

### A Journey For Hump

John W. Regan

Copyright © 2017 John W. Regan

All rights reserved.

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Table Of Contents

1. Your Morning Hump And Shower

2. Hump's Day

3. Hump 'n Grass

4. Humping

5. Hump's On The Internets

6. Talkin' Hump

7. Humpin' Thoughts

8. Hump's Results

9. Mile High Hump

10. Hump To Africa

11. Hump In The Safaripark

12. Hump 'n Peiper

13. Hump 'n Idea

14. Hump 'n The Killer

15. Hump 'n Ngorongoro

16. Locked And Loaded Hump

17. Lookin' For Hump

18. Hump 'n Trouble

19. Hump, No More

20. Humpty Dumpty

# 1. Your Morning Hump And Shower

"Two minutes, big daddy. Let's make it a good show."

"You're supposed to tell me to break a leg," Humphrey Hammerbacher said between clenched teeth.

"Big daddy, a broken _anything_ could be fatal for a man your age."

"Jeez O'Pete, Mikey. I don't need reminders. Come on, humor an old man."

"Break a leg, Hump. There. Feel better?"

"Ayup," Hump grumbled. "I'm right as rain."

"I sense a dash of trepidation. You got the gringles, big daddy?"

"The gringles?"

"Nerves, big daddy. Relax. It's fat city, man, and you're the fattest cat on the block. _Ahem_...now, at the risk of sounding light in the loafers, you look sharp as a tack today. Got a hot date after the show?"

_And that's another thing,_ Humphrey Hammerbacher mused. _Never mind the euphemisms. Has Mikey taken a look at me? I mean a_ good _look. Tarnation, my face looks like I scrubbed it with a toad. Warts and moles with them white hairs growin' out of 'em. Hells bells, why am I thinking of this now? Now ain't the time to get the noia. Now ain't the time to-_

"Yo, big daddy?"

"What?" Hump snapped.

Mikey cocked his head and fixed squinty peepers on the aged, cantankerous half of America's foremost mid-morning talk show power couple. These were the moments Hump felt like an anachronism. What the hell was he doing on television? Men his age were playing golf or finding a bed to crawl into and die. Ole Hump, however, was peddlin' his horrid mug across America on the National Broadcast Channel.

He was supposed to bridge generations, introduce people his age (meaning old as _fuck_ ) to plucky morning television. In other words, act as some kinda lodestone. It appeared, according to the "numbers", his charisma was working. Why? Because people tuned in to see Hump grimace and gesticulate. But what was the _real_ reason the ratings were sky high? Perchance those in TV land hoped Hump would drop dead on national television. Or, mayhap, they wanted to see him go nuclear, have a cow, whatever...and lob a pejorative insult or two at a minority group. It seemed one of these two futures would occur on _Your Morning Hump And Shower_.

In the meantime, Hump continued to wither and sprout warts. The uglier he became, the more he endeared to an audience of ancient misfits and retards. And, as Hump Hammerbacher's face evolved into something resembling a witch's kootchar, grouchiness multiplied like a cancer growth. But this, according to the men upstairs, was _A-Okay_. Yes, they encouraged Hump to _explore his irritable side_. Lapsing into a sedate sidekick, like Geneva's last geriatric cohost, was not _A-Okay_. It wasn't _A-Okay_ with the suit and tie fellas, it wasn't _A-Okay_ with Geneva Shower, and it wasn't _A-Okay_ with the viewing public.

Ergo, he'd have to keep cranking the crotchety character to keep the show viable. Crank it like a kid workin' a Jack-in-the-box. Competition among daytime television was fierce, and it was difficult to attract attention unless you sank to the depths of abasement. The soap operas, staples for decades, were all but extinct. People wanted to watch genuine personal catastrophes. What P.T. Barnum said about freaks, and their ability to draw a crowd, was true. While other networks subjected viewers to tawdry paternity examinations and lie detector test results, insipid court shows, or the gaggle of multicolored harpies gathered 'round a table, Hump and his sprite of a cohost sashayed through a litany of tame subjects. Or square subjects...yes, _square_ was apropos. Square like a well-done steak. Or peonage. In other words, topics lacking flavor and beat bloody by a switch. What endeared was the banter between the carefree woman and the fuming man. This was the appeal.

Mikey said, "I'm, uh...checking to see if you're feeling hunky dory, big daddy. Don't want a speed Hump on the floor, he-he."

"I just said I'm right as rain," Hump rasped. "Ain't no higher self-assessment than _right as rain._ 'Cept maybe...in fine fettle."

"In fine...what cha say?" Mikey asked with a frown.

"Jeez O'Pete," Hump muttered. "How 'bout you quit pesterin' me."

"Okeydokey, big daddy, don't blow a gasket. Oh, here we go. I'm gettin' the thumb from Goldman. One minute 'til we bang the gong."

Geneva takes my clammy paw at T-minus thirty. Like clockwork. Then she locks fingers around my kinked digits and gives a squeeze. Her mouth transforms from grim line to vibrant, glittering smile as if she's a robot and somebody mashed the "on" button. On the other hand, I deepen my scowl. Ole angry Hump, the ornery octogenarian, a foil to Geneva's giddy stupidity. I'm a goddamn caricature, complete with hairy warts and eyebrows thicker than the Black Forest.

"Forty-five second, kiddos! Still got the thumb. We're gonna be finger poppin' in no time!"

Hump was in a reflective mood and his mind spun like a centrifuge. What them eggheads stuck those astronaut trainees in _The Right Stuff_ , the whirling thingajimb transforming faces into ripples of flesh...this was Hump's brain. Faster and faster. Faster than a man could fathom. Inordinate, unconnected reflections dovetailed into a greater understanding, one Hump caressed with clinical scrutiny. Then, like magic, everything would fold into itself and Hump would start over. Start over and try to make sense of the senseless. It was an impossible conundrum.

Like Director Goldman's thumb. Had it ever been down? If the network nixed the feed there was some type of contingency plan. Hump couldn't recall the specifics and he wasn't gonna ask. The bigger question was what insane act would preempt _Your_ _Morning Hump and Shower_? Short of nuclear war with the Krauts, nothing. Zilch. And even then...Geneva Shower would crawl from the holocaust like the Terminatrix and broadcast her sad, awful, uncomfortable and downright _scary_ nuclear war story. Somehow ole Hump would survive too. He'd be Geneva's testy lackey even after the world ceased operating in anything but an anarchist's wet dream. Hump and Geneva weren't goin' nowhere. They were roaches.

"Thirty seconds!"

Geneva's right hand slipped into Hump's as he scanned the crowd. Oh, they were a vibrant group. At least, they _looked_ vibrant between the diminutive gap of curtain. The women, of course, were Geneva's bread-and-butter. Yentas, cougars, the obese...seniors and Upper East Side gold-diggers with diamond rings and plastic faces. The men in the audience, few and far between, were Hump's age. Most donned Yankees caps and had vacant, Bataan Death March expressions. Like they'd seen Medusa or stared into the sun. No doubt tourists dragged to the show by their wives. Hell, maybe they did come to see Hump and his .256 lifetime batting average and .449 winning percentage. But why? He was a middling infielder, at best, and a lousy manager at worst. Or maybe it was the other way around. And as far as the current occupation went, Hump Hammerbacher knew he wasn't the showcase talent. He had a bit part, a utility player, just like the baseball days. But it counted for something, didn't it?

It was hard to define legacy at this point in the game. Hump came to the conclusion, long ago, his star would've fizzled if he hadn't been a tangential member of the Bronx Bombers and their famed "Murderer's Row". Matter of fact, there were many players who were better fielders and more disciplined hitters. But they got stuck on crap teams like the Metropolitans, and their careers faded into obscurity. Not Hump. He'd been blessed. And in '61, his second to last year in the Bigs, Humphrey H. Hammerbacher hit 52 homeruns...which _should've_ been a goddamn story except Hump's teammates, The Mick and Rog, caught headlines for a fierce, bat swinging rivalry of their own. The M&M Boys and their quest for dinger immortality. Well, it worked. Both Mantle and Maris were dead and Hump was thinking long and hard about them.

"Ten seconds, gang! Let's make it a good show!"

Geneva squeezed Hump's hand, smacked lips and then exercised her mouth. It was the same calisthenics she used every day to limber up for forty minutes of chatter.

Mikey, eyes glued to a wristwatch, announced, "Five, four, three, and two...one! Show time!"

***

Hump remembered the Saturn 5 launches of the late-60's, the roar and earthshaking blasphemy of rocket propelled travel. Long, arcing smoke trails etched across cerulean skies. A sight words did no justice describing. Blasting men to the moon was worth more than a cursory stare. Perhaps a standing ovation, but even this seemed an unworthy tribute to those shot into outer fucking space with a rocket strapped to their asses. In any case, the reception for the _Your Morning_ duo was _always_ excessive. Let's take a gander:

The curtain parts and the crowd stands, as one, whooping and baying. They've been tickled and stoked, first by the opening comic and then by overenthusiastic production interns. The comedians are declawed moms, neutered dads, and the occasional geriatric, yapping about anything and everything noncontroversial. Sponges, the school drop-off-zone, sundry household chores, etcetera, ad infinitum, you get the picture. But this nonsense is part of the fluffing. The interns crowding the floor were the other half of the equation. They took to screaming and clapping as if Hump and Geneva were the Second Coming. Their expressions resembled the same look of ecstasy a mother has when her kid makes a poo-poo in the pot. Or the exact face Hump presented when he produced more than a goddamn dribble of piss so effing yellow it looked like he drank a bushel of banana juice for breakfast.

"Wow!" Geneva gushes. She lifts Hump's hand and they toddle to the stage. Even though Hump's supposed to be grumpy, he drops the façade for a brief wink and denture-filled smile at the old farts purporting to be _his_ fans. Hump's worshippers deserved their moment of recognition. Lord knows they're going to endure Hell for the next hour.

"Wow!" Geneva repeats, guiding Hump to the chairs. Big, plush white cushions. A small table between them. Two cups of coffee. An intimate setting. Behind, plastered to the wall and airbrushed of particulates and smog, is the pristine skyline of the Big Apple. The monolithic Twin Towers stand beneath a bright sun. The rest of Manhattan sprawls behind until the island fades into a murky, undisguisable smudge of pixels. The tip of commerce to the misty stern of capitalism. And, in between, buildings (some tapered, some square); a billion glittering windows; patches of greenery, big and small; Times Square, bright with adverts and snarled traffic.

The applause continues as Hump falls into the recliner and wraps fingers around the handle of the mug. The coffee is lukewarm and acidic. It tastes like camel piss and looks like diarrhea. Hump reckoned, though he never tasted ungulate pee, the flavor was about the same.

"My!" Geneva exclaims, reaching for her drink. She blows on the top as if it is Hiroshima-scalding hot and then says, "My, what a crowd! So energetic!"

Somebody whoops and the audience laughs.

Hump focuses on the cue cards, indecipherable in the inundation of bright light, and buckles in for the ride. _Your Morning Hump and Shower_ had four distinct segments. Part One, better known as "Greet-and-Meet", was a ten-minute recap of the previous day, weekend, holiday...a pithy summary of any news transpiring in the interim between the end of the last show and the beginning of the next.

Well, not just _any_ news. There was no political jawing on _Your Morning_. No sir. Nobody in the _Your Morning_ demographic wanted to be bothered by the trendy mudslinging and hijinks occurring in D.C. and around the world. There were other channels to accommodate those fickle intellectual palates. As for current events, only celebrity gossip was bandied. Hump knew so little of popular culture, he was better suited to explain the physics behind how a helicopter could fly. It'd be _far_ more interesting than hearing Geneva carp about the latest celeb to run afoul of the law, or get knocked-up, or divorced, or caught cheating.

Once-in-a-while they talked about weather, but it had to be bland and inoffensive lashings of a hormonal Mother Nature. Tornadoes were off limits unless they didn't kill anybody. Floods and forest fires were given greater leeway. Most of the chatter centered around seasonal activity. In the winter, conversation veered to snow and cold weather. The colder the better. If it was freezing in Florida, it was Big News. And in the summer, it was always the heat. Hot in the South, the West, the North...hot everywhere.

"Guess the holiday recharged batteries!" Geneva proclaims. "I wish I had their zip. And speaking of spunk: lookit the man next to me! How was your holiday, Hump?"

"I love Memorial Day," Hump declares. "How could anyone find fault honoring the warriors who gave the _ultimate_ sacrifice for our freedoms?" The declaration earns a smattering of applause but Hump isn't through: "I know it ain't _politically correct_ to pay homage to the military, but them protesters, both sides, should take a moment and give thanks."

"Now, Hump, let's not get crabby," Geneva scolds. "I don't want to start the week with you whistling like a teakettle."

"I'm tellin' it like it-"

Geneva puts her right hand on Hump's left knee and talks to him as if he's a naughty youngster. "We're not going there, bulldog. If you're not careful, Goldman will send you to time out."

"Alright," Hump grumbles. "But you asked, woman."

"Did you fight in World War Two?" Geneva inquires as she brings the lip of the mug to her lips.

Hump flinches and asks, "How old do you think I am?"

The audience chuckles and Geneva squawks, "How am I supposed to know? I mean...the war was a long time ago! Good gravy!" She stares into the nearest camera and then says, "In case you're new to the show, I'm not a history _kind of sewer_."

"Darn tootin'," Hump mutters.

The crowd laughs and Geneva presents a pained expression. "Hump," she admonishes, setting the mug on table, "how do you expect me to keep all the wars straight? I can't even remember what day it is. When did World War II end?"

"Jeez O'Pete! One of the defining moments of the last century and-"

"Am I alone in confusion?" Geneva asks the crowd. A few heads remain fixed in place, some shake, but the majority nod in agreement.

"1945," reports Hump. "World War Two ended August of '45."

"Got it," says Geneva, tapping her melon. "1945. Committed to memory."

"You said the same thing last year."

"Did I? Oy vey. I'd blame a case of the Mondays, but it's Tuesday." The audience titters as Geneva cranes her neck and says, "Say, Goldman?"

"You summon," the Director answers.

"Which war did your father fight in?"

"He served in the Chinese Conflict. 1959 to '65. Two tours, including the Dabie Mountain Campaign."

"Holy Scholes!" Geneva screeches. "A true patriot. You weren't in China, were you Hump?"

"I wasn't so...lucky. My number was called in the summer of '62, but I took a fastball to the noggin' and got stamped 4-F," Hump reports with contrived angst. However, he was anything but tormented. _This_ son of a Mississippi sharecropper had zero beef with the Reds in China. Hump wanted to play ball, not shoot Orientals, and God granted a modicum of clemency otherwise absent from the downtrodden Hammerbacher clan. The fact this reprieve was delivered because Hump had been knocked senseless by an errant pitch from an old chum named Puss Delano sweetened the delicious irony.

Moreover, Hump's big brother, Henry, did enough whoring and warring when he visited Europe. What did Hank get? Nothing but crabs, wounds and a drinking problem. And Hump's old man, by-the-by, was a Bonus Marcher. In the summer of '32, before Hump was a twinkle, Pa and 54,000 other World War I veterans marched on D.C. and demanded Uncle Sammy make good on service vouchers. _But yer Uncle Sammy didn't want to pony on account of the economical situation_ , Pa recounted in a bitter voice (more often than not, the old man was a couple sheets and a _mite_ tetchy when spinning the yarn). Pa continued: _yew'd presume it was our fault the damn government went broke. Coolidge claimed, 'patriotism bought and paid for ain't patriotism'. Why the hell else would anybody go to war? Out of the goodness of their hearts?_

O'course, Hump didn't have a snappy rejoinder. Not when he was knee high with baseball on the brain.

Them Bonus Marchers, branded communists and convicts for the temerity to ask for cash, got shot at by the same U.S. Army they once filed lockstep with in Belleau, Château-Thierry and other hellish milieus. MacArthur was a _goddamn rat bastard_ (Pa's drunken words) and, as it turned out ten years later, better suited to routing bedraggled vets from Hooverville's than defending the Philippines from the Japs.

Pa Hammerbacher was as apolitical as a coonhound but one thing was certain: if MacArthur won the '56 election, the old man would've marched to the White House in a Brewster Body Shield wrapped in Mills bombs. Pa was serious, too. Hump never saw the old man so agitated. Even worse, Pa didn't have body armor or grenades scattered around the homestead. Which meant Pa'd do the deed in dusty overalls, armed with a beat-to-shit Auto-5. But it didn't come to this because the fancy pants Harriman eked out a-

"Earth to Hump," Geneva interrupts.

Hump clears his throat and then rattles, "Just reminiscing."

"Digging through the cobwebs, eh? I thought you drifted into the Twilight Zone."

"I'm driftin' through sumptin."

"How old you were when World War Two ended? Seventeen? Eighteen?"

"Hells bells, I was eleven when the Japanese surrendered."

"Eleven! Goodness. I can't picture a wee Hump," Geneva says, as she scrunches her nose and shakes head.

"My brother, Henry, God rest his soul, served in the army," Hump says, pausing to let the audience slap paws. "Drafted in '42. Participated in the Normandy Landing and the Ardennes Campaign."

"Now you're speaking gibberish, Hump."

"He was a party to Patton's Boondoggle and-"

"Okay, Hump, I didn't expect the _War and Peace_ rendition!"

" _And_ ," Hump growls, "my brother Henry was wounded in action. A fifth of his company were killed. Memorial Day is for men like Henry and those who weren't as fortunate. It's for all them guys, and gals, who don't get squat for their sacrifice. The _least_ the rest of us could do is say thanks."

"Hear, hear," Geneva seconds with a staid expression. "Well said, Hump. See, the man is a big softy at heart."

Once more applause and Hump nods, placated by the approval.

"My holiday was hectic," Geneva admits, as if couldn't be any other way. And it couldn't because, with eight kids, there was no way to avoid chaos. She shat an ankle-biter every year, meaning Hump had been privileged to endure three pregnancies. It seemed Geneva relished the attention of having babies and the hardships of motherhood. She got lucky with the last rug rat. He was a goldmine of melodrama. Little Jaydyn was born with a heart defect and almost died about a million times in the NICU. The constant updates became a staple of _Your Morning_ for months. More than a few times, Hump wondered if the story was contrived. He felt awful for thinking as much, but damn if Geneva didn't milk this cripple cow.

"Hectic?" Hump scoffs. "Your maid call in sick or sumptin?"

"Oh, now you're not being fair, Humpster," Geneva reprimands while wagging a finger at the cohost. "I'll have you know, Rosalina had the weekend off and I handled _everything_ for our summer kickoff party!"

"Yeah? Did you burn down your castle baking cookies?"

"It went great, mister, except it was _so_ cold this weekend! Isn't Memorial Day supposed to usher in warm weather? It was freezing on Montauk. Hump, my teeth were chattering! What the heck is with this weather?"

"You want cold? Try playin' opening day in Cleveland during a blizzard."

"Not another baseball tale," Geneva says with a crumpled face. "I can't handle any more of your tongue-flapping. Besides, _I_ was talking about my party. I dug my parka out of the closet because..."

On and on, she uncoils a languid scroll of misadventure: the food was undercooked. Geneva's husband, a lithe dark-skinned actor named Eduardo, ran out of propane for the grill. The pool couldn't be used because it was _so cold_. The kids stayed inside and watched television while the adults shivered beneath overcast skies.

"It didn't feel like Memorial Day," Geneva concludes. "It felt like Christmas. I kept looking for Santa and his sleigh!"

Director Goldman materializes from behind a light stanchion, holds two fingers aloft and then waves the digits.

"Well," Geneva says, crossing legs, "enough woe for one morning. We've a great show. The talented actor, Wallis Benoit, is here. You're familiar with his work, aren't you?"

"Of course," Hump snuffles. Who wasn't? _Sir_ Wallis had portrayed a wide range of characters. Nazis, wizards, inanimate objects...his last role, the voice of a cartoon broom, had been so well-received, it _almost_ made people forget Sir Wallis got caught snorting coke off the bum of a Qantas flight attendant. In the loo of the airplane. While the FA was on duty. Now, Hump had been in plenty of airplane lavs. Most of 'em were too small to do anything but pop a squat. Turning around was like playing Twister. How the ever-loving hell had Sir Wallis managed to pretzel the girl in such a way he could inhale a fine white powder from her ass cheek? And why hadn't Sir Wallis locked the door? Did he want to get caught? These were the questions Hump wanted answers to. But he wouldn't get them because Geneva wasn't asking _those_ questions.

" _And,_ we have Chef Paul," Geneva says. "Back after a month in Borneo."

" _Ooohh_ ," the crowd moans.

Chef Paul Castino was a favorite. Cheerful, loud, bombastic, the fat Italian brought enough food to feed the crew and studio audience. He was also spotless and beguiling. Not a blemish on his background. His vice was food, and he wore this badge without compunction. Hump had once seen the Chef eat four giant pieces of prime rib, twenty country style ribs, and a piece of peach cobbler topped with a scoop of ice cream. At the end, Castino trumpeted a confection of tart belches and nose hair singing farts.

"Chef Paul has brought goodies!" Geneva cries.

Goldman lowers one finger and makes a twirling motion with the raised index. Sixty seconds to commercial. Then, after four minutes of make-up, touch-ups and hair fluffing, it was onto Part 2, or Se _gment Two_ in official parlance. Another ten minutes of discussion, but the topics were geared for Hump's tactful opinions. It was _the_ moment Hump took centerstage.

Matter of fact, most of Part 2 was a platform to showcase the latest "base brawl", "beanball war", "brushback pitch", "message sent"... _whatever_ clever term one used to describe the act of _intentionally_ throwing a baseball at someone. Hump had no problem with the behavior but, back in his day, pitchers in the American League batted too...which meant they faced retribution at some point. With the advent of the designated hitter, hurlers in the Junior Circuit didn't have to step a toe into the batter's box. And _that_ was straight up bullshit.

For some unexplained reason, the audience of postmenopausal women loved seeing grown men chuck cowhide stitched spheres at each other. The subsequent pushy-shovie escapades, narrated by Hump to "Yakety Sax", would elicit raucous laughter. It was a tried and true formula, repeated every time two teams tangled. Given the season was 162 games, it was a gift that kept giving. Six months of gold, with little preparation needed. During baseball's offseason, Hump would stumble through a cavalcade of basketball, football or hockey highlights before deadpanning to the camera, _"Jeez O'Pete, I can't wait for baseball season!"._ It was a running gag on the show, repeated all winter until the Boys Of Summer took the diamond in spring.

Yes, the baseball season was Hump's wheelhouse and, when he wasn't describing the latest brawl, he spent an inordinate amount of time complaining about the Yankees and, sometimes, the Metropolitans...although...well, sir, Humphrey Hammerbacher didn't have much to say about the Mets. They were the ugly stepchildren from Queens with a stadium sitting on the putrid banks of Flushing Bay. Airplanes from LaGuardia passed overhead like clockwork, one every five minutes, blanketing the crowd with whining jet engines.

Though the Metropolitans managed to win two world championships in their fifty-five years of existence, Hump reasoned the Almighty threw even the mangiest dog a bone from time to time. Watching the '69 team celebrate was bad enough, but the hopheads from '86 made a mockery of baseball. Beyond these aberrations, the Mets had been losers from the get-go. Their creation had been a pathetic attempt by fancy pants Commissioner Ford Frick to return a National League club to New York City after the Dodgers and Giants bailed for the West Coast. In Hump's opinion, the Yankees were more than enough to keep the Big Apple satiated. But no, the plucky Mets were shoved down throats like a sandwich of shit.

To generate interest in the expansion team, Mets ownership lured Casey Stengel, Hump's former manager from the Yankees, out of retirement. The Old Professor deserved a better fate than supervising those bums...though, to be fair, Stengel often slept on the bench during the games. And for good reason! The '62 Mets finished with 40 wins against 120 losses, 60.5 games out of first place. After breaking a hip during the 1965 season, Stengel called it a career for good. Poor Casey endured three and a half miserable seasons with the Mets. Most people forgot Casey skippered the Yankees to seven World Series Championships and ten American League Pennants. All anyone seemed to remember were the Old Professor's dreadful years with the other New York squad. The Mets didn't deserve wasted breath. Not at all.

However, things had taken a nasty turn the previous afternoon at Corona Park. Today, 30 May 2017, Hump had _a lot_ to say about the Mets. To Hump's delight, the 2017 season was becoming an unmitigated disaster for the team in the standings. And yesterday Mr. Met, the stupid mascot with the head of a giant baseball, flipped the Italian digit to a section of taunting fans. Someone in the jeering throng captured the moment on their phone and Mr. Met became a symbol for everything wrong in America. Hump had crafted a delicious monologue to roast both mascot and drunken baboons. It would be a thing of linguistic and synergistic beauty, what the audience expected from the grumpy codger. A scorched earth of flummoxed facial expressions and rabid castigation of all parties involved in this shameful display.

After Part 2, and for the remainder of the show, Hump could nod off (and sometimes did) as the guests posed, pouted and postulated. On occasion, a real honest-to-goodness entertainer made an appearance. Kevin Spacey, Paul Newman (before he died), Robert Redford...but the Sinatra-esque showmanship, the Cary Grant suavity...those classy dispositions were far-and-far between. Most of the time it was a caravan of vapid personalities belonging to a generation Hump couldn't relate. He tried, but they looked at him with blank expressions. To them, Hump was a relic...a conjured future they didn't want to behold. So scary, this process of aging. You know it's comin', but Father Time cannot be stopped. Hump recalled being a young man and seeing baseball legends, once vibrant, reduced to wrinkles and bent backs. Aging was an abstract notion and young Hump wondered what it was like to be hoary and brittle. It was an imminent front he didn't want to envision.

For better or worse, though, Hump had negotiated 83 years of life. Or so the calendar alleged. Sometimes he wondered if this inhabited future wasn't a daydream produced during a sit in the clubhouse during a rain delay: jaded, he'd close eyes, let mind drift, and find himself fifty odd years later. Kinda like the spaceman in the bizarre Kubrick flick...the fella moved from middle age to deathbed in the span of seconds. Maybe Hump was a time travelling, multi-dimensional entity.

But, if Hump's future was a fabrication of a bored imagination, everything he educed couldn't be factual. Therefore, which world was he living in? He'd study wrinkled hands, then flex 'em while running his tongue over false teeth. Meanwhile, the brain prickled with recollections both pleasant and torturous. He hadn't invented a lifetime of memories. Matter of fact, it was the opposite. The millions of regrets a man carries thru decades begged for alternate realities to be explored and embraced.

Regardless, at the end of these sojourns he was right back where he started and it wasn't in the clubhouse waiting for the rain to subside.

Well, one thing was certain: Hump may have been old, but he wasn't a damn cripple. Still had a head of hair and use of all functions and facilities. So what if the prostate didn't want to cooperate on occasion? This was an inconvenience but nothing worth bellyaching about. Oh, and his joints ached. The doctor claimed it was _normal wear-and-tear for a man your age_ and prescribed pain medication. Hump didn't like consuming the big white pills. They made him dizzy and constipated.

Goldman raised five fingers and began a countdown. Hump swam from the depths of recollection, gutted another splash of the disgusting swill, and tried not to grimace.

"A packed show," Geneva promises as Director Goldman makes a slicing motion across his Adam's apple. "Oh-oh, Hump. I'm getting the sign. Going long again, aren't I, Goldman?"

"Go to commercial," Goldman squawks off-camera in a fussy, put-upon voice. The audience _oohs_ and the contrived tension, a daily occurrence between director and yippy Geneva, has worked once again.

Geneva embellishes a pout, rubs her forehead, and then says, "Aye yai yai. Looks like Goldman woke on the wrong side of his bed, Hump. Back in a minute, folks."

# 2. Hump's Day

With perfect timing, the horn on the table next to Hump blew as the program went to commercial. Annoyed, he glowered at the phone and wondered why it was necessary to have a landline he never used.

_Because,_ the strident head nurse specified.

