded.

"Very well. Let's move from opinion to cold, hard facts. Assistant District Attorney Lynch, isn't it simply a fact that there are laws on the books that are antiquated and not in the best interest of the public to enforce?"

Lynch rolled his eyes, looking totally bored, "Not that I am aware of. Can you be more specific?"

"I think I can. Are you familiar with G.S. 224.05 of the state criminal code?"

"Not by statute number. But I'm sure I'm familiar with the law."

It is a law which pertains to Wake County only, this county, with our state's capital city, where the legislature meets and makes the laws. Without boring the court with the wording, the law was adopted in 1912, and it prohibits driving of automobiles in downtown Raleigh. In 1912, many more people used horse and buggy for travel than drove automobiles. The cars scared the horses. The law is still on the books. But I've been to downtown many times, and I've seen lots of cars downtown and never heard of anyone being arrested for it. But the law is still valid: it has never been repealed. You can look it up. Is it okay to overlook that law?"

Lynch sat fully erect now and made a nearly painful facial gesture towards Judge Rawlings, who spoke up on cue, "Mister Lofton, I remind you to keep your questions pertinent to this case. That way we can get this case heard."

"Very well Your Honor, but I assure you, it is extremely germane to this case. It is no more frivolous than the victimless law I am charged with violating." Lofton said while facing the jury and taking a swallow of ice water provided by the county.

"Mr. Lynch, G.S. 284.01 is a statute which applies state-wide, in all one hundred counties. It clearly states that it is illegal in North Carolina for two people who are not married to have sexual relations together. It is an old law too, yet it has never been repealed. It is still on the books, too. Tell me, Mr. Lynch, is that law enforceable?"

"Why, of course it is. All laws are to be enforced. Otherwise, you may have an excellent ruse, arguing that the one you are accused of breaking is among those that should be overlooked. But I assure you, there are no laws like that, that we intentionally overlook."

"I see," Lofton said. "That certainly clarifies things. Makes it down-right simple." Lofton paused and raised his voice about two notches on the noise-meter for effect. He pointed at Lynch. "Bailiff, arrest this man!"

There was a murmur throughout the courtroom and Judge Rawlings whacked his gavel twice. "Mister Lofton! I am the only person in this court who can instruct the bailiff. One more ludicrous outbreak like that I'll have you arrested for contempt of court. Do you understand?"

Lofton threw his hands up. "I'm sorry Your Honor. I wasn't aware of that. So, Mr. Lynch, are you saying that it depends on who the individual is – what his title is – who his parents are or some determining factor?"

Judge Rawlings dropped the gavel and crossed his arms in disgust.

"Of course not, that's ridiculous," Lynch chuckled. The comedy act appeared to be relaxing the DA.

"Are you saying that if I break a small law let's have a trial, but if you break one let it slide?" Judge Rawlings scowled.

"Aren't you dating a co-worker of yours, a Linda Muse? Isn't it a fact that you two live together? Would you swear in this Court that your relationship with Linda is strictly platonic? Are you two just sharing expenses, or is there more to the relationship? And need I remind you, you too are under oath? You may well be the assistant, yes, I did say assistant, District Attorney but you are not above the oath that you swore upon. Care to tell us about this relationship with Miss Muse, your co-worker in civil servantry?" He knew that wasn't really a word, but it served its purpose.

Lynch was hysterical, flailing his arms and gasping for breath. He'd start to talk but get tongue-tied, but it didn't matter. The murmur throughout the room was much louder now, and there was Judge Rawlings, going nearly insane with his gavel, trying to hammer the block flat.

"Mr. Lofton, you are in contempt of court." The bailiff took his cue and started towards Lofton, standing in front of the defense table, who knew he had only a few seconds left.

"And you, Judge Cecil Rawlings - didn't you father a daughter, Simone, with a woman named Inez Dennison? Sure you did, it was in all the papers. The paternity suit. I haven't seen you arrest yourself. You haven't paid one day for that crime, and it is hardly victimless."

Judge Rawlings seemed amazed that the goddamned gavel would not break. The court observers were stunned and howling with surprise. The bailiff, a large black deputy sheriff reached

Lofton and spun him up against the defense desk, shackling the cuffs around Lofton's wrists as Judge Rawlings ranted in the background.

"Thirty days, Mister Lofton for contempt of court. Then we will re-try this case." He slammed the gavel. "How dare you make a mockery of my court!"

Already, the deputy was leading Lofton towards the side exit door when Lofton spun out of his grasp and looked at Judge Rawlings, "It already was a mockery. This is the first time I've ever been here. How can I be responsible for the condition of your court? You are not supposed to pass judgment upon people based strictly on which vagina they squirted out of. You're the one who should be in prison." Lofton screamed.

"Sixty days!" Rawlings shouted. The bailiff regained control of Lofton and was pushing him backwards towards the side exit, but Lofton pushed sideways and hit the door jam with his shoulder and said, "And how is it that prostitution is illegal while the making of pornography is not? That doesn't make any sense. Explain that to the fine folks of this state."

Lofton, being dragged out, quoted from an old Jerry Lee Lewis song "Who going to collect my welfare? Pay for my Cadillac? Judge, oh judge!"

Then he was out the door and into the hard tile hallway on the way to the sheriff's car that waited just out the exit door.

CHAPTER 33: EMERGENCY MEETING

Shelly was in the Sea-Ray cabin, behind locked doors, but it was nearly dark. The power had been cut, and there were only sparse bits of moonlight shining through the tinted glass. She saw a thick, dark liquid dripping through the ceiling and knew it was Alex's blood. She remembered moments ago being in the cockpit above with Alex, when suddenly David was there, behind Alex.

David slit Alex's throat from ear to ear with a huge buck knife and gleamed at her; a wild, terrifying look on his face. She ran downstairs and locked herself into the cabin. She groped for the pistol Alex had stashed under the mattress, but it was gone.

She heard David outside the cabin door, "Hey Shelly, my beloved wife; what you gonna do, stay in there all night? Why did you lie to me? So you could stay here with my money and fuck all my friends?"

She expected him to bust down the door, but instead, he rang the doorbell. It seemed specious to Shelly that a boat would have a doorbell. Why would a boat have a doorbell? The doorbell rang again, then three times in a row. 'Da-dong, da-dong, da-dong.'

Shelly suddenly woke out of her dream, momentarily wondering where she was and what was going on. There were three more quick 'da-dongs' before she realized someone was at the door and she'd better get some clothes on quick. She turned on the light, grabbed her robe and slid her feet into the pink slip-ons. She looked at the clock, which reported seven-o-four. The air was cold so she wrapped her arms together over her breasts for warmth and walked quickly but quietly and cautiously to the head of the steps. The sun was shining through the eastward facing fanlight windows above the door and the transom sidelights. 'Da-dong, da-dong.'

Shelly stood nearly dazed, looking at the door into the bright but cold winter sun, wondering who could it be. Gordon? And if so, did he suspect her deceit? The police? Maybe they had bugged the waffle house pay phone too. If Angelo had, certainly the police could too.

Four more da-dongs.

"Who's there?" Shelly asked timidly, wondering why she hadn't grabbed her gun. She considered going to get it from her bedside table.

"It's Jack Milan. Remember me? We need to talk." He was careful to sound care-free, not to startle her.

Shelly opened the large front door and peered out. The cold wind hit her face, giving her a startling 'good morning'. "You do know how to ring a doorbell," she said, feigning surprise. "Last time we met I didn't think you did. Sounds like you are really enjoying it now that you've got the hang of it."

Milan didn't know if she was being comical or a smart ass. Nonetheless, he knew how to handle the situation. Milan was non-confrontational, took nothing personally. He knew that winning a battle didn't insure winning a war, and he almost never let his ego control him. He was in control of his emotions, and he smiled broadly.

"Where's your side-kick?" Shelly looked leftward and saw Tommy Russ standing with his back to the house. Though she couldn't see it, she knew he held a gun in his hidden left hand. "Oh, there he is."

"I am sorry. Seemed you were sleeping hard and though it is early," Milan shrugged. "We've had some complications with the situation. The situation Mr. Angelo discussed with you. He's got to talk to you and didn't want to risk coming out here again. And you know the possible problems with calling. Anyway, he wants to see you, before the regular crowd shuffles in."

There was a long pause. Milan appeared to be finished talking, but hadn't told her why he was there. It was assumed she understood.

"So, you want me to ride with you?"

"It's the easiest way."

"What does Mr. Angelo want? We made a deal, right?"

Milan groped for a plausible response. "Yes, sure. I don't know any more than you do. Just complications that can't wait." With opened hands he pointed first at himself, then at her as he talked, and smiled, to seem as a common gopher just delivering a message. As he talked, though, he stepped slowly closer to the door. He was now within reach of the door so if Shelly chose to slam it quickly he could intervene, but he still seemed innocuous.

There was another long pause as Shelly thought.

"Alright. Give me a few minutes to get ready. I'll be right out."

"Well, let us step in while we wait. It's the cold, damp air of the south, you know."

Shelly did know. She knew the reason they wanted to come in had nothing to do with the cold damp air. Still, she trusted them. At least to the point that they weren't rapists. Maybe she didn't respect the way they made money, but it was a professional organization. Though they worked with thugs, they weren't thugs themselves. And surely they couldn't kill her. Not before she got the insurance money. And then they'd have no reason to kill her.

"Well, OK." She had no choice so she stepped back. "Let me get dressed. What time is it anyway?"

"Too early," Milan replied.

Shelly rode in the back and hardly a word was spoken. Soon, high-rise buildings came into view as Glenwood Avenue crossed the inner belt-way. They passed the Koger Center, Regency Park and Metro Center, some of many establishments owned by Gus Angelo, and turned into Enterprise Center. They parked in the parking deck that accompanied the building. Russ covered Shelly's head with a sweater as they exited the car next to the elevator. There was virtually no traffic in and out of the building, but they took no chances.

Angelo, dressed immaculately in a pure wool Palazeri suit, sat behind his large mahogany desk, sipping coffee and smiling. If he had a problem in the world, Shelly couldn't tell it.

"Ah, Shelly, nice to see you again." He stood and smiled warmly.

She was still across the large room, and Angelo was waving her over. Like at a party, she thought, "Come on over."

"Sorry for waking you so early. Here's a cup of coffee for you." Angelo pointed to the mug across his huge desk. "I know it's rude to wake someone so early, but as you've heard, it is quite urgent."

Shelly walked over, picked up the coffee, and sipped it.

"Please, sit," Angelo smiled and gestured to the couch that fronted the desk.

Shelly sat and took another larger drink from the cup. It was perfect. Strong, but fresh, with just the right amount of cream and sugar. Very warm, but not too hot. She needed this coffee more than she knew she craved it. Angelo sat too, after Shelly was settled.

"Is the coffee good?" Angelo asked. "Enough cream and sugar?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Angelo, it's perfect. How did you know how I like it?"

"Oh," Angelo looked away from her, picked a piece of lint from his jacket sleeve, nearly blushed, "Just a guess, really."

Shelly knew better. They probably had camera's hidden in her house. They may be putting more camera's in now as she sat in front of the Don Angelo. The thought startled her. She hadn't thought of that, and she now wondered how much more she hadn't thought of. Somehow, she stayed cool and calm.

"Listen, I'll get right to it. David's been fucking up. He got arrested yesterday, in Texas, for DUI, and the police believed his fake ID and let him go. Then they got the fingerprint results and figured out who he is. He's, of course, on the run again..." Angelo was rambling on letting his sentences run together, and facing away from Shelly, "We need that about like Kojak needs Afro-Sheen. It's bad that he got caught, but it is good that he got away. The insurance company will definitely hear about it if they haven't already, but they certainly aren't paying any life insurance on a live insured."

Angelo gasped for air, spun his chair around to face her before starting again, "We..." he smiled and sighed out the long breath, "We're going to have to make half-time adjustments, so to speak, you and me."

Shelly sat the cup on the desk. "Since you've had time to think it over, Mr. Angelo, what do you propose we do?"

Angelo's eyes bulged slightly, "That is a very good question, Shelly, I'm very impressed with you. Let me ask you something personal. Something I wasn't planning on ever even wanting to know, but now I must know. What was your plan, after you got the life insurance proceeds - were you planning on going to the Caribbean with your husband, as you've told him?"

Shelly hesitated before answering, "I don't see why you need to know that."

"Right, but like you said, you haven't had time to think about it. So I'll explain it to you. You've got the Jag, the boat, the horse arena, not to mention Alex, the promising young attorney you've been getting it on with. I don't think you're going anywhere. So, what are you thinking, that once David gets to the Caribbean he'll just stay down there and live happily ever after? That you can just change the phone number and he'll be gone forever. I wouldn't count on it going down that way."

"Well, he can't come back. He was dead, now he's wanted. He can't just come back," Shelly said. "So, I figured I'd put up a twelve foot fence with razor wire and get some Dobermans."

"Yea, he'd be back. Like a raving asshole. Maybe he can't have that money, but when he finds out you betrayed him, he'll make sure you don't get it either."

There was a long pause before Angelo continued, "I don't know what you're thinking, but, I do have an alternative plan," he smiled a wide open smile, one that exuded an air of confidence and authority. "Since he wasn't going to let you live a happy, peaceful life, if live at all, I think it certainly works in your favor to have him eliminated. And that works in our favor, too. Once he's dead, the insurance company will have no choice but to pay off the policy. As long as we're careful and they don't suspect you had involvement in his death. Of course, my people will take care of the details."

"Maybe there's a better plan. I mean I don't love him, but I don't want him dead either," Shelly said somberly.

Angelo spoke very quietly, "Well, you have no choice. He will come to kill you, and besides, there's the little issue of the money you owe me."

That seemed to jog her memory. If she wasn't wide awake already, she was now. She quickly realized she didn't have the money laying around, that she could sell the boat and the farm, that she didn't want to sell them, that Angelo wouldn't wait for that, that there was something personal in it for Angelo, and that he was, indeed, in control here.

"So, you have him killed for the insurance money?"

"It's the only way you're going to survive this thing, Shelly."

Shelly wondered whom the real threat was. But, from her perspective, one was the other.

"Here's what we're gonna do," Angelo said matter-of-factly. "When he calls you later today, you tell him you got the insurance money, and you can't wait to see him. You want him to fly to Nassau, the Bahamas, this Friday. Tell him everything's ready, and you're ready to go. Sound enthusiastic. That's all there is to it. We'll do everything else." Angelo sat back in his plush Vitra chair and put both hands behind his head, smiling, smug as hell.

"OK." She paused, "What then?"

"That's a good question. Again, I don't know. But we'll figure out something good. Have I told you about my sources? We have some gooood sources."

"Alright, Mr. Angelo, I'll do that." There was a pause where Shelly looked extremely uncomfortable, and Angelo wondered about the commitment in her heart. Better than that in her voice, he hoped.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to go home now. I'll get my own ride."

"Wait a minute, Shelly. Maybe we should discuss it. When you've had time to think about it, you'll realize it is the only way."

"You can't expect me to be happy about it."

"I don't want to sound threatening, Shelly. You don't know, but I can be very tough when I need to, but I really hate to. Nice is so much better. So, I hate to sound threatening, but," Angelo, resting his chin on his hands, nervously rearranged his hands, then shuffled them back again, "we will be listening. I admonish any deviation from that plan."

"I know that sir," Shelly snapped, "But what if you do that, and it doesn't work?"

Angelo started to feel optimistic. Maybe she is thinking, he thought.

"I mean, what if the insurance company won't pay. It's has been a couple months since we surrendered the policy, and premiums have not been paid. When the insurance company discovers he's still alive, won't the policy lapse?"

"Oh, now that's truly an intelligent question, Shelly. Is that the only thing bothering you, or is there something else, too?"

She really didn't know how to answer. She knew what she had to do, but still wasn't certain this was the only solution. She adhered to egalitarian beliefs – like 'live and let live.' She did know it was a last resort, and needed time to consider alternatives. But, she couldn't tell Angelo that. It was not what he wanted to hear. "Don't patronize me!" Shelly demanded.

"Oh, I'm not. You're a sharp lady. And cool. You don't give anything away. If you ever need a job, I'll have one for you. I'm serious. You're a very impressive individual; sharp, and you ask good questions. I don't intend condescension, but please understand that this is a very serious matter, and I won't mess around. You remember me telling you about my sources? Well, we already thought about that. Your policy is Universal Life, so it has cash value, and Gulf States Insurance Company always goes with the extended term option in this situation, where premiums are not paid, and can't treat this policy any differently. It is a valid policy. The two year contestable period has past. So, upon proof of death, the insurance company must pay. If you are convicted of being involved in his death, they pay out to the second beneficiary. I don't know who that is, but it won't matter. You won't be involved. The important point is that they must pay someone, once he's in fact dead."

Shelly decided to be bold. "With all due respect, Mr. Angelo, you are a very intelligent man, maybe even brilliant. Still, I wonder, have you thought out all the angles? Is that the best plan? Maybe there's an alternative." There was a pause. "I mean, I know you own your fair share of this town, and I respect that. Don't think that I'm trying to run your show. We're just discussing something that concerns us both."

"I didn't want to go into all the details, but you've forced my hand. When the police catch him- and they will catch him if we take no action- that policy becomes worth the cash value, a few thousand dollars. Where does that leave you?"

Shelly didn't answer.

"Be at the Waffle House today at two o'clock. Have David 'make plans' for Nassau this Friday. We'll handle the rest. Understood?"

CHAPTER 34: A BAD DAY

Hubert Goldbaugh lived at 1215 Peninsula Road, on Lake Jordan. Some sections of Lake Jordan had new homes in the million dollar range, but not this one, which was mostly old summer cabins or permanent residences sided with vinyl, much like Goldbaugh's. He'd moved here after his wife had died of cancer a few years ago, and lived very much the life of a recluse. His boundaries were tight, but well-guarded by thick hemlock trees on all sides.

Johnny Berkley found the hidden setting to his liking, as he parked his Beamer behind Goldbaugh's old Mercedes. He cut the engine and looked for Goldbaugh peering out the windows. Seeing nothing, he patted his left palm hard with his two foot length of two-inch diameter rubber-coated electrical cable, which he then rammed up into his jacket behind him, tucked into his pants far enough to hold in place and got out of the car. He left his gun in the car, knowing he'd be tempted to use it once he saw the punk named Goldbaugh. He walked regular speed to the door, and rapped on it lightly, holding the storm door open.

Goldbaugh opened the door slightly, but the door rushed him behind the power of a swift kick from Johnny Berkley's boot, and banged him in the upper torso, sending him sprawling flat on his back. His sissy cigarette flicked off the wall, spraying small slivers of burning tobacco onto the carpet.

Goldbaugh looked up into Berkley's face with dark terrified eyes. He rolled and got to his knees, but the same Black Cherry Eagle boot that had kicked the door was now in the flat of his back, pinning him helplessly to the rug. He wanted to ask a question, but couldn't decide which one.

"What..."

"Shut up Goball! Shut up and listen." Berkley pulled out the cable and rubbed it on Goldbaugh's skull, just behind the ear, like he were slicing a steak. "You been hassling some Gordon lady, and no telling what other little old ladies."

Goball began to whimper lightly.

"You will stop that immediately, cease and desist. Leave the Gordon lady alone. Do you understand?"

"Yea, Yea," Goldbaugh blubbered.

"And stop that whining! You little wimp. Don't make me have to come back. I won't be so polite next time. You understand?" Berkley's cable was now stroking Goldbaugh's skull like a maestro playing a violin, had drawn blood, and the moisture caused an emission of squeaks, which sounded somewhat like a one string violin.

"I understand," Goldbaugh pleaded.

Suddenly Berkley flicked his wrist, raising the front end of the cable about four inches. The recoil whacked Goldbaugh's skull and splattered blood down his ear. Though it didn't knock him out the pain was intense, ringing all throughout his head.

When he had regained the acumen to rise, Berkley was gone. Goball laid back down and cried.

CHAPTER 35: THOROUGH SEARCH

Shelly got home from her meeting with Angelo at eight thirty. She made a pot of coffee, then searched the house for hidden mikes and cameras. She went up in the attic first, looking for micro-lenses in the ceiling, crawled along the naked rafters and joists, careful not to push through the sheet-rock ceiling, but soon realized the improbity of the search. There was four inches of fiberglass insulation stapled to the ceiling joists that would have to be pulled loose. She went to the basement and retrieved a four step step-ladder and a flashlight, and started scanning the ceiling in her bedroom. The ceiling was grit textured, making the search more difficult, but several times she thought she'd hit pay dirt, only to discover anomalous but passive indentations in the ceiling board. She picked up speed to keep up with the monotony, and was finally satisfied that the bugs were not in the ceiling. She checked all closets and behind all the pictures. In her bedroom, she checked the walls carefully for holes concealing micro-lenses, and checked the headboard carefully, feeling demoralized at the thought of someone watching her love-making, but she didn't find anything there either.

She then checked the kitchen, concentrating on the pantry, wondering how a man she'd never met could know exactly how she liked coffee. But she couldn't find a damned thing anywhere. Finally, she resigned the search, attributing paranoia. Angelo probably had her watched in a restaurant somewhere. Maybe. Don't forget the gooood sources, she reminded herself.

At ten, she went to the stable and rode Lady and Sadie, fully aware of the dangers of riding alone: what if she fell off and got hurt? She didn't care. She loved the mares and it gave her time to think in private while keeping busy.

Sadie and Daisy were daughters of Lady, American Thoroughbreds. Lady was dark brown with a star on her forehead and blazen chest. Sadie and Daisy were both chestnut, Daisy with her mother's markings and the largest of the three.

Shelly put a bucket of oats in three separate stalls, and waited for the three to separate and find a trough of their own. Lady and Daisy went to the same trough, but Lady shoved her larger offspring out of the way, and Daisy left with a winnie and a stomp.

Shelly locked all three in and brushed Lady first. "I guess we've all got problems, don't we, Lady?" Shelly asked while working over her buttocks.

"Uu-huh-uhh-huh-huh-huh," Lady voiced quietly, between chomps, as if answering.

"That's right Lady. You are right. David thinks I'm going to the Caribbean, but I'm not. I'm not leaving you, girl. Not Leaving. Staying right here with you and your phillies," Shelly crooned.

"Uu-huh-uhh-ur-hu-hu-huh, chomp, crunch."

"You're so right lady. You're so smart. I'm not going to get him out of his jam. It was of his own design and volition, he'll have to fix it himself. I knew I could depend on you for advice, girl. You are a true friend."

* * * *

She went home and called Alex, just for comfort in hearing his voice, not for advice. As much as she would have loved to confide in him, she knew it was too risky. Especially now that the situation was becoming more complicated.

When he asked her about her morning, she told him only about her trip to the farm, about Sadie talking to her, while she brushed her. He said his morning had been very exciting also. His current assignment was working with Mogul.Com, Inc., who were coming out with a faster software package for job seekers to send resumes over the internet. His firm was looking into all legal issues that held potential for suits before they arose. Real exciting stuff.

Just before two, she left for the Waffle House pay phone.

CHAPTER 36: SWEET MILK TURNED SOUR

David Gordon woke up sleepy in New Orleans. Unable to sleep at night, he allowed himself to sleep as long as possible into late morning. He pissed and laid back down. Evocative and remorseful feelings crept into his gut but he willed them away. He roused a while later, and the clock showed twenty minutes since his bathroom visit. He rolled over and the lumpy mattress squeaked like a cheap whore. The Cagey Cajun hotel was obviously Asian-Indian owned and operated. Everything from the paneling and the single lamp, TV with no remote, cigarette-burn-scarred dresser with crooked drawers to the cigarette-smoke-stained-curtains spelled cheap. The place just reeked of dot-head.

Two nights ago he had laid in bed with the lights off watching the geeky little Irish boy, Conan O'Brien, on the cable-less TV, whom Gordon considered much funnier and wittier than either Leno or Letterman, when a huge spider crawled across the TV screen; only, he wasn't on the TV. With Gordon's background gaze, the spider was a blur, because he was actually on the bedspread. It wasn't a tarantula, just a cousin, darker and smaller and less hairy, but Gordon had to pound it three times with a shoe to kill it.

When he showed it to Patel, the innkeeper said "Oh, it's just a wolf spider, they are common, harmless."

"Harmless, huh? Yea, well, I don't like sharing my bed with them. Who does your exterminating?"

"Oh, I do it myself."

"Maybe you should hire a professional. You don't do so good," Gordon complained.

"There's a lot of them. Can't keep them all out." said the maharajah.

"Yea? Well there's a one inch crack under the door. I wonder where they're coming in?"

Patel looked at him like he was the stupid one and asked, "What does this look like, the Hilton?"

Gordon just looked at him and walked away. Patel had noticed the mustache was sagging down unnaturally and wondered why Mr. Price wore a fake mustache.

The room was more depressing than a Seattle winter, and Gordon thought of moving. But, it was in the French Quarter on Canal Street and available without ID. Hopefully, it wouldn't be much longer, and he could bear it. He'd enjoyed the wildness of the area for a few days, but he was becoming impatient and felt his anxiety increasing. If allowed to build, that anxiety was likely to erupt and spew ugliness all over the city.

He rolled over again. Squeak, squeak. The air conditioner was frozen up and groaned like an old crone as sunlight pushed through the filthy curtains. Gordon wrapped the flimsy, thin pillow over his face. A car door slammed just outside the hotel door and the motor roared to a quick warm-up.

"Shit," Gordon yelled and flung the sheets back. A few minutes later he was in the shower.

By one o'clock Gordon was at Palmero's on Royal Street, just southeast of Bourbon Street, drinking Crown Royal with Ginger Ale. He pulled a flask from his back pocket and made the drink stronger without paying the bar price for a double.

By two, he was more than half hootered lit as he took a quarter roll to the pay phone down the street. It was out of order, of course, so he tried the one beside it, which had a dial tone, but naturally had coins jammed in the slot. Half a block away, Gordon found a working phone but had to stand in the sun, which was barely tolerable to his pale skin, even in March.

Gordon pulled out the Waffle House phone number from his wallet, deposited four dollars in quarters and dialed. Shelly answered on the second ring.

"Hello, David, Darling," Shelly said enthusiastically. "Hi, sweetheart. It sure is good to hear your voice. I am missing you so much. I know I talked to you last week, but it seems like a month.

"Well, do I have some good news for you. The Insurance check came yesterday, and I cashed it this morning. I can't wait to see you in the Bahamas. When can we go? How about Friday?"

Gordon was amazed. Either the police weren't looking for him because they thought he was Timothy Leon Kirby, or the insurance company had already sent the check and hadn't had time to stop pay on it. A feeling of elation swept through him, and swam in the alcohol in his brain. "Yippee." He knew it sounded corn-ball, but who cared. Things were going to work out after all.

"Yea, Shelly, Friday's good, unless we can go sooner."

"I can't. I've got a hundred things to do before I can get away, you know; I don't know if we'll ever be able to come back."

"Yea, I know. I'm sure you do. You're right. But I'm sure it'll be worth it. It's going to be so good for us down there. You'll see. I feel like a kid at Christmas, can't wait. I might get there earlier. I might even go today. I'll meet you at the airport in Nassau on Friday. I can't wait to hold you and make love to you, sweetheart."

"I can't either," Shelly said, but shuttered and made a face like a guy who'd just discovered dog shit on his shoe.

"See you Friday sweety," David said, then slowly hung up.

****

Gordon went back to Palmero's and ordered another Crown. His mind was racing. How would he get there without ID? He had to have an ID to fly. He had to get back to Atlanta, to his friends, Tillman and Floosie. Yea that was it. He'd buy a cheap car and get a new ID, then drive to Atlanta and fly out of Hartsfield to Nassau. He also needed new costume materials: he'd have to remember that. These weren't problems, he'd work it all out. Things were going to work out, like they had all his life. He was happier than he'd been since this adventure had started.

He glanced up at the TV, which was on a local twenty four hour news channel, and saw his face. Gordon did a double take. It sure looked like him. He held a hand over his face, even though he had on his wig and fake mustache, which he wore constantly now, and he strained to listen.

The news anchor was saying that David Gordon, from Raleigh, North Carolina, was wanted by the FBI for apparently committing a murder to fake his own death to extort insurance money from Gulf States Insurance Company. Why would this be news in New Orleans, he wondered? Was it on CNN and every news channel in America? Then he remembered Gulf States Insurance was domiciled in New Orleans. He'd forgotten all about that. It was the largest insurance company in Louisiana, employing nearly a thousand at its downtown high-rise complex, and one of the largest in the nation, so it was of interest locally. That didn't matter. Shelly had already cashed the check.

Then Gordon had a pestilent sensation. It felt like he'd been struck by a fireplace poker. The news anchor had said that Gulf States had been suspicious and had held up on paying the proceeds until the conclusion of a thorough in-house investigation, but that Gordon had been arrested in Texas, and had been released by mistake and disappeared again. Apparently, the police in Texas had believed his fake ID, but fingerprints had later proven to be Gordon's, whose prints were in the national database since he'd had a chauffeur's license while in college.

Gordon had forgotten about that; that his prints were in a national database since he'd worked part-time as a cabbie while a student at N. C. State.

He tried to remember what he'd heard. It sounded like the newscaster was saying that the company had still not paid off the policy. But Shelly had just said that they had paid.

He wondered. He might just have to call Shelly at home. Apparently, the police knew he was alive. But they didn't know where, and they might have her phone tapped. It would be too risky to call her. Besides, if she'd just lied to him...? What would keep her from lying again? And how would he know?

He'd have to find out some other way.

CHAPTER 37: UP A TREE

It was starting to rain and Steve was still in a tree. Usually in this situation he could gather up his stuff and get to the car before the rain penetrated the natural canopy above. But this storm had come up suddenly and the rain would dull his senses. He almost always worked alone, and compared to previous occupations, this one he considered relatively safe. But the rain was thudding down on his hat, and made it improbable to hear anyone who may walk through the wet underbrush behind him.

So, for the umpteenth time today, like every day, he asked himself what his next career would be. He admitted to being whipped on this one.

Steve Tevepaugh, also known as Stevepaugh to his friends, quickly inserted the camera and binoculars in the cloth bag and climbed down from his perch. He'd started to a half hour ago, but then it looked like, through the naked branches, he was to find some action coming from Ian Marshall's bedroom. The insurance company for whom Tevepaugh was currently free-lancing expected swift payment of the premiums, but wasn't quite as anxious to pay benefits. So Tevepaugh hoped to get pictures of Marshall relaxing without his neck brace. It was also conjecture that he may be gay, and homosexuality was prohibited by the disability policy Marshall was attempting to collect from.

Most often, Tevepaugh didn't enjoy his work. He was tired of snooping, slinking and sleezing, and he always missed his family. He knew so many people who had marriage problems, and occasionally investigated divorce cases; enough to know how lucky he was to have a wife he truly loved. He also had a nine year old son and a daughter aged seven, and the finest chocolate Labrador retriever this side of the Mississippi.