And because _because_ was one of them impossible to argue maxims, Hump could conjure no witty rejoinder.

But, bless her heart, the nurse added a smidge of explanation in a singsong voice reserved for toddlers and the simple-minded: _All rooms must have a working telephone installed. It's the rules, Humphrey. We wouldn't want to break the rules, would we?_

Well, he'd show them. Hump would never answer the goddamn thing. _Ever_. And though sitting through a dozen rings was annoying, there was a price to be paid for _making a point_. Problem be, the resonating clatter destroyed concentration. Hump was no longer in the _zone_. He was outside the box. Relapsing into reality.

Geneva and the polished pretty boy were back from commercial wonderland, gussied, spry and recaffinated. And there was Hump looking like a braindead chump: staring at the screen, back hunched, a forehead knotted in wrinkles, damn near drooling. Apes in Africa, the first in the _theoretical_ evolutionary progression, prolly gazed at stars in the same manner. Except their humpsticks weren't aching to touch the cosmos and smear Humpsickle sauce all over the ether. Yes, tawdry as it sounds, Hump wanted to spackle Geneva Shower. And yes, he knew what this made him: a creepy old man.

Hump had been watching _Live! This Morning!_ for three years. No, not three years of _continuous_ watching. Let's not get crazy. There'd been a period Hump weaned himself of the stupid show. This lasted, oh, eight months between September 2016 and late April of the current year. He cut the manacle of obsession clean, like a circus strongman snapping a lintel, and swore fidelity to other timewasters. He tried tackling a Dickens tome left like garbage in the recreation room of his new home. _The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit_ , it was titled. Well sir, it didn't take long for Hump to comprehend why the book had been abandoned, and why it smelled like mothballs. Hump was no scholar, but he understood what Mr. Dickens implied about America in his lofty English vernacular:

So maimed and lame, so full of sores and ulcers, foul to the eye and almost hopeless to the sense, that her best friends turn from the loathsome creature with disgust.

Sour grapes, Hump surmised with a contemptuous snort. Plus, he knew a few things about writing after reading the _Times_ for so many years. The word _that_ was superfluous, a crutch for the lamebrained. Dickens may have been celebrated, but Hump surmised all them snooty critics had their noses turned too high to see what was written on paper.

Being a minor celebrity at Shady Drive was also a nuisance. It wasn't a continuous harangue, but enough of Hump's peers knew who he was. Well, to be truthful, only _two_ people ever bothered Hump, but this is splittin' hairs. One of 'em, a cripple in a wheelchair named Joe Cavanaugh, had a touch of the dementia and mistook Hump for the late Dick Howser. This annoyance, one Hump didn't bother correcting after the first two dozen times, was remedied last March when Joe went tits up and joined the real Dick Howser in the spirit realm. The other fella, a retired postal worker a decade older than Hump, was _too_ damn lucid. He challenged Hump to games of Connect Four and Checkers, relishing each victory as if besting Hump was a monumental achievement. It wasn't, and Hump made sure the mailman knew as much, but the defeats irritated until Hump decided a new hobby was in order. Or...he could always return to an old one. His bouncy harlot could be summoned like a Genie with the push of a button every weekday, nine ante meridiem, Eastern Time. He resisted temptation, for a spell, avoiding Mrs. Shower like a boozer shuns a bottle. He didn't want to be a creepy old man. Jeez O'Pete, he didn't like _bein'_ an old man, never mind the creepy part of the equation. But there was nutin to be done about the old man variable. What Hump needed was an honest to goodness old man hobby. Sumptin tame and non-pornographic. Bird watchin' might suffice, or whittlin'. Hump had even seen _men_ knittin' in the rec room.

Then Hump discovered marijuana and, welp...you get the picture.

The phone stopped barking and Hump crossed arms. He fixated on the television as Sir Wallis meandered on stage, waving at the audience and then hugging Geneva. Hump's eyes narrowed and he scrutinized Sir Wallis's hands. What was this? The randy knight was tryin' to cop a feel of Geneva!

"Settle down, Humpster," Hump scolded in what could be described as an old man attemptin' to sound like a forty-year old woman.

"You ain't seen me unsettled yet, woman," Hump answered to the empty apartment.

***

Thing was, _Live! This Morning!_ used to be Carol's favorite show. She'd plant her butt on the couch every weekday morning at 8:55 sharp, catching the end of _Today_ , and sit with eyes glued to the idiot box until 10 bells. Into his study, where Hump perused old scorecards or the newspaper, the sounds of _Live!_ would permeate and sicken, penetrating the cloistered sanctuary with grating laughter and Geneva Shower's helium-like voice. The oak door was a futile barrier, sorta like usin' a sheet of the _Post_ to cover your head ifin you got caught outside when the Krauts started raining nukes. Hump weathered the _Live!_ fallout, with flummoxed bitching, but Carol ignored the griping. Over time, Carol's wretched hacking replaced Geneva's cheerful tenor. Hump joked the show was poisoning her, but it wasn't NBC but Virginia Slims doin' the heavy dosing.

So, there it was, this loud and strident buzzsaw of a cough. Denial, though, is a powerful adversary. Perhaps if Hump had been persistent and convinced his wife to see a specialist instead of doin' what he did, which was _nutin_ , she'd still be alive. Or, at the least, she might've lived a pinch longer. But he hadn't, and she didn't seem concerned until it was too late. Carol Hammerbacher's cells mutated and, instead of turning into the Incredible Hulk, she wasted to a pitiable stalk. And it wasn't quick-like. She suffered while the doctors futzed and tried make her right as rain. Her last breath, pushed out of the remaining sooty lung, left Carol's chapped lips thirteen months after the death sentence was pronounced.

Hump had encountered death before. Parents, brother, sundry extended family and friends...death wasn't new. He thought the worst grieving was in the past, soul twisting anguish unleashed when Howie disappeared, but nothing could prepare Hump for Carol's demise. Her shell, empty of essence, looked asleep. What once burned with heat and intimacy was now cold and inanimate. It seemed impossible he'd never talk to her again. Or look at her. Or engage in a million other things with the woman he loved. What was Hump supposed to do without her?

A few days after the funeral, in the throes of sorrow, Hump mixed a greyhound and turned on the tv 'round the time _Live! This Morning!_ entered homes across America. He rationalized watching the show was sumptin akin to paying tribute. Thurman Munson, when he died, got a stadium full of mourners. Even crusty ole Earl Weaver couldn't contain the waterworks. But, after the silence and then the standing ovation, there was a game to be played. Life went on. Hump would remember Carol by gettin' hammered and watching her favorite program one last time. And then...and then Hump would move on.

But move on to what? The reality was, Hump didn't know what to do with himself. The last two decades with his wife, after Howie vanished, had been...welp, _icy_ was a suitable description. There were intervals of warmth, and moments of closeness, but it wasn't like before. Carol stared into space a lot and avoided talkin' about _him_. Hump avoided the subject, too. They tiptoed around the Howie landmine and pretended the situation was a bad dream. Hump knew Carol grieved. Worse, there wasn't a thing he could do about it. There was no pinch hitter or relief pitcher to fill the role Howie vacated. Instead, she turned to booze, cigarettes and, for some reason, _Live! This Morning!._ Hump retreated into his own fortress, a lair built upon bourbon and baseball. At the end of the day, though, he could find Carol and she could find him. Now she was gone, forever, and he was on his own.

Well, he wasn't quite on his own. Sumptin happened the first time Hump watched _Live! This Morning!._ Tipsy and shedding tears, Hump got sucked into the vortex of mindless banter and frivolity. It felt good to let the mind go slack; hell, Hump guffawed a few times despite the anguish. But the supplementary chatter was just window dressing. What drew Hump's attention was Geneva Shower. Sure she be platinum-blond ditzy, but damn if she wasn't a _doll_. She made Hump's humper hard, and this was no small feat. Not even Carol could motivate Hump's humpstick like this, and Hump _loved_ his wife.

Hence, one could say Geneva Shower became Hump's obsession. Now, he would argue to the contrary and declare _Live! This Morning!_ was a distraction from grief and loneliness. Which it was...but only because he conjured daydreams so illicit, it'd be a crime to detail them in this narrative. Needless to say, no part of her body was immune to the sacrilege of Hump's once dormant sex drive. Geneva Shower was the embodiment of a kinky Fountain of Youth.

Hump, in moments of clarity, understood the demarcation between fact and fantasy. He _knew_ Geneva Shower wasn't speaking to ole, long-in-the-tooth, Hump Hammerbacher. Geneva's winks and smiles weren't meant _just_ for him. And, after three years without Carol, grief and loneliness was a mountain ascended, summitted and then descended. Back in the oxygen rich environment after scaling the Everest of bereavement, Hump made a brutal self-assessment:

Maybe it was the devil filling Hump's mind with illicit make-believe. The devil and its demons, the idiotic youth of today. Garnished in ink, earrings sprouting from innumerable body parts (including the humper and the humpin' hole!), disks in earlobes...purple hair! What in the hell was _that_ all about? Half of 'em were in love with members of the _same_ sex, for Christ's sakes! _And_ the other half were getting "gender reassignments". Loppin' off humpsticks, takin' hormones...tinkerin' with their God-given orientation. And them doctors were like a bunch of Nazi mad scientists. None of it made a lick of sense to Hump.

Back in Hump's day, the government would have identified these deviants and thrown them in a lunatic silo. Loose 'em amongst themselves, not let 'em roam the same streets as normal, Godfearing people. There was a big asylum in Jackson called the Welfare Facility. The locals and the law used to chuck moronic and tormented adolescents into the WF. Them kids didn't get released until they were right as rain. It worked just fine for Hump's generation. Things had changed in a _big_ way when the United States entered the 21st Century. Politicians, pundits, the public...the whole damn nation got looney. Was it any wonder Hump had been corrupted? How was it possible to avoid contamination? The _if you can't beat 'em, join 'em_ didn't qualify in this situation. It seemed there was a single, sane remedy: confinement among a community of like-minded peers.

Nine months ago (September 2016), Hump threw in the towel and took the plunge into assisted living. He'd deposit his old bones in a prison to keep the outside world, and its androgynous crazies, far away. If Hump was being honest, though, it was more than the perceived threat of epicene denizens compelling segregation. Without Carol, it made no sense to bounce around an empty home. There were ghosts about, too. Ghosts of Carol, Howie, Hubbie...all their years, good and bad. Memories, in other words. They spoke through the ether, cajoled with smells. Even the subtle tweak of baseboards elicited forlorn thoughts. Time didn't abandon the big house in Riverdale so Hump did.

As far as the dreaded "Old Person Home", Shady Drive wasn't bad. The food was decent and gummable, and a multitude of senior activities encouraged comingling. The Newburgh-New Windsor-Orange County big money clientele, and their refined sense of society, was a breath of fresh air from the fetid, choking cesspool of the Bronx.

There was one downside to moving: Hump didn't make it to many Yankees games. Last year he attended four. This year, and it was almost June, the grand total was zero. Getting to the stadium was the majority of the issue and, since Hump didn't drive anymore, chumming a ride with a resident and their family to visit the city seemed akin to panhandlin'. And you can bet your bippy Hump wasn't takin' public transportation. No way, Jose. But, come rain or shine, he'd make it to one contest in 2017.

It was the 60th anniversary of the 1957 AL Pennant Winning N.Y. Yankees and Hump was one of the few left from the team not rotting in the ground. On 30 July, there they'd be lined-up on the chalky first base line: Richardson, Terry, Kubek, Ford, Larson and Hammerbacher...tho the rumor was Whitey would be too ill to attend. Which left five...three of whom were confined to wheelchairs and a fourth riddled with arthritis. Hump, like it or not, was the healthiest of the quintet. As such, he'd been asked to throw the opening pitch.

This wasn't a trivial request. No sir. A matinee game on a Sunday would be full of spectators. Hump would've preferred the opponent be sumptin like Boston or Baltimore, but Tampa would have to suffice. Like Hump was an invalid, the young man from the front office suggested Hump chuck the ball from a spot halfway between the rubber and the plate. Toss it underhand, or roll it if you'd like, Hump was told. It was so damn ludicrous a suggestion, Hump about had a stroke. There was no way in hell Hump Hammerbacher was rollin' the ball like a marble to the catcher. Likewise, there'd be no Wilt Chamberlain-like granny shot. What kind of convoluted first pitch was this? Hump could hear the jeers in his head already. His teammates, even though they couldn't do better, would raze Hump without mercy. No, Hump was gonna deliver a flawless two seamer; he'd make the mitt pop and the catcher wince.

# 3. Hump 'n Grass

"You know, Geneva," Sir Wallis says, rolling the "G" in her name with gusto, "my Shakespearean role in Coriolanus prepared me for the character of the rapscallion broom."

Geneva leans forward, touches Sir Wallis's knee and says, "Interesting. I would not have connected the two characters."

"Coriolanus, as you know, was banished from Rome and sought his Volscian foe Aufidius to end his life. This is not unlike Cornelius Corn Broom's request of Henrietta Hawk. The pulling of the broom's bristles would have killed Cornelius, but the sorghum..."

Hump's vision wavers as eyelids start to close. He has no clue what Wallis Benoit is yappin' about. Sumptin about Henrietta Hawk making a nest from Cornelius's desiccated body. How the hell does a broom talk? Where's the brain supposed to be? Why is Sir Wallis comparing someone named Mary Marshall Dyer to Agrippa Menenius Lanatus? What the ever-loving hell was going on?

"Oh no," Geneva says, "Hump is zoning out."

"I'm restin' my eyes," Hump rebuts. "You know I'm throwin' the first pitch on thirty July. I need to be right as rain."

"Then rest, Hump," Geneva implores, as Sir Wallis continues to chatter. "Imagine you're humpin' the most humptastic cheese to Gary Sanchez."

"Ayup, sweet pea," Hump says. "I'll bring the motherlode."

***

Every day this spring, no matter the weather, Hump was outside, grooving fat pitches to the young custodian and imagining throwing inside Yankee Stadium to the encouragement of thousands. Not a couple thousand, no...fifty thousand! But Hump wouldn't get steamrolled by the moment or distracted by adulation. Hump Hammerbacher would be all business. He'd take the mound, raise a hand, crack a smile, and then get to work.

Hump wasn't missing _that_ game. No, sir. The Yankees were sending a limo and giving him seats in a suite with the owner. He could even bring an acquaintance, but Hump wasn't sure who was a friend and who was pretending as much. Maybe...maybe he'd bring the custodian catcher. Janitor Jason reminded Hump of his oldest son, Howie, what with the long dark hair, tatty clothes and casual attitude. And, like Howie, Jason spoke in slang and displayed a profound indifference to most things. Some would argue this mannerism was a _nonchalant_ conceit; self-centered vanity. Once upon a time, Hump would've agreed. It was a maddening trait Howie cultivated through years of adolescence, a peculiarity Hump couldn't understand. The indifference to anything _important_ boggled and mystified. Later, he realized Howie's lackadaisical nature wasn't a personal affront. Moreover, Howie had passion for life...but, the boy's interests exceeded Hump's sphere of understanding.

In any case, Hump required a catcher. And he needed someone who wouldn't care how many times they were bonked on the shin or made to chase a wayward throw. Jason, part due to his slipshod deportment but most because he wasn't a _she_ , was the single person Hump felt comfortable approaching.

"Hey, pardner," Hump whispered as he sidled next to the custodian one afternoon in early April. "I was wonderin' if I could ask a favor."

The kid's name, _Jason G_., was stitched in red thread over the left front pocket of an untucked dungaree shirt decorated in a smattering of black and brown stains. He happened to be hangin' out in the rec room after lunch, watchin' a chess match between two crotchety residents.

"Yeah, pops," the kid mumbled, before wincing at a horrid move. "Ouch...did ya see what white did? Left his queen exposed."

"Listen, I was hopin' you could help me out."

Jason looked at Hump, blinked, and then said, "I'm on a lunch break, dude. If you need something fixed, Javy's on the clock and he'll-"

"Naw, nutin's broken. I was wonderin' if you'd play catch."

"Catch?"

"With a baseball."

"Baseball? With _you_?"

"Ayup. Catch with a baseball. I gotta couple gloves and-"

Jason laughed and then asked, " _You_ want to toss the ball, pops?" It wasn't the kid's slack jawed look of disbelief, nor the condescending chuckle, but more the insolent inflection triggering this haughty response from Hump:

"Listen, mister, I'm gonna be throwin' the first pitch at Yankee Stadium on thirty July. I need to start practicin'."

Jason had, no doubt, heard a fair amount of nonsensical chatter at Shady Drive. "Yankee Stadium, eh?" the kid asked, throwing an arm around Hump's shoulder. "What's your name?"

"Humphrey Hammerbacher. Call me Hump."

"Hump, huh? You know, _Hump_ , there are exercise classes. Chair yoga, air peddling, hand scrunches. Like, maybe this would be more your speed." The kid smiled, lifted eyebrows, and gave Hump a pat on the back.

"I'm serious," Hump said. "This ain't no joke."

"Yeah, I can see you're serious. But, um, like...you could hurt yourself, pops, and then I'd be on the hook."

"I ain't gonna hurt myself. I know how to throw, kid. Watch." Hump walked ten feet to a fruit basket sitting on a coffee table and grabbed a red apple. Then he juggled it in his hands like it was a resin bag and asked, "You ready?"

"Whoa, dude, you can't throw an apple here."

"Oh, I'm gonna throw. Question is, can you catch?"

"Alright, man, I get it. Just put the apple down before you break a window."

Hump smiled and then lobbed the fruit to the kid. "We'll start with soft toss," he said, walking to Jason. "Get my arm loose. You think I'm gonna try to cover sixty feet six on the first day?"

"Why sixty feet...oh, 'cause you're throwin' in the big house, right?"

"Ayup. I'll pay you. I want a half-hour of your time, four or five days a week."

"Naw, I don't want your money," the kid said, contemplating the fruit. Then he shrugged and said, "Alright, pops, I'll play catch. I'm going to warn you. I ain't much of a jock. Now, I can play video games like a champ. I built a dynasty with Wyoming on NCAA football, bro. Eight national championships in a row. _Eight._ And this was no junior varsity computer artificial intelligence. Heisman, baby."

"What the hell you talkin' about?" Hump asked with a frown.

"Here's the poop. I'm on the clock until four today. Bring your ball, your gloves, and we can throw. I'll give you grounders, some flyballs-"

"I don't need to work on fielding. I'm gonna pitch. You're gonna catch. Understand?"

"Hey, cool," Jason said. "Whatever, man. Meet me here at four, okay?"

"I'm a little rusty," Hump presaged. "Once I get warm, I'll be right as rain."

"Fair enough. I appreciate the warning. See you then, pops."

And so it went. A friendship was born and, as it turned out, this relationship paid _a lot_ of dividends.

'Round two weeks later, Jason turned Hump onto grass.

The first time Hump got stoned...well sir, it was like a million trumpets blaring through the noggin. Even the rapture was supposed to be less demonstrative than the ruckus a little grass stirred. Hump had a stuck toilet to thank for the encounter. Lunch hadn't quite agreed with the ole Humpster and he blew out the john something fierce. It wouldn't flush, no matter how many times Hump plunged (and he plunged a _long_ damn time), and, at last, he used the blower to contact housekeeping. The entire episode was embarrassing, and Hump sat in the recliner listening to the poor janitor shimmy fecal particles from their impacted home.

"Whoa, pops, you did a number on this one," Jason declared as he exited the bathroom. He was wearing blue latex gloves, stretched to his elbows, and a perplexed expression.

"Sumptin I ate didn't sit right."

"Uh-huh. You don't gotta tell me. Forget a Number Three. You did a Number Four. Taco Tuesday is always a hellacious day, but this is the icing on the cake. Or maybe not the icing. Looks like you enjoy copious lettuce with your enchiladas, he-he."

"Sorry," Hump said. "Eh...this is the first time something like this has happened."

"I'm just funnin', pops. Don't worry about it. So, _ahem_...I see you have all those pill bottles in there, lined up neat. It's none of my business but...holy cow, bro! Those opioids are bad news."

It was _none of his business_ , but Hump wasn't in the mood to tell the janitor a thing or two about privacy. The kid was being cordial and besides, he caught Hump every afternoon without so much as a gripe.

"Those opioids are bad news," Jason repeated before singing, " _Bad to the bone. Ba-ba-ba-ba-bad. Bad to the bone._ "

"My joints hurt," Hump said. "Sometimes I can't sleep. I used to play a little ball and the body took a beating. The back of a third baseman has more knots than a lumberjack's shoelace."

"Yeah, I know who you are. I'm not a Yankees fan. Matter of fact, I think baseball is _booorinnnng_. But, my old man loves the Yanks. When I came home the other night, I had all these bruises on my leg 'cause you're short hopping the ball and my dad's like, ' _where'd you get those bruises_?'. And I'm like, _'playing catch with a dude at the home'_. And he's, like, skeptical, you know? 'Cause me and him played catch a grand total of, like, five times. I never made it past t-ball because it was-"

"Let me guess? Boring?"

"Hells yeah! I hated it. This one time, I got stung by a bee and-"

Hump cleared his throat and then asked, "Is my commode right as rain? I don't mean to rush you, but I might be needin' to visit the head."

"Yeah, pops, the crapper is golden. But listen, long story short...when I told him your name he almost _died_ of laughter. My old man said you were the _worst_ manager the Yankees _ever_ had, he-he. Then he-"

"The worst?" Hump squawked. "Jeez O'Pete! A mite harsh assessment."

"Oh, the old man was fired up. Then he blabbered a bunch of nonsense about how stupid Steinbrenner was for hiring you all those times. He might as well have been speaking German, 'because I had _no_ clue what he was talking about."

"I had a rough go as manager," Hump admitted. "And _maybe_ Georgie was an imbecile for going to the Hammerbacher well four times too many."

"Who?"

"Steinbrenner."

"Like I said, I don't know anything about it. But, um, I believe you now."

"Believe what?"

"You know, the story about throwing out the first pitch."

"Ain't no story. Thirty July. I told ya."

"Look, I think it's cool you're famous and stuff, but to me you're just another old dude at the rest home."

"Shit, kid, quit blowin' air in my ear," Hump growled. "You're makin' me giddy."

"Okay, pops, try this on for size. My old man also said you were a dynamite third baseman and could hit the ball a mile."

"Yeah?"

"Swear to god."

"I had a couple of serviceable years until I got hurt."

"What happened?"

Hump leaned forward and presented the left side of his face in profile. "Took a fastball to the face in '62. Right here," he said, pointing a finger at pasty skin. "I ain't _ever_ been hit so hard, and I got plunked plenty batting behind Mantle, Maris and Kubek. Never was the same. I got scared of the ball. And I couldn't see straight for a month. Got awful headaches. Double vision. Started smellin' manure all the time. Darndest thing. The shit-smell went away, praise the Good Lord. Took about a month, but it left me in peace. Anyway, Puss Delano ended two careers when he went wild. Mine and his. Pussy's arm went to the crapper."

"Pussy?" Jason asked with a grin.

"Real name of Puissant. I played with him in the Sally League when we were fresh outta high school. Guy was fast as a flip top. Never got wild until he came to the Bigs. Nerves or sumptin. I seen it happen to a lot of fellas. Hell, butterflies in the gut ain't nutin. Some guys got blinded by the atmosphere. They couldn't see past their nose."

"Got hit in the face with Pussy," Jason giggled.

" _By_ Pussy."

"Same thing."

"When I was in the hospital, Puss came to see me. _Classy move_. He played for Cleveland and missed their team charter. Had to purchase a ticket on _his own dime_. Back then, this showed character. None of us were rollin' in dough. You know what I made in '62?"

"I don't know."

"Take a stab."

"Like...a hundred thou?"

"Tarnation!"

"Higher or lower?"

"One hundred?" Hump jeered. "Kid, in 1962, I made _twenty-five_ grand. And this was a pay raise! My first couple years with the Yankees, I was scratching by with the league minimum. Care to guess what it was?"

"Fifteen thou?"

"You ain't even close."

"Jeez..." Jason mumbled. "I guess...what do they call it? Like...the inflatable's gone up."

"I think you mean _inflation_. And it's gone _way up_ thanks to the Republicans. _And_ the Democrats. Not a one of them politicians knows bupkes about earnin' a livin'. You know our currency is worthless? Whatcha call _fiat_ , kid. The dollar's value is what the government _says_ it is. We used to have a gold standard. And a silver one. Then came the Goldwater shock. You follow?"

"Man, I have no clue what you're talking about."

Hump blew a raspberry and then said, "You best get familiar."

"What'd you make, pops?"

"Huh?"

"The...what you call it? League minimum. I guessed fifteen grand. You said, _ain't even close_. What was it?"

"Six thousand," Hump announced.

"Six?"

Hump nodded and said, "I sent most of it to my old man, too. During the offseason, I sold insurance at Travelers. I'd have been living in a cardboard box if I didn't peddle bond indemnification."

"I thought baseball players were all, like, loaded."

"The ones today sure are. They're reapin' what us old timers fought years to make possible. Players had little leverage with the owners until free agency. My generation took all the lumps so guys like Alex Rodriguez could make a mockery of the game and slap balls out of gloves. Baseball's changed, kid. Steroids, Orientals...instant replay. O'course, when I was breakin' into the Bigs, them negroes were gettin' integrated. Let me tell you, _a lot_ of people were complainin' about the blackies. And don't be thinkin' it was the Southern boys carryin' a chip on their shoulder. Plenty of white fellas in the North don't like Sambos."

"Sambos?"

"'Nother word for negro."

Jason grimaced and then said, "I get you are old school, but _negro_ and _oriental_ went out of fashion a few decades ago, pops. And I've _never_ heard of Sambo."

"Goes back a bit, I reckon."

"Just, like...cool it with the derogatory terms."

"I ain't a Nazi or anything," Hump argued. "I'm tellin' it like it is."

"Good to know, but let's try to be a little more...P.C."

"You think I'm bad? Jeez O'Pete! I grew up in the south, pardner. Born in Winona, Mississippi."

"Um...I'm sorry, I guess."

"Sorry?" Hump cried, jutting chin. "What I'm sayin', smartass, is I've heard _way_ worse than the word _negro_. You know who Bull Conner was? Theo Bilbo? James Eastland?"

"Nope, nada, no _fucking_ way."

"Them fellas were cops and politicians. And they were Kluckers."

"What the hell is a Klucker?"

"Ain't you heard of the Klan?"

"The KKK?"

"Ayup. The Ku Klux-"

"Yeah, I've heard of the Klan. They're the rednecks who wear sheets and burn crosses."

"Don't let the foot soldiers fool you. The Klan is more than a few inbred dirt farmers in bedspreads. When I was growin' up, a whole mess of _important_ people, so called, were Kluckers. How cordial do you think the Kluckers were?"

"Okay, don't get in a twist. I wasn't insulting your heritage or whatever you call it. I'm, like, trying to encourage you to be mindful of your language. Fair enough?"

"My heritage? Before you start givin' me grief, I'll tell you a couple things. One, Pa Hammerbacher wasn't a Klucker, my brother Hank wasn't a Klucker, and Hump Hammerbacher isn't a Klucker. Two, I was the son of a sharecropper. You know where sharecroppers stand in the pecking order? Poor _German_ sharecroppers? The Hammerbachers' weren't much better off than them Sam...er...them blackies."

Jason removed the gloves, dropped them into a bucket, and then said, "Wonderful. Thing is, I have work to do and we're chewing the fat. Here's the deal: I have something a whole lot better than the junk Big Pharma is shoving down your throat."

"What?"

"This has to be our secret," Jason said, all sneaky-like. "We could get in trouble if the wrong person found out."

"The hell you have?"

"You have to promise not to blab."

"To who?"

"Anybody. I wouldn't be offering if I didn't trust you, but I need to make sure you understand. Do I have your word?"

Intrigued, Hump grunted and then asked, "You have directions to the Fountain of Youth?"