By the time his feet hit the ground, it was a virtual gully-washer as Tevepaugh ran to his Bronco on the side street, water dripping off his head like it would run off a duck. It reminded him of an investigation when he was with the Bridgeport, Connecticut police department. Just as a summertime drug bust was going down it started pouring. Lightning struck in the near distance and the bolt was louder than the reiteration of machine gun-fire. He'd been wounded in the leg, but his partner and two fellow officers were killed. He'd laid in a ditch, wondering how drug thugs got machine guns, as bullets threw up mud behind him with lightning striking all around them and bloody water running down to the valley below.

He was reminded of it, but refused to dwell on it. He knew if he went more than a few seconds with it in his mind it would be there an hour later. He'd come up with the same unanswerable questions he had a hundred times already. He'd learned how to master his thoughts so he could simply survive the day without the monstrous remorse that dwelled inside him. It was the main reason he'd left police work and moved south to start private work. Teve just couldn't keep going out on the firing line day after day, when the laws so much favored the cutthroats. He couldn't conquer the sights and sounds of that night, or those from the funerals for the fallen officers.

He wiped his head with a blanket he kept on the back seat. His leg was throbbing as it always did in high humidity. After the initial surgery, the injury had become re-infected and forced a second surgery. Had it failed, he'd have been facing amputation. He shook out several Ibuprofen and swallowed them without water, refusing to think about his former occupation, and fellow slain officers, or re-hash the hundred questions he couldn't answer at the department internal inquiry. These thoughts made him nauseous. Rather, he chose to think of Penelope, Joshua and Melissa, and Zeus, thoughts that made him joyous and comforted. Teve knew he wasn't all that tough, nor did he want to be. He'd been tough before, and it had only produced heartbreak. These days, he only wanted to make a living and be happy. He started the Bronco and went home.

Halfway there, his cell phone rang. Steve answered, "Tevepaugh."

"Hey Stevepaugh, this is Hubert Goldbaugh. You remember me?"

"Yea, I remember, you old peckerwood, s'appening?

"Hunh? Oh, listen, I might have a job fer ya."

Umh, Teve thought. Everybody thought he was starving or something. He'd worked for Goldbaugh several years ago when Goldbaugh just knew his wife was cheating on him. So he spent two days following Mrs. Goldbaugh and snapping photos of her entering the grocery store, the florist, the hospital and the ladies bridge club. He showed those to Goldbaugh, who replied, "These ain't the photo's I wanted."

"Which ones did you want?"

"The ones of her cheating."

"She's not cheating Hubert, she's just bored. Maybe you don't show her enough attention at home."

"What? She don't want no attention from me. She just wants to argue and call me an old goat."

"Well, congratulations, you have a faithful wife. There are worse things in the world."

Hubert Goldbaugh was a psychotic, compulsive and paranoid simpleton who wanted some attention. Teve didn't like the Marshall case, but wanted no part of Goldbaugh. Nonetheless, he

would hear him out.

"What you got Hubert?"

"Did you hear about David Gordon, the realtor who faked like he blew himself up on Super Sunday?"

"Yea, I read about it in the paper."

"Well, he used to be my partner. And I got strong suspicion he's around here."

"What makes you think so, have you seen him?"

"No, ain't seen him. But I know him. It's a scam. Insurance or something, believe me."

"So, what can I do?"

"I thought you might want to investigate."

"Who's paying?" Teve asked.

"Well, I don't know, but there's bound to be a reward, somebody did get blowed up. They found bones."

Teve didn't want to argue. "So how would you start, Mr. Goldbaugh?"

"Well, that wife of his still lives here. She's bound to know something."

"That's a good idea, Hubert. But I don't have time for it right now. He wouldn't come back here, I'm sure. Call someone else, or check it out yourself. If you see him, let me know. I got to go now. You have a good evening. Bye."

Steve Tevepaugh went home.

CHAPTER 38: TRAVEL ITINERARY

Angelo, Milan, Russ, Pete Crouch the communications guru, Johnny Berkley and Charlie Glenn, hired guns, sat in Angelo's comfortable office and listened to the Gordon conversation.

Glenn was a bear of a human being, about the size of Arnold Schwartznaeger. He wore a crew cut and a blue blazer over a white Armani sweater. He was certainly more respectful and better

company than Berkley, but didn't seem to have Berkley's luck, determination or instincts. While Berkley had never failed on a mission, Glenn had.

Johnny Berkley sat in typical Berkley fashion, silent, but looking smug and bored as hell. He was the only one dressed in jeans.

In a matter of seconds, on the screen of the satellite tracer, not much larger than a standard caller ID, appeared this simple message:

601-391-9822

PUBLIC PHONE

220 BASIN STREET

NEW ORLEANS, LA.

After the short conversation, Angelo clicked off the connection.

"Aw, she's good," proclaimed Milan.

"Yea, she's good. Short and sweet. She knows what that shift-less husband of hers has in store.. I think she thought about it," Angelo replied, then turned to Berkley, "Alright, Johnny, you know

where to go and what to do there. Your ticket will be waiting for you at the airport."

"Ticket for what?" Berkley asked. It was the first word he'd spoken since entering the room. None of Angelo's assistants wanted to scrap with Berkley, even Charlie. They were all too smart to get into it. Besides, it was Angelo's fight, and he didn't need any help."

"To New Orleans, where this call came from. What did you think we were listening to? Why do you think you're here?

"I wasn't listening, and I'm here because Jack there said you wanted me here. But I ain't going to New Orleans. Nothing down there but whores, and you know I don't do whores."

"You aren't going there for whores." Angelo attempted to talk civil and maintain temperament, while being firm. He had a challenge ahead, and he knew it. "You're going there to get this prick, this Angelo enemy number one."

"He's your enemy. You go get him."

"That's why we pay you, Johnny. You're on call when we need you, and now, we need you in New Orleans."

"No thanks. I don't feel like traveling. I work here in this town. I thought you knew that. Let me know if he comes around."

"If you want to be employed here, you'd better get your ass to the airport."

Angelo and Berkley were now in a staring contest, until Berkley broke eye contact and stood up. "Better send your boy Charlie, I'm going home. Let me know if I don't work here anymore." He walked out.

After Berkley was out of ear shot, Angelo said "Pompous prick! God, I ought to just whack him." Small laughter in the room. He turned to Charlie Glenn, who was here because Angelo anticipated this exact scenario, "It's all yours, Charlie. You will go to the airport, won't you?" Heavier laughter, now, led by Angelo himself.

Hold on just a minute." He keyed in a few instructions and various screens passed too quickly to read. Within seconds, Angelo had what he sought and clicked the print button. He handed the printout to Glenn. "That's my man in New Orleans. Call him when you get there. He'll be expecting to hear from you, and he'll have a silent one for you. Make sure it never gets found."

"Yes sir. I know what to do, sir. Thank you." Glenn nodded his head and left the office, driving straight to the Raleigh-Durham Airport. His carry-on bag was already in the trunk. He knew in advance his mission, just not the destination. He still didn't know how long his wait would be at the airport, but waiting was a major part of his job anyway.

CHAPTER 39: TIGHT SQUEEZE

Gordon threw a twenty on the bar and went back to the Gandhi hotel to think. He was so proud of his decision to wear the costume every time he'd gone out. He looked very different than the picture on the news, but knew that movement meant safety. If he stayed here, either the police or Angelo would find him.

He laid on the saggy bed and rubbed his sore eyes. His thoughts ran to Shelly. She said she had just got the life insurance pay-off. She was going to meet him in Nassau. Maybe the news report was wrong. Maybe Shelly had received the check last week. That was possible since he had not spoken to her in a week. Why would she lie, he wondered: it would be more reasonable to just avoid the phone call.

The alcohol buzz had dulled his thought patterns, but something was bugging him. While he should be euphoric, he wasn't. Something in the conversation with Shelly just didn't seem right. The news report could be wrong, but that was rare. If the check had been sent and cashed, wouldn't the insurance company have tried to get it back by now? He started to really doubt that she'd been paid. He needed to know.

He picked up the phone book and turned to Gulf States Insurance in the business pages, and was surprised to see they had a half a page of numbers, then he again remembered that they were domiciled in Louisiana. He quickly dialed the claims number, and got Jay Morgan, policy rep, who pronounced his name as Mau-gun.

"Mr. Mau-gun, I'm a relative. Let me start over. We've had a death in the family and I want to check the status of a policy on the deceased, my brother, David Gordon. G-O-R-D-O-N. you would pronounce it gau-don. I promised my sister-in-law I'd check for her. She's not up to it, I'm sure you understand."

"Do you have a policy number?"

"Yes I do," and he read it off. He heard Morgan clacking on his computer keyboard.

Morgan saw that there was an indefinite hold placed on the proceeds, which meant the company had strong reason to investigate the claim. But he wouldn't have said that for a month's salary.

"It's still pending."

"What does that mean?" Gordon asked, already sure, but wanting verification anyway.

"It means the company is in process of paying the claim, but no funds have been released at this time," Morgan said softly.

"Are you certain? Are you sure a check hasn't been sent?"

"I'm positive. We are still investigating. But it shouldn't be long."

"Yea, I've heard that."

Gordon hung up, set his alarm clock for five o'clock, and fell asleep, refusing to think about Shelly or his next move right now. He was tired and drunk, and needed to clear his mind.

****

Charlie Glenn's US Air flight landed in New Orleans just before four o'clock. He called Bondurant, Angelo's man in New Orleans, and explained his situation. Bondurant gave him an address and Glenn hopped in a waiting taxi.

Bondurant was already filled in on the details and made quick work of Glenn, who found him totally humorless. He gave Glenn a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum with a silencer and an old car with stolen tags.

Glenn got to the French Quarters and found the address of the pay phone and started checking hotels in the area. On his third try, he got a positive from the Gordon photograph. Mr. Patel confirmed that a man who looked like the photo was staying there in his hotel, The Cagey Cajun, but had longer hair, a mustache and wore glasses. He remembered that the mustache was fake, but held that information to himself for the time being.

"What's his room number?"

"I'm not alloyed to say," said Patel in a heavy Indian accent.

"Do you know if he's in his room now."

"I can call if you'd like, and you can ask him his room number."

"I'd rather surprise him. I'm an old buddy. He told me he was down here, in this area, but I forgot the name of the motel. He gave me his room number too, but I can't remember that either."

Patel smiled, "Sounds like you got a short memory."

"Yes, well, I probably need to see a doctor for some medication, but help me out a little please."

"Can't do that, sir. Should I call him for you?"

Glenn pulled out the Magnum and held it to Patel, who held his hands in the air. To him, the gun started out as a Magnum, became a cannon, then turned into a bazooka. Glenn jumped over the counter with one quick spring and jammed the barrel into Patel's juggler. "Which room?"

"One fifty-four, straight across," he pointed. "On the end."

"That's right, of course, The Cagey Cajun, room one fifty-four, now I remember."

Patel felt relieved momentarily when Glenn took the gun from his throat, but the pistol butt then slammed into his skull and he dropped straight to the linoleum.

After making certain Patel was out, Glenn went to the car for rope. He sat the limp Patel in a chair, tied his hands and gagged him with a towel, all while Patel slept like a baby. Then he drove the old car across the lot to Gordon's room. He knocked on the door, fully expecting Gordon to open the door.

At the very instance Glenn was walking out the front door, Gordon was walking in the back door of the same office. He'd paid rent till the end of the week, and was going there to ask for the residual, fully prepared for an argument from the tight-wad Indian.

He saw the innkeeper slumped and tied to the chair and instinctively squatted behind the counter. After quickly scanning all directions and seeing nobody else, he sidled over and shook Patel but got no reaction, then splashed Patel with a cup of cold water and Patel roused with alarm. Once untied, he immediately went to a drawer and withdrew a Colt thirty-eight and went out the front door. His vision wasn't clear, but he saw Glenn at Gordon's door and he fired until the hammer hit empty chambers, but he missed miserably.

"Damn Gandhi," Gordon exclaimed. Glenn jumped in the car and burned rubber out the parking lot.

"Goddamn son of a bitch. Goddamn asshole," Patel screamed.

"That's the first time I've ever heard a Muslim curse," Gordon mused.

"I'm cursing your God, not Allah. What did you do to him? He's here for you." Patel went inside and called Police.

Gordon shook his head and felt like he'd heard a 'ba-dink-a-dink-a-dink,' like Fred Flintstone did when he'd just heard something alarming. He hurried to his room and grabbed the duffel bag that held his cash, gun, burgle kit and the like, and exited through the alley behind the hotel, knowing he'd been just in time. Any earlier he'd have been killed, any later he'd have been boffed. He was two blocks away when police arrived at the Cagey Cajun, and hailed a cab from there. It would be the third time in two months that he'd have to buy new clothes.

That night, Gordon bought a 1995 Taurus wagon. It was conservative, exactly what he needed to draw no attention to himself. He stole plates from a similar Taurus at Crescent City Mall and pointed this Taurus towards North Carolina. His mission was to prove another native North Carolinian wrong - Thomas Wolfe.

CHAPTER 40: BERKLEY'S WAY

Johnny Berkley was getting tired of Dawn's constant begging for money and crack cocaine. "Just one hit, just one, PA-LEEESE." He wanted a break from her nagging, and he needed something different, so he yelled at her, "Shut-up, Bitch!" and slammed the door behind himself.

He needed somebody different. A whore, sure, but not a prostitute. He didn't do hookers. Too dangerous, then too regimented, everything having to be done her way. They didn't like sex anyway; they just wanted to get paid. His destination – the club scene.

It was Saturday night, so he went to the Heartbreak Cafe. The place was huge, in a metal pre-fab building sitting alone in the middle of a vast parking lot. It was ten thirty and the parking lot was jammed. Perfect timing, Berkley thought.

Inside, he found The Heartbreak was actually two clubs in one. The front, smaller room played country music. The Isle went from the door straight back to the larger room, but on the right was an elevated country dance floor. The Soggy Bottom Boy's I Am A Man of Constant Sorrow was screaming through the speakers and a group of about twenty, mostly women, were line dancing, which he considered stupid; like dancing with yourself. He noticed a beauty with short dark hair, large breasts and a very short skirt on the end of the line, and he gazed at her for several long seconds. She didn't look his way, so Berkley decided he'd check out the other club, then maybe he'd scope in on that chick later.

As soon as he walked past the threshold that separated the two rooms, the music changed almost instantly. Amazing, he thought, as loud as the country song was, he couldn't hear it at all even though there was no physical door separating the two rooms. This room was Hip Hop music, but larger, more crowded, and louder. The room had a bar to the left and one at the back. In between was the largest dance floor Berkley had ever seen, and it was jammed. People, mostly college aged, early twenties, were bumping and grinding together in a sweaty ritual of lust. Half of them looked normal: the other half was either dressed in funk-wear or had purple hair. The disc jockey was playing _Brickhouse_.

Berkley went to the nearest bar to his left, and ten minutes later, was at the front of the line. Two bartenders were serving hundreds of thirsty walking hormones, and working very quickly and efficiently between the bar and the cash box. He got a beer and proceeded to circle the room, moving left then right to get around the crowd, mostly stag males, who were watching the dancers, probably waiting for the girl of their dreams to ask them to dance. There were tables and booths on both sides of the dance floor, with an elevated DJ booth behind. As Berkley circled three quarters around the room, he stopped next to a petite girl who didn't look over sixteen, with small legs and small breasts but a face that was absolutely stunning. He thought about starting a conversation with her, but figured she's probably too naïve to understand a conversation, and the music was too loud to talk anyway. So, for kicks and giggles he leaned to within a foot of her ear and said, "Tickle your ass with a feather?"