"This is better. Edibles, pops. Vitamins you eat. Brownies, gummy bears, eh? Sounds good, doesn't it? Made from all natural, mother-loving, THC."

"I don't know what THC is, but there's no way I'm buying herbal supplements with mystery ingredients. I watch the television. _60 Minutes_ ran a story about alternative medicine. No thanks. Peoples organs rot inside 'em and shrivel. Their livers look like raisins."

"Get out of here," Jason said with a dismissive snort. "

"Hand to God. I'm not taking a supplement. They're toxic."

"I'm not selling supplements. You've heard of marijuana, haven't you?"

"Grass?"

"Shh...lower your voice," Jason warned. "Grass, weed, Mary-J...whatever you wanna call it, is a healthy way to manage pain. A little goes a long way. You can smoke it, eat it-"

"Jeez O'Pete, do you think I was dropped from the moon? I lived through the sixties, kid. I don't need the play-by-play." However, Hump had never smoked grass. In the 50's, the only thing players ingested was alcohol and speedies. The substances worked in concert with each other with alarming effectiveness. Too hungover, pop a couple benzos. Too jazzed, have a couple pops. And riding the bench for the majority of his first four years in the Bigs meant Hump watched _a lot_ of baseball. No matter how much a man loved the sport, there was only so much baseball a fella could scrutinize before getting bored. The benzos were distributed like candy and Lord if they didn't make time move and groove.

***

But grass...grass didn't come along until the mid-60's. Hump had retired at the beginning of '63 and the Yankees were owned by the Central Broadcasting System, which meant it was a corporation run by stodgy fat cats lighting cigars with hundred-dollar bills. Not one CBS honcho bothered to give Hump a handshake and an atta boy. The lack of appreciation stung, worse than the Spaulding smacking him in the jaw, and Hump thought long _and_ hard about leaving baseball for good. In hindsight, he should've. Howie was two then, a long way from the kid he became, and enjoyed swinging the bat and playing catch. Boy had a good-looking cut. Hump could've stayed home, peddled insurance or sold cars, and worked with his son. Instead, he chose to work with strangers.

A former playing buddy named Billy Shantz had landed a job as fielding coach with the new Class A Fort Lauderdale Yankees. They needed a hitting coach, Shantz told Hump. Then he added, ' _It's Florida, it's baseball, it's Single A, so nobody gives a shit.'_ Though Hump didn't know spit about coaching, it beat the alternative of selling insurance and sitting in an office. He didn't even have to do much arm twistin' to convince Carol the idea was solid.

Well, Billy Shantz's sentiment wasn't quite accurate. The players cared because they had scouts to impress. They didn't want to be humpin around the Deep South in July and August for another season. And (a huge _and_ in the big scheme of things), they didn't want to get released because getting released meant good ole Uncle Sammy would come knocking. And when Sammy knocked, it meant you got the opportunity to kill or get killed by oriental commies. Thus, the players cared _a lot_.

The club's owner, a swarthy dwarf named Rocco Kaplin, was an amusing caricature of greaseball bravado and shrewd Jew penny-pinching. Rocco also cared. _A lot_. The '63 Class A Yankees were a mediocre team and drew, on average, a third of the sweaty butts required to fill the 8,300 seat Fort Lauderdale Stadium. Rocco was disgusted by the low attendance and uneven play, in this order, and made short work of three managers before the season concluded. Left standing after the purges were Billy Shantz and Hump.

Now, mind you, Rocco was no fan of Germans and Hump was one-hundred percent Kraut. From appellation to blond hair and blue eyes, Hump stood an impressive six feet five and towered over the diminutive owner. Rocco, however, wasn't dismayed.

"I keep you around, Hammerbacher," Rocco said, "because you _is_ scary. The moment you stop being scary is the moment you cease being useful. When you _isn't_ scary..." Rocco made a slicing gesture across his throat and then leered. No further explanation was required.

Shantz was christened manager. Hump became the plucky sidekick. The squad captured back-to-back Florida State League Championships in '64 and '65. Attendance multiplied. Rocco Kaplin slapped backs and counted cash. All was right in this section of the universe.

Hump liked to think he had something to do with the success. Maybe he did, or _maybe_ the Yankees drafted well. _Maybe_ Billy Shantz was a pretty good manager. _Maybe_ Hump was in the right place, at the right time, and _maybe_ those factors meant more than whatever Hump Hammerbacher contributed. Or, _maybe_ , Hump was hard on himself years later when things weren't so hot. The kids playing Single A ball, fresh out of high school, college, or the military, were respectful and coachable. They listened and said, _Yes sir;_ they said, _Yes, Coach Hammerbacher, I'll quit dropping my elbow. And I'll get my body into the swing. I'll unwind like a rubber band and smash the ball to Neptune the next time I'm up._ They listened because Hump was a good teacher and, _maybe_ , a little scary. The grown men Hump managed later were belligerent, pouty, and acted like brats. These prima donnas weren't interested in tidbits or tales, and they laughed when Hump glowered.

Had he known the future, Hump would've planted roots in Fort Lauderdale. At least, he convinced himself of so much malarkey. He convinced himself things would've turned out different.

Maybe.

But he wasn't living another life. He was living this one. And, in this reality, people paid to notice things like spunky young managers took a shine to Billy Shantz. In '67, Billy graduated to Class AAA to manage the Syracuse Chiefs; Hump was given command of Fort Lauderdale. The team hovered in the top of the standings for two years until Hump got the call from upstairs. Old chum and ex-teammate Billy Martin, now managing the Minnesota Twins, needed an assistant coach. Martin wanted Hump and, without hesitation, Hump went. He followed the rudderless Martin to Texas, Detroit, Oakland and, at last, the New York Yankees. Along the way, Billy Martin burned every bridge he crossed until the last one standing led straight into the Big Apple and the lair of another shrewd owner named George Steinbrenner.

Point being, Hump had seen plenty of drugs consumed by Major Leaguers in an assortment of locales. Though it took a while, grass became a prominent staple. The longhairs and blacks smoked copious amounts. Billy Martin's choice of deadening agent was alcohol, and boy did Billy Martin _love_ to drink. The feisty Italian got traded from the Yankees in '57 because he damn near caused a riot in the Copacabana. Billy was a _bad_ influence. So bad even The Mick avoided partying with Billy Martin, and this was saying something 'cause Mickey Mantle drank with _everyone_. Eight months with Billy Martin was an eternity in drunk years. Multiply this by over a cumulative decade of running with Billy and the effect was like humping an atom bomb without a rubber: insides ached, hair thinned, skin turned yella and urine looked like mud.

The potheads were a low-key group; the boozers their polar opposites. In between were the cokeheads and they were hyper, unbalanced, and impossible to coach. By the time Hump took the reins of the Yankees in 1982 (the first time, it should be noted), the hopped-up players contrived deafness. It was a wonder _anyone_ could talk to them. Some called this a _generational gap_ and these folks coddled their problem children. Hump couldn't believe a skipper would let a clubhouse become a ship steered by an addled crew, but the squads tasting success were run by managers who did little but sit on their hands and look the other way. There were exceptions to the rule, of course. Tom Kelly and Dick Howser wouldn't have put up with rampant drug use. In those cases, it came down to coaching and intangibles Hump lacked. Like luck. Then there were the steroids and...and it wasn't like Hump obsessed about it, but he did. Sometimes and often.

The moral to this story: Hump comprehended it was better to have a team of whiffers than cokeheads or boozehounds.

***

"Alright," Jason said. "If you've heard of Mary, you know it's good for you."

"Whadda ya mean _good_?"

"Doctors are prescribing weed to treat pain. Hell, even the People's Republic of New York has made medicinal Mary legal. I mean, the voters approved it, you dig? Democracy in action. I got my card six weeks ago and-"

"Your card?"

"Weed card. I slipped a disk in my back doing a stunt on a skateboard. Landed on a concrete stanchion. Gumby I ain't, he-he. Turned out to be a blessing in disguise."

"You don't look gimpy."

"Voila! The power of alternative medicine." Jason bent at the waist, touched toes, and then straightened with a smile. "My doc is a genius. Who'd have thought a guy working out of a strip mall in Astoria would be the Miracle Worker?"

"He gives you grass?"

"Not give. _Prescribes._ "

"For your back, eh? Which appears right as rain."

"Oh, it gets ornery on occasion. I get these wicked spasms right before I see Doctor Feelgood."

Hump snorted, presented the kid with a hairy eyeball, and then said, "Uh-huh. Sure you do."

"Fuck ya! I'm knotted like a lumberjack's bootlace. Now, this, um...this _medicine_ isn't the smoky, smoky type. Bad for the lungs, you know. I get 'em in-"

"I've heard it ain't the lungs one needs worry about. Makes a man loopy, doesn't it?"

"Hell, pops, you know what those opioids do? They're heroin in pill form."

"Tarnation!" Hump exclaimed. "Heroin?"

"Hand to God. Weed, grass...whatever you want to call it, is a _suitable_ way to manage pain, anxiety or whatever ails. Opioids, on the other hand...whew, they are the devil's palliative. Your fancy doctor is just a dealer with a diploma, passing junk he knows you'll keep craving."

"I don't crave 'em. Them pills make me want to puke."

"But down the throat they go. You know why? 'Cause you don't have a choice. Until now."

"Why don't you take me to your doctor and let me talk to him."

"Don't trust me?"

"You're a salesman. I need to chat with a professional."

"Um, like...Doctor Feelgood is...lowkey. Besides, you don't want to go all the way to Astoria."

"So, you're saying I don't need a prescription?"

"Pops, you ask too many questions. I take care of the business," Jason said, pointing at his chest. "And you," he added, stabbing Hump in the right forearm with a finger, "take care of the chillaxing. It's easier this way. Getting script can be an exodus through red tape. Proper healthcare is not streamlined. The government-"

"I get it, kid. What you're doin' ain't legal."

"Shit, close enough."

"Close enough? What do you mean?"

"Pfft. Mary is _legal_ in New York, okay? It's just not, um...it's not legal if don't have a weed card. But, see, we're getting into, like, philosophical notions. In fact-"

"Philosophical notions?"

"Dude, Mary is a plant. It grows from the ground. How the hell can _anyone_ tell ya what you cannot do with a motherfucking shrub? But things are changing. All the _Reefer Madness_ hoopla is getting recognized for what it is: b and s. There are states out West...California, Oregon, Colorado, Washington...you can walk into a store and buy weed without hassle. It ain't the same in New York, yet, but...look, I'm trying to keep this simple. You don't gotta lift a finger, go anywhere, do anything. I'm your guy. Tell me what you want and I'll deliver lickety-split. The _only_ thing you gotta do is keep this on the DL. Mum's the word, pops."

"Because what you're doin' ain't legal," Hump deduced.

Jason sighed and then said, "You're getting stuck in the same loop and giving me a headache. I thought you played ball, not practiced law."

"I need to understand we're talking on the level."

"The level?"

"Equal plain. Flat surface. Same dimension."

"Yea, yea, we're level. Smooth as glass."

"Grass ain't addictive?" Hump asked with a furrowed brow and squinty eyes.

"Are you kidding? Opioids, booze, tobacco...those things are addictive. Marijuana? You can't get hooked on this stuff. Not on your life. Good for pain and chillaxing. I saw a record player in your bedroom. Bro, you'll never listen to music the same. Sit back, spin some tunes, and let the mind go where it will."

"I don't know," Hump mumbled. What if this was poison? What if Jason was one of those serial killers who preyed on seniors. Angels of Death who got their jollies snuffing the flame of old farts. Then again...did Hump care? Would death be so bad at this point? It wasn't like Hump was going to live forever. Nor did he want to. This didn't seem like the _best_ reason to listen to the kid, but the kid didn't appear to be a murderer, either. Hump grimaced as his brain wrapped around the convoluted logic.

"Just give it try," Jason urged. Then he dug into a pocket, extracted a small baggie and said, "A sample size. Three gummies. Don't take 'em all at once. It won't kill you, but it might give you a little taste of the noia."

"What's noia?"

"Paranoia. Lookit, sometimes people get wiggy. I'm not gonna lie and say it can't happen. Two things: one, it's all in the brain. Two, you gotta stick to the recommended dose. Like an apple, one a day will do the trick. And don't listen to _Bitches Brew,_ he-he. Trust me."

"What now?"

"A little humor. Don't mind me. Now, why don't you take Mary for a test spin and see how you feel? Then, if you want more, look me up. A Hamilton for a treat, but I cut discounts if you want to buy in bulk."

"Ten bucks for one of these bitty things?"

"You'll see. It's worth the money."

"Is anybody else takin' 'em?"

Jason winked and said, "Pops, more than you know." Then he tossed the baggie on Hump's lap and said, "Enjoy."

***

After the fact, Hump would be hard pressed to testify he _enjoyed_ getting higher than a giraffe's vagina. Now, this isn't to infer he didn't _enjoy_ the experience but rather...well, it was _a lot_ like the first time Hump run his dirty, calloused, fifteen-year-old hands over the boobies of a girl. Yes, it was fun to cop a feel. Ethereal, exciting, enchanting...the promise of sex energized teenaged Hump. At the same time, he didn't know how to play the squeezebox. Pinch, pet, polish...what else could a boy do with tits? Turns out, dear diary, _plenty_. However, this knowledge came with experience. In the interim, Hump winged it. His rudimentary forays into passion became refined over time. A couple years hopscotching the country with bonafide cooter hounds like Mickey Mantle yielded ample opportunities to hone skills. Mickey never left a club without a broad on his right arm; sometimes he had another skirt dangling from the left one. Anybody hanging with The Mick would catch residual babes. Leftovers, as it were. Foxy scraps, hideous scraps, or sumptin in between...it didn't matter. When it came to women, Hump wasn't a Goldilocks.

Grass _prolly_ worked the same way. It was a simplistic view to take but, for some reason, the assessment seemed appropriate. What Hump expected, and what he received instead, attested to naïveté and disposition. He would need experience to appreciate what grass did and, much like the female anatomy, practice would make perfect. So, in a roundabout way, this metaphor explains how Hump viewed the edibles Jason provided. The grass was like a suave playboy and Hump (at first) became its timid, but giddy, concubine. But, I digress. It's not easy making heads or tails of the nonsense blossoming in an overexcited brain. Regardless, this is what happened the first time Hump consumed a gummy:

Jason left the room and Hump eyed the Ziploc and its contents. Ten minutes later, he shrugged and then consumed one of the purple gumdrop looking things. After fetching a glass of water, Hump spun a Jerry Lee Lewis record and reclined like a king. Something kicked in not long after the foul-tasting thing slid down Hump's throat. One thing was damn clear: this high wasn't a hooch-induced stupor. A bolt of Pa's lightning was like getting a knuckle sandwich in the chin. Drunker than a skunk in three sips. Dizzy, head-spinning drunk. The grass was different. Hump couldn't move arms, nor legs, or even his head. He didn't even feel the weight of his body; Hump was a spiritual cloud floating above his deflated physical form.

_What in tarnation?_ Hump thought. Piano notes, thudding bass, the rolling thunderclap of drums deluged. Then the voice of Jerry Lee, gaudy and vivacious. Hump was 23 when he heard Lewis attack a piana for the first time. Listening to him now, though, was like discoverin' the Killer all over again. The music had nuances Hump had never studied. Strange melodic paths, trails to discover. Christ, could the Louisiana boy shred a piana! The physical embodiment of soul resonated from the speakers and the manifestation of sound surrounded Hump in a bubble. Boy howdy, there was no pain. Not a twinge or stitch. The Killer cried, _Whole lotta shakin' goin' on!_ and Hump's body vibrated, possessed by the Killer's lifeblood. _It_ all made sense. _It_...which had no definition but presented as a hodgepodge of disconnected reflections.

Like shakin'. Hump never considered physical activity anything more than what it was. He took for granted the ability to do what body commanded. Movement, an action generated by brain impulse, was excited by reaction to environment. How much control did Hump have over what nature ordained? Trees swayed 'cause the wind compelled. Maybe Hump was no different than an old oak, bending and shakin' because Jerry Lee generated a gust. And the Killer? He had inspiration, and this inspiration had inspiration, and so forth until the equation was whittled to the first, primordial stimulation.

Hump got stuck at this moment in time, what scientists called the Big Bang and Bible thumpers called The Creation. _It._ _It_ glowed like a globule in the black void of space. A coiled sphere knotted with gasses, radiation and energy. And then _boom_! _It_ exploded, sendin' shockwaves across the universe. Every event after, from shakin' to the motherhumpin' Great Ball of Fire forecasted to consume Mother Earf in the distant future, was ordained. Nutin Hump did, or didn't do, would make a difference. _It_ just was. Come to think of _it_ , this sentiment was what those hippy-dippy music groups in the '60's sang about. But you know what? Hump realized those tatty minstrels, all of them, were onto sumptin. Even poor, misguided Howie got _it_. Perhaps Howie wasn't as foolish as Hump believed. Mayhap Hump was the foolish one.

Yes, _it_ made perfect sense. At least _it_ did to ole high as a kite Hump: he had some _shakin'_ to do. A whole lotta shakin'. Or, as much shakin' as an eighty-three-year-old man could accomplish.

There was one problem: Hump didn't know _what_ he was supposed to be _shakin'_. Well, his brain was _shakin'_ , but where to go next? First pitch shenanigans would be a start and, speaking of first pitches...the start of every ballgame could be measured by the opening toss from the dirt mound sixty feet six inches in front of home plate. Was Hump feckless or a flamethrower? A fastball tickling triple digits would set the tone for a grand asskicking by the beloved Bronx Bombers. Hump's heat, scorching a hole in the mitt of the catcher, and a stadium incited to silence by the spectacle...Hells bells, even the visiting team would be left speechless. _It_ would be glorious. Celebrated, life affirmin' and... _and_ this conjured a daisy chain of _it_ related thoughts to consider. Like, for instance, there were ceremonial lobs and then there was The Motherhumpin' Fastball of all Fastballs. The one responsible for all of _it_ , leaving no doubt the ball had been chucked and the shithouse was ready to roll. But...what started _it_ rollin'? Who kickstarted the whole shebang? The question was vexing and Hump couldn't begin to unwrap the mystery. He was havin' a difficult time moving eyeballs. Besides, why stress about the guts of existence? According to the gospel of _it_ , the answer would arrive. Or _it_ wouldn't. Dwelling about _it_ wouldn't solve the riddle.

Try as he might, though, contemplation wasn't a switch to be turned off with a contemptuous flick of a finger. Hump scrutinized the past and then tried to sweep it aside like dirt on the floor. The past was depressin'. Time wasted, and for what? Shitty recollections and the inability to make stink weeds turn into roses.

He thought about Howie, his oldest, and moaned. Poor Howie...Hump loved the boy, loved him more than Hubbie (tho he'd never admit as much to anyone but himself), but the passage of time made Howie Hammerbacher's existence irrelevant. It wasn't fair, at least not to Hump, but people disappear all the time without a fuss being made. Hells bells, stars blinked out of existence without anybody noticin'. What was Howie in the big scheme of things? And once Hump was dead and gone, there'd be nobody to remember Howie Hammerbacher. Hubbie might, but his musings wouldn't be nutin but exploratory memories. The pensive moments would vanish with Hump.

He sprawled with the boy in a hammock on a warm summer day when Howie was nine years old. The Hammerbachers' were livin' in Livonia, Michigan, in what would become their fourth home in seven years. Elm trees, plump with leaves, swayed. Windchimes, hanging from a branch, produced a discordant composition. Both of them, Hump and Howie, cozy and content...until a desiccated branch snapped from high and spun to the grass like a crippled helicopter. The nasty limb landed with a thud not five feet from where the hammock stretched.

Howie nestled into his pa's ribs and asked, "Why'd it fall?"

" _It's dead," Hump muttered. "Christ, we're lucky it didn't hit us, kid."_

" _Why?"_

" _Why? 'Cause, dummy, it'd give you a big booboo. Or worse. They call them things widow makers."_

" _Why?"_

Instead of answering, Hump lurched from repose and yanked Howie to his feet. "I gotta get these trees trimmed before they kill someone," he grumbled.

" _I don't wanna go," Howie protested. "I like being outside with you."_

" _Too bad. Nature gives few warnings like the one we just saw. Besides, I gotta skedaddle to the field in a few hours. Your old man needs a shower and a shave."_

Yes, the conversation was vivid. So was Howie's broken little face. Why had Hump been such an asshole? Sure, he had reasons. Valid reasons. But try spittin' them to a kid. Now, way too late, Hump wanted to try. Howie, however, was gone.

Long gone.

Meanwhile, as if begging for attention, Jerry Lee continued to warble. Hump leaned an ear and hummed to "You Win Again". Speakin' of a man with demons...the Killer had a closet full. If nothing else, dwellin' on Jerry Lee Lewis's frailties made Hump's transgressions trivial. What ever became of Lewis? The last Hump heard, Jerry Lee had abandoned the U.S. for good sometime in the late 80's. Not like the Killer had a choice, but where did he go? Dublin or some crazy shit. There were few places willing to take the senseless coot. Uncle Sammy wanted to throw Jerry Lee's ass in debtor's prison for unreported income. Skirting taxes, though, were the least of his problems. In fact, there were radio stations in the Deep South who _still_ refused to play the Killer's music. England gave him the royal heave-ho when all the cousin marryin' and polygamy stuff surfaced. Same with the Canadians. Hell, the only place the Killer enjoyed a modicum of success was Nazified Europe and Hump was too stoned to make sense of this head-scratcher.

Needless to say, the single best record Hump _ever_ heard was a 1964 bootleg of Lewis playin' rock-and-roll for young Krauts at the Star Club in Hamburg. Billy Shantz, of all people, procured the vinyl from some bohemian place in Tampa. The record was such a treasure (and illegal, by the by), Shantz would only play it as his house in Inverrary with the blinds pulled tight. Hump, Carol, and a bunch of players and their wives joined Billy and his old lady Mary for an all-night snoopin' session. Slammin' whiskey, listen' to the scratchy record, the Killer's desire elicited a miasma of emotions. O'course, _Live! From The Hamburg Star Club_ was available everywhere today. One could _prolly_ find it on the internets. But in 1964, U.S.-German relations were a work in progress. American artists jumping the puddle to work for the Third Reich, performers like Jerry Lee Lewis, faced hearty backlash. It could be argued Lewis bridged new rivers of diplomacy, but he managed to piss off damn near everyone in the United States. No wonder the Killer fled...

In this addlepated vein, Hump ruminated. After the record reached the end of Side One, Hump's attention focused on the television. Gettin' up to flip the disk seemed a Herculean task. It was almost impossible to manipulate the tv remote. Fingers didn't want to work like fingers. They wanted to work like them little stabbers you use at cocktail parties to jab bitsy wieners and whatnot. At last, the magic button was speared and the boob tube flickered to life.

In retrospect, watching the television had been a _bad_ choice. The evening news was on and boy, was it a downer. Protesters, counter protesters, cops in body armor, clouds of tear gas. There was a riot in front of the Kraut embassy in D.C. The details weren't important, and Hump couldn't follow the minutia anyway, but people on both sides were snarlin' and screamin'. Caught in-between, the cops bashed anything with a pulse.

It was getting so a person couldn't leave their residence without fear of being subjected to a host of felonies. And it wasn't just the thugs one had to worry about. The police were no better. They shot, tasered and battered for the puniest offenses. Joe and Jane Law got mighty pissed when someone didn't toe the line. A new generation of Theophilus Conners were flourishing and it was okay because...well, Hump didn't know _why_ it was okay. Truth be told, he hadn't thought much about the subject until now. But he did know those who questioned the tactics of the police ran the risk of being lumped together with _real_ miscreants.

Alas, there was more the evening news had to share. The international updates were also depressing: terrorists used bombs to destroy a double-decker bus filled with European tourists in the Levant. Thirty dead. Irgun Jews claimed responsibility. In Venezuela, a Marxist group shot down a passenger airplane. One hundred twenty killed. No names, only figures. Life reduced to a snippet on the television before being forgotten altogether when the fella doing the weather made an appearance in front of a green screen.

"Big changes in the weather, folks," the glib meteorologist reported. "It's gonna get hot!"

How did people not lose their minds when they contemplated the futility of existence? The answer, it seemed, was to ignore the inevitable and pretend fate was a distant conduit. Let attention get snared by timewasters, dismissing the notion none of it mattered. Everything sought, accomplished, loved and enjoyed turned to _nutin_ when the brain ceased working. All of it, every last crumb of existence, was erased. Sure, the legacy might endure, but what did a dead person care about legacy?

Hump felt panic as he worked the details in his head. He could die _this instant_ , felled by a stroke, a meteorite, or a hodgepodge of infinite damnations, and never comprehend _the end_. It be up to somebody else to sort through what remained. What kind of embarrassing stuff was lying around the apartment? Tawdry love letters from a smitten Carol when they were courting...words so damn racy even Hump was embarrassed to read them. Old scorecards from the games he managed...they were also embarrassing. Dirty laundry, dirty dishes, a dirty legacy stuffed in bags and sent to the trash.

Feeling blue, he turned off the television and watched a fly bash its body against the window in the living room. Over and over, buzzing and thumping, an apt metaphor for the pointlessness of existence. He observed the fly for hours, skipping dinner to consume contemplation, and fell asleep on the recliner.

The next morning, Hump felt different. He didn't wanna wear tie-dye or join a commune. There wasn't a tangible change in Hump's mannerisms. No, this transformation was broader than physical alterations. Hump would be unable to say _solipsism_ , let alone define the word, but this is the philosophical notion he caressed. It was like his brain conjured a world only he could understand. Everything in this universe was a creation of Hump's imagination. This was a mind-blowing revelation and Hump wondered if crazy people felt the same. If so, he could sympathize with the insane; the world Hump manufactured was one _fucked-up_ place, a world where snakes, sinkholes, serial killers, shysters...all this and much more, existed. Yet, Hump _sorta_ found the concept stimulating. He could live in a kingdom of imagination and _would this be so bad_? _O'course not_ , Hump concluded. The trick was to ignore the icky crevices of the mind. What the kid referred to as the _noia_.

So, Hump consumed another edible and spiraled down the slide. Once again, _Live! This Morning!_ consumed attention and Hump's warped mind constructed fantasies. One simple truth was beyond argument: Geneva Shower sent Hump's libido shakin'. He imagined hawkin' the mother of all first pitches on thirty July with Geneva in attendance. Perhaps she'd invite him to her fancy show for an interview on the white couch. Oh, the perfect picture materialized in Hump's head. He'd strut onto stage and nudge the pretty boy cohost aside. Hump's bravado would stun Geneva, as well as the producers, and he would be bequeathed with a crown, scepter and sash. _Next Live CoHost!_ so sayeth the ribbon.

The image replayed in an endless loop until Hump believed it had happened. In moments of sanity, he knew it hadn't occurred. He knew truth from make-believe, but you know what? Lucidity was for the birds. These vivid fantasies made Hump's otherwise lackluster days appetizing. As such, a ritual was born. Hump was hooked. He considered the notion Jason was wrong; one could get addicted to grass and its munificent, stupefying bliss. Getting high made living palatable or, at the least, worth tackling. So what if Hump was addicted? There were worse things. And besides, who was Hump hurting?

On occasion, though, the clouds surrounding Hump's domain parted, permitting peeks of the alternate dimension the old man preferred to avoid.

***

" _Pick me up,"_ the phone commanded.

Hump raised a hoary eyebrow and his eyes did a Cheshire Cat crawl to the horn.

" _Pick me up!"_

Second call today. I don't get one a week, let alone two calls in a day. Sumptin is wrong. Hubbie or the grandkids.

Like he was moving in slow-motion, Hump grabbed the cord as the last urgent howl faded. By the time he fumbled the receiver to right ear, the white noise of dial tone resonated. He slapped the handset onto cradle and ran a tongue across dentures while his mind caressed a number of alarming conclusions.