"Pardon me?" she asked, uncertain what she'd heard.

Berkley leaned even closer and yelled, "I said sure is delightful weather," then he smiled largely.

The girl knew not how to respond, so she said something that Berkley really couldn't hear, but the best he could read her lips, was something about a boyfriend.

"Ah, don't worry about him, we'll just hit him in the head with a stick."

He didn't know if she'd heard him, but she quickly walked away, like a high school virgin running to mama. Berkley just laughed, and went back to the bar for another beer. He felt good. Even though he wasn't interested in dancing, Berkley felt he was at the right place.

He had a rugged look many women craved, and he knew it. He looked naturally tough, wild and cool, and he knew how to talk to women.

Not that he felt he understood women, or wanted to, but he knew how to talk to them; understood plenty to get laid. One of his favorite tactics was to ask her out to dinner next weekend.

That somehow made her feel relaxed, like he wasn't trying to get her in his bed immediately. Certainly he knew how to ask for a date. He knew women liked to be complimented, they liked to talk, and they had to eat. Of course, he didn't like to be rejected any more than the next guy, so he'd just say, "I'd like to take you to dinner at the Oyster Bar." Then listen. He didn't even ask for a date, he simply had made a statement. That was the Berkley way.

He couldn't stand the panzie way most guys asked for a date, with a series of questions. "Where does your husband work?" If the response was the obviously sought after one, then, he couldn't assume she wasn't dating. Thus, it had to be followed by another stupid question, "Well, are you seeing anybody?" Now, if she answers "No," he's in an awkward position. He's got to ask another question – for the date. If she says "No," his ego just took an incredible hit. Might have to pull a .45 on himself. So lame. Stupid.

Didn't your husband come out with you?

I'm not married.

Are you seeing anyone?

No.

Would you go out with me sometime?

No.

BANG!

He had also figured out that while most women liked to tell about themselves, they weren't seeking advice. They just wanted someone to listen. So, he did that.

A few minutes later, he spotted a pretty red head sitting alone at a table near the dance floor. He looked at her, and sure thing, she looked back. Their eyes met for several seconds, and both smiled. He walked over. Her name was Stephanie, and she was brand new to Raleigh, in her first week as a telemarketer at the MCI Call Center. She didn't have an apartment yet, and was staying at the Ramada Extended Stay Hotel. The waitress came by, and Berkley ordered a beer for himself and a White Russian for Stephanie.

She talked about her job and the fabulous new MCI facility in town. Berkley smiled and listened intently, acting like he actually gave a rat's ass, and asked questions so she'd know he was listening. She was giggly and seemed to be enjoying herself and Berkley's company. He had to sit close to be able to hear, and halfway through their drinks, they were holding hands. Then they were kissing, lightly at first, then more passionately. When their drinks were finished they decided to leave together.

Stephanie was flabbergasted by Berkley's jet black BMW and they drove straight to her hotel. He had a bottle of Stolichnova Vodka in the trunk, so he got two Cokes from the vending machine they passed on the way to her room.

Her room was no frills, one queen sized bed with standard hotel cheap sofa, table and a cushioned chair. They mixed vodka and Coke with no ice in plastic hotel cups and were undressed before they finished the first round.

They kissed and touched for maybe two minutes before Stephanie went down. She took him deep and Berkley was full size within seconds, and could only stand this for a few minutes. He grabbed her hair gently and signaled her up, with no words of endearment. Stephanie knew what he wanted, and she kissed his mouth firmly as she slid over his penis. She rode him hard, too hard, and Berkley grabbed her thighs and held her hips down in an attempt to slow her. She stopped, but it was too late. Realizing too late that he could not stop the erupting volcano, Berkley grabbed her buns and jack-hammered her, then squealed. The sudden stop had halted Stephanie's momentum toward climax so she now tried to get an orgasm by bouncing harder, but to no avail.

Berkley's climax nearly exhausted him. He rolled over to catch his breath. He lay on his stomach and wrapped his arms around the fluffy pillow. He could hear Stephanie tinkling through the open doorway.

Berkley was surprised when Stephanie returned with a big smile and fixed another vodka. She was feeling the effects of the vodka and had enough experience to realize that some guys needed a preliminary fuck to do it right the second time, and she was back for round two.

"So, how was that, Johnny?"

"That was great, sweetheart. You're really hot."

"Yeah? Well, you ain't seen nothing yet, big boy," she said as she straddled his back.

Berkley could feel her wet fur on the small of his back, and as erotic as that was, he wasn't interested anymore. "What are you, a nympho-maniac? I'm too tired right now, let's fuck in the

morning."

"Oh, no. You don't get off that easy," she said with a short laugh. "I'm going to take my beamer man and whip him into shape, right now." She poked him in the side and he flinched slightly,

tightening his muscles. Then she started jabbing him harder, laughing garrulously as he flopped all over the bed while she tickled him.

He became petulant. "Hey, stop it, you bitch." I've been working all day and I'm tired, I told you. Let's sleep now and have sex in the morning, OK?"

Steph picked up her drink and downed the remaining swallows. "Ah, come on, you got your rocks off and I didn't. Why don't you do me right." After she got no response for several seconds, she continued, "I thought you were a real man, but I guess not: you're just a wimp and a selfish bastard."

The tirade only proved to exacerbate Berkley. His eye muscles flinched as he flew into a rage. "You stupid fucking whore," Berkley screamed as he swung his elbow into her face, striking her square on the nose. One spurt of blood shot out her nose. "You don't know when to stop, you stupid cunt."

Stephanie tried to turn away from him, but he was too fast. He grabbed her hair and pulled her down hard on the bed. Then he put his left hand on her throat and squeezed hard. She tried to get away, but he was too strong. She gurgled and flailed her arms in a panic, but he was immovable. She had no chance, and within seconds, stopped struggling as her world went dark. Berkley held his grip for a full minute, until her face turned red and her eyeballs started to bulge. But he was still mad. He called her every tramp-whore-trollop name he could think of. Then he kicked her onto the floor, turned off the bedside lamp, pulled the blanket over his shoulders, and went to sleep.

.

CHAPTER 41: HIS OTHER WAY

Dawn Zeigler had been living with Johnny Berkley for four months now. She was close to her limits of abuse, name calling and general presumptions. Lately, she'd greatly considered leaving the bastard, but where would she go? Her old friends were mad at her. She'd abandoned them. They didn't understand when she tried to explain how jealous her boyfriend was, and she couldn't go back to data entry at the bank. After living this life, she couldn't go back to something that mundane.

Dawn wasn't tired of asking him for money or crack. It just never worked. It had to be his idea. The anticipation of waiting for him to get home, sometimes for hours, was killing her. Waiting for the rock. The all consuming rock. Nothing else interested her anymore.

So, she started hooking for her own crack money. For Dawn, at first, hooking was an anomaly, as alien as jumping from a roof-top, but she became friends with a prostitute living in the apartment

building who taught her the ropes and got her started. Taught her how to scrutinize a prospective John who may be dangerous or a cop.

She knew Berkley couldn't find out. It would create an unconquerable irascibility: in short - he'd kill her. He sometimes told her he loved her, but always followed it up with, "But, if you ever leave me, I'll kill you." What a charmer he was. Sweet.

This time he'd been gone for two days without informing her he wouldn't be home. What else was she supposed to do? Johnny was a real control freak who wouldn't allow her to work. In her mind, she wasn't culpable. She was surviving. He hadn't left her any money, yet he expected her to stay home alone and wait for him.

So, rather than sit around on her ass all day, she decided to sell some and keep it all too.

****

Berkley woke up with wood, and wished he hadn't killed Stephanie. He considered screwing her anyway, but noticed her bowels had let loose during the night, which turned his wood to pith. He dressed and wiped off the plastic cups, vodka bottle and anything else that may contain his prints. Then he wrapped her in the shower curtain, and felt fortunate to get her to the car without being seen. He disposed of her body in the same field with Trevor Teague's, and got home mid-afternoon looking for some action from Dawn. It distressed him that she wasn't home. He started cursing and slapping tables, like a gorilla hitting his chest. He didn't break things that he owned, he just slammed his fist harmlessly into things to impress the impressionable. He was tired from the day's work and wanted his due sex before his due high. It didn't work in reverse because crack cocaine made his penis shrink like a prune.

Then he remembered some smoke he'd stashed last week, for a rainy day like today. It was in the peg compartment of an old cribbage score board, in a box of his personal things. Dawn knew better than looking through his stuff, and besides, she'd have no idea what a cribbage board was.

It wasn't there because he had taken it out the day after stashing it, but at the time was too high and drunk to be cognizant of his actions.

"Fuck," Berkley articulated. "Fucking Whore, I'll kill her."

He searched through some places he'd kept contraband, but all was empty. He punched a vase containing one of Dawn's potted plants, and watched it crash against the wall, dirt flying everywhere. "Goddamn. Goddamn slut. Fucking whore. Where the fuck are you?" It was very articulate, witty stuff.

He checked her closet and noticed all her clothes were still there, and he wondered where she might go with no car. There was Sawyer's Creek Shopping Center up the street, maybe she'd gone there, he imagined. He grabbed his leather jacket, and slammed the door shut behind him and squalled rubber all through the parking lot. By the time he reached the entrance to the Boulevard, he was still too pissed to check oncoming traffic. "Fuck 'em," he thought, tires ripping and motor roaring.

He drove like a madman through the parking lot of the shopping center, having once to slam on the brakes to keep from splattering an elderly lady pushing a shopping cart in front of the Food Lion, cursing while sitting on the horn, screaming and flailing his arms. The old woman just stood there, not knowing what to think of the spectacle.

Berkley drove up Capital Boulevard, then turned east on Durham Avenue. This is crazy, he thought. She could be anywhere. Fuck her, he decided. I'll deal with her later. I'm going to get some smoke right now.

Then, he saw her. Up the street, up on the left, waving at a car, and drove past to be sure it was Dawn. He couldn't believe it. She was wearing a tight red dress she'd worn one night when they'd gone to a meat market dance club, and was getting into a Ford pick-up truck. Berkley made an illegal U-turn and came to a screeching halt behind the truck, jumped out and grabbed Dawn's arm, pulling her down to the curb. "Get the fuck out of here," Berkley screamed at the whore-hopper driving the truck.

The truck laid rubber and Berkley demanded of Dawn, "Get the fuck in the car." She did. The sports car fish-tailed as Berkley let off the clutch, the look of the devil in his eyes. He didn't know which offense to start with, so he said nothing until he got her inside the apartment less than two minutes later.

Berkley had her tightly by the wrist as he pushed the door open. Before the door had slammed shut, his backhand had slammed into her jaw. Dawn crashed to the floor flat on her side, bumping her head on the TV stand. "You fucking whore, you stupid piece of shit, what are you doing, bitch?"

Dawn raised up, tears in her eyes, and started to speak but Berkley hit her with the other backhand. She rolled on the floor, holding her face. She rubbed her lip and looked at blood on her hand. Berkley grabbed her dress at the back of the neck and ripped it half way down the back. She didn't try to lie her way out. "I'm sorry Johnny, I didn't know..."

She'd wanted to explain about not knowing when or if he was coming back, but she didn't get a chance. Berkley had both hands around her throat choking. She gagged and coughed his hands away.

"Shut up! I'll give you something to gag over," Berkley said, unfastening his belt and pants. "Open your mouth, whore. I'll give you something to choke on. And you better not bite it." He had one hand on her throat and the other behind her head. She gagged and threw up on him, but there was no food in her stomach, just bile, which came up thick and nasty.

Berkley ripped her panties off and reamed her there on the living room floor. He knew how to treat a woman.

When he was satisfied, he pulled out his McIver knife and proceeded to cut up all her nice clothes. He also knew how to keep HIS woman at home.

CHAPTER 42: SURPRISE, SURPRISE TO YOU

Gordon left Nu'olans before midnight. Twelve hours later, he checked into a Red Roof Inn near Greenville, SC. Watching the sun rise would have been refreshing, except that he'd seen it too many times on sleepless nights during the past two months. His plan was to get home around three in the morning, surprise Shelly, and quickly adjudicate the issue. The more he thought about it, the less he believed her story, and the more agitated he became over her lies. He couldn't be certain of her intentions, but was pretty sure he wouldn't like it.

He got burgers and fries at a Wendy's and thoroughly enjoyed them, not realizing how hungry he was. The only sensation he'd felt had been exhaustion from the long drive. The food made him sleepier, and he tried to force himself off the bed to brush his teeth before dozing off but failed. More a betrayal than a failure; he'd been looking forward to the feeling of the cool sheets against his bare skin.

Around eight o'clock he awakened hungry but refreshed, and devoured a rib-eye with a couple draft beers at a nearby Darryl's Restaurant. At eleven that night he hit I-85 for the last leg of the journey, and drove non-stop to what he still somehow considered his home.

Well past midnight, when he reached Burlington, North Carolina, it started raining, then Gordon noticed during the last hour of the trip that he was constantly turning the heater up. A cold front had swept in and Gordon forced himself to slow down. His adrenaline was flowing faster the closer he got to home.

Around two-thirty, he arrived at the entrance of his long driveway and immediately pulled over and shut off the lights. He ripped off the disguise. He wanted to be certain she knew who he was. From here he'd walk the two hundred yards to the house to avoid alerting Shelly of his arrival. He put on his leather jacket and put the .38 in the side pocket, grabbed his well-traveled duffel bag and exited the car, being careful to shut the door very quietly. The ground was wet, not frozen, but the pine needles appeared to be surrounded by thin shimmering glass.

He heard a dog barking in the cold distance as he walked cautiously up the gravel drive which was flanked on both sides by a thick jungle of trees. He couldn't even see the house until he rounded a curve and a small crest in the drive.

He went to the garage door and attempted to insert the key in the lock, but it wouldn't fit. He wasn't surprised, yet nonetheless let a whispered curse brush his lips. No luck on the front door either. She'd changed the locks, as he'd expected. He was luckier when he tried the enclosed screen porch; she'd left the screen door unlocked, but his fortune changed back when he tried the door to the house. He was prepared, however, and in the total darkness, he reached into the bag and retrieved his burgle kit. The porch had double glass sliding doors, and the kit would get him inside with a minimal of noise. It had a rubber suction cup about four inches in diameter, which Gordon spit into and rubbed an even coat of saliva, which would provide moisture to secure the cup to the glass pane. Protruding from the middle back of the cup was a three inch wooden knob to hold, thus preventing the glass cut out from falling into the house. At the base of the knob was a spinning metal rod with a diamond tip, that extended a half inch beyond the cup to create a circle one inch greater than the circumference of the cup.

When the cut was complete, the cut out section remained stuck to the suction cup and he pulled it free, reached in, and unlocked the doors. Inside the house, he moved deliberately up the carpeted steps. At the top, he turned left and his step made a creak of the floor joists, so he paused momentarily to listen. His heart was pounding, but hearing nothing else, he proceeded toward his bedroom in the dim light cast from the bathroom night light. The bedroom door was cracked open. Gordon reached in his pocket and retrieved the shooter, then flipped the light switch.

It took a couple seconds for his eyes to adjust, and when Shelly popped her head up, it startled him so much that he nearly pulled the trigger. Then he noticed there were two heads popping up, and he nearly pulled the trigger intentionally. It took Gordon several seconds to realize who the sleeping partner was.

"David?" Shelly asked in a squint.

"Yea. Hello Sweetheart. And who's this? My old friend, Alex Harbison. What you doing, Alex, fucking my wife?"

"Back from the dead, David?" Alex said.

"Well, what the fuck you doing here, asshole?" David whined.

"Hey, I thought you were dead, so we just" ... he didn't need to finish the thought.

"Just thought you'd move right in, huh? Be fuck buddies with my wife, huh?"

Harbison shrugged. He wanted to curse him for being way too low for Shelly, but David had the drop on him.

Gordon held out the gun, and for effect pulled back the hammer until it clicked in ready. "Alright, both of you, get up, get up slow." Alex and Shelly got up, both totally nude.

"Alright, I want both of you to walk very slowly, down to the kitchen."

Shelly grabbed for her nightgown from the chair near the corner and Gordon chided her, "Aannt! Did I say put clothes on?"

"But, David, it's too cold."

Gordon again pulled back the hammer and this time put it to Shelly's head. "I said no."

Shelly removed the robe and laid it on the bed. He marched them down to the kitchen. It was cold and Alex told him so.

"Yea? But it was nice and cozy in my bed, wasn't it. How's my wife?"

Alex didn't reply, just glared.

"Now you got to pay the price, pal. I tell you, if I had a silencer, I'd just shoot you, Harbison. But, lucky for you, I don't have one and can't afford the noise. Sit down in the chairs there, both of you."

They did, and Gordon went towards the utility room near the garage door, being careful not to take his eyes off them more than a split second. He shifted his gaze from them to the shelf above the washer-dryer, and back, until he spotted the rope he sought. He grabbed the sturdy thick nylon rope from the shelf and tossed it to Shelly. "OK, lover girl, tie him up. Tie his hands behind the chair and tie them good."

Shelly obeyed, but left the ropes very loose. Gordon knew she would, so he moved her across the table where she was in line of sight and he could put down the gun to tie him right, then tied the chair to a table leg to render it impossible for Alex to reach the phone, then put duct tape around Alex's mouth. He continued wrapping around his head, neck and torso, taping Alex to the high-back chair. Satisfied Alex wasn't going anywhere, he led Shelly back upstairs.

He pushed her hard past the threshold of the bedroom, but Shelly caught her balance and turned on him, "What are you ..." The back of David's pudgy right hand caught her square in the mouth, and she dropped like cut timber. She blacked out momentarily, got to her knees, and saw blood on the hardwood floor. She rubbed her lip and teeth, which fortunately were not chipped. When she looked at David, he had his pants off and was laying them in the chair with a tinkling of the belt buckle. "No, David, I don't want to. You hurt me."

"Shut up Shelly," Gordon barked, grabbing her tightly by the throat and shoving her onto the bed. He put the gun to her head, "I should kill you for being an unfaithful wife. But maybe I won't. If you just do as you're told, if you act like a sweet little church lady and obey your husband." He was sitting on top of her with his knees spread, holding her wrists with the gun still in one hand. He bent down face to face with her and she could smell the acrid breath of a man who'd been on a safari and neglecting routine hygiene.

Shelly tasted blood filling her mouth, and spit in his face. Gordon banged the gun butt hard against her head, and a welt quickly rose to mark the spot. That quickly changed her attitude and she resorted to begging. "Please, David. Please don't."

But he did. "You don't want your husband anymore, huh? You'd rather fuck my friend Alex, would you? You already had enough dick tonight?"

They were both silent for the next few minutes, with only the squeak of bed springs and a few manly groans breaking the hush.

When he finished, Gordon got dressed and jerked Shelly off the bed. "Get dressed, and pack some clothes. Hurry, we ain't got all day." He sat in the chair and watched her every move.

"Where's the money, Shelly?"

"It's in the bank."

"Be sure to get the checkbook."

"It's in my purse."

Then they went downstairs. Gordon checked on Alex, whom he could tell from the stretched tape had been struggling, but had finally succumbed to the reality of helplessness.

"Well Alex, Fuck ya later." It was a worn out cliché, but appropriate, Gordon thought.

CHAPTER 43: OTHER ACCOMODATIONS

Gordon retrieved his trusty duffel bag from the porch and they left through the garage door. Gordon wanted to take a legal car rather than the Taurus with the stolen tags, and he was impressed with the sparkling new Jaguar parked there. "Wow, Alex drives a Jag?"

Shelly didn't answer, just shrugged and rubbed her swollen lip.

Gordon pressed the automatic door button and the door rolled up. Before the car was fully out of the garage, they were shocked by a voice from behind them, "Stop right there. Don't look back, just stop or I'll shoot you dead as shit." Gordon slammed on the brakes.

"Who are you?" Gordon heard steps approaching and slowly turned towards it to see a man in black leather pointing a pistol at him.

Johnny Berkley had been sent by Angelo to keep watch all night, after hearing of Glenn's failed attempt to capture Gordon. But Berkley had fallen asleep in the bushes and nearly slept through the whole commotion. He awoke quickly to the activation of the garage door. Angelo had a feeling Gordon might show up early, and he took no chances. Berkley had characteristically argued, but now saw Angelo's wisdom. It was the last pleasant sensation he ever felt.

"What did I just say?" Berkley asked in a high pitch voice one might use with a disobedient child. "Get out of the fucking car, Gordon."

Gordon did so, slowly, with his right hand in his jacket pocket. Facing Berkley, he squeezed the trigger and fire tore a hole through leather and hit Berkley in the middle of the stomach. Berkley's feet left the ground and his body landed flat on his back three feet away from his last footprints. His gun landed several feet away and he groped for it. Gordon pointed and yanked the trigger. The .38 bucked and Berkley fell still, a large hole in the right side of his head.

Gordon kicked Berkley's gun forty yards away and jumped back into the Jag.

He wondered why he was so nervous, but he was more excited now than he'd been with the gun to his head. He pushed down the accelerator, not realizing the power in front of him under this hood. The tires slung gravel as it propelled backwards and the car rose as it went over Berkley's carcass. With adrenaline flowing through his veins, Gordon shifted into drive too quickly and they were jerked backwards. Then the tires made traction with gravel and the Jag fish-tailed ninety degrees right before straightening out. Gordon thought about what he'd just done. Berkley was the first person he'd ever killed. Then he remembered Bobby Pheiffer. He wondered if making Alex number three would be the smart thing to do, but he felt hurried to get the hell out of there.

Gordon got control of his emotions and the Jaguar, knowing he could not be speeding now. Five minutes later, he turned southwest on the inner beltline, then turned south onto Highway One.

"Where are we going?" Shelly asked.

"To the old Houtz place at the lake."

"Why are we going there?"

"Why?" Gordon mocked. "Why don't you shut up so I can think. We're going there to hang out. He's got everything we need. Heat, lights, no phone and no neighbors."

"Who was that guy you shot back there?"

"That was Johnny Berkley. Works for Angelo, among others. Just some ignorant redneck, really. Hired gun. That's all he is, or was. Nobody'll miss him. World's better off without him. I'm a hero."

They drove in relative silence. As they approached the lake, Gordon suddenly laughed at a thought he had. "Listen to this, This shack we're going to is the old Jim Houtz place, next door to Goball's house. Goball got the listing while we were together, but that hapless limp dick couldn't sell it. Not two weeks later I sold it. Did it just to spite him. Took half his commission. I made an extra key. The Yankees that bought it live in Florida in the winter, so they won't be there. Ain't that a hoot?"

"Yea, it's a real hoot, David. Why did you make a key?"

"In case I needed it. Case I needed a place to keep a cheating wife on a cold night."

"Did you make keys to all the properties you sold? That's real reputable you know."

He looked at her, but could think of nothing better than "Just shut up."

They drove right next to the two room lake cabin with grey lap siding, a screened in front porch, concrete floor, tin roof, roll out windows and two pull out couches in the big room. A table had games stacked on it. Monopoly, Risk, Trivial Pursuit, and several others. There was no TV. There was a very small bathroom but no shower, and a kitchen with stove, refrigerator and microwave oven. The ceiling was open and life-jackets, fishing poles and float noodles hung from the rafters.

They fired up the propane heater, which was about two feet square and the cabin was comfortable within minutes.

"Tomorrow morning, we'll go to the bank, get the money. How much is there, anyway?"

"I don't know, it's in a safety deposit box." She planned to have him nailed at the bank. If that plan failed, she dreaded explaining to David that there was no deposit box. After giving Angelo the fifty thousand, there was barely fifty grand remaining. She wondered if she'd survive.

"Better be a bundle. Tomorrow, you can explain to me why you lied about the insurance money. I'm too tired to talk about it tonight.

Gordon was exhausted. He found blankets and sheets and pillows in the closet, and instructed Shelly to pull out and make both beds. Gordon watched as she did, and the nostalgia nearly attacked, but he fought it off by remembering that she had lied to him about her intentions. She'd stolen from him, fucked around on him and had probably conspired to have him killed. Still, even with smeared, left over make-up and a swollen lip, she was extremely attractive. He'd done well to get her, and mad as he was at her, he realized it was he who'd spoiled it all. He was the one who'd screwed up and become greedy. He had to admit that. So he watched.

When she was finished, Gordon ordered her to the bathroom. "I'm really tired and I don't want you to wake me up later having to pee."

She obeyed. While she was in there, Gordon consulted his duffel bag and pulled out a thirty-five millimeter stud-link chain fifteen feet long and two padlocks. He draped one end around an overhead rafter and locked it. When Shelly returned, he wrapped the other end around her ankle and locked it also. He hung both keys to a nail on the other side of the room as a tease.

When she was in bed, he switched off the light and waited for her complaints, but none were forthcoming. She laid down, already trying to think up a solution. She had no weapon and no

Phone, thus was pretty much at his command, as much as she hated to admit it. Still, she knew he wanted her to beg and complain, and she was determined not to give him that satisfaction.

In a few minutes they were both asleep.

CHAPTER 44:A WEIRD, WILD SCENE

Zeus, the Tevepaugh's chocolate lab was indeed a good dog. He rarely if ever left the two and a half acre Tevepaugh spread, and he seemed to know the boundaries. He loved all people; people meant 'play fetch.' Zeus was friendly with other dogs off his land, but on his property he only tolerated a few neighborhood dogs he ran with. Cats were strictly forbidden and always chased off or killed. Zeus had no place for a cat, or any other small animal.

For fun he would often hunt rodents. He'd ferret them out and once in the open, pounce on them, stunning them with his large paws then pick them up in his mouth and throw them up in the air, then start over again. It is one of the endearing qualities of dogs. Sure, if you lock them away with nothing, they quickly get bored. But just a little something makes them happy, and they have the patience of molasses. Like watching a resting, doomed rodent. They'd play dead, and Zeus would watch them. When rested up enough to get his courage back, he'd get up and try to scamper off. Zeus would pounce and start the game all over again until the underdog was too tapped out to continue.

Today he'd caught a gopher; a chubby, healthy specimen. He'd laid it behind the Tevepaugh's extra vehicle, a Toyota pick-up, and laid down beside it. The gopher had died with his eyes and mouth open, exposing his four incisors. The neighbor's shepherd dog, Jake, came by to say hello, and sniffed at Zeus's gopher. Zeus growled, saying 'don't even think about it. Admire, but don't touch.'

The gopher was for Steve, and Zeus was in it for the long haul. No matter how long it took for Steve to get home, Zeus would be right here, along side Steve's gopher. Occasionally he would move the rodent to a new spot, then lay down beside him to nap.

Steve Tevepaugh got to his two story colonial style house in northern Wake County just after dark. He parked his Cherokee outside the garage. It had stopped raining but his hair was still dripping. Before going inside he consciously sniffed the fresh after-rain-smell of clean air. It wasn't as noticeable as after a summer storm, but he could smell the cleansing.

Zeus met him half way to the door, ebullient to see his master. He jumped around beside him, careful not to rub against him, being the good dog that he was. Teve petted his wet head and throat, "Good dog. Yes, Zeus is a good dog, a great dog."

Wag, wag, lick, lick.

Teve turned toward the door and Zeus barked. He ran to Steve's left and came back and barked again, then ran to the Toyota, looked at Teve and barked again. Teve walked over to the truck and Zeus picked up the gopher and looked at his master with his drooping brown eyes.

"What did you get me? Oh, wow, you caught me a gopher, didn't you."

Zeus thumped his tail against the truck as Steve put his hand out. Zeus dropped it in his hand, and waited for his reward.

"Good boy. You're the bestest dog there is, bestest there ever was, yes sirree, the finest chocolate dog there ever was." He turned and went into the garage, placing the rodent on a high shelf, hoping he wouldn't forget to dispose of it tomorrow. Zeus watched him walk away, proud to be of service to his master by providing dinner.

He kissed his wife Penelope and went straight to the shower.

The next morning the weather was clear, warm and damp. Unseasonably warm, but one never knows about winter weather in the mid-southeast. For Tevepaugh, it was a special treat to have his coffee on the screen porch, listening to the morning bird chatter. The kids were already gone to school and Penelope was sitting beside him reading the paper. Teve was dreading his day up in the tree behind the Ian Marshall place. It was after eight o'clock and he really should be getting over there, but he was procrastinating. He noticed that he'd had more motivation to delay work in the past few months than any time in his working career. It was a bad feeling and he wondered how much his family had noticed. He decided on one more cup of coffee before he left his beloved home life.

He slid open the glass double doors, picked up his and Penny's cups and went inside, leaving the door open. While pouring the second cup the phone rang and he answered it on the kitchen phone.

"Hello?"

"Steve, this is Narley Cashman. Good morning."

"Well good morning Narley, how are ya?" Cashman was an executive with Gulf States Insurance Company and Teve knew he was calling from New Orleans for a progress report on the Ian Marshall case. "I don't have anything for you yet, but I'm still working on it."

"What? Marshall?"

"Right."

"Well, let that rest a while. No hurry on that. That's not why I'm calling. Something else has come up in your neck and I need your help on it. Actually I need your full attention on it

immediately."

"Yea, what is it?"

"David Gordon."

"Oh yea, I've read all about it. I even know the guy. I've met him a couple times. I didn't know you insured him though."

"Yes. He's slick. Resourceful. Must have some good disguises. Since he got caught driving drunk in Texas and weaseled out of that, nobody's seen him."

"How did he get out of that?"

"He used a fake ID from a good paper-maker. Had a Social Security Number, credit cards, the works. As a first offender, the cops in Texas assumed before they got the print report. Amateurs. They're very embarrassed. Then Gordon was gone. No sign."

"What you got that might help me?"

"I don't know." Teve heard Cashman sigh through the receiver. "Maybe you can find out something somehow. You figure it out. I'm stumped."

"Yea, I'll start with the wife. I can't help but feel she's in it up to her ears. I've never met her, and that might help me. Maybe I can get in with her somehow."

Penny, who had come in to get her own coffee, craned her neck and glared at him with saucer sized eyes. "I don't like the sound of that."

Tevepaugh laughed at her joke and promised Cashman a quick progress report later today, then disconnected.

"Great! That's excellent!" Teve shook his fist in the air to emphasize his new motivation.

"What?" Penny asked.

"I don't have to go climb the tree today. I'm going to snoop in an entirely different method today."

"What's up?"

"You know the story of David Gordon blowing himself up, then he's found alive in Texas?"

"Yea, I've heard all about that. You get to work on that?"

"Yes!" Teve screamed. "Yes!" He hissed it for emphasis this time, rolling his fists and shuffling his feet like a slow train.

He rubbed his rough beard. "Only, I got to figure out a plan. I'm going to talk with his wife first, but I don't know what my racket will be, my guise with her."

Penelope put her arms around his shoulders, going inside his housecoat and said, "You could say you are a doctor and you heard he was sick."

Teve thought momentarily about that idea and looked her straight in the eyes. "I don't know where he is but I know he's sick? What am I, psychic?"