Hubbie was Hump and Carol's second son, born in 1966. Howie was five then, a boundless ball of energy. It seemed Howie had been a case study for Hubbie. The youngest child was bashful and rotund; he grew into a reserved, obese man. While Howie was bouncing from job-to-job, playing in garage bands and travelling the country, Hubbie obtained a law degree from Columbia and made big bucks defending scumbags. Married to the same woman for thirty years, Hubbie had given Hump three grandchildren, all boys.

_That_ really meant squat at this point, because not a one of them visited Hump in the city or at the retirement community. No letters, no surprise appearances, nothing. Hubbie and his wife lived Upstate, in the Finger Lakes Region, outside Canesoanke. The grandkids were scattered around the country, the youngest finishing college and the other two working. The eldest was an airline pilot for a cargo outfit. The middle child was a computer whiz living in Silicon Valley. None of them had a lick of Hump's dexterity or ability, but neither had Hubbie. The sporting gene had been passed to the wrong son, the son who wasted talent trying to solve societal problems and died _(perhaps)_ for the effort.

He last saw Hubbie's family at Carol's funeral. Sometimes Hump wondered if Hubbie resented his father. Despised him for what happened to Howie. Begrudged the old man for being gone so much. All the little events, skipped piecemeal, tallied a nasty number. Hump had been naïve to think his kids would never grow. Like they'd stay miniature, playful and obedient, forever. But then, with a snap of fingers, they were graduating high school. Where did time go?

Pissed away in American cities watching baseball is where it went. Even after Hump retired, for good, and the kids were gone, and it was only he and Carol in their big house, the thought life was passing didn't register. Until it did.

Matter of fact, it plum blew Hump's mind his son was fifty-one. Fifty-one-year-old men die all the time. Hubbie had a healthy gut and high blood pressure caused by working slaver hours saving drunk drivers and pedophiles from the wrath of the jurists of Ontario County. Indeed, this kind of grind kills professional men more than cancer. Hells bells, maybe it was Hubbie's wife calling to say, _'Sorry Hump, but Hubbie is dead. Massive heart attack.'_

What would Hump do then? He'd be alone in this world. Absolute, and complete seclusion. Wife, dead. Howie, dead. Now Hubbie...tits up. Ma, Pa, Brother Hank...dead. And if anyone thought Hump was ready to accept this...well, he wasn't. No sir. But...maybe it was the wrong number. The caller was trying to reach Betty next door and misdialed a digit. This had to be the reason. Why would anybody bother Hump?

He grunted and then eyed the television. Sir Wallis was still chitchatting with Geneva about voicing Cornelius Corn Broom. Hump pictured himself sitting next to the actor, scowling and standoffish. At some point it'd be excepted ole Hump would say something cutting about the dandy accent. _Time for tea and crumpets, guvnor_? Perhaps he could devise a better insult. A jab at soccer and cricket. Oh yeah, don't forget polo. Croquet, too. _While I'm at it, I'll remind the good Sir Wallis-_

Bang! Bang, bang!

The noise was so loud, it felt like his apartment buckled from the flurry of blows. Hump stiffened. The grass made Hump's hearing acute, like a damn cat or sumptin, and he wondered if the aforesaid Betty had hurled a slab of granite on her floor. The inept coot was always droppin' shit and scarin' the piss (or a trickle of it) out of Hump. Last week it had been an iron, the week before a vase. It only made sense she graduated to something heavier than ordinary household items. Heavier and louder, like the noise was comin' from-

Bang!

His front door!

Who could it be? Maybe...somebody found out he was doin' drugs. Yep, someone tattled and the police we're comin' to haul Hump's ass to the pokey. The cops treated hopheads like the Gestapo handled them Jews. The police would torture poor Hump for information. He'd have no choice but to cough up the kid and then...then it'd be Rikers. _The_ motherhumpin island next to LaGuardia in the East River. Hump would stare out of the tiny cell window at the airplanes and watch them takeoff and land, jammed with happy people free to move about with impunity, while he rotted and then died all because he decided to try a little grass at the behest of a no-good janitor.

Bang!

Well, Hump wasn't stupid. This was America, after all, and in America the cops needed a warrant...which meant, if they were rattlin' the door, they didn't have one. And, by addition, Hump wasn't about to answer said door and invite the Gestapo into his humble domain. He attempted to use the remote to lower the volume of the television, but the effort was futile. What good was a remote if you couldn't get it to work _five feet_ from the tv?

Hump chastised the useless technology. "You're a real piece of shit," he whispered, shaking it with vigor. Then he tried to turtle into the easy chair.

"Hump! You home?" It was the shrill bleating of the duty nurse, or _cherish caretaker_ (as they like to be called).

Bang!

"Jesus Crackers, Hump, I can hear your television! I'm not leaving, Humphrey!"

What to do? Perhaps she'd sulk away if he stayed quiet. Perhaps the nurse would-

The door knob rattled and the woman barked, "Humphrey! I'll get the key if you won't answer the door!"

Horrified, Hump shouted, "Woman, you don't got no right to trespass! You need a warrant to come inside!"

"Warrant? What in hades are you talking about?"

"Why you botherin' me?"

"Is everything kosher in there?"

"Right as rain. What do you want?"

"Can you come to the door?"

"I'm...naked, woman. Just got out of the shower."

"Somebody wants to talk to you. An official or whatnot. Says it's important."

"Whadda ya mean _important_?" Hump hollered.

"Important enough he won't tell me why he's calling."

"Is it the police?"

"Didn't you hear what I _just_ said? He's holding for you. I'll send him to your phone again. Wait for the ring."

"Whadda ya mean important?" Hump repeated, but the caretaker's voice was replaced by the footfalls of departure. Well, wasn't this wonderful? Someone wanted to talk to ole Hump? He was in no mood to chat with anybody, let alone an _official or whatnot_...whatever _that_ meant. Although...maybe it was a sports reporter. They called from time-to-time and they all wanted the same thing: Hump's stories of playing with Mick, Yogi and the rest. Some fodder on Billy. What it was like to be George Steinbrenner's whipping boy? How does it feel to be the worst Yankees manager, in terms of winning percentage, of _all-time_? How did you manage to squander the talent of Don Mattingly, Ricky Henderson and Deion Sanders?

_Baa-ring_ , the phone bleated.

Hump could humor a reporter. He was cogent enough to field a couple of questions as if they were slow rollers. _Sure, no problem. Mick was a kiss ass, Maris hated New York City, and Billy Martin was certifiable. As for squandering talent? No comment. Thanks for calling._

Baa-ring.

O'course, it could be Geneva Shower on the blower. Why not? Hump closed eyes, squeezed them tight, and decided it had to be Geneva. Never mind he could hear her yuckin' it up with Sir Wallis. She was phoning and Hump would be a fool not to answer.

Baa-ring.

He scooped the receiver in right hand and announced, "Humphrey Hammerbacher."

"Mister Hammerbacher," a stern voice responded over a scratchy connection. "You're a tough man to reach."

Hump's peepers flew open and his heart skipped a beat.

"Mister Hammerbacher? Hello? Are you there?"

"Who's callin'?" Hump rasped.

"Am I speaking to Humphrey H. Hammerbacher?" The voice sounded perturbed; it was the same salty tone Pa used when he was about to lay a whuppin' on little Hump.

Hump answered with a meek, "Yes."

"Sir, my name is Vern Weaver and I'm phoning from Nairobi."

"Nairobi?"

"I'm in Kenya, Mister Hammerbacher."

"Are you with the police?"

"Negative, sir."

"Did you say Kenya?"

"Affirmative. I'm phoning from-"

"What the hell you doin' botherin' me?" Hump rumbled.

"I'm phoning from the U.S. Embassy in Kenya. Assistant Undersecretary to the Ambassador. I know this will come as a shock, and I apologize for being unable to say this in person. There's no succinct way to put this, so pardon my frankness." Weaver paused, inhaled, and then announced, "Mister Hammerbacher, the remains of your son have been located."

Hump's stomach dropped, then filled with tiny, stabbing icepicks. Geneva, Sir Wallis...all the triviality on the television ceased to exist. Reality returned like a bowling ball to the head. Hump opened his mouth, uttered a strangled croak and felt perspiration form in the pit of each arm.

"I mean," Weaver continued, "we believe it's Howard Hammerbacher. About ninety percent sure."

"Ninety?" Hump cried. "Ninety is a long way from one hundred percent, mister."

"Tangential evidence, sir. Your son, and twenty other workers from American United Hands, disappeared-"

"Yeah, I'm versed in the history, and I know they were humpin' somewhere in Africa. But how do you know it's them? There's always crap on the news about slaughters in Africa."

"German workers uncovered a grave filled with human detritus yesterday afternoon. Based on artifacts found among the remains, the government of the Third Reich contacted the U.S. Embassy and I was dispatched to the scene. I've returned with the remains and personal effects. I regret to inform, one of the recovered wallets bares the identification card of Howard Hammerbacher. A further, definitive, vetting can commence with a DNA sample. Sir, I'd like you to submit a swab of your saliva so we can prove, without question, your son has been found. We'd like to give these poor souls a proper burial."

This news, though shocking, was something Hump had been expecting the moment Howie left America in late 1989. Against all logic, Howie decided to play humanitarian to the indigenous of Africa. Carol tried to reason with him. _Africa's dangerous,_ she pleaded. _Full of civil wars, cannibals and awful diseases._ Hump gave it a shot, too, but their collective logic fell on Howie's stubborn ears. And when none of the AUH turned up by the summer of 1990, it was certain they'd met with misfortune. There was a short period when Hump thought they'd be found, in one piece, perhaps as prisoners. Pawns to be ransomed. Hump would've paid anything to get Howie home. But, as the days, months and years turned, this fate became a hopeless pipedream. It tore Carol to shreds and she cried for Howie long after Hump abandoned hope. At last, even she got wise.

"Sir?" Weaver queried. "Mister Hammerbacher?"

Hump shook his head and then asked, "What do you need from me?"

"What I need won't be painful to acquire."

"I don't care if it hurts," Hump snapped. "Yes, I'll give blood or whatever you want."

"I'm sorry for this news, sir. I'll arrange for the sample to be taken and-"

"I want to see Howie's body," Hump demanded.

"Um...well, you don't. Trust me."

"Howie was my son!"

"You want to know something? The Germans couldn't handle the sight. This present enough of a picture?"

Hump got it, all right. The Krauts weren't known for being squeamish.

Weaver continued, "An agent from the...let's see...you live in Newburgh, hm?" There was a sound of clacking, like fingers on a keyboard, and then Weaver said, "The FBI has a satellite office on Goshen Street. I can have an agent dispatched to collect a sample before dinner. The analysis will take a few days, perhaps weeks, Mister Hammerbacher. Someone from the bureau will contact you with the results."

"Where was Howie found?"

"In Africa, sir."

" _Where_ in Africa?"

"This information will available at a later date."

"When?"

Weaver groaned and then said, "I have a list of names to contact, and there are other _i's_ to dot and _t's_ to cross. You can appreciate news of this magnitude cannot be trumpeted until all families have been informed and the dead have been identified. As I stated, this could take weeks."

"And then you'll tell me?"

"I can't...this isn't my area of expertise. I don't know what will and won't be disseminated. I'll put you in contact with an agent from the international desk of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You can present _relevant_ enquiries to him or her."

"What about seein' the place?"

"What place?"

"The place Howie was killed."

"Sir, are you listening to me?"

"Ayup, I'm listenin'. You ain't tellin' me anything, mister!"

"You're assuming he was murdered, Mister Hammerbacher. The investigation has yet to determine cause of death."

"Lookit, I'm old, but I'm not senile. Howie and them others were found together, right?"

"This doesn't mean-"

"I reckon you're trying to keep this conversation at a G rating, but I know why a bunch of bodies or bones are found in a grave. And it wasn't because Howie and his friends caught a case of the rapture. They were kilt, and then dumped."

"There may be no correlation to the location of the remains and where...ahem...bereavement took place. Listen, I'm confiding _way_ more than I should. So, I'll consider this conversation concluded until further information can be provided."

"Fine," Hump mumbled, "but I want to know where Howie was buried."

"I told you-"

"You know what you fellas should do?" Hump interrupted. "You oughta be takin' all us family members to the spot."

Weaver coughed and then said, "Sir, I'm sorry, but this is not a practical request."

"Why not?"

"For starters, how do you suggest this trip be funded?"

"Don't tell me the government is broke. You fellas build bridges to nowhere and send fruit flies into space. Use some of those funds. Print some money for all I care. Didn't yawl spend _weeks_ investigating the Secretary of State? I coulda told you he was goddamn Nazi and saved this country a couple million!"

"Second," Weaver continued in a voice south of cordial, "the area is a crime scene and a biohazard nightmare. People can't be hopscotching through there."

"You went!"

"It's my job, and I don't enjoy these field trips. Third...Mister Hammerbacher, what do you know about Africa?"

"Nutin, other than my son was killed there."

"I understand, and I appreciate your sentiment. However, Africa isn't the safest destination in the world. In fact, I'd say it's the _worst_ place to visit. I'm not talking about a sliver of the continent. The _entire_ place is dreadful. A putrid, burn to shit, hunk of Hell. Clans, warlords, famine, graft, murder. I shit you not, it's straight-up dystopian. You know what dystopian means?"

"I've seen _Omega Man_."

Weaver laughed and the voice mixed with static, forming a sinister howl.

"I'm not trying to be funny," Hump asserted.

"You're comparing a movie to the real world. No matter your intention, it _is_ funny."

"I don't care what Africa is or isn't. Howie is...was... _my_ son. I deserve to see where he was killed. And...and I don't need your permission to go. It's still a free country the last time I checked, despite what the bozo who calls himself President seems to think."

"How old are you, sir."

"I'm eighty-three."

After a shrill whistle, Weaver said, "I doubt this is a feasible request, given your age."

"Look, mister, I pay taxes. And I'm not an invalid. I can handle it."

"Getting to Africa would be a hurdle and-a-half, let alone travelling to the specific location. And since you don't know where the site is, you'd be wasting money. _Your_ money, Mister Hammerbacher."

"You said Krauts found 'em?"

"Germans, Mister Hammerbacher."

"Uh-huh. Well, pardner, maybe I'll talk to them Krauts."

"The Nazis? Sure, have at it. Would you like the direct line to the Chancellor? I'm certain he'll give you the germane specifics."

"Do you think this is a joke, mister?"

"No, I don't. I think this business is sad, and it's appalling I'm forced to relay information of this nature over the telephone. You're the tenth person I've called today. Guess what? Every one of them wants information. I wish I had something to offer but...Mister Hammerbacher, do you understand? I'm the peon who bares bad news."

"I understand you won't tell me where Howie was murdered. Ayup. Passing the buck."

"Africa," Weaver gritted. "Anything else, sir?"

"Krauts found 'em, huh?"

"As I stated."

"What are the Krauts doing digging in Africa?"

"Environmental work."

"Uh-huh. Is this code for _top secret_ or sumptin?"

"I know you want answers, but these things take time."

"I'm eighty-three. How much time do you think I have?"

Weaver groaned and then said, "Look, the reality is your son was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You want to know where, and I get it, but the Third World is a nasty place."

"Is this supposed to comfort me?"

"No, no, I'm...I apologize. Rest assured, the Ambassador is communicating with both Washington and Berlin. We are discussing a cooperative investigation, but it's a...um..."

"It's what?" Hump pressed.

"The United States has no vested interest in Africa, and it's clear this went down a while ago. I don't know how much information can be found. Do you understand?"

"I think so."

"Good."

"You're tellin' me it wouldn't be worth the effort. You know what I smell? Sumptin fishy."

"Fishy?"

"What two things go together better than peanut butter and jelly?"

"I'll humor you, Mister Hammerbacher. Do tell?"

"Krauts and pits of bodies."

There was a moment of silence and then Weaver whispered, "There's no cover-up. If there was, why would the Krauts, er...I mean the Germans, go the trouble of disclosing the discovery?"

"I don't know, but-"

" _But_ nothing, okay?"

"Then who found 'em? The Kraut military? Whatcha call it...the Wehrmacht?"

"No, it wasn't the Wehrmacht. An expedition from Brabag made the discovery. They were surveying an area, taking samples or something, and came upon the remains."

Hump chewed on his bottom lip and conjured an image of the African continent. He'd devoted a little time in the weeks after Howie went missing, studying maps and reading about famines and coups. Time Hump _shoulda_ spent with his team. A team, by-the-by, mired in a close race with the Milwaukee Brewers for last in the American League East. But this didn't matter. It was Hump's squad and he was fighting to avoid the cellar. Owner Steinbrenner hadn't decided on Hump's future, either, and there was a chance the old man would gave Hump another chance to skipper the club for the next season. Though Steinbrenner allowed Hump a week to "get his head correct", the last thing Hump wanted was to sit around the house, staring at charts and reading newspapers.

The research was, in the big picture, busy work meant to keep the ole mind occupied. He knew it from the beginning, but Carol was desperate for a needle in the haystack. Making sense of the minutia, Carol said, would help explain the circumstances. Perhaps she thought Hump would solve the riddle or, at the least, get someone pointed in the right direction. But Hump was nothing but a baseball man, and not even a good one. This nonsense led to bitter arguments. The claims she levied, like Hump was giving up on Howie, irked to this day. It wasn't because she screeched accusations and, when this failed, lamented to vodka martinis. No, it irked because Carol was right. Hump _did_ give up. He knew, peering down on the celluloid Sub-Sahara (where one inch equaled one hundred miles and the width from the Red Sea to the Atlantic was 33.6 inches), there was no chance Howie and the others would be found. Not by Hump, anyway, and not staring at maps.

Thing was, returning to the dugout didn't help. Hump's enthusiasm for America's pastime had tapered and he dwelled on Howie. In a weird way, it was a better substitute than the reality of the putrid season...which was ironic because baseball is a game boys play, an escape from the real world for men who couldn't (or wouldn't) grow up. For the first time in his life, Humphrey Hammerbacher stopped caring about baseball. His players, the other coaches on the staff and, worse, George Steinbrenner knew it. No matter how much Hump tried to feign interest, the brain drifted to Africa. Nations, cities, villages, lakes, rivers. At one time, Hump knew a large chunk of the Sub-Sahara better than his birth state of Mississippi. But almost three decades later, he couldn't remember much of the geography. Thus:

"Where the hell is Brabag?" Hump asked.

"I'm not going to discuss this any further," Weaver said. "Sorry, but I've more phone calls to make. Someone will be in contact, to collect your sample, and we'll go from there."

"Then what?"

"I'm not privy to what Washington wants to do, but I imagine an autopsy will be conducted. I wouldn't expect much, but it's standard in these situations. Like I told you, once positive identification is made, the remains will be returned for burial."

"Wonderful," Hump said with sarcasm.

"Once again, my condolences."

"It'd mean more if I could visit the place."

There was silence and Hump pictured the man picking his nose and rubbing boogers on the top of his desk.

"Hasn't anybody else asked?" Hump inquired after Weaver failed to respond.

"No. Nobody wants to visit. Neither should you."

Hump didn't want to resort to whining, but nothing else was working. He sighed and then said in a pitiful voice, "I have nothing else. My wife died not knowing what happened to Howie. I'm not asking to go to the moon. I want...um..."

"The word you're looking for is closure," Weaver said in a flat voice.

"Darn tootin'. You know what I mean."

Weaver hemmed-and-hawed. Hump remained persistent. At last, Weaver claimed _"he'd look into it"_ , which was about as good a promise as Hump could hope to hear. In the meantime, Hump would provide a sample and await validation. After disconnecting, the old timer rubbed his forehead and wondered if he'd imagined the conversation. The gummies conjured nonsense but...there was no way the exchange had been manufactured.

Or was it?

Hump needed air. Needed it bad. A whole big mouthful. It didn't matter if it was flush with pollutants and turned the lungs into two bags of soot. He felt the walls of the apartment converging, threatening to smash him into a two-dimensional form. With a head full of lurid images (skulls with worms crawlin' through eye sockets), Hump ambled downstairs on shaky legs. _Live! This Morning!_ , Geneva Shower, Sir Wallis and Chef Paul, were forgotten in short order.

# 4. Humping

"Why the long face, pops?" Jason asked as he wrung a mop. Other than the custodian and yellow cadillac the dining area was empty, and Hump wandered across the damp floor with nary a thought.

"Huh?"

"Your face. It, um...like, it looks like you got zapped by a cattle prod."

"It's nothing," Hump whispered.

"Nothing, eh? Alright, pops, but you do realize you're tracking dirt across this pristine floor."

Hump looked at his feet, and then at the glistening tile. Behind, grime from his meandering exodus polluted the janitor's toil.

"Don't worry about it," Jason said. "One quick swab and it'll be clean as a whistle."

"I need something to eat. When's the kitchen open?"

Jason jerked a thumb over shoulder towards the wall clock and said, "Another hour. You have the munchies something fierce?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Well, hold tight. I can snag a banana or pear."

"I don't want a pear. Or a banana. I want a meat loaf and potatoes."

"Then I guess you're going to have to wait an hour, pops. Say, do you want to toss the ball after lunch?"

Hump waved both arms and muttered incomprehensible gibberish before shuffling from the dining room. He found an empty sofa in the recreation center and sat, closing eyes. The noisy clatter of a nearby checkers game pervaded his mind.

" _King me,"_ a brittle voice trumpeted.

" _Tarnation,"_ fussed the competition. _"Are you cheating or something?"_

"Pops," Jason said. "Hey. What's going on?"

"I'm fine," Hump responded, squeezing eyelids tight. "My blood sugar's low." As soon as the words left his mouth, a hard object struck Hump on the tummy. He opened both eyes and spied an apple, then glanced at Jason.

"I figured something is wonky," the custodian said. "Your color is awful. Anything else bothering you? Chest pains?"

Hump pushed into a sitting position and tossed the fruit aside. "You aren't a doctor, kid. If my ticker is ready to stop ticking, there's not a thing you can do about it."

"I'm trained in CPR."

"Congrats. You can sweep _and_ save lives."

Jason threw an arm around Hump's shoulders and whispered, "Are you havin' the noia? No joke, you look like you saw a ghost."

"I ain't a paranoid."

"No? You aren't getting weirded out? Surefire remedy: give it the seven second rule. Think about it for seven seconds and then _whoosh_...let it go."

"Easy to say when you're...how old are you?"

"Twenty-four, pops."

"Twenty-four, huh? My boy was only a few years older when he disappeared."

"Say what?" Jason asked as he slid next to Hump on the couch. "What are you talking about?"

"I had a boy...well, I had two boys, but of one 'em is still alive. The one I'm talkin' about was the oldest. Name of Howie. He turned contrarian around fifteen. Stopped playing sports and got into the guitar and music. Became a vegetarian. This was the late Seventies, so I granted a certain amount of leeway. Then there was the decision to skip college. He meandered for a spell, then joined a band and...anyway, in '89, he got wrapped in a woman and followed her to the American United Hands. They do relief work-"

"I know 'em. Non-profit organization. I see their commercials on late night tv."

"Right. Howie went to Africa to help with the Sub-Sahara Famine. My wife and I tried to dissuade him. Seemed like a risky venture. And for what? Some tail or...or an adventure 'because he had a bleedin' heart? Howie had to go, though, and his group went missing."

"Oh, dude, I'm sorry."

"I got a phone call about twenty minutes ago. Some _whatnot_ at the American Embassy in Nairobi. He said they think they found Howie's body. I have to provide DNA so it can be confirmed."

"Wow," Jason whispered. "Man, I'm-"

"I know. You're sorry. Everyone's sorry. What did Howie expect would happen? Making himself a martyr _for what_? Dumped in Africa and forgotten. What a waste..." Hump trailed off and rubbed tears from both cheeks. So what if he was crying? Lots of residents cried, and they had no reason! Outta of the blue waterworks, triggered by the senses. Or maybe it was ghosts. Did it matter?

"Let's go toss the ball, pops. Get your mind, like, refocused."

"I don't wanna toss the stupid ball. I want sumptin to eat."

Jason sighed and then said, "If there's anything I can do...like...I don't know. You wanna go to a movie?"

"You know what's crazy? When my phone was ringing, I had a revelation it was bad news. I never excepted it'd be about Howie. I know it sounds awful, but I'd almost forgotten about him. Matter of fact, it'd be better if I never heard."

"No, pops, you can't let this question haunt your days. It's good you got the information."

"I reckon I should call Hubbie. He's my other boy. Hubbie should know."

"Yeah, sure. Sorry for bothering you."

"I know you're trying to help. I suppose it's a burden relieved, but I'm not satisfied. Just knowing isn't enough. I already figured Howie was deceased. Only a fool would believe..." Hump snapped his mouth shut as Carol's face materialized in his mind. "Forget it," he mumbled, closing eyes. "All the phone call did was trigger unhappy memories. Days I spent starin' at maps, gettin' frustrated, fightin' with my wife. Wondererin' what I coulda done to prevent Howie from wastin' his life. Knowin' he's dead ain't enough, kid."

"Whadda ya mean?"

"When I was sittin' there, listening to this _whatnot_ beat around the bush...I can't explain it. I know it ain't _supposed_ to be personal, but I felt like this was sumptin this fella expects to file into a basket. Or a trashcan. Howie was _my_ son. I wanna know what happened to him. I want to see the place where he died. Or where he was buried. Whichever it is."

"You wanna go to Africa? You got some stones, pops. How well did it work out for your son?"

Hump opened his peepers and said, "Well...he had a lot more life to live. I'm coming to the end of mine."

"Geez, dude, you aren't gonna..." Jason gulped and then said, "I bet you could use a sedative. I'll call one of the caretakers-"

"I don't want a sedative, kid."

"No?"

Hump waved his right hand, like swatting a fly, and said, "I'm right as rain. I just need to think on this."

"Sure, um..." Jason looked around the room and then whispered, "I'd recommend you stay away from the edibles for the time being."

Hump grunted and stared at his hands. "How hard do you think it would be to get to Africa?" he asked, almost to himself.

"You're not serious, pops."

"Maybe I am."

"It won't be like walking across the street. This ain't a good idea."

"I doubt you could understand."

"True, so asking me is pointless. You're an adult, pops. If you wanna go, it's your prerogative."

"I can't do it myself. I don't know where the grave was found and the _whatnot_ is prolly right. I'd get killed or robbed or sumptin. I don't want to make a trip in vain."

"Hell, I wish I could help."

"Forget it. It's not your responsibility. The fella I was talkin' to, the _whatnot,_ was no help. I wanted to get something a little more concrete than what he had to tell me. You know how the government works. They're a bunch of heartless pansies. I reckon they major in passing the buck at their colleges."

Jason stood, cracked his neck, and then asked, "You ever heard of _Sports On The Pot_?"

" _Sports_...what's-it?"

"Yeah, I assumed not. It's a blog and-"

"A blog?"

"You know, an online publication." Jason stared at Hump's puzzled face and then added, "Like a magazine but over the internet. Understand?"

"I know what the internet is," Hump said with exasperation. "I don't use the damn thing. I don't have a computer. Or a cellular doodad."

" _Sports On The Pot_ has an office in the city. They publish stories about-"

"Did you say _On The Pot_?"

Jason smirked and them said, "Yea, ain't it a hoot? It's one of those double entrees."

"Come again?"

"You know, the title has, like, two meanings."

"This is some joke, right?"

"No, no, pops. It's legit. Two legit to quit, baby. You know how guys like to drop a deuce and read?"

"I do my business and get the hell out of dodge."

"Well, congratulations. You're an outlier. Sometimes I screw around on my phone so long, my legs fall asleep."

"What now? Is something wrong with you?"

"There's nothing wrong with me. I enjoy sitting on the pot and surfing the web. Least I ain't jerking the johnson."

"Jeez O'Pete. What's your point?"

"My point is they have a big audience. Now, there specialty is-"

"Let me guess. Sports?"

"He-he, you're a riot. Not just sports, pop. Some gossip, scuttlebutt, whatever you want to call it. But it ain't _all_ bullshit. Like, um...okay, they did a giant article on the catfishing of this moronic basketball player last year."

"Catfishing?"

"It's when people pretend to be something they aren't and use the anonymity of the internet to...I don't know what you'd call it. Make a hoax. Or something."

"Perpetuate?"

"There ya go," Jason said, snapping fingers. "They did another piece on Big Bozo and-"

"Who?"

"The wrestler. Ain't you heard of Big Bozo?"

"No. What'd he do?"

"Bozo was plowing some broad and her husband filmed it."

'Plowin'?"

"Doing the hanky panky. Getting stanky."

"What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"The unskinny bop. They were screwing, pops."

"Why would someone film two people in congress?"

"In congress?" Jason hooted. "Are you a puritan?"

"There ain't no cause to be vulgar."

"Okay. Bozo and this woman were, um... _in congress,_ and the aggrieved party recorded them. Then the old man sold the video to _Sports On The Pot_. It caused quite the scandal. I watched it, you know. Weirdest damn thing I've ever seen. It was shot in night vision, so Bozo was green and his eyes glowed. It was like National Geographic caught two Bigfoots mating."

Hump tapped his foot and asked, "You want me to talk to these people?"

Jason shrugged and then said, "They're always looking for stories involving athletes living and dead. Or, in your case, in between, he-he."

"Thanks."

"I'm kidding. You got more spunk than these other fossils. You're going to need it, too. Who knows? They might make some noise and get you a trip to Africa. If you're serious, I mean."

"I'm serious," Hump claimed, although involving a two-bit media operation seemed a desperate move. A paragraph in the _Daily News_ , written by a real journalist, would do the trick. Would anybody read, or believe, a story published over the internet?

"Okay. If you _are_ serious, I could drop a tip through their e-mail. Or you could, but...why don't you let me take care of it."

"What kind of tip?"

"What you told me, except with a little trickeration. Maybe I say the government is snowballin' you."

"There ain't no _maybe_ about it. The fella I talked with was doing the ole political twostep."

"Mm-hmm. Keep in mind, you aren't the only one who got the bad news. We should act fast before someone else gets the idea to go to the press. Secrets like this will see the light of day lickety-split."

"I wonder how many of the kin are parents," Hump pondered. "If memory serves, most of the missing AUH were Howie's age. Mid to late twenties."

"So?"

"Who's left? Brothers and sisters? A spouse? People move on with their lives. The world keeps turnin'. This thing isn't going to stir much interest."

"You're being a wet blanket, pops. Like everything else, awareness is generated with publicity. Okay, maybe people won't care. But this isn't about everyone else. It's about you, right? _You_ want to see where your son died. _You_ wanna get some answers. Who cares about everyone else? Those guys could help. I'm not saying it's a definite thing, but what would it hurt?"

" _Sports On The Pot_ , huh? Jeez O'Pete, I must be crazy to consider this."

"Say the word and I'll dash a note."

Hump listened to the sound of checkers. One woman cackled, the other cursed.

"Well, whatever you decide," Jason said, "I'm sorry about your son."

"Give them a ring," Hump relented. "Or send an e-mails."

"E-mail, pops. You sure? Once I get this rolling, we might be playing with gas."

"No, I ain't sure, but I suppose it can't hurt."

***

"Dad?" Hubbie asked. "What's wrong?"

Hubbie went straight to the point without foreplay. If Hump was calling, it had to be unpleasant news.

"Howie's body has been found in Africa," Hump reported.

"Howie?"

"At least they think it's Howie. I offered a DNA sample this afternoon. I'll know for certain in the next few days. The agent said they're gonna prioritize the results."

"Who's _they,_ Dad?"

"The FBI. The fella who contacted me was from the American Embassy in Nairobi. It's in Kenya."

"I know where Nairobi is," Hubbie said without inflection. "You're telling me the American Embassy contacted you?"

"Ayup. Someone by the name of Weaver."

"Weaver, you say? What did he sound like?"

"Huh?"

"Did he have an accent?"

"What are you gettin' at?"

"Did he ask for money?"

"No, I told you what he wanted."

"Alright, Dad. You need to sit tight. I'm going to make a few inquiries. I have classmates working in D.C. Let me kick dust and verify this is legit."

"It's not a trick. I heard the fella with my ears."

"You can't tell, in this day and age, who is trying to pull a fast one."

"A fast one? No, you don't understand. This is the real deal, Hubbie. Didn't you hear what I said? Howie's been found!"

"I heard, and I've also _not_ heard a lick of this discovery on the news. Why?"

"It has to be kept, you know, secret until all the family members are notified."

"Mm-hmmm. Why?"

"Jesus, Hubbie, you sound like a lawyer. Don't interrogate me. I'm telling you what I know."

"And I'm telling you what _I_ know. This could be a scam. Don't do anything until I get more information."

"I told you, I already gave DNA and-"

Hubbie sighed and then said, "Yeah, yeah. Perfect. What's the first name of this Weaver fellow?"

"I don't remember. Started with a B, I think. Berle or-"

"Geez, Dad. Berle? What kind of a name is Berle?"

"Maybe it wasn't Berle. Anyway, I gave you his last name. Good enough?"

"Where was Howie, and the others, found?"

"Weaver wouldn't tell me."

"Uh-huh."

"He's being sneaky, if you ask me."

"Sneaky? No, he's being vague. You know why? It's a scam. Some Nigerian is calling and trying to get at your bank account. Watch, the next time he contacts you, it'll be for money. I guarantee it. Don't give him anything and, when he phones again, you have him call me."

"I appreciate your concern, but you're wrong."

"You can't appreciate _and_ insult, Dad. It doesn't work this way. So, this guy Weaver didn't tell you where they were found. My gut tells me he's going to string you along and-"

"Your gut," Hump interrupted with a cruel chuckle. "Plenty of _that_ to talk to you."

"Yes, plenty, but you know what? Don't listen to me, or my gut. Let some fraudster from Africa clean you out. I can't wait to see you eat crow."

"I won't be eating crow because this isn't a con, sonny."

"Listen to us. This reminds me of the arguments you and Howie used to have. Except, back then, it was you who tried to convince him he was the fool."

"I never called Howie a fool. Misguided, lovesick, a dreamer, but..." Hump rubbed his temple and closed eyes.

"But, nonetheless, a fool," Hubbie finished. "I'll say it if you won't. He should've never gone to Africa. Howie wanted to be Hemingway. Such a waste. Regardless, his impetuousness impacts us decades later. Like a crater left by a meteor. Anyway, I have work to do. Remember what I said. If this guy contacts you again, send him my way."

"I heard you the first time," Hump mumbled, opening eyes.

"Or don't."

"I'm not stupid, Hubbie. I know you think I'm like every old bag of bones. A nitwit from Baltimore, a...a moron from Boston. An idiot from...from-"

"Oh, I can play this game. Are we naming municipalities the teams you managed couldn't win in? How 'bout-"

"Shush. I just thought of sumptin. Weaver told me a city, or village, or whatever the hell they call it in Africa. Started with a B. I reckon this place is near the grave."

"Reckon?"

"I don't know," Hump snapped. "Lookit, I'm no geography wizard. Weaver also said Krauts found' em."

"Germans?"

"Krauts from a place called...uh..."

"Berle?" Hubbie chuckled.

"I'll Berle you. My memory isn't as hot as it used to be. Brab...er..."

"German what? Tourists, Wehrmacht-"

"The way I understand it, they're...Christ, what did he say? Surveying, I think. Brag, maybe."

"Fort Bragg?"

"No! Now, if you'll give me a second, I'll-"

"Bag?"

"Bag-bra..." Hump stammered.

"Jesus Christ! I should've known. _Brabag_ , Dad, and it isn't a place. Brabag's a Nazi company responsible for petroleum synthesis from lignite. They turn coal into gasoline."

"I know what Bag-bra does," Hump said with indignation, though he didn't have the faintest clue.

" _Brabag,_ Dad. B-R-A-B-A-G. _Brabag_."

"That's what I said!"

"Hmm," Hubbie purred. "This is interesting."

"You believe me now?"

"Eh... _perhaps_. The Germans have been scouring their old colonies for oil and shale deposits. The Reich is starting to feel a crunch on petroleum. Their fields in Romania and Libya are turning dry, the oil in the Middle East is endangered by the constant turmoil between the German-supported Arabs and...well, everyone else in the region. South American crude is controlled by the Americans, and the tariffs are high. Therefore, the Nazis are looking in other spots. Of course, there's Kenyan and Nigerian oil, and its protected, but this isn't going to be enough to last another thousand years. Or nine hundred and sixteen, if my math is accurate."

"Your gut tell you this?"

"No, the news. The renewable energy debate's been a hot topic on those political shows because of the recent climate chatter. Seems the Third Reich gives lip service to environmental accords and German corporations are abusers of nature. Like this should be a shock? Their protectorates subsist, and are reliant, on coal and coal production. The worst air pollution in the world sits square over Eastern Europe and German Russland. A huge cloud, Dad. The astronauts can see it from space. Guess what? The Germans aren't planning on doing anything about it. And, surprise, surprise, our new President doesn't seem to believe in climate change. Symington is a disgrace. I can't believe he was elected after all-"

"Those astronauts see all kinds of clouds," Hump interjected.

"Ah, Dad," Hubbie spat in disgust. "Haven't you seen the protests outside the German Embassy in Washington? People are worried the Nazis are going to turn Africa into more than a wasteland than it already is."

"I try to avoid the news. I'll watch _60 Minutes_ on Sunday, but not much else."

"Do you listen to the radio?"

"Only John Sterling and the Yankees."

"No television?" Hubbie asked again, this time with disbelief.

"I told you, _60 Minutes_. The rest of it is depressing. Every story is doom and gloom. You'd think our country is at war with itself."

"This is a discussion for another time."

"I do catch _Live! This Morning_ , then the _Price Is Right_ , and those judge shows starting at one. Have lunch, toss the ball for a half-hour, and settle into the chair for _Divorce Court_."

"Wait...did I hear you? Throwing the ball?"

"It's my exercise. I'm going to be throwing the first pitch-"

"Don't hurt yourself," Hubbie interrupted, but it didn't sound like a serious request.

"Thirty July. Me and the rest of the boys from the '57 team are being honored."

"I don't want to talk about baseball. You called about Howie, remember?"

"I'm just telling you in case-"

"Dad, I hate baseball. Congrats and whatever, but I want to determine if this Africa business is authentic. Although, if someone went to concocting a story, they're saying the right things."

"To what end?"

"As I stated, these scammers like to drain people of money and the elderly are primo targets. The Nigerians have a bad reputation for this kind of hanky-panky. You have more than a coin purse, Dad. It's possible you're a mark. Who did you give DNA to?"

"Someone showed up from the FBI and used a cotton swab. Ran it across the inside of my cheek. They had identification."

"Credentials can be forged, though...I'm damned to explain what they'd do with DNA."

Flabbergasted, Hump exclaimed, "I told you!"

"Alright, calm down."

"I'm old, but I'm _not_ an idiot. Why don't you quit being suspicious and accept what I've told you?"

"Just...no more, Dad, until I can dig a little more. Sit on your hands. Fair enough?"

Hump acquiesced with what could be described as a throaty, hostile grumble. Hubbie didn't want to accept _the_ truth, which wasn't shocking because solicitors played fast and loose with veracity. For better or worse, _the_ truth was this: Hump started the ball rolling and, in short order, there would be no stopping momentum.

# 5. Hump's On The Internets

"This guy we're meeting is named Fozzy Barrone," Jason explained as he negotiated the Palisades Interstate Parkway south. Thickening traffic had slowed the exodus outside Englewood Cliffs, creating stop-and-go conditions. In the extended sessions of zero movement, Jason talked. Hump listened and asked an occasional question. Pieced together over fifteen miles, this is the pertinent transcript of the conversation:

"Barrone is the head editor at _Sports On The Pot_. I dropped an email the other day, after we talked, and he rang about twenty minutes later. He asked a few questions and then disconnected. Then he phoned later in the day and said he wanted to meet."

"Why do we have to drive to the city?" Hump asked.

"I don't know. I bet he doesn't believe any of this, so why would he waste a trip to Newburgh? The important thing is to tell the story and leave nothing out. If it's interesting, the site will publish it. Maybe you'll get a chance to visit Africa. If nothing else, you'll raise awareness of others who vanished in similar circumstances. This is a good thing, pops."

"I should go to a real journalist."

"Like a newspaper? Geez, those things are dead. Relics of the past."

"Newspapers are still around."

"So are the pyramids. Trust me, you'll get more of a reaction this way. Those guys at _Sports On The Pot_ have a special relationship with their audience."

"What's in it for you?"

Jason smiled and then said, "Hey, I'm a sucker for solitary hearts. Plus, these guys might pay."

"I'm flush with money."

"Then do it to stick it to the man."

"What man?"

" _The_ man. The man who said you can't go to Africa. Maybe there's information about your son the government is hiding. Hmm?"

"I just don't know if this outfit is the way to go."

"Hey, have I ever led you astray?"

"Other than selling me grass? Yeah, our relationship is aboveboard."

"Ha! You're a stitch, pops."

The gnarled parkway parted to a cloistered insanity. Hump white-knuckled the ride through the Lincoln Tunnel and Manhattan midday insanity. The traffic was one thing; the kid's driving was another. He whizzed south along 12th Avenue as it became West Street, cutting off anything on two and four wheels, while running several red lights. Two near collisions later, Hump was reevaluating priorities. Jason had promised to escort Hump to a Yankees game at the stadium and wiggled the two tickets like they were a treat for a dog. _But first,_ Jason added, _we have to see a man about a horse_.

After the third close call, punctuated by a blaring horn, Hump said, "Why don't you take it easy, kid. You're going to get us in a twist."

"This bitch can handle anything. And, we're late. Ergo..."

"Ergo, you're goin' to get us kilt!"

Jason smirked and then lapsed into the voice of Chief Engineer Scotty from _Star Trek_ and said, " _I'm gittin' as much warp as I kin outta her."_

Hump touched the sun-drenched, faded gray pebbled plastic lining the dashboard and pronounced, "I haven't seen a Ford Escort since the late Eighties. Didn't know they still made 'em."

"They don't. I bought this from my cousin in Parkhurst for a thousand dollars. Runs like a champ, wouldn't you say?"

"Sure, but it won't do any good if we're in an accident."

"Relax. We're almost there."

The offices of Devious Media were located on the third floor of a dilapidated five story brick building set on the corner of Greenwich and North Moore Streets in Tribeca. The ground floor housed some kind of art house and coffee shop, and the clientele were bohemian and talked in hushed, conspiratorial whispers. They eyed Hump with mistrust, or pity, and gave way with listless vigor. Hump was feeling out-of-his-element, but then he caught sight of the lift and almost turned tail. The elevator was of the old-fashioned, sliding wooden gate kind, with a dial pointing at the floor numbers as the car rose in a clatter of metallic jangling.

"Look at this thing," Jason said in awe. "You should feel at home in this. Am I right?"

"Because it's old?"

"I mean...yeah, I guess."

"Kid, I don't know what century you think I lived in, but I can assure you I'd feel more at home in something late twentieth, not nineteenth, century."

"Ha-ha! There you go again."

"Whadda ya mean?"

"You're funny as all get out. You're by far my favorite old timer."

The elevator jerked to a stop on the third floor and, after Jason wrestled the grate open, the duo stepped into a lobby manned by a young girl with multicolored fingernails. She tapped at an iPhone and giggled, then acknowledged the two standing in front of her desk with a pleasant smile.

"Help you?"

"We're here to see Fozzy," Jason said. "Humphrey Hammerbacher."

The secretary glanced at a sheet and then said, "You're a half-hour late. Fozzy's on a conference call. I'll let him know you're here, but you might be waiting a bit."

"It's fine. We'll take a seat and chillax."

"There's coffee downstairs."

Jason asked, "You want coffee, Hump?"

"Wait...he's Humphrey?" the secretary asked, pointing an orange nail at the old timer.

***

Forty minutes later, at half past two, Fozzy Barrone emerged from behind a frosted door.

"Thanks for waiting," he said, snapping fingers. "Follow moi to my spacious workplace and we-"

"You're the head editor?" Hump interrupted. Barrone was about Jason's age and didn't look like any editor (lead or otherwise) Hump had _ever_ seen. Dressed in an untucked tie-dye t-shirt and baggy cargo shorts, the fella looked like a refugee from the late 1960's, complete with a wild, blond afro and eyeglasses with big, brown frames.

"Yes, sir. Alphonso Barrone, at you service. Call me Fozzy."

"You're the head editor?" Hump asked again. "You look like some kinda vagabond."

"It's casual Tuesday," Barrone informed with a straight face. "Trust me, I'm the cat's meow among the slackers working here."

Hump's eyes narrowed and he asked, "You take your job serious?"

Barrone laughed and then said, "This is what I wear when I'm dressing _up_ for work."

"Do you have a college degree or sumptin?" asked Hump.

"I graduated from Marist," Barrone answered. "Look, if you want David Brinkley, you can dig up his bones. I've a thousand things to do today and I'm fighting deadlines. I'm not going to twist your arm. You came to me. So, let's have a chat and see what's-what. Cool?"

"Yeah, it's cool," Jason said as he helped Hump from the chair. "We're cool, ain't we, pops?"

"What the hell is this?" Hump whispered.

"Hey," Jason replied, "if it amounts to nothing, you still get a ballgame outta the deal." He raised eyebrows and Hump relented with a dubious grunt.

With Barrone leading the way, the trio passed through a giant, steamy workspace portioned by cubicles. The rattling of fingers on keyboards and an occasional frantic shout serenaded the short walk. There were other voices, low and unobtrusive, but the owners went unseen behind their flimsy prisons. When they reached the rear of the room, the editor flung open another frosted door and pointed at two folding chairs propped in front of a flimsy, four-legged card table. On top of the rudimentary desk was a small laptop computer, a boxy phone and a messy heap of papers. A window mounted AC unit rumbled in the corner beneath a tangle of closed venetian blinds. The single source of light was a standing halogen lamp all by its lonesome in the other corner of the office.

"If my outfit failed to impress," Barone said as he shut the door, "I bet this ode to, _ahem_ , workmanlike grandeur should do the trick." Then he walked around the table and took a seat as Hump and Jason tried to get comfortable. "And," Barrone continued, "apologies, in advance, for the lower back pain. I don't have anything with more cushion. Budget's tight."

"Naw, man," Jason said. "It's groovy. Gives off a relaxed vibe. I read your site all the time. I always wanted to see where the magic's made."

"You get a point for ass-kissing," Barrone said, shuffling papers. "We just passed through what used to be a warehouse where women and children slaved over sewing machines. But, you know how the cookie crumbles. Once a sweatshop, always a sweatshop. _Sports On The Pot_ has the majority of desks on this floor. Both the fourth and fifth story are home to the other... _brands_ of the Devious Media group."

"What kind of _brands_?" Hump asked.

Barrone pushed aside the stack, now arranged in a semblance of order, and then looked at Hump and said, "I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess you aren't tuned into the superhighway o'information. Or, in Spanish, _superautopista de la información_. Pretty neat, huh? I learned this nifty phrase yesterday from the cute senorita barista downstairs."

Perplexed, Hump squawked, "Super...what's-it?"

"Forget it," Barrone said through a grin. "I suppose when I'm old as Stonehenge, the last thing I'll be interested in doing is keeping up with the latest technological breakthrough."

"You ain't gonna live to be _old as Stonehenge_ if you keep insulting me," refuted Hump.

"No offense, dude. All I meant was, you know, I'm gonna be more worried about nap time or taking penis pills than surfing the web."

"Jeez O'Pete, are you for real?"

"Affirm. I'm a bit of clown, sir, but it doesn't mean I'm not serious about my work. Now, these sites Devious operates? They're all clickbait whores."

"Watcha mean?"

"Flashy and titillating headlines meant to draw gawkers. It's like...um...so, the same type of scum who'd rubberneck at a school bus accident and snap pictures of dead kids? This would be our audience. Each visit generates revenue and..." Barrone stared at Hump's taciturn expression and decided to forgo with the lengthy explanation. "Just, um, forget I mentioned this. All I can say our sites look to drive readers across the Devious universe. Many people start perusing the junk on _Scandalous Whispers_ and then get caught in a Devious rabbit hole. Make sense?"

"I suppose," Hump mumbled.

"I get it," Jason chirped. "Pops, I'll explain later."

"Lookit," Hump said, "I'm too old to care about this mumbo-jumbo."

"My point," Barrone said, "is whatever we post will get seen by millions of people. Does this make sense?"

Hump jiggled his neck in affirmation.

"Good," Barrone said, letting eyes drift to the computer screen. "I just need to check a few things," he explained, punching buttons on the keyboard. After a minute of silent consultation with the monitor, the editor rotated his head, studied Hump, and then asked, "So, you claim to be Humphrey Hammerbacher?"

Hump flinched and then said, "I don't claim nutin. I am!"

"Have any identification?"

"What do you want?"

"Driver's license-"

"I don't drive anymore."

"Give me something. I don't care if it's a library card."

Jason nudged Hump in the ribs and asked, "You have your card from the home?"

"I didn't know I had to demonstrate identity," Hump complained, digging for his wallet.

"I'm not trying to be confrontational," Barrone explained. "This is classic CMA behavior. _Cover My Ass_. What with the state of litigation in the United States, I'd be an idiot to take everything at face value. You wouldn't believe the nuts who assert they're..." The editor smile, tapped his forehead and then said, "In late March, we had a guy stroll in and claim he was Gary Varsho. No lie. Said he was a scout with the Angels and had _juicy_ dirt on Mike Trout. Something just south of the Richard Gere gerbil fairytale. Varsho is the kind of guy someone could pretend to be because he's...well, inconspicuous. Like, why would anyone say they're Gary Varsho? Beats me? Warhol's fast fifteen minutes, a grudge, the thrill of pulling a fast one? Same kind of dudes who can only jerk it with a noose tied around their neck. Am I right?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Hump asked.

Barone continued as if the old man hadn't spoken: "Don't get me wrong. I don't give a rat's ass how someone gets their jollies. However, when it comes this publication, I walk a judicious line. This Varsho nonsense is one example of thousands. Some we can vet with a quick peek at the net. But you, Mister Hammerbacher, require further inspection."

Hump slapped the id on the table and said, "I doubt anybody would try to impersonate me."

"You'd be surprised," Barrone said as he examined the card. "All I could find on the world wide web is ancient history. The last picture of you is from the '90 season. No offense, but you look quite a bit different today. And, no offense, you two could be trying to perpetrate a ruse."

"1990 was my last year with the Yankees," Hump said.

Barrone slid the card to Hump and said, "Well, you're saying the right things. I did a deep dive into Wikipedia last night. No offense, but I thought you were dead."

"Wiki-what?"

"It's an encyclopedia on the internet."

"I'm in there?"

"Hell, you can find just about anything on Wikipedia. Even Hump Hammerbacher. Though...your bio is laconic."

"It's what now?"

"Pithy. Nothing exciting. A little blurb, some statistics..." Barrone jabbed more keys and then asked, "What's your birthdate?"

"Eight March, 1934."

"Place?"

"Winona, Mississippi."

"Mmmm..." Barrone hummed, pecking at the keyboard. "Winona, Mississippi. Never heard of it."

"People in Mississippi ain't heard of Winona."

"Population of 5,043, according to the 2010 census. Locals still call it the _Crossroads of Northern Mississippi_?"

Hump frowned and then said, "I thought you never heard of Winona."

"All on Wikipedia, my man. Matter of fact, did you know one William V. Sullivan was from Winona?"

"Sullivan? Haven't heard his name in ages. Grandpappy Alfred used to talk about him."

"What did ole Alfred have to say?"

"Nothing good. Story was Sullivan led a hanging party and they strung-up some poor black kid outside town."

Barrone turned the laptop screen towards Hump and said, "Take a gander."

"I don't read well without glasses. All them words are fuzzy."

"What you just told me is right here," Barrone said, drumming the screen with fingers. "And some other things. Sullivan was a Senator and Representative, attended Ole Miss, graduated from Vanderbilt, and died in 1918. My point is anything can be found on the net. Even information about Humphrey Hammerbacher. Yankees callup from...where was it?"

"Birmingham. Of the Sally League. Got the wire in May of '55 after Tom Carroll broke his ankle."

"Uh-huh."

"Yup. Took a bus to Chicago to meet the team. I never been north of Memphis and I was one spot lit deer, let me tell you. Green as April grass. So damn nervous, my legs were shakin' when I walked into the clubhouse."

"Yeah?"

"Darn tootin'. The Old Professor gave me a handshake and-"

"Who's the Old Professor?"

Hump looked aggrieved and said, "Casey Stengel. Ain't you heard of him?"

"Sure, but, um...what you'd call him? The Mad Professor?"

"The _Old_ Professor. Man was an innovator. Best damn manager. _Ever._ "

"I'll take your word. Come to think of it, there's a subway stop outside Corona Field named for Stengel."

"Goddamn Mets," Hump hissed.

"You have a problem with the Mets?"

"Mister, the Mets ruined baseball in New York."

"Ruined, eh," Barrone chuckled with derision. "Next you're gonna tell me the designated hitter rule is balderdash."

"Matter of fact-"

The editor raised a hand and said, "No offense, but you're a cranky old bastard."

"I have opinions, Fuzzy."

"It's Fozzy, okay? Or Alphonso. _Not_ Fuzzy. Clear as mud?"

Hump crossed arms and mumbled, "What kinda name is Fuzzy anyway?"

" _Fozzy_. Short for Alphonso. It's a family name and...you know, Hump isn't common, either."

"I reckon there're more people named Humphrey than Fuzzy populating the world, kid."

"Ah...I see how this is gonna go," Barrone said, shaking his head. "Alright, you don't like the Mets. Fine. I think they're fun to watch. Less starchy than the Bronx pinstripes. Or they were until Bobby V. was kicked to the curb."

"Valentine?" Hump cried. "The fella who wore the fake mustache after he got the heave-ho? This is what I'm talkin' about, Fuzzy. A goddamn mockery."

"You can't argue Valentine didn't do a good job."

"Ain't nobody can hold a candle to Stengel," claimed Hump. " _Nobody_. And he was affable. A player's manager. You know what the Old Professor called me? _Hamburger_. Hump Hamburger."

Barrone looked at his watch and then said, "Wow, what a card."

"Stengel's genius has been lost to the ages. He's remembered for piloting the shipwreck of those lousy Metropolitan teams. People forget he brought back platooning and-"

"No offense, but I don't care about Casey Stengel. I'm interested in Hump Hammerbacher and I've about ten minutes until my next meeting. How 'bout we get to gamboling?"

"Then shoot. What else you want to know?"

"Here's an easy one," Barrone said as he turned the laptop around. "How many homeruns did you hit in 1960?"

"Easy," Hump trumpeted. "Twenty-three. Three in one game against the White Sox. My road roommate was Elston Howard. You want to know why? I was the only guy who could tolerate his snoring. And likewise. The two of us used to shake buildings. What else? The name of my first-grade teacher?"

"Naw. Nobody cares about your school history."

"Then we're square?"

"Oh, I've bunches of questions."

"Shoot."

"Was Mantle a primo degenerate and asshole?"

"I don't have time for these shenanigans," Hump said as he folded the wallet and shoved it into his pocket.

"Calm down. Inquiring minds want to know. I'm writing a book and, wouldn't you know, Mickey is one of the characters."

"What kind of circus is this?" Hump asked as he turned to Jason. "What did you drag me to?"

"Alright, alright," Barrone said with a chuckle. "Perhaps the question about Mick was out of line."

"Are you serious or not?" Hump asked. "And if you are, how are you going to help me?"

"Like I said, I gotta see what I'm working with."

Hump started to rise from his chair and said, "I see what I'm working with. And I _ain't_ impressed."

"Sit," Barrone instructed. "I believe you're Humphrey Hammerbacher. And you," Barrone said, looking at Jason. "From our previous conversation, I'm not clear what relationship you have with Mister Hammerbacher. Grandson?"