"Yea, that's it. You're a psychic doctor. Good idea, isn't it."

"Brilliant," he said, wrapping his arms tightly around her

waist and kissing her. "But you can do better."

Letting her go he said, "I got to get upstairs and shower and shave."

In the shower Tevepaugh decided to go in as a defense attorney chasing an ambulance, and tell Mrs. Gordon ( he didn't know her first name ) that he knew all the details and knew she was involved, and would need defense representation. They were complicated; the answers to the questions that would likely arise if the scheme worked. The plan was somewhat superfluous; nonetheless, it might work if he could act the part. Surely she'd want to know what an attorney thought he knew, and what the police think. He'd come off a little desperate for a big time case, yet aggressive. She wouldn't want to hire him, but then, that was good too.

Out of the shower and drying his hair, Teve wondered if he'd washed it. He couldn't remember, he'd gotten so wrapped up in his conniving.

He dressed in a gray Henry Grethel suit, the best he owned, figuring even a rash defense lawyer wore fine threads. He kissed Penny and promised to be careful. In the Cherokee he checked the clip of his Browning Mark III thirty-eight with molded compos grip and put it in his right side jacket pocket. He knew approximately where Gordon lived, on the Mt. Vernon Church Road, but still had to look at several mailboxes to be sure. He found it and entered the gravel driveway, passed the thicket which effectively blocked traffic's view. Teve was impressed by the size of the house, which was considerably nicer than his own estate. Momentarily, he felt that jealous pang in his belly that always said he needed a change of professions. The electric garage door was wide open, revealing a jumbled mess but no cars. Then he noticed the carcass lying in a patch of dried blood to the left of the driveway ahead, and he slammed on the brakes, crouched down in the seat and pulled out the Browning, instantly thumbing the safety off. He quickly glanced in all directions and saw no movement. He looked harder, more carefully.

The scene had all the signs of a conflict: bullet holes and blood-stains.

Teve opened the car door and crouched behind it outside, his head still but eyes roaming in all directions. No movement. He took three steps and was next to the face down body, gun trained on it as he walked. Then he turned the gun away when he saw the hair matted to a golf ball size hole in the very center of the back of the skull. Shot from the front but lands on his front, Teve wondered. He grabbed the far shoulder with his left hand and rolled the body over. It was stiff, the effects of the rigor-mortis not having yet passed. He checked for movement around the house again, then rolled the guy over and looked at the face, thinking, 'this guy's probably very much like the rest of us, except he's got that extra hole in his head.' He recognized the face,

yet could not immediately place a name to it. Then he knew. Berkley. Johnny Berkley. Johnny "Highlights" Berkley. Teve's first impulse was to praise The Lord. Very disreputable, was the only rep Berkley had, as far as Teve knew. He had no idea who Berkley worked for or what kind of work he did. He only suspected that Berkley was a hired gun. The world was definitely a better place this morning than it had been last night.

Looking in all directions and sensing nothing inordinate, Teve ran into the open garage. He couldn't put the gun down to take them off, but he wished he didn't have on this stupid coat and tie. Tolerance and concentration, he told himself, and went to the door. Now he could hear a noise coming from the other side of the door. He moved closer and tilted his ear towards the door. Yes, there was a racket, sounded like someone jamming a stick on the floor, over and over. Bang-bang-bang. Listening more closely, he could hear a faint squeal. He reached for the door knob and slowly applied pressure to see if it was locked, without making any noise. It was not locked, so he turned it full left and pushed, jumping left of the threshold as the door opened. Teve bobbed his head right and caught a glance of a naked man taped to a chair.

Moving behind the gun, Tevepaugh fanned side to side. Standing next to Alex, Teve asked quietly, "Anyone here?"

Alex shook his head and squealed through the three wraps of duct tape wound tightly around his mouth and head. Teve thought how painful that would be to remove and he didn't envy this poor sap, whoever he was.

"Are you alone?" Teve asked for a confirmation.

Alex bobbed his head like a parakeet, but Tevepaugh searched room to room anyway.

Confident the house was empty, Teve returned to the kitchen, and found a pair of scissors in a drawer with screw drivers, scotch tape, batteries and the like. He cut and slowly pulled the tape back from Alex's mouth.

"David Gordon kidnapped Shelly," burst immediately from Alex's mouth, like it was dying to get out. He gasped for air.

"Who are you and why are you here?"

"I'm Alex Harbison, and I'm an attorney for McClary, McGlothlen, McKnight and Peterson Firm." Alex always liked to throw in that part as if he expected it to raise eyebrows two inches like David Copperfield or something, "And I'm Shelly's boyfriend, I mean she's my girlfriend."

Teve spilled out laughing, "Stop your babbling."

Wild eyed, Alex said, "I could ask you the same question, who are you?"

"You don't look to be in position to ask the questions, Alex, but tell me what happened. Why are you taped up naked?" Teve knew that McClary, McGlothlen, McKnight and Peterson law firm practiced personal injury law. He thought of an exaggerated advertisement for the firm; "If you're hurt, even if your feelings are hurt, you may be entitled to damages. It's coming from an insurance company, anyway." Teve pondered one of society's small problems - lawyers advertising that it is not only legal but prudent to commit insurance fraud. In the background he could almost hear Billy "Crash" Craddock singing "I Can Help".

"Yea, will you get me a glass of water please?" Alex requested, then continued talking without even pausing for air. "Me and Shelly were asleep upstairs when Gordon came busting in on us."

Tevepaugh held the glass to Alex's mouth and tilted it up slowly, being careful not to drown him before getting the story. He thought about the carcass in the driveway and couldn't imagine it's implication nor significance. "So he kidnapped Shelly, and left? What about Berkley, the dead guy outside?"

"You going to cut me loose?"

"Yea, yea, sure. So, tell me about Berkley."

"Dude! I haven't seen him. I've been right here. After they left, I heard some other guy talking out there, but couldn't hear what he was saying. Then there was gunfire, two or three shots, that's all I know. I didn't see the guy."

"I guess not," Tevepaugh said as he cut the tape from around Alex's wrists, freeing his hands, then gave the scissors to Alex. "Do you know where they could have gone?"

"No. I know she bought the horse farm up the road, the old Yancey place. I don't think they'd go there." Harbison kept secret the information about the Sea-Ray Yacht. That was his best guess about where they may be. He'd wanted to find them himself. "My best guess is that they are probably a long ways from here by now."

"Alright, get yourself loose. I'll call the police on my cell phone. I got to go."

"No, wait for me. I'll come with you."

"How much police training you got?" Tevepaugh asked.

"None. I'm an attorney."

"Then you ain't going."

"Wait a minute. How do you think I feel. She's my girlfriend."

Teve smirked, "If you only knew how stupid that sounds, your girl the married lady. No. I'm not going to get you killed. If you want to that's your business. I got to go."

"Wait, wait, I don't have a car," Alex begged, working quickly to cut himself free, but he was talking to himself.

CHAPTER 45: VACATION PLANNING

Next thing Shelly knew, sunlight was shining through the drape-less dirty windows. She couldn't believe she'd slept through the entire night with the chain around her ankle. David was still asleep, so she rolled over and went back to sleep, and awoke later to noise from the kitchen. David was making coffee. Shelly watched him as she had hundreds of times before, wondering if she could manipulate him. God knew she'd done it many times in the past. Last night was over, and the new day brought hope that maybe she could talk some sense into him. She decided to be pleasant, and no matter how insulting he became, she'd maintain an even keel and convince him she'd be with him through it all. He was desperate, so she resigned to the notion that the only way to get what she wanted was to give him what he wanted.

She stretched and the chain rattled. "Good morning," Shelly said between yawns, careful to avoid any insincere terms of endearment.

"Good morning to you," David responded with a big smile, like they had no dissimilarity, not a problem in the world.

"Smells like you found some coffee in there."

"Yes, it, um, will be ready in a minute. There's no cream or sugar, but," David shrugged.

"I need to pee. Can you let me loose?"

"Alright, but just for a little while. If you fight me later when I put them back, you'll wish you didn't, do you understand that?"

"Sure, I'm not going to fight you."

Gordon sat down on his bed, "After what I saw last night, I doubt it.

"David, please, let's not fight. Take these chains off so I can use the bathroom, please."

Gordon removed the lock around the rafter rather than Shelly's ankle, and dropped it to the concrete floor. When she finished in the bathroom, Shelly came back to the bed and had a steamy cup of coffee waiting. It was strong and bitter, but better than no coffee at all.

After a few minutes, he asked "Why did you lie to me?"

"About what?"

"About the insurance money and meeting me in Nassau?"

"It's not like that, David. Please believe me. I love you. I was going to meet you in the Bahamas. But, Angelo bugged our phone and the Waffle House pay phone too, so he heard our conversations. He gave me a script. I had to tell you the insurance money had been paid, or he would have killed me."

"Oh, that's how he knew I was in New Orleans. You thought his goon would get rid of me there." It was a statement, not a question for her opinion.

"I had no choice. He was listening, so I couldn't warn you. He would have got to you anyway, probably still will. His people are everywhere."

"Oh yea, so in the meantime, you'd just make out with my buddro, Alex."

"Alex means nothing to me. I was lonely, David. You were lonely, too, weren't you? I'm sure you thought about it too."

"Oh no. That's not true Shelly. You know I've never cheated on you."

She did believe it. But she always figured it was his lack of confidence in bed. David had always displayed a fear of failure; the sort inclined not to attempt anything that had a chance of failing, and thus avoid embarrassment. And he had never been a good lover. He was all mouth. He could talk 'em there, but then if he turned up lame, well, he couldn't bear the thought.

"Let's not argue, honey. I was going to meet you. I had enough money without the insurance, anyway."

As David was putting his jeans on, Shelly asked, "What about Alex? You know he could die of thirst tied up like that."

"I thought he doesn't mean anything to you?"

"He doesn't, but there's no sense in letting him die. Just make it worse for us."

Gordon thought about that. "Yea, well, takes days to die of thirst. Angelo will be over there to check on Berkley. He'll let Alex loose to find out the story. He's a shitty golfer anyway.

"I've got to run some errands." Gordon picked up the stud link chain and carried it nearer the bathroom and looped it around a rafter there.

Shelly knew it would be only a matter of seconds before she'd be chained again, so she bolted for the door, which David had unlocked and left cracked slightly. Shelly was barefooted, in early March, but she ignored the pain, knowing it may be her only chance. The chain jerked from David's hand and followed Shelly.

She got out the door and through the screened porch. There was a picnic table forty feet from the door and she moved around it as quickly as she could dragging a thick chain with tender bare feet on cold gravel. At the very instant the thought coursed her mind that she should have carried the chain, David caught up and stomped it, and she took the shortest route to the ground. Then she was coming to, rubbing her head where she'd struck a rock. She didn't know how long she'd been out, probably no more than a few seconds. David had a hold of her arm lifting her as she grimaced in pain.

"Don't try that again, OK? That's why I keep you barefooted and chained up, wifey, so you can't run away. I don't like losing things I own. Thought you'd know that by now, stupid bitch. Let's get in. It's too cold out here, dumb-ass."

They were back inside now and David pushed her roughly down on the bed.

Now she was chained up close to the bathroom, with her bed slid over as the only place to sit.

David went onto the bathroom and put on the blonde mustache first, and marveled at how real it looked, even up close. He attached the bushy eyebrows and the glasses and, finally, the blonde wig. Shelly saw a different man emerge, and looked at him, flabbergasted.

"If I looked like this, would you like me more than Alex?"

Not waiting for nor expecting an answer, David checked all the windows, making sure they were locked, and said "Don't you go anywhere, now, you heah?" He laughed and slammed the door behind him, jiggling the handle from the outside to be sure it was locked.

He drove to the private airlines section of the Raleigh-Durham airport, parking the Jag in a small lot, between other cars. He looked in all directions to be certain he wasn't being followed.

He went first to Frontier Air, and looked over their price list, more interested in the destinations than the prices. Nassau was listed, but he'd decided against that because while Angelo would check other places too, he was certain to check there for obvious reasons. He asked the gorgeous blond behind the counter, whose name tag read 'Sandy'' "I see Nassau is listed here, but can you go to St. Thomas instead?"

"Absolutely," she replied, immediately punching keys on her keyboard.

"Can we go tomorrow?"

"Absolutely," Sandy said, still punching buttons. "Two O'clock be OK?"

"Perfect," David agreed with a pleasant smile.

"Will you be using credit card, I guess?"

"No, actually, my cards are up to the max," David said with a sigh, sounding like a typical middle class American living above his means, "But I do have cash. How much is it, for two passengers?"

"Looks like twenty four hundred and twenty dollars," Sandy answered without so much as a flinch.

"Whew," Gordon said, hoping to focus on the possibility of the airline losing a fare, as a distraction away from the issue of no identification. "That's a lot." He paused for effect as Sandy simply raised her eyebrows. "But, we do need to get there and she can't swim that good." He took out a wad of cash and counted out hundreds.

Sandy gave him a receipt, but no tickets. Gordon wondered about that, but since he'd never flown private charter before, he saw no reason to ask. It seemed reasonable, really. They owned the plane, and could just go wherever they wanted. Or maybe they were just lax on security.

He promised he'd be there by twelve thirty, and hurried to his car, still wondering if they'd be asked for ID tomorrow? He felt the law required it, but wasn't sure. Regardless, he felt better that he had already paid the fee. They wouldn't want to lose the fare. His spirits were lifted, everything was going to work out fine.

Gordon got back to the cabin before two o'clock and had to make two trips to the Jag for all the steaks, charcoal, snacks, cokes, bourbon and scotch he'd bought. He then parked the Jag behind a grove of trees nearly a hundred yards from the cabin, where it sat closer to Goball's cabin, but was unseen from Goball's due to another bevy of trees, and the make of car would be difficult for someone looking from the road. Gordon was really looking forward to a nice little cookout with his wife, like old times.

CHAPTER 46: SIDE-TRACKED

Tevepaugh remembered reading in the paper that Jeff Shaw was the lead detective in the Gordon case, so he called him immediately upon leaving the Gordon house where Alex Harbison was still in a sticky situation.

"Jeff Shaw."

"Jeff, this is Steve Tevepaugh. I'm a private investigator representing Gulf States Insurance Company. They insure David Gordon. That's why I just left his place, and found a couple interesting things there."

"I'm listening," Shaw said condescendingly.

"A young lawyer named Alex Harbison was tied up naked in a chair in Gordon's kitchen. Said he's been dating the Gordon lady and Gordon burst in on 'em last night and dragged her off. Maybe you can get there in time for the whole story. Also, found a fellow named Johnny Berkley there, but he's not in very good health these days."

"I'll get out there. Did Harbison know where they went?"

"Now what do you think, Shaw? He did say they took off in Shelly's new Jaguar."

"Alright. We'll get him. You aren't going after him are you?"

"That's my job."

"Not no more it ain't. You've done your job. I'll handle it from here. You got that?"

Teve knew Shaw couldn't get his belt through all the loops, but he didn't start an argument, "I'm being paid by the insurance company to find him alive. But if I find the scalawag I'll call you so YOU can get the hooplas. Lord knows you need them. I read about you in the paper." Proud of the witty disparage, Teve disconnected before Shaw had a chance to reply.

Stevepaugh knew not where to turn. He thought about the odds. He was probably wasting Gulf State's money, but it was better than being up the Marshall tree. How far would Gordon go to get out of murder and insurance fraud charges? Where would he go? He'd get the hell out of the area. Any direction.

He was clueless, which was a feeling worse than being up the Marshall tree. Realizing he had not eaten all day, he stopped at Brewster's Steak House for a prime rib.