Jason said, "We're not related. I work at the residence pops calls home."

"Friends?"

"Sure."

"You're not..." Barrone squinted and pursed lips before asking, "Um, no offense, but this isn't some Liberace-Scott Thorson action, is it?"

"For a fellow who says _no offense_ as much as you," Hump rumbled, "you sure go out of your way to offend."

"I'm just playing with you," Barrone said. "Got to have a little levity, don't we?"

"Your idea of humor is different than mine," Hump claimed.

"What do you do for fun, old fella? Sit around, gnash teeth and shake your fist at the sun?"

"Hump and I play catch," Jason interjected. "Don't we, pops?"

"Oh? You still throw the sphere, Mister Hammerbacher?" Barrone asked. It sounded, to Hump, like the editor was talking to him like a child.

"Of course! Have to keep my arm strong. I'm throwing the first pitch at the end of July."

"You don't say?"

"Yes, sir. Yankee Stadium on the thirtieth."

Barrone grimaced and then asked, " _The_ Yankee Stadium?"

"Where else?"

"I don't know. A Pony League diamond or-"

"Jeez O'Pete," Hump muttered. "It's the sixty-year anniversary of the '57 team. Five of us are left. It might be the last time the organization gets the chance to show us off."

Barrone rubbed his chin and said, "You don't say? Hmm...now we're talking."

"If we'd have won the World Series," Hump continued, "I bet we'd have been honored on Opening Day. Braves beat us four games to three. Lew Burdette had a fantastic series and-"

"I can see it now," Barrone said, interrupting the chatter. "This thing about your son, and a nice piece about the team from '57. The forgotten son, of a forgotten man, of a forgotten team." He smiled, revealed pristine teeth, and then shrugged. "I'm spitballin' here. What do you think?"

"How does this help me get to Africa?" Hump asked.

"You'd be surprised by the power of the internet. Feel good stories are great press."

" _Feel good_? My son was killed in Africa."

"Yes, and you're the pained father trying to put the past to bed. I'm not trying to make light of your situation but...I'm approaching this like an editor, so bear with me. We here at Devious have a bad reputation. The company was taken to the cleaners last year for a libel lawsuit even though everything reported was accurate. I don't want to get into it, but people lump us into the same category as the _National Enquirer_. However, we have diligent writers who turn out excellent material. Problem is all of it's dismissed by the mainstream media. I like esoteric subjects. Last month, _Sports On The Pot_ published a five-thousand-word story about the grimy underside of eGames. I can't help but brag, Hump. It was a glorious piece. Hit the motherload of filth: game fixing."

"What the hell are eGames?" Hump asked.

"Electronic games. Team and individual competitions playing everything from sports to fantasy adventures."

"Video games," Jason added.

"Right," Barrone said. "There are even college teams. The biggest tournaments are broadcast on television or the net."

"People watch these eGames?" Hump asked.

"You'd be surprised," Barrone replied. "Besides, it's no different than watching other sporting events. Whether it's a kid pressing buttons or a roided hulk swinging a bat, the act requires skill. My contemporaries who cover quote _real sports_ , unquote, dismiss eGames as a hobby for the unathletic. They're idiots. What's more, money is exchanged and when money is involved, people will do _anything_. Rigging sports isn't new. Boxing's always been dirty. Still is, if you ask me. Baseball had a seedy reputation in the early Twentieth Century, Rothstein and the White Sox you know...never mind whatever Pete Rose was doing at the back end of the century. Then you have the point shaving scandals of college basketball in the '50's. Even the game shows were fixed. EGames are no different. I received a tip, did some sifting, and bam! Uncovered quite the little scam. Teams taking dives, players getting paid for losing...there's all sorts of foolishness when gambling gets involved. Now, the million-dollar question: did you hear about the story? Hold on...don't answer." Barrone waited a second before exclaiming, "No! Not a mouse fart on the evening news, in the papers, nada. You know why? Because nobody takes _Sports On The Pot_ serious."

"Might help if you changed your name," Hump offered.

"Don't get me started," Barrone grumbled. "It's just...my boss is...he's juvenile."

"More than you?" asked Hump.

Barrone blew a raspberry and then said, "Chadwick Carlton stop maturating at age sixteen, okay? But I'm working to change things. This place started as a tabloid, sure, but we're not just about the tasteless. Check it out: I'm sitting on a story about a big-time relief pitcher sending dick-picks to a mistress in Oregon. This spurned trollop emailed me cockshots, wants us to roast this guy. And I could. But what's the point? I'm getting tired of this bullshit. This story of yours has the potential to be a real dive into the waters of credible journalism."

"So," Hump said, "it's like I'm doing you a favor."

"We're doing each other favors. It's a symbiotic relationship. Plus, I pay. The bigger the story gets, the more we make. There could even be a publicity junket. You could be on television. Think of it."

"I just want those fellas to tell me where they found Howie. The rest of it is your problem."

"Fair enough, but I don't want to screw you. Now, I couldn't find much about your son's disappearance. It was mentioned in passing but the details are sparse. A hot topic for a hot minute."

Hump said, "Ayup. It was the summer of '90. My last stint with the Yankees. Mid-August, I get a call from someone at American United Hands. He tells me Howie's party has vanished. No other information. Twenty volunteers turned into a mist. Couldn't tell me where they were going, where they were staying...nutin. Sub-Sahara Africa is all he said, which told me zilch. Africa is a big place, for cryin' out loud. There was a search, or so I was told, but it was a waste of time. Then, like you said, things happened and interest moved to other awful calamities. A plane crash in Pittsburgh, a mass shooting somewhere, a kid stuck in a well...who knows what, but the story sank into obscurity. And I was still managing so...what could I do? My wife, though, was a mess. It broke Carol's heart. Broke mine, too, but Carol was inconsolable for the longest time. The bond between mother and child exceeds my understanding. I can tell you it's strong. When it breaks, it's like an evisceration. You just kinda die slow and in constant pain. Yup, she went to the next world still grieving this one."

"Jesus," Barrone whispered. "I'm sorry. Let's get to the bottom if it. Find you amity."

"I doubt it'll give me peace, but I've always wondered what happened. O'course, the reason he went to Africa was to follow some woman. I reckon she's one of them corpses, too."

"Tell me about him," Barrone said, removing his glasses. "Give me a sense of Howie. Was he skinny or fat? Tall or short?"

Hump cleared his throat and said, "Oh, Howie was an interesting boy. For a long time, I blamed him for what happened."

"Come again?"

"For goin' missin'," Hump answered, reaching for his wallet again. "We had the same kind of generational differences most kids and their parents struggle with." He paused, licked a finger, and then mined through the thin piece of leather. Out came a small rectangular photograph, three by two inches. "This is Howie, senior year of high school," Hump said, sliding the picture onto the tabletop.

Barrone studied the faded image: Howie Hammerbacher was handsome, lean, with pronounced cheekbones, light eyebrows, and long blond hair. A trace of a mischievous, Mona Lisa-like smile curled at the corner of his lips. The locks made the boy look like Thor.

"The hair," Hump continued, "was longer than most girls. I hated it, but Carol said we needed to pick our battles, so it stayed. He started growin' it as a freshman. Testin' us, you see. Howie tested us _a lot_ in high school. I figured this Africa thing was another in an endless line nose thumbin'. Carol and I didn't want him to go, and the more we protested, the harder his mind became. Stubborn kid. It was the Kraut in him. I figured he went out of spite, but I was wrong. I see it now, mister, but it took years for me to understand. Howie wanted to live his own life. And it got him kilt. I blamed Howie. I was wrong."

"Okay," Barrone said, returning the photo. "You guys butted heads. What else? What did he like? What did he eat? Did he read?"

"He read more than a damn librarian," Hump said, dropping Howie into the wallet. "I reckon he read too much. Smart kid. _Strong_ kid. A helluva an athlete. Howie was born on May the seventh, 1961, and boy, he was..."

# 6. Talkin' Hump

...a stunning baby and grew into a cute toddler complete with bouncy blond hair, dimples and blue eyes. All Howie's good features were Carol's doings, right down to the little pointy chin. Hump's protruding beak and long, elongated earlobes were missing from the child's DNA. However, Hump's genes weren't absent and they manifested in other tangible ways. Howie walked early, around seven months, and had amazing dexterity for a youngster. He was swinging a bat in no time, batting from both sides, and Hump saw the boy as a switch hitter someday in the Bigs. Switch hitters, a freak of nature, would always have long careers. And, after the American League established the Designated Hitter rule in 1973, these rarities didn't even have to play in the field. The grind of nine innings could be enjoyed from the bench, save for the three or four times a fella had to grab lumber and step to the plate.

Havin' a kid, though, didn't mean baseball was abandoned. As luck would have it, Hump entered the most productive span of his career. Though brief, there was a time Hump dreamed of a twenty-year run with the Yankees, the stalwart at third base, retiring at forty and making a little home for his family. After twenty years minding the hot corner, he'd be flush with cash. You could live a king in Mississippi with the money Hump would make. Today, he chided those foolish, grandiose imaginings. The world changes so fast, it was impossible to make plans. Anyway, Carol would never move to Mississippi. She was adamant her New York shoes were never going to skedaddle anywhere near Mississippi. Hump's fantasies, however, recognized no reality but the finest fabrications.

Why not? The 1961 season became something out of fiction. The Year, as it was known later. The Year of the great race to reach the Babe. Ruth's single-season homerun record of 60 was going to fall, and the question became would Maris, Mantle or Hammerbacher be the one to do it? Or, as became the bigger query, would any of these sluggers break 60 in 154 games? The firestorm about extending the season to 162 games created the asterisk Maris inherited after cranking 61 in the final game of the season.

Hump was having a solid year, too. In his second season as the starting third baseman, he belted a whopping 30 homeruns by the All-Star break. What's more, Hump was playing flawless at the corner. Not an error through eighty-one games. He should've made the All-Star team, but Brooks Robinson was selected and AL Manager Paul Richards didn't take a single third baseman as reserve for the two games in San Francisco.

At home with Carol and the boy, Hump cursed the rotten politics. Richards wanted to showcase Robinson, Hump raged, because Paul was Brooks manager in Baltimore. Then Hump ranted Richards took _four_ first basemen, including James Gentile (another Oriole, go figure). Gentile was having a bang-up first half too, but Hump was playing better and besides, _it just wasn't fair_.

Carol wanted him to enjoy the layoff; Hump sulked and bellyached. Looking back, it seemed a lousy message to send. They got into a nasty fight and he stormed from their house. Several beers later he felt not at all better and decided to heave a bottle through the living room window. The police were called and Hump spent a half-hour convincing the cops he was _right as rain_. The domestic dustup made its way into the _New York Post_ the next afternoon and Hump caught quite the ribbing from both players and fans. Most of it was good-natured, at least in theory. The consensus in the locker room was a little violence was necessary in matrimony, but more than a few fans jeered and made jokes Hump was better throwing beer bottles than baseballs.

Alas, the round trippers tailed off for Hump; he caught a case of the slumps and had a rough August. In the meantime, Maris and Mantle took the national spotlight. Fifty-two was nothing to sneeze at and Hump planned on building the number brick-by-brick over the next seventeen or so seasons. Getting brained in '62 ended his playing career and derailed Hump's caravan of intentions. Hump rationalized it was a detour, a _big_ detour, but _went with the flow_ , as the popular lingo of the time quantified. The next stop was coaching; it turned out to be a circuitous route coast-to-coast. Florida for a few years, Minneapolis, Oakland...the Hammerbachers' were nomads. No wonder Howie always felt unsettled. And it just wasn't the boy. Carol kept feelings bottled, but frustration was evident.

Somehow, they had another child and Howie dove into the usual sports as a middle-schooler. Baseball, football and basketball, playing each with grace and fluidity. He was lightyears better than most peers, but took praise with a shyness Hump couldn't comprehend. Maybe it was growing up a poor boy in Mississippi, but nobody ever acknowledged Hump's skill until he was in high school. Once he received praise, the effect was like chuggin' hooch. Howie didn't want to hear it, or was embarrassed, and shrugged off accolades like it was a dirty blanket. He'd say things like, _'It's just a game. It doesn't mean anything_ ', but the sentiment was maddening. Competition, proving manhood, whatever sports meant, wasn't important to Howie. Little-by-little, he gravitated to other interests. Long hair replaced short; he became interested in social issues and argued politics with Hump. The kid still participated in sports, but the effort was tame and half-assed. It irritated Hump to no end, but yelling about effort (or the lack thereof) wouldn't change the boy's temperament.

When Howie graduated, he decided to travel the country like a Beatnik and write journals. He called the collection " _Howie Hammerbacher's Book Of Life_ " and promised it'd be a bestseller one day. A giant blond beard sprouted. Howie took to veganism and Eastern Religion; he chanted mumbo-jumbo and donned tatty outfits. Hump thought the boy went nuts. It was rumored crazy blood flowed through the Hammerbacher tree. Pa, in his last years, veered into the netherland between lucidity and insanity. Perhaps the same absurdity infected Howie. Hump tried to reason with the boy, but Howie refused to listen. The kid was dead set to complete _his_ journey, not Hump's or Carol's.

This meandering trip took Howie to the Midwest, California, up the West Coast, thru Canada, into Alaska and then, when his cash was spent, back to the Big Apple. Next, Howie joined a band, worked at a bookstore and, for lack of a better word, drifted through life. Then he fell in love, abandoned a fledging career in the arts, and decided to join American United Hands. He wanted to make a difference in the world and the material gains from capitalism wasn't fulfilling enough. Hump knew it was the woman...whatever her name was. She put a spell on Howie. A witch spell. Duped, he followed her to Africa and there, in whatever crummy war-torn scrubland they found themselves, their love story ended.

Or maybe it didn't. Carol held naïve hope Howie dropped from society. Upped and joined an African tribe. It was a foolish notion and Hump was quick to castigate the dull-witted dream. Would all twenty of the missing AUH team share in this same fate? Did they form a commune and live off the land? Doubtful, but explaining as much to the mourning woman was impossible.

Instead, Hump subscribed to the idea they'd been kidnapped. It was a more practical fate and not obtuse. He folded this ragged inkling into a small, neat square and shoved it deep into his soul. There it would sit for decades. In the meantime, he had a team to manage. A bad team, as it was, but a job was a job. There was one thing Hump learned in his years as a coach and manager: the head of the clubhouse was called "Skipper" for a reason. The expectation was the Old Man would steer the ship and, if necessary, ride her to the deep if she foundered. He would never quit on his players, even if they quit on him. Only an act of God, or George Steinbrenner, would wrest Hump from the con.

The 1990 season ended for Hump on September seventh when he was sacked for the fourth and final time. Though it wasn't a surprise, Hump felt the same sour chagrin bubbling in his stomach like the first time he was fired. And the second. And the third. Like a good Skipper, however, he didn't throw a fuss. Besides, who could blame Steinbrenner for pulling the plug? The Yankees were twenty games out of first. The fans were listless and apathetic. The same could be said of the players. Steinbrenner shook Hump's hand, pulled the ex-manager close, and then said, _'Thanks, again, for your service, but it's time to move in another direction. By the by, pal, I advise a little sabbatical. Sit back and smell the roses.'_ Which meant, when the sugary words were scraped from the surface, Georgie was telling (not suggesting) Hump should call it a career. Stump Merrill took the wheel and Hump left without a whimper. He dropped the keys on the counter and gave the lousy lemon to a new sucker.

Later, in the office of his home, Hump sipped bourbon and stared out the window. Who was he kidding? He'd been the sucker. Giving forty plus years to baseball and for what? He had a scant relationship with one son, and the other was missing. Carol was morose and testy. Shifting into a stay-at-home retiree required _a lot_ of alcohol. A lot of alcohol for the both of them. Hump spent long periods sitting on the porch getting pickled. Carol drank in the city with friends and returned to a habit she swore was kaput. Smoking would have the final say and made Carol kaput nineteen years later. In the meantime, he and Carol almost never talked of Howie. Even the pictures were taken down, boxed, and shoved aside. It was like Howie Hammerbacher never existed.

One afternoon a few weeks after Carol died, Hump hauled boxes from the basement in an attempt to purge much of the junk accumulated after fifty-five years of marriage. Cartons of mementos, pictures, notes...none of it Hump could bring himself to toss. He found a bin of Howie's old notebooks Carol must have squirreled away when he left for Africa. Forty-two college ruled journals filled front to back with musings, tales and poems. Howie's distinct, neat handwriting beckoned and cajoled. Stunned, Hump tackled every notebook. He wasn't a reader, except for the newspaper, and hadn't torn through a book since high school. More to the point, Hump didn't know what was considered good or bad writing, but objectivity was thrown out the door. Howie's words captivated, beginning with a rambling cross-country trek by thumb, living in a seedy section of Oakland, working as a dockhand in Seattle, and living with an old fisherman for a winter in Seward, Alaska. Then another journal, detailing the return to New York some eight months later. There were more jottings, trips far and wide -north, south, crossing borders. In between, prose describing people and places, adventures and fright. Ponderings on existence, happiness and self-worth. Insightful, moving, paragraphs. Some of the thoughts were morose and dismal; the detritus of a mind searching for explanations and purpose. One thing was certain: Hump never regarded life beyond a cursory glance at the heavens. Howie was determined to find a way, or die trying.

In one sense, it was like sifting through the wreckage of a plane crash. What clues determined the chain of events leading to the penultimate destruction? Hump didn't know for certain. Maybe there was a trickle of crazy in Howie. Perhaps he resented Hump for being gone all the time. Perchance there was nothing to determine, no blame to be placed. Even if there was, contemplation didn't placate and satisfy Hump...and it wouldn't return Howie safe-and-sound.

There was a defined sensation Hump did touch, for a terrible moment, after he finished reading the last notebook. Rage reared, a poisonous hysteria, and infected Hump's judgment. It was hard to say why, but the basic notion revolved around Howie's absence of insight. How could he rush to some hellhole knowing what dangers existed? Didn't Howie consider the consequences of impetuousness? The answer was NO. Howie lacked such reflection. In his quest to do whatever it was to satisfy his bouncing soul, Howie Hammerbacher got himself killed. Or, at the least, missing and presumed dead.

***

"...and so, after finishing the last sentence, I took his stupid books and burned them. Every last one. Christ, I wish I wouldn't have done it," Hump said, shaking head. "I wasn't thinkin' straight. I shouldn't have blamed him. I-I just...I didn't know how to handle what I was feeling."

Barrone blew air from his mouth and sat back. Jason coughed. The air conditioner hummed.

At last, Barrone placed the glasses on his face and asked, "You burned them?"

"I know what yawl are thinkin'," Hump claimed, "but you don't know what was going through my head. Save the stares. I was wrong and it pains me. More than yawl understand."

"Sure," Barrone whispered. "I'm sorry to suggest otherwise. Did, um...did Howie write anything about where he was going in Africa?"

"No. Nothing specific, I mean. I already told ya, the AUH sent him to Sub-Sahara Africa. The remains, if they are his, were found by Krauts working for Brabag. My son, Hubbie, said the Krauts are rooting through old territories, looking for coal, or shale." Hump rubbed his hands together and then said, "There you have it."

"I don't know squat about Africa," Barrone admitted. "Learned enough in school to get the stamp of approval."

"Your fancy computer can fill you in," Hump said. "After Howie went missing, I did a little studying of my own. I even thought of going there because I was getting nowhere with those who were supposed to look after the interest of Americans abroad. I called the AUH, a senator, a rep in the House. Steinbrenner tried to pull strings. He twisted the arm of Governor Krupsak. _The Governor_. And you know what? Nothing worked!"

"How big could Sub Sahara Africa be?" Barrone asked as he typed. A second later, his peepers widened behind the glasses.

"Yeah, it's big," Hump confirmed.

"Aye caramba. Egyptian Sudan, Tanganyika, Nigeria, Kenya, Congo, etcetera and so forth. Damn near every country except those on the Mediterranean. Even if I could narrow it down to a nation, we still wouldn't know where to begin."

"Everything south of the Sahara Desert," Hump said with a sedate nod.

"How 'bout figuring out which ones are old German colonies?" Jason asked.

Barrone rolled his eyes and droned, "They're all ex-colonies."

"No problem. Figure out which of 'em has like...I don't know. Gas buried in the ground."

"Or shale," Hump said.

Again Barrone typed and, like before, he appeared confounded at the results. The pained expression wasn't contrived, nor was the prolong exhale of air. "We need more information," he said, at last, in a listless voice. "Kenya has a buttload of oil. Nigeria and Angola, too. I guess it would make sense to start there but..." More typing before Barrone declared, "Nigeria is some 900,000 square miles. _Alone_."

"Which places had famine in the late '80's?" Hump asked.

"Are you kidding?" Barrone scoffed. "Take your pick."

"Civil war?"

"Let's see..." Barrone whispered. Back to the keyboard his fingers went. Jason stood and walked to the window. Hump twiddled thumbs. Minutes passed. The phone on Barrone's desk buzzed; the noise went ignored as the editor clicked and clacked.

"Christ, it looks like _all_ these countries have had civil wars since the 1960's," Barrone informed. "I guess we can exclude the most stable regimes. Kenya, Boer Africa, and Rhodesia have had no _major_ insurrections. Nigeria has had two civil wars since the early seventies, including ethnic cleansing, but a military junta took control in the mid-eighties and shut the county to foreigners. It's been run by the same person, a general named Ibrahim Babangida. It appears he only does business with the Germans. Somaliland and Abyssinia went through a nasty famine in the eighties, but aid was provided by the Italians. Hm...Tanganyika's endured a triple whammy of bad luck. Famine, natural disasters and internal conflict. If you ask me-" Barrone's phone buzzed again and he paused to jab a button and then shout, "What?"

"Tom Davis is waiting in the conference room," a female voice garbled through the speaker.

"Tom Davis can be patient," Barrone said. "I'm finishing an interview."

"What do you want me to tell him?"

"You can get him a soda and let him know I'm busy. I need ten minutes." He killed the speaker with a grunt and locked eyes on Hump. "Sorry. As I was saying, Nigeria looks like a good bet. Until we get more information, though, it'll be impossible to know. You need to speak to someone and lay it on thick. Otherwise...I mean, I can't go to my boss with this and expect a green light."

"What's your doodad say about Tanganyika?" Hump asked.

Barrone's eyes danced across the monitor and then he said, "Looks like it was granted independence from the Third Reich in 1964. Since then, civil war has been a constant theme. A socialist president named Julius Nyerere was overthrown and executed by a coup d'état in 1977. Another president was assassinated in 1989. There was a brief lull until...it looks like 1993. Then a suicide bomber, driving a lorry crammed with fertilizer and ammonia, levelled the German Embassy in Dar Es Salaam. Killed the German ambassador and several civilians. The Third Reich responded with a joint task force of Wehrmacht and SS, resulting in a short war between Germany and a loose coalition of tribes. It was a political and domestic nightmare...say, check this out: the Reich Safaripark is in Tanganyika. Yea...no wonder the Germans got involved. Though a stable government has returned to Tanganyika, there remains pockets of fighting in the northeast and southeast portions of the country. At least, according to Wikipedia."

"Humph," Hump grumbled. "Wherever it is, if the Krauts are digging around for God knows what, it can't be too dangerous."

Barrone jabbed a couple keys before leaning back in the chair. "I have to do a little mining," he said, folding hands behind head. "I'm interested, to say the least, but let's start with baby steps. I want to be sure your son is among those found-"

"It's Howie," Hump argued. "Who else could it be?"

"Yeah...yeah, I suppose it's him. I need to know where. Then, I need to get thoughts in order. A plan of action. In the meantime, don't go talkin' to any of my contemporaries in the press. Pretty please with a cherry on top. I want to run this story. And I'll pay. But we have work to do."

"I don't need money," Hump said.

"Well...good, I guess." Barrone plucked a business card from the table and offered it between his right thumb and pointer finger. When Hump reached for it, the editor pulled the card away and said, "No talking to anybody. Capisce, old timer?"

"I got it. You don't want somebody else taking your big story."

"No...maybe...okay, I don't want someone else poaching this. Besides, you don't want the national bozos handling your heartache. It'll end up as a short blurb behind the rest of the high and lonesome crap. Those guys have an agenda. Anyway, you'll never get answers once this goes public. Think you can sit on your hands?"

"You don't have to lecture me, sport."

Barrone extended the card to Hump and said, "My cell number, Mister Hammerbacher. Call me as soon as you hear...you know, if your son was one of those found. Also, if you have questions or recall anything else. Not to beat a dead horse, but you need to get a location. Once you do this, I can take the next step."

Hump took the card and pressed, "What's your idea?"

"I don't know yet," Barrone answered. "It depends on how much petty cash we have lying around this place."

# 7. Humpin' Thoughts

Barrone rode the rickety elevator to the top floor of the building, both legs bouncing and both hands clenching and then unclenching. He'd played a hunch on this tip and his gut had come through. To everybody else at Devious, the crazy tale would've found a path into the trash can. Or pegged to the lunchroom bulletin board to provide an afternoon chuckle.

Now the problem became selling the thing. The Tsar of Devious Media, a frat boy-slash-valet turned internet multi-millionaire, was named Chadwick Gregory Carlton. In 2007, Carlton dropped out of college and started his modest empire from his parents' Brooklyn rowhouse. Through charm, credit and acumen, Chadwick, and his NYU burnout buddies, wormed into the inner circles of New York City's famous athletes, actors, hip-hop artists and socialites. The first incarnation of Devious was a gossip-slash-sports rag-slash-advice column. The timing, as they say, was _spot on_ ; the rag caught fire in a manner of months. The website blossomed thanks to an unabashed, no holds barred approach. Elitists would (and did) label the type of journalism Devious peddled "smut", but Chadwick Carlton didn't care what anybody called his creation. If Fireman Ed caught the clap, you could be damn sure Devious would be the first outlet to break the story. What started as a lark, no doubt after inhaling a copious bong rip, turned into a goldmine when advertisers started dropping big bucks to be featured on the website. Today, the franchise occupied several floors of a _very_ hip building. All the people working at Devious were hip. Hipsters who dug scandals and loved airing the dirty laundry of pennyaires, hundredaires and millionaires. And Chadwick was hip, too. Or as hip as a bald, soul-patch sporting, young adult could be.

In the beginning, Chadwick Carlton wrote most of the content until the popularity of the sight necessitated a "crack" staff of intrepid reporters. Fozzy, ink still fresh on his college diploma, decided to roll the dice and interviewed with the big man himself in the summer of 2012. Five years later, Barrone was the lead editor in the sports department...which meant Fozzy was good at his job, or he persevered when others quit. Make no mistake, it wasn't easy holding "Devious" credentials. A lot of athletes refused to talk to "scum" from the "two-bit" website. More than a few times, Barrone was subject to brutal tongue lashings and worse: he was bitch slapped by a diva wide receiver on the Jets, and a Rangers right winger threatened to cut Barrone's throat with an ice skate edge. At first the treatment was puzzling, then maddening, and, at last, depressing. Fozzy didn't want to be viewed as a "bad guy". He was doing a job and explained, in the nicest possible way, _bad press was good press and good press was no press_. After a while, Barrone believed the maxim. Then, last fall, Devious published tawdry phone calls and a sex tape of the ridiculous professional wrestler Big Bozo (provided by the spurned husband of Bozo's flabby concubine), and things took a nasty turn.

It appeared, at last, the public's appetite for smut had a demarcation line and it stopped at the engorged penis of Bozo. Why? Nobody at Devious had a good answer, but the outcry was intense. Chadwick played it cool, but the company hemorrhaged money paying slimy lawyers to duel with Bozo's rabid dream team of attorneys. The end result, a multimillion dollar settlement in favor of the chagrined Big Bozo, spurned Barrone into some serious soul-searching.

***

Adam Barrone once told his son the press were parasites. This was a split-second after Fozzy informed his father he was switching majors at Marist. Computer Science wasn't cutting the mustard for Fozzy and journalism seemed an interesting avenue to explore.

"Journalists are cockroaches!" Dad cried. "And you want to be one of them?" The old man was a Grade A nerd, a high school teacher of physics and calculus, and wore thick framed glasses. His hair was shorn like Johnny Unitas and he cinched neckties every day of the week except Saturday. Dad looked like someone working in NASA Mission Control, manning one of those blinking consoles with tight eyes and a crumpled brow. It was as if Adam Barrone wandered from a time machine sent to the aught 2000's from the mid-60's. Trying to impart knowledge to teenagers, year after year, left the old man dour and unhappy. His chosen profession was a thankless venture. And now his oldest son was telling him, in the kindest way possible, he didn't want to buy what Dad was selling. Yes, it must've stung, but enough was enough.

Being the child of an educator (and a science teacher, no less) meant Fozzy endured _persistent_ pestering to achieve top marks in school. To keep the old man at arm's length, Fozzy jumped through the hoops without so much as a gripe. But Fozzy's mind wasn't made for math or reckoning. He enjoyed other things, hobbies the old man declared were an _utter waste of time_. Like reading, writing, and killing brain cells. Lord knows how much gray matter got incinerated in the first year at Marist, but it'd been the right amount to make Fozzy dumb enough to follow what the heart desired.

But the old man was no fool. "Are you smoking the dope?" Dad asked, jabbing Fozzy in the chest. "Where'd you get this stupid idea? From the dope?"

"No, no...I mean...I don't like computational methods," Fozzy explained. "I don't care about...Cholesky decomposition or-"

"What don't you understand about Cholesky?" Dad asked with a concerned look. "It's not rocket science, Alphonso. Cholesky factorization is just a...a variety of Gaussian-"

"Dad, listen to me: I don't understand it, I don't want to understand it, and I'm going to do what I find interesting."

"You're telling me you want to spend your life talking about _other_ people?"

"I was thinking print journalism."

"Talking, writing, what's the difference?"

"I enjoy writing. I figure...like, what would it hurt? I don't want to spend my life being miserable."

Adam Barrone sneered and then pronounced, "You're a goddamn hedonist."

"I'm not a hedonist."

"No? Well, you're talking like one. There's practical knowledge and there's concepts masquerading as knowledge. I thought you knew the difference. One tells you how the world is _supposed_ to function, and the other tells you how it does. Don't give me your...Felicific calculus bullshit, either. I don't want to hear it."

"Um..." Fozzy stammered. "What...what kinda calculus?"

"Yeah, I learned about Bentham and his doggerel. Despite what those dope smokers think, peddling derision does not serve a justifiable role in society. Nor does taking pleasure from the misery of others."

"I'm not...Dad, what are you talking about?"

"You'll see. It's coming out of your pocket, mister. These extra classes. I won't enable your vision quest. And, when you wise up, don't come crying to me about the rotten decision you made."

***

Well, Dad had been wrong. Though the decision may have been rotten because the media _was_ full of parasites, Fozzy Barrone never came crying to the old man. Nope, not a tear. He took all the angst and regret and shoved it into a tight ball. And there it sat, this fermenting little turd, in Fozzy's stomach. Sometimes, Barrone pulled from this reservoir to add to the novel he'd been pecking at for the last three years. Except... _brood_ over the novel would've been a better way to describe what Barrone had been doing. Aside from the occasional burst of writing erupting like a summer thunderstorm, only to piddle to nothing minutes later after the downdraft of inspiration was flushed, he produced nothing of substance. It was, in reality, a mishmash of disjointed thoughts and characters.

_Perhaps I have writers block_ , Barrone concluded one evening. Yes, this reasoning explained _everything_. Thus, and with _great_ enthusiasm, Fozzy turned to several remedies to crack the weir: bud, booze and, on special occasions, psychedelic mushrooms. Soon the book had Black Panthers, ballerinas, The Beatles, and Mickey Mantle. Set in 1964, it was supposed to be "romantic-slash-coming of age", a tale of a Manhattan undergraduate and his infatuation with a foreign ballet dancer living in the Big Apple. In order to win her adoration, the protagonist had to wrest the dancer's hand from both the Beatles drummer, Jimmie Nicol, and the notorious Yankee playboy Mantle.

Anyway, the book wasn't going to amount to anything except a laugh. What Fozzy Barrone needed was a life full of adventure. He wanted to tell a story, a real story, drawn from rough personal experience. Working at Devious didn't seem like a capable vehicle to launch said wild ride.

But...this thing in Africa might be a start.

There was also something else. As he listened to Hump's story, Barrone felt affinity for the tragic Howie. The kid defied his father, struck out on his own, and had dreams smothered by a cruel world. This tale of sadness, and Hump's angst, would resonate. With the right paint brush, it might go national. Wouldn't this be sweet?

First things first, though...Fozzy needed to squeeze the idea past the Tsar.

Carlton's office door was closed and his vapid secretary-slash-fuck buddy Valerie had bare feet propped on the chaotic desk. She was ogling her phone, texting or surfing the web, and wiggled her little piggies as if waving Fozzy forward from the hall.

Barrone didn't say boo as he swung open Carlton's door and burst into the office.

"Hey!" Valerie shouted. "I didn't say youse could go in!"

The Tsar, hunched over a laptop, swung his head in Barrone's direction with elevated eyebrows.

"I'm sorries, Chadwick," Valerie said, appearing at Barrone's side. "Um...Mista Carlton, I means. He rushed in like a rat."

"It's fine," Carlton said, closing the device.

Valerie glared at Barrone before departing and Fozzy slammed the door behind her.

"What the hell, Fozzy Bear," Carlton said. "You gave me a scare. I'm waiting for the day one of our writers goes Charles Whitman."

"Sorry," Barrone said, crossing arms. "I'll only be a minute. I gotta big tip, dude. Want to run it by you."

"Have you done anything with the Tim Duncan quadruple-double story?" Carlton asked.

"Mikey Jensen is working on it."

"And?"

"He's combing through the grainy footage of the 2003 Finals."

Carlton tapped his chin and then repeated, " _And_?"

"We're getting close, boss," Barrone said. "But listen, I think the controversy over whether or not Tim Duncan had eight or ten blocks will take a backseat after what I just heard."

"Uh-huh. Alright, spit it out."

"You remember a guy named Hump Hammerbacher?"

Carlton blew a raspberry and then said, "Worst fucking manager of the Yankees, Hump Hammerbacher? Architect of Hump's Bums? No, never heard of him."

"Right. So, the other day I got this email from-"

Carlton lifted his left wrist, nodded at the gold Rolex half-concealed by a black jungle of arm hair, and said, "Concise, broseph. Time is money."

"You kinda need to hear the whole thing."

"Time. Is. Money. Skip the foreplay and yank my wanker. Whadda ya got?"

"Alright, chief," Barrone said, thinking of a concise way to present his sales pitch. "Eh...I had a sit down with Hump not twenty minutes ago."

"Hammerbacher's still alive?"

"Still kicking, full of piss and vinegar."

"Go figure. I thought he was dead."

"Nope. Get this: his son disappeared in '89 or '90 working for American United Hands. Howie Hammerbacher. Ring a bell?"

"I'll take your word for it."

"Someone from the State Department phoned Hammerbacher and said Howie's body was found in Africa with a bunch of other corpses. A mass grave."

"Not a real sexy story," bristled Carlton.

"No, I agree, it's not sexy. But I'm working an angle, chief. Thing is...um, we might need to dig into the piggy bank for this one. I think it'll be worth it."

"Worth it, huh? How much lighter is the piggy bank going to feel, Fozzy Bear?"

"I'm not sure. I gotta run down some research and see if I can give it legs."

Carlton straightened in his chair and Barrone braced for the dreaded denial. Instead, the Tsar said, "Give me the particulars, but keep it succinct. I want to split in a half-hour. Skinny Pauly's got a suite at Yankee Stadium tonight and we're going to do a little pregaming."

Barrone abandoned feet for the comfort of a chair and then started spilling the sad account.

# 8. Hump's Results

Three days passed with no word, good, bad or otherwise. No call from _whatnot_ , Hubbie, or the eccentric from _Sports On The Pot_.

Hump whittled time like the nervous parent he never was, pacing and staring out the window. Sure, he caught _Live! This Morning_ at nine sharp, but his mind wasn't on Geneva Shower or her vivacious antics. The gummies went unconsumed and sat in Hump's medicine cabinet, stuffed in a Ziploc baggie jammed inside an empty petroleum jelly jar. He'd dosed the evening after the meeting with Barrone, at the Yankees game with Jason, and the combined effect of Howie's fate and the snail's pace of the ballgame created insufferable ruminations. Molding bones, Howie's bones, dumped into a hole with the rest. How was he killed? Did it matter? Better yet, did Hump want to know? Perhaps, as Pa used to claim, _ignorance is bliss_.

But bliss would not be attained. Jason pestered in the kind of laconic way a panhandler hints for pocket change.

"Say, pops, any...you know..." Jason stammered on the afternoon of Sunday, 11 June, as Hump settled into a chair in the common dining area. Lunch was the usual weekend fare: Salisbury steak, potatoes mashed, cooked carrots and a slice of chocolate cake. The dining room was half full, or empty...either portrayal satisfied. Many residents were collected by family and they'd toddle to church and then lunch, free from the confines of Shady Drive. Hump, agitated and salty, was happy for the quiet even if it did remind of what he lacked in intimacy.

"No," snapped Hump. He looked around for a server and ran his tongue over chapped lips.

"Nothing?" Jason whispered, dropping to a knee next to the table. "Maybe you missed a call-"

"What did I say? Not a peep."

"Fozzy didn't call?"

"Nobody. Called. Now, how about you leave me alone so I can eat?"

"Hey, compadre, we're partners, remember? You know what I'm thinking? We could do a YouTube Channel chronicling your years in baseball."

Hump wrinkled his nose and asked, "What in tarnation is Your Tube?"

"A website on the computer."

"Jeez O'Pete! Not with the computer people again."

"It's a moneymaker, pops. My buddy, Pix, shoots footage while riding his motorcycle. Then he posts 'em. Holy shit, they're funny as all get out and Pix has advertisers, so he makes money. He does other things, too. An animated series with these strange blobs discussing philosophy. Come to think of it...they're more like balloons except they have mouths with these pointy fangs and weird eyes like...all squinty and shit. I told Pix, he needs to stop makin' content while high 'cause _none_ of it makes a lick of sense. Straight up bonkers, he-he. Pix smokes the Bubba Kush and it's potent. I don't know how-"

Raising his left hand, Hump testified, "I'm not doing anything on Your Tube."

" _YouTube_."

"Whatever," Hump grumbled, swinging head left to right. "Where's my damn grub?"

"I'll grab it for ya in a sec," Jason said while wrapping fingers around Hump's right wrist. "Jeez, pops, you seem _mighty_ tense. Man, I feel some wicked energy runnin' through your veins. Like touching a live wire. Want to toss the ball after lunch?"

"I ain't in the mood."

"Not in the mood, eh?" Jason asked with a cocked head. "Say, you need a little medicine to help calm the nerves?"

"Medicine? You mean grass, don't 'cha?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you call it. You running on fumes?"

"I don't want any grass at the moment. Makes me feel skittish."

"The noia," Jason confirmed in a reverent tone. "Fight through the noia, my man. Get to the calm place. Let the wind dash your thoughts into wisps."

"Easier said than done."

"Naw, it's easier to wallow in pity and distrust."

"Bah. What would you know? Got the world by the balls, eh, kid?"

"Me?"

"You. I remember being your age. Full of fight and not a worry in the world."

"Yea, right! I wish your perception was my reality. You see where I work. I live with my parents. I'm no Harriman. Not even close."

"I'm not talkin' about money. Your entire life is ahead of you and..." Hump stared at Jason's puzzled face and realized he sounded _a lot_ like the old men who once lectured young Hump. The flapping gums, fey wisdom, and general crankiness meant zilch except to the person vomiting the tripe. "Er, forget it. You won't appreciate the words until you're my age. One of the ironies of life because then it'll be too late."

"I'm listening, it's just...you're sorta babblin'."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll tell you what's worse than me makin' your ears bleed. Starvin' to death."

Jason removed his hand and said, "Okeydokey, pops. Message received. I'll fetch your food. Think about what I said. _Both_ things. Back in a jiff."

It occurred to Hump, as he listened to the Yankee game later on The FAN, Jason viewed the old man as a kind of golden goose. In order to keep the bird laying eggs, the owner needed a docile, compliant creature. Fattened and unaware, but capable of reproduction. He'd have to watch Jason. The kid had ulterior motives.

Hump also realized, during John Sterling's indolent narration, he had the _noia_. And he had it bad. Maybe it was Hubbie and his clucking about scammers. Hells bells, why had Hump talked to the vagabond from the computer rag? This...this was the custodian's idea, and Hump had been blindsided by the wild haired editor's lack of professionalism. Fuzzy, Fonzie...whatever his name...the kid with the Epstein Jewfro also wanted a piece of Hump. Every one of them claimed they were _tryin'_ to help, but Hump knew they were investing on his personal misery.

_Because they are, knucklehead_ , Hump's churlish inner voice trumpeted. _The damn editor said as much._

"You know," Sterling said in a conversational tone, as if he was sittin' next to Hump and not in the Bronx, "the Yankee bats haven't been this hot since the days of Murderers' Row."

"Mantle, Kubek, Maris," Susie Walderman listed. "What a lineup."

"Yes, ma'am," Sterling said. "There's a few others we could mention...and, the pitch...is a ball, low and outside. Yes, Susan, the Yankees are scorching taters left and right. And when it comes to taters, the people at Ore-Ida have mastered delicious snacks for hungry stomachs. So, when you're in a pinch and need a tater, pop a couple tots from Ore-Ida in your mouth. Ore-Ida is _allrighta_. Boy, Susan, I could go for a few right now. Next pitch is a ball, count moves to three-and-one. Gausman is having control issues...and for the Orioles...let's see...do thine old eyes detect activity in their bullpen?"

"Looks like Logan Verrett, a righty, is loosening up," informed Walderman.

"Gracious. Baltimore used five pitchers in the debacle last night. Well, he-he, Buck Showalter better get the icepacks ready. They're going to have some sore arms in the Baltimore clubhouse come Monday. We're in the bottom of the first, folks, and the Yankees _already_ lead two-zero. Both runs are charged to Baltimore starter Kevin Gausman. Castro's on first. Holliday's on third. There is one out and Gary Sanchez is staring at a hitters count. I don't mind saying the Orioles have looked lethargic this entire series. Somebody needs to light a fire under those Baltimore keysters. You'd think there'd be some fight after losing the last two games by a combined score of twenty-four to five, but I'm not going to complain. This is like taking candy from a baby."

"Like taking a candy store, John," Walderman chirped.

"Now we have time called as pitching coach Roger McDowell trots to the mound. Maybe Blackjack will bring some kindling and a match to light the proverbial fire..."

Hump tuned out Sterling and closed eyes. "Light a fire" was one way to put it. Baltimore, mired in the doldrums of a wretched road trip, would have to resort to some hair scorching pyrotechnics to get motivated. Billy Martin, well-oiled, veered towards theatrics: clubhouse chair throwin', ump baitin', superstar benchin'. Hump, on the other hand, believed in a less demonstrative approach. And where did it get him?

Sittin' on his rump listenin' to John Sterling and Susan Walderman is where it got him. Hump never flamed fires. Shit, he never generated a spark. Even when he tried, the act was sabotaged by the idiotic or apathetic behavior of his players.

" _The secret of managing is to keep the five guys who hate you away from the five guys who are undecided,"_ Casey Stengel once confided. Sound advice from the Old Professor, but this assumed there were guys capable of generating emotion. Disregarding the sporadic outlier, Hump's squads were composed of the indifferent and overpaid. They didn't care enough because nobody held them accountable.

He pictured Dave Eiland, of all people, a spot reliever and emergency starter Hump hadn't thought of in twenty-eight years. Eiland stood on the rubber in Fenway, bases loaded, gazing at Wade Boggs. Boggs, and his extravagant mustache, strutted to the batter's box from the on-deck circle, swinging his club and licking chops. The score...the score didn't matter. Neither did the inning. The Yankees were lousy in '89, finishing fourteen and half games out of first in the AL East. It might have been August, or September. It could've been April. But Eiland was scuffling, and the Red Sox fans were jeering.

"We oughta yank the kid," Billy Conners, the pitching coach, said to Hump. Conners was the team hatchet man, the Yankees version of Sandman Sims. Several times a game, B.C. would tap dance to the mound and shoo the ineffectual pitchers to the clubhouse. Hump made rare visits to the diminutive dirt knoll. Unless it was an _all hands on deck_ situation, the Skipper sat on the bench like an ornamental gnome.

"I reckon he's about to get lit up like a Christmas tree," Hump said.

" _About?"_ Billy Conners squawked. "Care to make it official?"

Hump nibbled on the inside of his cheek and watched Boggs do his little voodoo pre-batting ritual. This included drawing some sorta hackneyed Hebrew symbol into the dirt with the knob of the bat. Then Boggs, and his gaudy mustache, smirked at the crowd. Grandstanding at its finest.

B.C. elbowed Hump and asked, "What do you want to do?"

"Welp, this ain't rocket science. Grab the horn and stir the pen."

"Who do you want?"

"I'm all ears."

"Beats me."

"Jeez O'Pete, Billy. Them pitchers are your specialty. Get Parker and Plunk up while I have a chat."

Conners raised eyebrows and asked, "You're going to talk to him?"

"Why not?"

"You never take trips to the mound."

"I reckon it's time for one. Besides, these Boston bums always treat me with respect."

Shrugging, Conners reached for the bullpen phone as Hump ascended the dugout stairs and motioned at the umpire. Blue called time and Hump made the walk of shame to catcalls and boos. Eiland slapped the ball into his glove, took a step back, and waited for both Hump and the second half of the ineffective battery, Jamie Quirk. Meantime, Boggs sauntered around the plate like a shark circling prey.

"Skip," Eiland said when Hump was within earshot. "Where's B.C.?"

"Billy's callin' 911. In the meantime, I need you to work Mister Mustache."

"Shit, Skip, I don't got it tonight."

"He don't," Jamie Quirk seconded.

"Your arm alright?" Hump asked. "Can you throw gas?"

"I ain't got velocity."

"He don't," Quirk repeated.

Hump took the ball from Eiland's glove, rubbed it for a tick, and then said, "I know this matchup ain't favorable, but them noddle arms in the pen gotta get warm."

"If I groove anything..." Eiland said, glancing at Boggs before taking the ball out of Hump's hands. "And I can't pitch around him."

"Nope," Hump said. "But you can pitch through him."

Quirk (one of the aforementioned manic outliers) guffawed and slapped the catcher's mitt. "Now we're talking," he said with menacing eyes. "I hate that motherfucker." Hump would've loved a team of Jamie Quirks'...as long as they could hit. And field. The one standing next to him was a mediocre catcher with appalling whim-wham skills. Quirk's batting average in '89 topped out at .083. He was slower than winter molasses, too. But he breathed fire, at least.

"You want me to hit him?" asked Eiland.

"Give him a junker to start," Hump explained. "Then run a heater into his flank."

"Or his chin," Quirk said. "Shave that motherfucker's pussy tickler."

"No headhuntin'," Hump directed. Quirk opened his mouth to argue, but Hump patted Eiland's rump and reiterated, "Nutin to the noggin. Nutin over the plate. Stare at your hand after the fact and-"

"I know what to do," Eiland said.

"B.C.'s gonna charge out of the dugout and make a scene of pullin' ya," Hump said. "Square deal?"

Eiland exhaled and then nodded.

"I got your back, Davey," Quirk said as he yanked the mask over his face. "If Boggs and his motherfucking mustache take a step towards you..."

"Relax," Hump said. "We ain't fixin' to start to World War Three."

"Conference is over boys!" Blue hollered from a spot midway between home and the mound.

"Bring the heat, Davey," Hump said before retreating to the dugout.

O'course, what did Eiland do? The idiot served up a fat pitch Boggs mashed over the Green Monster. The lefty went opposite field, which meant the pitch was grooved something awful. Hump was damn near speechless as he watched the baseball fade to the size of a cotton ball. Illuminated in the glow of the Citgo sign, the missile cleared the safety netting stretched across the top of the Monster and landed somewhere on Lansdowne Street.

"Wow," B.C. said to Hump as Boggs, and his mustache, rounded third. "You musta said something special."

Hump dumped a handful of sunflower seeds into his palm and mumbled, "I told him to bring the heat."

The memory, or nightmare...whatever it was, dissolved. Hump sighed and then said aloud, "Bring the heat."

Nice stroll down memory lane, old man. What's the moral to this fairy tale?

"I gotta handle my affairs," Hump said. "I can't depend on anyone but myself."

About time you figured this out. So tell me...what're you gonna do, smart guy?

"I don't know. Sumptin. I'll do sumptin." Hump opened his peepers, crossed arms and snarled, "There. You happy?"

You better do it quick-like, fella. And no more grass. You can't think straight with all them goofy thoughts. Light your fire with a clear head. Make it perky and-"

"...and look at this!" Sterling hollered above the roar of the crowd. "It is high! It is far. It is gone! It's a three-run tater! A moonshot! Gary is _scary_! And the Yankees lead five-"

Hump leaned forward and turned off the radio.

***

The next morning, the horn blew.

Ma claimed a watched teakettle never boiled and Hump learned this Motherism applied to the telephone. After days of casting suspicious glances at the device, Hump sunk into the easy chair in front of the television and tried to focus on the one show capable of providing an apt distraction.

_Monday, June 12th,_ Geneva Shower proclaimed in a hyper voice. Hump was attacking the program in a sober state of mind, which made Geneva's chipmunk-like voice annoying instead of cute. Her pretty boy cohost, Raul Leonard, preened and flashed bedroom eyes. Hump knew the sex idol was a disguised homosexual. Had to be. No man could look _pretty_ and be a straight-shooter. Raul wore make-up, for Christ sakes! What _Live!_ needed was a real man, tellin' it like it is.

This vein of thought cascaded through Hump's head. In Segment 2, Raul stumbled through highlights of the Stanley Cup championship. He mispronounced players names and then asked: "When did Nashville get a hockey team?"

Even though Hump didn't like hockey, he scoffed at the ignorance.

In the middle of Segment 3, when Geneva and a veterinarian chatted about the horrors of keeping animals locked in a hot car with the windows rolled tight, the telephone burped to life.

This time, Hump was thankful for the phone. He didn't flinch when it rang, and grabbed the handset without hesitation.

"Mister Hammerbacher," a female voice said, "I'm calling the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Pathological Examination. You were contacted about a week ago and supplied a sample to a-"

"I know why you're calling," Hump interrupted. "Get on with it."

"Okay...yes, sir. I regret to inform you there was a match with a portion of the remains found two weeks ago in Africa. Your son, Howard Hammerbacher has been identified. Again, I'm sorry, sir."

"No question?"

"The match is ninety-six percent accurate. This, along with the personal artifacts found among the remains, leads to one conclusion."

"How did he die?"

"Sir, this part of the inquiry has yet to be launched. Pardon me, but I must be blunt. Based on the condition of the remains, a conclusive manner of death will be difficult to determine."

"Hogwash! You people can tell how pharaohs died. Howie didn't go missing but twenty-something years ago."

"Mummies are preserved," the voice said, becoming agitated. "What I've been sent is, um...not mummy-like. I can tell you they weren't poisoned. Use imagination if you want. The indigenous in Africa have no predilection for manner of murder. For all we know, the wildlife got to them before they were discovered. Marks on bones could be teeth, or dull instrument. It's not out of the realm they were buried, exhumed, and then reburied. I doubt the truth will be known."

"You're certain it was murder?"

"Hold a moment. I'll transfer you to the agent in charge of the investigation."

"What happened to Howie's remains?"

"The agent will give you details, Mister Hammerbacher," she said a moment before soft rock wafted into Hump's ear.

"I don't want a runaround," Hump muttered. Well, this put one thing to rest. If this was a cheat, the scammers were scaling an Everest-like summit to make it appear authentic. Did criminals climb to such elaborate elevations to trick an old man of DNA?

The music was replaced by a hacking cough and then a male voice. "Agent Hochberg, International Bureau. Hello, Mister Hammerbacher."

"Call me Hump."

"Hump it is. You've talked with the pathologist, yes? How can I help?"

"You're going to track down those responsible for killing my son and them others?"

Hochberg cleared his throat again, louder, and then said, "Sorry. I'm battling a sore throat. What did you ask?"

"Are you examining my son's death?"

"I'm _an_ investigator, Hump. One of several. Since the location of the grave was in a foreign country with a police force of its own, the situation becomes thorny. Those responsible for this atrocity are war criminals, though the vernacular has changed since the turn of the century. Are you familiar with Interpol?"

"Interpol?"

"The International Police Organization, based in Berlin. In theory it's a...well, it's a storage center. All the nations of the world willing to pay a nominal fee are linked into Interpol's database. The Germans are sticklers for detail and keep a thorough catalog. International fugitives, terrorists, pedophiles, gun runners, you name it. Ever since the terrorist attacks on their Embassies in Africa...although, I guess you could say it goes back even further, Germany has been adamant in keeping tabs on transnational tomfoolery. During the war, their so-called Sequel War and our World War II, the Nazis controlled Interpol through the Reich Main Security Office. If you don't know, this is the headquarters of the SS. You've heard of the SS, haven't you?"

"Are you kidding? My brother ran afoul of them in Belgium. Winter of '44, near the Amblève River. First Panzer SS." Brother Hank was reticent when it came to swapping war stories, but spill enough lightning into him and Hank leaked like a sieve. Most of the talk centered around the skirts in England but, on occasion, Hank cruised into murky seas. Normandy sounded like no stroll on the beach Hump wanted to take, and the atrocity at Caen poisoned the morale of the Americans like the Soman the English dumped on the French city. Hank claimed the Ardennes Campaign was destined to fail; anyone with a brain knew the Germans were feinting withdrawal while their forces in the East joined the front in the Low Countries. But the Brass wasn't listening to PFC's from Mississippi.

"You don't say?"

"Darn tootin'. He was wounded, too. Hank didn't have kind words about the SS. You know what else he said? Them Krauts massacred a bunch of negroes outside Wereth."

"African Americans, Mister Hammerbacher. And I've heard it went both ways."

"You're tellin' me these guys are policemen?"

"In a manner of speaking. Those Soviet massacres in the East, Katyn and Vinnytsia being the most notable, were investigated by Interpol. People have the misconception Beria and the rest of the Soviets executed by the Nazis during their Red Trials were killed for war crimes. In reality, they were tried, and liquidated, for committing terroristic acts. You want to guess why?"

"I imagine it has something to do with them Kraut camps."

"Bingo. The Germans didn't want to start splitting hairs about what was, and what wasn't, a war crime because they knew Article Two of the Geneva Convention could be used against their folks, so they-"

"I don't want a history lesson," Hump lectured. "I don't care about articles, conventions and the rest."

"You should. Interpol is heading the investigation."

"Howie was an American. As were the rest. _American United Hands_. Americans should be investigating."

"I agree with you, in principal, but a few of the dead were identified as European citizens from countries with strong ties to the Third Reich. One Frenchwoman, one Spaniard and two Italians."

"And?"

" _And_ it's better to acquiesce in situations like this. My team will assist, but Interpol will have the manpower on the ground. I have complete faith in the mechanisms of the Reich Main Security Office."

"I see."

"Good."

"I see you're playin' me for the fool! Hochberg? What is _that_? German?"

"I'm Jewish-American, Mister Hammerbacher. Believe me, I have to set aside reservations dealing with Nazis, but this doesn't mean they aren't capable of adequate police work. The Germans are proficient and Interpol is top-notch. Nazi forensics are on par, perhaps better, than what we have in the states. Besides, the war was long ago and the United States has a quasi-favorable diplomatic relationship with the Third Reich."