****

Alex painfully removed all the tape, and most of his chest hair in the process. He was free from the Gordon's kitchen chair and he flung it against the wall. There were marks all over the kitchen floor where he'd tried in vain to bust the chair. He ran out into the garage to check, but of course, Tevepaugh was long gone. Still totally naked, he hoped to find his clothes in the bedroom, and hurried up there. They were right where he'd dropped them, and he was please to find his wallet and cash untouched.

He dressed quickly and called a cab, since he'd ridden there with Shelly. Detectives Jeff Shaw and Warren Stamey arrived before the cab, and they spent time around Berkley's body before entering the house without knocking.

"You must be Alex Harbison?" Shaw asked.

"Right."

"What happened here?"

"Didn't that other cop tell you?"

"What other cop?"

"The one who cut me free. I went over everything with him. Listen, I called a cab, and I'm in a hurry now," Alex tried to explain. He desperately hoped to avoid a lengthy explanation. "Talk to the first cop."

"You're not going anywhere." Shaw said matter-of-factly, while looking around the house. "The guy that cut you free – did he say he was a cop?"

"Well, no."

"Who was it, Tevepaugh?"

"I don't know. He didn't say."

"Did he say he was a cop?"

"No, he wasn't interested in answering my questions. Maybe he's not police. He must be the one who called you."

"Was his name Steve Tevepaugh?"

"Look, I didn't check his ID."

"Don't get smart-assed! There's a dead body outside." Shaw yelled, insinuating involvement. "You're going with us to headquarters to make a statement. Don't get in a hurry."

"I am in a hurry. I've got to get to work," Alex begged, though he had no intentions of going to work.

"Tevepaugh said you're a lawyer. What kind of law do you practice?" Shaw asked arrogantly.

"Mostly corporate law. Mergers, start-ups so forth, so far," Alex answered politely.

"You've obviously never practiced criminal litigation. Let me tell you how it works. You're a suspect until I say you're not. You aren't going anywhere until we get your statement down at headquarters. That's going to be a while. We're waiting for forensics technicians to do their thing, and carry away the stiff one outside. Then we'll go uptown. Don't get in a hurry Alex. I don't have time to baby sit you, so I'm warning you: you get in that cab, you'll be arrested before you get uptown." Then Shaw turned and joined Stamey upstairs. Alex went to the phone and called the office and explained his predicament, then sat back down in his familiar kitchen chair. It was already ten-thirty.

CHAPTER 47: A BIG FIGHT

By three o'clock David and Shelly had had a fulfilling meal cooked on the grill. By four o'clock he was shit-faced drunk. He'd become giddy and Shelly was really getting tired of his braggadocio. She knew where to hit him hardest, but so far had avoided the temptation to do so. She could handle the criticisms concerning Alex. She had capitulated. She had been stoic up to this point. But when he continued to insist that his plan had been flawless, even though he'd murdered Bobby Pheiffer, whose only crime was the seemingly pardonable one of being a bumbling feeb, that only an idiot could screw it up, and that she had screwed it up, she went over the top. She knew she may live to regret it, maybe not. Nonetheless, it was time. Time to pull out the heavy artillery.

"You know why I was fucking Alex, don't you?"

"Because you're a cheating, fucking whore? It sure isn't because he's good-looking or successful or something. Hey – in high school – I bet he was voted most likely to suck seed. " Gordon slapped his leg and let out a loud cackle before taking another gulp of Cutty.

"Because he showed me all about you."

"Hunh?" Gordon asked, in a squeaky, nasal voice filled with all the intelligence of a shovel.

"He made me climax the first time I ever had sex with him. You NEVER did. He excited me, YOU never did."

Gordon remained quiet, obviously trying to formulate a come-back.

"We thought up a good nickname for you, Mister Teany Weenie, The One Minute Man. How you like that? Sound familiar, David?"

"Yea, I bet you sucked him dry every night didn't you?"

"Yes I did. Swallowed every drop." She made several mock slurping sounds. "What's wrong, David? Are you jealous that I never did that to you?"

Gordon leaned back on the murky sofa and turned up the Cutty bottle, "Shut up, whore."

But it was too late. She was on a roll now. "Watching you wrap your goober lips around that bottle makes me believe YOU suck dicks too, don't you?"

He didn't answer, turning away from her instead, like he had found something interesting out the window. He had no idea how to beat her at this debate. He wanted to change the subject, but

now, she was a downhill snowball.

"Do you suck peters David? Have you found a man you can satisfy with your little buddy? Are you a homo? Answer me David!"

"I said shut up, you cunt! Shut your fucking pie whole." He was screaming now. He'd have never thought this kind of trash could ever spew out of her.

She was a downhill freight train. "Are you a queer? Huhn? Is that why you've never satisfied a woman? Huhn? IS - THAT -IT?"

That did it. Gordon was now motivated. He stumbled to the keys hanging from the rafters, and moved past her to the chain end above her head. Shelly tried to grab the keys from him, which

only provoked him, and he backhanded her. She grabbed the lamp from the table and swung it at him, striking him in the back. But the lamp shattered, causing only minor pain. He unlocked the chain from the rafter and turned to face her. She balled up her right fist and popped him in the nose as hard as she could swing. Gordon hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. He staggered to his feet while rubbing his nose. Blood was all over his hand, lips and chin and his eyes were now watery on top of the bleariness brought on by the bourbon and scotch. He held up his arm for protection as he turned towards her again. Shelly pushed her foot into Gordon's knee with all the force she could muster and he whimpered on the way back down. His knee hurt so much he couldn't even scream. Not exactly Gordon's idea of afternoon delight. Shelly grabbed the chain with both hands and yanked it out of his hand, heading for the door.

But David lunged at her with his good leg and caught hold of the chain as Shelly was fiddling with the door locks. He jerked it with all his fury and nearly ripped her leg out of socket. Her elbow popped as it made contact with the concrete floor and she let out a hair curling scream. Gordon then slammed the chain against her back three times and she was certain it was broken. A flux of excruciating pain ran up and down her body.

"I told you to shut up, you fucking bitch," David yelled as he whipped the chain across the back of her head. Shelly blacked out momentarily, but somehow, to her own chagrin, didn't pass out. She felt a whop to her skull, and was certain she'd never awaken. Then her world went black.

Gordon stared down at her. Then he threw the chain at her and hopped over to the small sofa next to the table on which the Cutty bottle rested, and drank like a man who'd just finished a ten mile jog through the Mojave. Scotch dribbled down his chin so he wiped it with the back of his hand.

Knowing he was on the verge of passing out, he knew he needed to hook the chain over the rafter again, but his knee wouldn't handle it, so he hooked it around his own ankle and snapped the lock in place. Then he sat on the couch, wondering if Shelly was dead. He hoped so; he hoped not. He didn't know if he cared. He did know that his head hurt from the scotch and his face and knee hurt from Shelly. He placed the Heckler & Koch under the couch, within reach, but out of sight. He wondered how he'd catch that flight tomorrow and how...how.... before it was even dark, his thoughts had slipped into obscurity.

CHAPTER 48: WATCHING THE SHOW

The rib nearly melted in Teve's mouth. Just as he finished and was sopping beef broth with his bread, his cell phone rang. He unsnapped the cell from its holster on his belt, swallowed, and answered, "Tevepaugh."

"Steve, this is Hubert Goldbaugh. You said fer me to call ye if I saw David Gordon. Well, he's here."

"Where? At your HOUSE?"

"No, he's next door. The cabin next to mine."

"What's your address?"

"Twelve-Fifteen Peninsula Road. On Lake Jordan."

"How do you know it's him?" Teve didn't trust the wacko's judgment.

"I seen his wife's Jaguar at her house, and it's over here now."

It was reliable enough to call the police on so Steve Tevepaugh told Goball, "I'm on the way. I'm not far away. Stay at your house. Don't go over there. Have you called the police?"

"No, I hate those bastards. They don't listen to me."

"Ok, I'll call them. You stay there."

On the way, Teve phoned Shaw. "Shaw, Tevepaugh. You want the Gordon arrest, dickhead?"

"Stevie? What you got?"

"My source - I haven't got there yet, but I'm on the way - he says Mrs. Gordon's new Jaguar is on Peninsula Road, Twelve-Fifteen Peninsula Road."

"Now listen Tavepaugh, you are not to go over there. I'm in the neighborhood, only ten , fifteen minutes away. You stay away."

"All right. You're right, you're the hero Shaw. I'll stay away." Teve had no intention of confronting Gordon. As he drove down Peninsula Road the sun was fading over the tall pine trees.

****

Alex was released at two o'clock and took a cab home. He showered and dressed in casual clothes and hurried to his office.

He had to find Shelly. After spending half a day with Detective Shaw he was convinced - that guy couldn't find the sky, much less Shelly. He sought his direct supervisor, Hal McGlothlen, and made certain he was excused for his absence. Hal laughed and gave him the day off, adding a 'When I was a young man' parable. Alex did his best to listen, and when it was over he was sure there was a lesson in there somewhere, but it was lost in his wandering thoughts.

He drove over the speed limit to Lake Jordan Marina and found Shelly's boat in dry storage. He had his police scanner on, but wasn't getting any useful information from it. He knew not where to turn and felt a feeling of anxiety creep through his body. He walked around the marina for a few minutes to clear his mind. What had she said. Surely there was a clue for him somewhere. He wanted to check the airport, but it was half way across the county. The police scanner was his only hope. Surely, someone would recognize Gordon, with all the TV news coverage. He sat tight, and his patience paid off with the break he'd hoped for. A police officer was headed over to 1215 Peninsula Road at Lake Jordon to check out a possible David Gordon sighting. He started the car and threw gravel across the parking lot. He was only tan or fifteen minutes away. He'd beat the cops and save the day.

****

Steve Tevepaugh pulled into Hubert Goldbaugh's driveway and found Goldbaugh spying on the Gordons through the trees. They walked together through the woods to Shelly's Jaguar, parked several hundred yards away from the cabin on a vacant lot. The tag had been removed, not surprisingly. They had a clear view of the cabin where David Gordon was happily trespassing.

"So, what have they been doing Hubert?"

"They had a cookout and a fight. Real class. I could hear them way over here. Then it got quiet. Hope he didn't kill her. She's a pretty good gal. Too good for him anyway."

"How do you know it's her Jag?" Teve asked.

"Oh, it's hers alright. I seen it parked in her driveway."

Beyond the house a steep primitive trail led through a wooded area to the lake below. The cabin appeared empty, but looking through his binoculars, he noticed smoke coming from the tripod

grill only a few feet from the cabin door.

"What do you think we should do?" Goldbaugh asked.

"Nothing. The police will be here soon. I'm sure he's armed. Armed and crazy. He parked way over here to hide the car. He's not planning on going anywhere soon. Let's just wait."

Then a car pulled in the driveway and drove quickly to the cabin.

Tevepaugh looked out through the binoculars. "Oh, shit, it's that lawyer friend of hers, Harbison. Dumbass. Gonna get himself killed if he's not careful." He grabbed his phone and hit the recall button.

What are we going to do?" Goldbaugh asked again.

"We're going to wait for the police."

Alex drove within twenty feet of the cabin and got out of his car without noticing the slightly smoldering grill, thinking nobody was home. He walked right up to the door and turned the handle. Finding the door locked, he got back in his car.

Gordon had fallen into a light sleep, and didn't hear the car pull into the drive. But he jumped when he heard the door handle jiggle, and he grabbed the gun from under the couch. His head, face and knee throbbed with pain and he limped over to the window on the far side of the door, stepping over Shelly in the process and rattling the chain that connected them. He crouched beneath the window, and slowly raised up to peer out.

That's when Alex noticed the smoking charcoal grill and got back out of the car. There was no car in the drive, which meant that whoever was here had left. He knew it was Gordon, but wanted

some proof, so he went to the window to the right of the porch to peek in. But the window was so thickly caked with dirt he couldn't see a thing on the other side.

Gordon saw a shadow approach the window, and he just knew it was the police, so he raised up and fired through the filthy glass, hitting Alex right in the throat. The bullet ripped through Alex's carotid artery on route to his second vertebrae, and Alex slumped to the concrete porch without so much as a squeak.

The gunshot roused Shelly from her deep sleep and she looked up through squinted eyes and terrible neck pain. "Who was it?"

"Goball," Gordon answered, no idea if he was right. "Come on, we gotta go." He sat gingerly on Shelly's bed, pulled the car keys from his pocket, and used the small master lock key to unlocked the lock and chain around his ankle, then pulled Shelly to her feet. They went out the door with maybe thirty minutes of daylight left in the sky.

CHAPTER 49: SLIPPERY DAVE

Swish Lofton served the sixty days for the contempt of court offense. When his release date arrived, Lofton hoped he'd get out early in the day, but public wheels are nearly always slow to turn. He was finally processed and out the door at four in the afternoon. He could have called a friend for a ride but a taxi seemed quickest and easiest so he did so. It was nearly dusk when he got home on the Peninsula Road.

****

From the corner of his eye Gordon saw a taxi pull into the driveway across the street. Unbeknownst to Gordon, it was Swish Lofton arriving home from jail. He considered jacking the cab. That might be the best move at this point. The police knew he had Shelly; they'd be looking for her Jag. But he didn't try, mostly because he didn't feel physically able to get there in time.

Shelly looked around the porch at the fallen body and noticed it was Alex, lying in a large pool of blood. She gasped, and immediately started to cry. "It's Alex. You killed Alex you son of a bitch." She swung at him and landed the punch on his left ear. His injured leg gave way and he fell to the bare ground outside the porch. His headache doubled and pounded with each heartbeat. Shelly kicked at him but he rolled from the kick and pulled the chain. She hit the ground hard, bruising her hip and howling out in pain. Gordon got up slowly and grabbed her by the hair. As she raised up, he put her in a headlock and said "I'm getting tired of that, you bitch. You do that one more time I'm going to shoot you in the back of the head." They started moving towards the car where Tevepaugh and Goldbaugh were crouched in the woods watching nearby, but quickly stopped when he noticed detective Shaw's car pull quickly in the driveway. He put the gun to Shelly's head. "Oh shit! Back in the house. Hurry!"

Shelly tried to break loose, but he was too strong and she couldn't get her head out of his grasp. Inside, he slung her on the bed, then slammed and locked the door.

Shaw and Stamey brought their RPD Camaro to a sliding stop in the dirt some forty feet from the cabin and got out with their police issue .38's raised, crouched behind the car and watched for some twenty seconds. Shaw considered calling for backup, but didn't feel the need to capture the likes of David Gordon. They couldn't see Alex's body through the solid base of the half-screened porch. Stamey ran around the side of the cabin keeping low. He noticed there was no back door to the shanty, and reported back to Shaw behind the Camaro.

"Gordon, come on out. You're surrounded. Come on out and we'll work this out."

"Sure," Gordon murmured. He put the gun to Shelly's head and forced her down on the bed face-down, wrapping the chain around the cot tightly to effectively strap her down, then wrapped a towel around her mouth to muffle any possibility of a scream.

"Gordon, you're surrounded, come on out with your hands raised."

Gordon tucked the .45 in his belt under his leather jacket and unlocked the door. He stepped onto the porch with his hands raised. "I'm unarmed."

"Come out into the yard."

Gordon, hands raised, glanced down to make certain his gun was covered by his coattail, which was held out from his belt by his large belly. The gun was hidden. He walked slowly into the

yard towards Shaw and Stamey.

"Turn around and put your hands behind your head."

Gordon obeyed slowly, and Shaw approached with his gun pointed at Gordon's head. Shaw was composing his lines for TV cameras later this evening. Stamey moved to the left, to keep his gun on Gordon without being behind Shaw. Shaw then holstered his weapon and grabbed his handcuffs.

Gordon felt Shaw's approach behind him, glanced right and left to see Stamey's location. When Shaw grabbed his left wrist, Gordon swiveled quickly to his right to put Shaw within line of himself and Stamey, pulled his H & K and fired at Stamey, who, effectively pinned by Shaw's position, didn't even get off a shot as Gordon's bullet exploded his heart. Shaw's eyes bugged. Knowing he didn't have time to pull his own gun, he grabbed for Gordon's, but Gordon spun his wrist and shot Shaw in the stomach. Shaw pulled his weapon before he hit the ground, but Gordon's trigger finger was too fast, and he fired two slugs into Shaw's chest.

Gordon was amazed. It had worked like a scene from a James Bond movie. He ran back into the cabin.

CHAPTER 50: SOME SERIOUS TALK

Tevepaugh and Goldbaugh watched in horror. Goball was speechless with his mouth hanging open. Teve pulled his cell and quickly dialed 911. More cops were on the way. They moved quickly through the woods towards Shelly's Jag, knowing Gordon would be joining them there shortly. They ducked down behind oak, dogwood and maple trees that provided shade to the lot that lent occupancy to the Jaguar.

Gordon unlocked the chain holding Shelly to the bed, but left on the ankle chain. "Come on, now, we're going to the car." He grabbed her arm and pulled her out the door, limping badly but

progressing as quickly as he could towards the car, determined to ignore his aching head. He'd get back to it when he had more time.

Shelly wanted to complain, but now that she saw his resolve - how far he was willing to push the issue - she kept quiet. For the first time she was scared. He was in so deep now, what would one more killing matter? She was very surprised he hadn't wasted her, too, but knew that could still happen.

"What do you want, David? What do you want from me?"

"We're going to the Caribbean. Did you forget? That's what I want. I just want you to be my faithful wife as we start a new life. I want it to be like the old days. I thought you knew that. Why else would I go through so much trouble? Can't you see I'm doing it for you?" Gordon stood there, a look of near bewilderment upon his half-drunken face at the thought that she didn't already know all this, or might question it. He finally lowered the gun.

Shelly cried harder. "It's over, David. Can't you see that? We can't recover what we had. There's no resolution. My God, after last night I thought you'd know that."

"Sure we can. I know you don't mean those things you said. You're upset, and I don't blame you for that, I can't blame you." He was babbling. "But it will get better."

"No. No it won't David. Face it, I don't love you. I never really did. We need to split up."

"Shut up." He put the gun to her head, the look of the Devil in his eyes. "I'll give you two choices. Either I shoot you right here or you go with me willingly, and be a happy wife. Which is it going to be?"

David was too hurt, drunk and stressed to think it through. Then it occurred to him – they wouldn't be able to go to the bank or the airport tomorrow. "Wait a minute. Oh no, we can't...shit, we fucked it up." He pulled back on the hammer.

"Hold it right there, Gordon. Put the gun down." The voice came from behind him and to his left, in the trees.

Gordon spun quickly to his left and the two fired nearly simultaneously. All of Gordon's shots went wide right of Teve, but one of Teve's shots ripped into Gordon's left shoulder, effectively crippling any use of that arm, and spinning him around before thudding him boisterously to the dirt on the flat of his back. Pain shot through his entire torso. He felt like he'd been taken apart and partially put back together. He was bone tired and so wanted to just go to sleep but knew that would be a bad move. He raised up and found his gun just in time to see someone rushing him.

CHAPTER 51: STONE MEETS BONE

As soon as Swish Lofton walked in the door he remembered he'd promised his dad he'd call first thing upon getting out. His pop had paid the rent and utilities while Lofton had his hiatus. That's why he still had a place to live. His rented cabin was across Peninsula Drive from the lake; he couldn't afford the rent on the other side. Still, he had a good view of the water through a clearing, and since he was on the west side of the lake, it was pleasant to sit on his shady front porch in the afternoons and look over the drop off to the water.

The cabin had a musty smell from being shut up for two months, so Lofton opened some windows and turned on the ceiling fans and the baseboard heat. He'd air it out then heat it up. Then he'd make a pot of coffee and call dad. He had not had a decent cup of good, strong coffee in two months. Only then would he listen to his messages and sort the mail.

Before he got his first cup of coffee he heard gunshots and ran to the window to looked out towards the lake, then heard a single shot, a pause, then a series of quick bursts followed by several more in response. The shots sounded like they were coming from Goldbaugh's place, Lofton thought. He couldn't see anything since that area was wooded. He ran to his bedroom closet, reached into a corner, and extracted his only firearm, a Remington twenty-two semi-automatic rifle, and ran out the front door.

****

Teve watched Gordon spin and fall behind the car. He strained but could not see Gordon, and rushed out from the trees thinking Gordon was out. But Gordon subsequently rousted and reached the pistol he'd dropped.

Teve popped back into the trees, planning to run around the thicket to get a more advantageous position.

It was a good plan, except, as he'd feared earlier, Goball was not trained. So startled by Teve's reappearance, he yanked the trigger of his Colt Magnum 357 revolver in a totally knee-jerk reaction, and the Bullet slammed into the side of Tevepaugh's troublesome right knee, propelling him face first into the trunk of a white pine tree. He lost his gun and grabbed his doomed knee, howling in agony. He gritted his teeth and rolled onto his back, still holding tight to the knee.

Gordon got to his feet and quickly thought of Shelly, who had crouched beside him, stunned, a million thoughts running through her head, the main one being 'don't get in the path of a bullet.' Gordon put his right arm around her, still holding the pistol. He stood her up straight, and stood behind her, the gun pointed to where Teve had stood. He was gone. A shot rang out from the thicket of trees off to the left, but it was a different sounding report. Definitely a second shooter and Gordon fired several rounds blindly into the trees, emptying his cartridge.

Goball gaped at Teve with his mouth open. He pointed his Magnum towards Gordon and fired several rounds, but hit only trees and air.

Gordon wondered how many shooters were out there, and how they knew he was here. He needed to reload, and attempted to do so with one hand. He ejected the sleeve, which hit the hood of the Jag with a ping and a scratch, and he laid the gun down to reach the new cartridge. He crouched on his good knee and pulled Shelly down beside him. "Keep your head down."

Shelly, crouched, half under and half next to Gordon, saw a large round rock beneath her and attempted to pry it loose from the hard ground. If it wasn't too big; if she could lift it above her head with one hand. If she could dig it out before he got that sleeve inserted. If, if...

Goball crouched next to Teve and looked into his grimacing face. Tevepaugh cried in both pain and anger at the thought that the best he could get was amputation. He'd been told by doctors that if he reinjured this leg again it would mean ultimate dismemberment. Then the thought struck him that the worst he could get was death. If he didn't find his gun he was defenseless against Gordon. He wondered if Goball was going to shoot him again; he knew if he had his gun he'd sure shoot the speechless little weasel. He released his knee and rolled over, propping up on his left knee and feeling around for his gun. But the pain was too much to bear and he fell unconscious.

Shelly broke off three fingernails pawing loose the rock and didn't even flinch at the pain. She had it out, and savored it's smoothness and coolness as she lifted it slightly off the ground.

Gordon slid the clip into the pistol grip, but couldn't chamber the first round with one hand. He turned to Shelly for help.

Shelly reared up quickly and came down hard on his head. After all the gunshots so close to her ears, Shelly could not hear the rock crack skull, but the feel was that of smashing her fist onto a grapefruit. Gordon dropped like a mafia mark. She wasn't finished. This story would not go like a B grade movie, where the terrified victim injures the perp, has him right there, right there, then flees without finishing him off. No. Not like that. She raised the rock once more and with all her pent up rage, again introduced stone to bone.

Shelly threw the rock down and sat, then slid six feet from Gordon's lifeless body, where she laid down and cried for what seemed an eternity, but was really only half a minute. She sat up and wiped her nose on her sleeve, then spoke tearfully, "You can come out now, whoever you are. I hope you're a cop."

"Gordon!" a high pitched voice whined out. Shelly recognized it immediately as Hubert Goldbaugh's.

"Is that you, Hubert?" Shelly answered.

"Yea."

* * * *

Lofton let his ears do the looking both ways as he crossed the road, keeping his sights on the area of the hubbub. He passed several rows of trees that fed into a clearing and stopped behind a tall oak. He was a hundred feet away and saw the man who called himself Gold-Baugh flailing a pistol while talking to a woman who was sitting on the ground next to a sports car. Only then did Lofton release the safety and chamber a round.

Shelly looked up and Goball was standing in front of her. She seemed too tired to move, but she crawled to David and pilfered his pockets for the car keys and found them.

Goball looked at Gordon's bloody, limp body, still holding the Colt at his side. He kicked away the gun.

"Where is that other guy that was here?" she asked.

"He's dead. Gordon got him."

"Who was he? He saved my life," Shelly sobbed.

"I fergit his name, some detective."

"Is he police?"

"No, he ain't police."

Shelly was glad not to be alone, even if it was Goball. She thought, given the situation, maybe even Goball's company could be pleasant. "Let's get out of here Goball. Do you have a cell phone?"

"Hell no. I told you I can't afford that shit on my fixed income."

Here it comes again, Shelly thought.

Did you come here to help, Mr. Goldbaugh?"

"Hell yea I come to help." He grabbed the keys from Shelly's hand. "To help Goldbaugh. Who else? Who else ever cared for me? Huh?" He started screaming as he spoke, then calmed down. "Who ever Cared for ole Go-ball?" He walked to the hood of the Jag, retrieving and loading Gordon's .45, then pocketing it in his jacket .

"When I heard he wasn't dead, I figured it out. I figured he'd come out here. So, I come here to kill him, but YOU DONE BEAT ME TO THAT TOO!" Finally he calmed down.

"But they're going to pay me now, ain't they?"

"Yea, Mr. Goldbaugh, I'm going to pay you. Look in that duffel right there, David's money. He won't need it any more. They don't accept it where he's going."

"Yea?" Goldbaugh unzipped the bag, moved a few tools out of the way, and pulled out a large bundle of hundreds. He reached in and pulled out another bundle. "Whoa. They accept it where I'm going. Real quick like." He giggled.

"Take the money Goball. Take it and get the hell out of here."

Goball's beady eyes shifted from side to side, an involuntary reaction to deep thought. "Yea, yea, That's it. It'll work. Tell you what I'm going to do. I shoot you with Gordon's gun, I'll be the only survivor. And the only witness." He knew he'd have to kill Tevepaugh too, but that was no affliction, since he'd found and slung Tevepaugh's gun thirty yards through the thickset forest.

"All the tabloids will want this story. I'll be rich. HA! I've done it." He threw his chin up in the air, and cackled a silly laugh.

He raised Gordon's gun not six feet from Shelly's head and held it there.

"You asshole," was all Shelly could think of to say."

****

Swish Lofton had met Goldbaugh only twice before. The first was a simple neighborly introduction, but the last one proved that Goldbaugh wasn't intelligent enough to carry on a conversation and would always turn the dialogue into a political discourse. He finally tired of Goldbaugh's ranting and complaining about the state of the nation and told him that it was his generation who had elected the politicians who had put us here. They hadn't spoken since. He trained the sight on Goball.

"I'm the asshole? No, you are. For MARRYING THAT FUCKHEAD!"

Shelly's mind was in a state of chaos. She didn't know whether to run, beg, or just sit tight. Then Lofton spoke.

"Drop the gun, Goldbaugh!"

Shelly heard those beautiful words and her mind cleared. As Goball jerked his head to the new voice, Shelly leaped into the woods just behind her.

"Who are ya?"

"Your neighbor, Lofton," Swish yelled. "Now drop the gun."

"You go back home. Mind your own business, Lofton. This don't concern you." Lofton would totally destroy his wonderful new plan.

Lofton fired two shots at Goball's feet. Hubert Goldbaugh didn't flinch. He just raised the 357 and fired at Lofton until the chamber was emptied. Lofton wasn't worried about Goball hitting him at this distance, but he ducked back behind the oak anyway.

One would have expected Goball to duck into the bushes at this point, but prudence didn't go far on Goball, who just stood there, trying to think of a way to get rid of this unexpected witness. When Goball finished Lofton calmly drew the Remington around the trunk, aimed at the top of Goball's head and rang off five shots. Three of the projectiles were true - head, throat and chest, and Goball landed flat on his back.

Shelly watched through a gap in the cedar trees as Lofton checked Goball for a pulse and found none. He then checked the sorry condition of Gordon, whose head lay in a puddle of blood.

Gordon had a slow pulse.

"Lady, this one's still alive." Lofton looked towards the cedars Shelly had jumped behind. "Do you have a cell phone?"

He figured she had bolted, but was surprised when she asked "Who are you? What do you want?"

"I'm Swish Lofton. I live across the street. I don't want anything, just to know, what's going on here? What's the story?"

Shelly walked into the clearing. She looked at the bloody mess around Goball and Gordon, the blood looking even darker maroon in the fading light, shuttered, and said, "It's a long story. I'm sure you'll hear it all soon enough. First, there was some guy. He shot David, that one." She pointed at Gordon. "Then jumped into the woods over there. Goball told me he was a detective, that David had shot him and he's dead back there in the woods."

"Who was he?"

"Goball said he was a detective," Shelly answered with tears starting to run down her cheek. She was feeling extreme remorse over the butchery and unbelievable events of the last ten minutes.

Lofton froze momentarily, as if deep in thought, then went into the trees towards the lake where Shelly had pointed, and immediately found Steve Tevepaugh laying on his back with his shattered and bleeding knee raised, Teve's position when he passed out. He saw that Tevepaugh had a strong pulse, so he shook his head and spoke, "Hey, hey you, wake up." But Teve remained unconscious, so Lofton carried him into the clearing, laying him as gently as he could on the hard bare ground.

"I'd better go call 911." Lofton rose and started towards his house when he heard sirens in the distance. "Guess I won't have to. Maybe they can save those two." He checked Gordon again and again found a weak but steady pulse.

"Have you heard about David Gordon, the realtor who blew up that Pheiffer guy in his office?" Shelly asked.

"No, I haven't"

"Sure you have. Where have you been, hiding under a rock? It's been in all the papers and TV news. The realtor the police are looking for?"

"It's another long story, but I've been away for a couple months. Just got back today. What about it?"

"That's him, David Gordon. He's my husband, but he killed two cops right over there and my, ..." she stopped before putting husband and boyfriend in the same sentence, "friend Alex Harbison. And others he's killed. And he tortured me, and, it'd be a shame if they saved him. I mean, he'll cost the taxpayers millions in medical and legal expenses. But here they come, and he'll probably live. The Scalawag."

Sirens were closer now, in the neighborhood, but not in sight. Lofton checked Gordon again. "Ashamed if he lived, huh?"

"Yea," Shelly answered, as if benumbed.

"Real Scalawag, huh?"

"Yea, he is."

Lofton checked the pulse yet again, only checked much harder this time, squeezing the esophagus of breath until the first police car crested Peninsula Drive. "I don't think he's going to make it."

Shelly sat and rested her head on the bumper of the Jaguar and cried, so pleased that it was all over. Paramedics raced around between Gordon, Goball and Tevepaugh, and Shelly heard Tevepaugh moan out in pain as the medics awakened him with an ammonia stick.

A tall, thin police officer looked down at Shelly and asked, "What happened here?"

Shelly cried harder when the question hit her with the realization that IT wasn't over. It was a question she'd spend the rest of her life answering. For her, it maybe was just the beginning, but it certainly wasn't over.

The End