"How come I haven't read hide nor hair of this massacre in the paper."

"There will be a formal announcement once the remainder of the...once everyone has been identified. Look, I know you're anxious for answers but I have to temper hope with authenticity. This incident happened decades ago, during a period of intense internal strife in Tanganyika. Whoever perpetrated the crime is either long dead or ensconced in some village."

Hump jerked to his feet, knocking the television remote to the floor, and said, "What did you say?"

"Huh?"

"Did you say the site's in Tanganyika?"

"Yes. Tanganyika. Didn't you know?"

"The Weaver fella I spoke with wouldn't tell me."

"No?"

"No. Matter of fact, he was rude when I asked him."

"Don't take it personal. These functionaries don't know their ass from a hole in the ground. When it comes to things like genocide, they react without a game plan. I'm sorry if Weaver was thorny."

"Where in Tanganyika?"

"What?"

"Can you tell me where Howie was found?"

"Like I said. Tanganyika."

" _Where_ in Tanganyika?"

"This I cannot reveal."

"Tarnation! You can't give me anything?"

"Afraid not."

"I don't think this is an outrageous request," Hump sniveled. "When I look at a map of Africa, I'd like to know where my son died." He added a contrived sniffle to replicate emotion and uttered a word Hump Hammerbacher used for the rarest of occasions: "Please."

"I can't disclose more than what I've been authorized to share."

"Can't or won't?"

"This is an international situation. I can't-"

"So you _won't_ , huh?"

" _Can't_."

"His mother was heartbroken," Hump said with an aggrieved sigh, though this sentiment was not a fabrication. "And I don't have much time left. You know what peace of mind is?"

"Don't start with the soppiness and heartstring nonsense."

"Ain't none of you people have an ounce of sympathy? First Weaver, and his discourtesy. Now you. Wouldn't your father want to know if, God forbid, you went missing and-"

"Hump, please."

"I get it. You don't care. Well, to hell with you!"

"Relax," Hochberg griped. "You're going to give yourself a heart attack. Listen, you didn't hear this from me."

"Hear what?"

"Right. I'll give you a general location, no more. If you squeal, I'll make your life, as short as it may be, unpleasant. Understand?"

"Who am I going to tell?"

"I don't know, but it better not leave your lips."

"They're sealed."

"The Ngorongoro District, an area east of the Hitler Safaripark. I don't know anything else. Members from the Embassy in Nairobi visited the exact location. As I stated, Interpol is handling the work on site."

"Gor-in-gor?" Hump asked, stumbling over the pronunciation.

" _Gore-on-goro_ ," Hochberg corrected. "Tell the truth, I have no idea what or who lives there. Tanganyika used to be a German colony, so they have better intel. You remember the attempted assassination in '57?"

"I recall," Hump said, though the details were lost in the haze of sixty years' worth of living. The Yankees were in the thick of a pennant race in August 1957. World events, or anything outside the scope of baseball, was like the buzzing of a fly: Acknowledged, perhaps inspected, and then swatted away.

"The Germans were, are, however you want to say it.... they're tightlipped on the episode sixty years later. I doubt the whole story will see the light of day, but what is known is the assassins were caught at Ngorongoro."

"I thought the _to do_ happened in the Safaripark."

"No. Harriman, Smuts and Dönitz were never in danger. The SS unraveled the scheme and stopped the commandoes before they satisfied the mission. Point being, the Germans have a history there. They know the land and people. And, with the Safaripark a stone's throw away, they're motivated. Motivated Germans always get things done."

"Why the hell were those kids from the AUH there in the first place?"

"You'd have to ask the AUH. They have a reputation for sashaying into dangerous territory and, on occasion, it backfires. Don't get me wrong, I think they're doing the Lord's work. However, delivering medicine and food in warzones requires significant luck and sometimes...sometimes luck is a finite resource. The State Department can issue travel restrictions, but we can't prevent people from travelling to a hot spot. And then it's a flip of the coin, you know?"

"Is it still a hot spot?"

"I know what you're thinking and I advise against it."

"Against what?"

"Don't _what_ me. I talked to Undersecretary Weaver and he mentioned you were itching to go on safari. His recommendation, more an order, I second. It'd be in your best interest to remain in the comfort of the states. Anyway, if you didn't know, Tanganyika is full of miscreants. The U.S. doesn't have an embassy in the country. The Germans managed to turn the place into more of a hellhole than it was after their embassy bombing in '93. I'd say the only safe place is the Hitler Safaripark, but the Nazis don't let people move about with impunity. Do you understand?"

"I understand. I also heard you can't prevent people from travelling."

"You're right. Let me ask you a question. Are you terminal?"

"Terminal?"

"You know, full of the cancer? Are your insides crawling with tumors? Because if they are, I'd say have a ball in Tanganyika."

"I'm right as rain. Mind and body."

"Yeah? Unless you have a death wish, I'd advise against going. I don't know how you'd arrange to get there short of paying an arm and a leg. In addition, those African airlines have terrible safety records and transit by car isn't recommended. Now, about your son's remains. They were transported to Washington on the government dole, but you'll have to pony the rest to get your boy where you want. Sorry, I know how it sounds, but this stuff isn't cheap. I need to know where you want the remains sent. Or, if you like, we can dispose of them. It'll be a tasteful ceremony, one done in accordance with the denomination of your choosing..."

***

After the phone call, Hump meandered downstairs and wandered the recreation area. The usual geriatrics were hard at work playing board games or knitting; a chair yoga class gathered on the green outside. Hump stopped to watch the busty thirty-something instructor arch her back and wiggle plenteous breasts smashed into a tight sports bra. A meager group of enthusiastic seniors, dressed in tracksuits, tried to mimic the simple stretch. It was a feeble, depressing display of age and Hump had to look away. The idea, drilled into the residents' heads _ad nauseam_ , was a sedentary lifestyle was tantamount to throwing in the towel. A few of the old farts took to exercise like it would stop the Grim Reaper. They'd do yoga, play tennis, swim and walk the grounds with demented snarls. _Death is comin'_ , their squinty eyes seemed to say. _Get steppin' or else he'll snatch ya_.

On the other hand, some were happy waving the white flag. More than happy. They never appeared from their rooms until they were on a gurney covered by a sheet. The divide between apathy and energy was as wide as the Grand Canyon. Some wanted to live. Some wanted to die. There were no fence sitters.

Hump never realized, until he came to Shady Drive and started eating marijuana, how much of life was spent racing from death. Racing from it but running to it. When you're young, dying is an abstract notion. The end is distant, far away. Death happens to other people. _Not me. I'm full of life._ Then, like an apple being peeled, death starts to show. Friends die. Some deserve it, some don't, but deserves don't matter. This kind of stings but, in the end, death happened to someone else. _Not me. I'm full of life_.

But the rind keeps getting sliced, forming a long scroll of coiled skin. The names start adding up: parents, kids, spouses, the dog...until the realization makes waves. Lo and behold, the day comes when you're _really_ fucking old and nobody is left. Many of the residents were _really_ fucking old, older than Hump, with _nutin_. Zilch. These folks were exhausted from running and ready to give up the ghost. Kinda like Carol in her last weeks of existence. Tired, haggard, pathetic...she wanted the pain extinguished. It was mind-blowing watching the one you love waste to nutin. All the delightful moments shrivel to brittleness. But Carol wasn't afraid of dying. She welcomed the end.

He thought of the Fed trying to talk him out going to Africa. What was Hump supposed to do? Sit around and wait to die? _Not me. I'm full of life. Bursting._ What about Howie? Was this his mindset when the old man tried talking him out of going to Africa? _Not me. I'm full of life!_

But...maybe Hump had it all wrong. He had an inkling the Virginia Slims weren't just a nasty vice Carol enjoyed. In other words, she practiced the art of slow capitulation. Suicide by smokestick. Other people go about termination in less casual manners, but the result was the same. Howie, too, hopscotching North America and then going to Africa. Howie wasn't scared of anything, least of all dying. Yes, the trick about accepting death wasn't to run from it or believe it couldn't happen to you. When death no longer frightened...this was the trick. And it wasn't a matter of _pretending_ to be indifferent to doom. One had to go _all in_ with this philosophy.

_You have to embrace destruction to be untethered, old man_ , Hump's restless brain lectured.

Jason and another custodian were standing at the emergency exit door, gawking at the young yoga instructor.

"Take a deep breath, baby," Jason said, salivating with hormonal energy. Hump could feel carnal vigor radiating from the kid's body. The boy was in heat.

" _Ahem_ ," Hump rasped, sounding like a cement mixer loaded with pebbles.

Both of them swing heads on creaky necks and regard the intruder with surprise.

"Hey, pops," Jason said with a chuckle. "Check out the chick doing yoga. Yowzer."

"I saw her," Hump said.

"Don't need no Viagra for that cooch, eh homes," the other janitor said. He was dark-skinned and heavy, with a shaved head and forearms covered in tattoos.

"I need to talk to you," Hump told Jason, adding a thrusted forefinger to emphasize the importance.

"Yeah, sure, pops. You wanna play catch?"

"I need to get to a computer."

"A computer? There're some in the rec room."

"No, no. I want you to show me the Your Tube page you were telling me about."

Jason grinned and then said, " _YouTube_ , man. Y-O-U, Tube. What, you want to feast eyes on what I'm pitching?"

"Yeah," Hump answered. "Let me see it."

"Okay, great. We can use the one in the janitor's office. I bypassed the lame ass security settings to access the good side of the internets."

"The good side," the other janitor cackled. "All the porn sites, you mean."

"See ya, Javy," Jason said, leading Hump down a hall and into an office tucked beneath stairs and smashed next to a giant boiler. He threw open a heavy door and ducked into a musty, humid space no bigger than a closet. It smelled vile and Hump coughed. Jason flipped a light switch and a single bulb, lodged overhead in a socket, sputtered. A huge cobweb wrapped around the bulb like a latticed metal cage.

"This is your office?" Hump asked.

"A beaut, isn't it? Let me fire up the computer. Close the door, pops. No sense lettin' the peepers of your esteemed peers play peek-a-boo."

Hump pushed the door and it slammed shut like a coffin.

"Lock it, too," Jason added. He was hunched over a keyboard as the monitor flickered on. "Now, pops, take a gander. YouTube, in all its glory."

"The screen hurts my eyes," Hump complained. "How do you watch this thing?"

"I admit, the resolution is lousy. Like everything else in this place, this old thing is ready to kick the bucket." He typed a string of words into the gadget and then manipulated the mouse, clicking on an image with a chuckle. "This is my bud, Pix. The one I was tellin' you about. Check it out. He uploaded this last night." After a final click, the image expanded on the monitor and began to play. It was hard to tell, but it looked like it was filmed from atop the head of someone riding a motorcycle.

" _Pix here,"_ an airstream altered voice broadcast. _"Out riding the mean streets of Newburgh on a Sunday evening."_ For the next five minutes and twenty seconds, the camera recorded the point-of-view of a man driving without any sense of safety. The motorcycle ran red lights, sped and drove on sidewalks. At one point, the driver did a wheelie.

"People watch this?" Hump asked, more perturbated than anything else. It seemed like a colossal waste of time.

"It already has ten thousand views."

"In English, kid."

"Ten thousand people have watched this video. Whoops, I guess with you it's now ten thousand and one. Ten thousand, dude! Crazy, huh?"

"Why?"

"It's entertainment. What do you watch on your television?"

"Things with a story. Game shows. Sports. Not this crap."

"Pops, it's the same thing. People, like, used to watch you hit the baseball. Why? Form of leisure, man. They can't do it, but they like watching someone who can. Same thing with Pix's videos. The viewer lives through the exploits of the entertainer. Think _voyeur_."

"You can't be serious! You want me to do sumptin like this?"

"Ride a motorcycle? I mean..." Jason scratched his tousled hair and then said, "Can you? Old dude on a bike would be pretty gnarly."

"No, you fool. Sit on this Your Tube and share my experiences."

"Hells ya, bro! I think it'll be a hit! You're funny and I bet people would get a kick."

Hump tugged his left ear and pretended to consider the stupid idea.

"You could be, like, the next big sensation," Jason encouraged.

"I need to think on it," Hump pronounced, crossing arms.

"Yea, sure, think about it. Eat a gummy. Mediate. Chillax. You'll make the right decision."

"Can you do something else for me?"

"Shoot."

"I want you to look for something on this computer."

"What?"

"The Reich Safaripark."

Jason looked at Hump with raised eyebrows.

"I'm just wonderin' about it," Hump said with contrived indifference.

"You want their website?"

"I guess. Can you find it?"

"Can I find it?" Jason scoffed. "Jeez, pops. This isn't like flying a helicopter. Now...let's see," he mumbled. After closing the video, the kid typed, manipulated the mouse, and then exclaimed, "Viola!"

Hump squinted at the screen. The Nazi swastika flag splayed in the top left corner; the head of bushy maned, roaring lion in profile decorated the right. Beneath the icons, in bold red font, the words _"ADOLF HITLER REICH SAFARIPARK"_. Smashed, miniscule text cascaded beneath the title: _Der Adolf Hitler Safaripark wurde 1951 im Auftrag des Führers eröffnet, um die einheimischen wildtiere des Dunklen Kontinents zu bewahren._

Hump leaned forward until his eyes crossed and then shook his head. "Jeez O'Pete. How do read this thing? Them letters are teeny tiny."

Jason giggled, pointed at the screen, and then said, "Check out this word. _Dunklen_."

"It means dark."

"Huh?"

"Dark. Dunkel. Dunklen. Dunkler. Dunklem. Masculine, feminine, neuter."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"The German language."

"You speak German?"

"My parents were both second generation Krauts and I grew up on it. Haven't spoken it since...well, since my wife died. Carol was German, too."

"You Germans all stick together, huh? Hey, do you know any swears?"

"Kid, I could peel the led paint off these walls. I'll give you a lesson after we're done. What else does it say?"

"Um...Hitler Safaripark...wurde...um...Auftrag des..." Jason paused and rubbed his eyes.

"Criminy, you sound like Helen Keller or sumptin," Hump declared.

"Jesus, pops! Not cool."

"Write it down then. You can write, can't you?"

"I have a better idea," Jason said, moving the pointer around the page. "Here we go. The American version." He clicked once more and the characters changed.

"Can you read it?" Hump needled.

"Okay...it says: _'The Adolf Hitler Reich Safaripark was opened in 1951 by order of the Führer to preserve the indigenous wildlife of the Dark Continent. Once a grazing and migration plain for the livestock of the Maasai, the Safaripark encompasses almost 15,000 square kilometers of protected habitat. Over a million of nature's finest beasts migrate the Serengeti, including the brindled wildebeest and-"_

"Is there a phone number or something?" Hump interrupted.

"Mm..." Jason droned as he scrolled down. "Wow! This place looks crazy. It says you can camp in the wild to _live amongst the biota of the Serengeti like the ancient Maasai_. What the heck is a biota?"

"I don't know. Nature or sumptin."

"Welp, it says 'contact the Reich Ministry for Nutrition and Agriculture for more information or to arrange a visit'. The email address is Landwirtschaft at Reichsministerium dot gmx dot dx."

"What about a phone number?"

"Phone number? Naw, pops, you wanna use email. Long distance rates are ridiculous. I can send it for you if it's too complicated."

"I ain't a complete idiot! I've futzed with computers before. I don't want to do the emails. I prefer old fashioned ways of communicating."

"Alright," Jason said, raising hands. "Don't chew my ass. You gonna call?"

"I might. Eh...is there anything about _gore-on-goro_?"

"The what?"

" _Gore-on-goro_."

"Gorgo?"

"Jeez O'Pete! Move over. I'll find it."

"Cool your jets," Jason said. He squinted at a smashed collection of hyperlinks on the left side of the website and then asked, "Do you mean this one?"

"Which one?"

Jason dragged the cursor over the red letters spelling _Ngorongoro Conservation Area_ and then stared at Hump with raised eyebrows.

"I don't know," Hump said. "Open it or whatever you do."

"Abracadabra," Jason said, doubling clicking the link.

A panoramic picture of rolling hills surrounding a deep gorge loaded onto the screen like a patchwork quilt. After the image filled in, the words " _NGORONGORO KRATER GESCHLOSSEN_!!!", appeared at the top of the page.

"Great," Jason said. "More German. And there's no way to change it to American."

"English."

"Huh?"

"English. The language we speak is _English_ , not American. I don't need a translation. I know what _geschlossen_ means. Closed."

"If you say so. Want to see anything else?"

"What are those places on the...I don't know whatcha call it. The title place. Where you just were."

"The main page," Jason said, navigating with the arrow key. The Nazi flag, lion head and mashed text reappeared and the kid asked, "What else?"

"What do them other things say on the left?"

Jason squinted and then read, "Grumeti Game Reserve, Maswa Game Reserve, Buffalo Camp, Ikorongo Game Reserve, Loliondo Game Control Area. You want to look at any?"

"No. Write 'em all down with the phone number."

"Comin' right up," Jason said. He scribbled the information on a post-it-note, handed it to Hump and then asked, "Say, pops, what's this all about?"

"I'm curious."

"Yea, sure. And you're in a better mood. You got info, didn't ya?"

Hump folded the paper and said, "Ayup. Found out the crater is closed."

"Not about the crater. Your son. You aren't interested in the Safaripark because you want to enjoy the biota of the Serengeti."

"I guess it's obvious, isn't it? Got me a phone call from the FBI."

"And?"

"They told me Howie was one of those bodies."

"Ah, pops," Jason whined. "Damn. At least you know, right?"

"I suppose."

"Was he found in the Safaripark?"

"Not there, but near. Close enough, I guess."

"You ought to call Fozzy at _Sports On The Pot_."

"I will, but I need to make sure I'm flush with information. Sometimes these media types like to play tricks."

"Whadda ya mean?"

"They'll say anything to snare a story. Bunch of leeches."

"I don't think Fozzy's a leech."

"He peddles smut and gossip. What else would you call him?"

"Shit, pops, all news is smut and gossip. What's Germany doing? Who did the Prime Minister of Shitsylvania piss off?" Jason snapped his fingers and then said, "Gossip."

"You and I have a different definition of gossip. There's news, and then there's tripe masquerading as news. A big difference, sonny. A _big_ difference."

"If you say so. I guess I grew up in a different time."

"Darn tootin'. Your generation is entertained by the asinine and the idiotic. Goes back to the parents and their lack of discipline."

"Pfft. All older generations think the same. Why, I bet you raised hell back in the day. Don't act all high and mighty."

"I never wanted for common sense. My pa would've taken a belt to my backside if I dared to be so stupid."

"What about your son?"

Hump grimaced and his face felt hot. Not a light prickling sunburn but a full-on, stick your mug in a boiling cauldron, hot.

"I mean," Jason continued, "people are individuals. They aren't robots. Everyone lives and falls in love. They do things with their lives. You did things. My buddy Pix does his. Doesn't mean it's right or wrong. He ain't out murdering or stealing children. Just havin' a little fun."

"Don't talk about Howie again," Hump mumbled.

"Whoa, don't get angry. I meant no malice. You need to see-"

"I don't need a lecture, kid. Drop it. I gotta make a phone call." Hump turned, unlocked and then opened the door. "Thanks for the help," he added, before disappearing into the corridor.

***

"It's Hump Hammerbacher, the fella you talked to 'bout a week ago. Remember?"

"Of course I remember," Fozzy Barrone said. "How you been?"

Hump adjusted the phone against his right ear and flicked the business card onto the end table.

"Hump?" Barrone queried. "Hey? You there, old timer?"

"I'm here."

"Alright...so...what's going on?"

"I thought I'd call and shoot the shit. I got this phone in my room and I don't use it much."

"Oh," Barrone said, his voice sounding less than ecstatic. "I was hoping you had good news."

"Good news, eh? Like my son was one of those found in Africa. _That_ kinda good news?"

"No...I mean," Barrone stammered. "I didn't...look, I didn't intend to sound callous."

"Just try to contain your joy, pardner. I got the call today. Howie is one those bodies."

"Oh...I'm...yeah. Sorry. Are you holding it together?"

"Tell the truth, I'd be more upset if I found out it wasn't him. I also learned where the grave is located."

"Hot damn! Spill the beans!"

"First things first. How do I know you'll keep your word?"

"Oh no, mister. Don't start getting cold feet. We're about to get balls deep in this bitch."

"You didn't answer my question."

"You want an answer? How 'bout I want to do this story. You don't know how bad, man."

"Real bad, huh? How come I haven't heard from you?"

"Same reason I'm still single. I have a job. Doesn't mean I'm not working an angle, but there are other priorities. Bills need to get paid. Besides, I was waiting to hear from you. So, let's hear it. Who'd you talk to?"

"Somebody from the FBI, name of Hochberg."

"How do you spell it?"

"Sound it out."

"Fine, I'll figure it out later. What's his, um...title or-"

"Jeez O'Pete! I ain't on a first name basis with the guy. I talked to him. We didn't get intimate or nutin."

"Alright, alright. I hear the consternation in your voice. What did Hochberg say?"

Hump glanced at the post-it and then said, "He told me the bodies were found someplace in Tanganyika near the Grumeti Game Reserve."

"How do you spell it?"

"Hell if I know. It's west of the Safaripark."

"Hold a sec," Barrone said. There was a sound of tapping mixed with heavy breathing, and then a dry chuckle.

"What is it?" Hump asked.

"Thar she blows. The Grumeti Game Reserve, protected land for ungulates, established in 1993 by the Tanganyika government. 411 square kilometers. Looks small on the map and rests outside the Safaripark boundaries. The Germans were looking for shale in a game reserve? Seems kinda odd."

"The Fed said Interpol is investigating."

"Interpol?"

"Them Krauts."

"Germans?"

"Yep."

"Did he say why?"

"I didn't understand. Sumptin about SS and terrorists."

"SS? What about the SS?"

"They're police or sumptin. Have you heard of Interpol?"

Barrone sighed and then said, "Hump, this is important. Can you remember what was said?"

"I'm trying to tell you."

"You're not telling me _anything_."

"Interpol is runnin' the show. Or sumptin."

"Or something, eh? What's the FBI doing?"

"They're assisting."

"Why?"

"Because Interpol deals with international crimes," Hump said, as if a bona fide sage on the subject. "Makes sense, I reckon."

"If you say so."

"You want to have a chat with the Fed fella?"

"I'd rather not."

"I've his phone number. Two-oh-two-"

"I'm not calling the FBI."

"Then you'll have to take my word for it. The Fed said the Krauts know the area. I gather they might know who's responsible. Or sumptin."

"Wonderful. Well...I suppose this makes things a bit easier."

"Easier for what?"

"I'm working on, ahem... _sumptin_. I haven't the greenlight from upstairs but..." Barrone trailed off, leaving the preposition dangling in the ether.

" _But_ what?" Hump pressed.

"I'm working on a business trip, if you catch my drift."

"I catch it. Funny, I was thinking the same. So, what's the plan?"

"Yeah, about _that_. Do you think it's wise for a man your age to be travelling to Africa?"

Hump stared at the handset. He would've crossed arms and thrust his chest in defiance if anybody was watching. Instead, he cried, "I'm in tiptop shape! I can handle a trip to Africa."

"Easy to say in the comfort of air conditioning."

"Boy, I grew up in Mississippi. Ain't no place poorer than Mississippi. Parts of the state are still reeling from the Depression."

"I get it, man. _Grapes of Wrath_ , hardscrabble soil, dusty air, the whole nine. But I'm talking about Africa. _Africa_. Africa isn't Mississippi."

"I told you when I was dragged into your office-"

"Dragged? Please."

"It wasn't my idea and I told you what I wanted. Do you remember what you said?"

"I was spitballin'."

"Spitballin', blabberin', _whatever_ the term, I recall the conversation. You said we'll help each other. There ain't going to be much of a story if I'm not tellin' it. I'm going to Africa. I want to see where Howie died."

"I just think you might be a little, you know, elderly. No offense, but walking a mall may be more your speed."

"Yeah, yeah. You don't want me dyin' on you."

"I didn't say you were going to die but...Africa is dangerous."

"You want to go!"

"I'm a reporter. It's my duty to follow the story no matter where it leads."

"I've seen you. And your office. You ain't Walter Cronkite and _Sports On The Pot_ isn't _60 Minutes_."

"Not yet."

"Sure," Hump scoffed. " _Not yet_. Not until you piggyback off my misery."

"Jeez," Barrone muttered. "Didn't you tell Howie not to go to Africa? Maybe you should take your own advice."

Hump felt the tingle of heat in cheeks and shifted in his chair. "It's different," he claimed, conjuring a contemptuous snort.

"How?"

"I'll give you a _how_ ," Hump growled. " _How_ are you going to write this story with me sitting in New York?"

"Put emotions aside and think about it for a minute. What good can come of you going?"

"I'll see where Howie was buried."

" _Maybe_. Getting to the site is going to be tricky if this Interpol is crawling around. And if the area is a crime scene, or whatever these Germans call it, I'll have to play my cards just so. Having to babysit you would be added stress."

"Babysit me? Who's going to babysit you?"

"Look," Barrone argued, his inflection increasing, "we can play the rhetorical game forever. Bottom line, it's not a good idea."

"Then it's not a good idea to do my story."

"Be realistic, Hump."

"You media hotshots are all the same. Can you guess why nobody trusts the press anymore? 'Cause it's full of liars and cheats!"

"I didn't lie to you. I'm going to write this thing, as promised."

"But you don't want me going to Africa," Hump surmised.

"Out of an abundance of safety."

Hump pictured Barrone's narrow face and birth control glasses, beaming with haughtiness, and gripped the handset tighter. He stared at the muted television and watched a litigant on one of those court shows wave flabby arms. Something had the obese woman's goat, and had it good. Hump could prolly channel similar outrage, but screaming at people like a sassy fool wouldn't do the trick. Or, as Pa used to say, _you can't holler sense into a rock_. Besides, Hump had another idea.

"So, there it is," Barrone concluded. "I'm sorry. There's nothing more I can do."

"Well, I'm going anyways," Hump professed. "Already contacted some people."

"Who?"

"Them Krauts at the Ministry of Whatnot. I was told it was a two-week vetting process, then another two days of transit to the Safaripark. Those Krauts are real particular when it comes to questions. Had to conjure some cockamamie story about wanting to see lions and elephants before I kick the bucket."

There was silence, long enough for a smile to spread across Hump's face, and then Barrone asked, "Excuse me?"

"I'm going. O'course, I won't have much luck on my own, but I have to try."

"You're right. You won't get _anywhere_ on your own. This is a stupid idea, Hump."

"I figured you'd think so. But you know what?" Hump blew a raspberry and then said, "Tough nuts, kid."

"Hump, you're going to ruin whatever chance I might have if you start kicking. Don't you want to learn something? I've the better chance!"

"How?"

"I'm media, okay? The Nazis love nothing better than to show their bullshit to the world. Their architecture, music, benevolence and Master Race crap begs for attention. I can sweettalk old Frtiz into a tour and get a little poking around thrown in for a few nifty pictures. And when I happen to find Interpol, which I will, I could worm into information. But if you go, I might not get this chance. Hell, _might_ nothing. I _won't_ and you'll be up the creek."

"You're making a lot of assumptions, the biggest being you're gettin' near the site."

"I'll figure a way."

"Then, you can figure I'll be seeing you there. Good talkin' to ya. Maybe we can continue this conversation in Africa."

"Wait a second," Barrone squawked. "Don't hang up. There's no need to go to the mattress, Clemenza."

"What?"

"It's a...never mind. Sit tight, Hump. Maybe... _maybe_ I can convince my boss. I'm not promising anything, but don't go flying anywhere until I chew his ear."

"Whadda ya think I am? A big dumdum? Stupid Hump, pining like a lovesick girl while you stall and then leave me twiddlin' thumbs. No, sir. Humphrey Hammerbacher wasn't born yesterday."

"I understand. You're no rube."

"Don't humor me. Anything else, kid?"

" _If_ , and I'm not saying yea, I _somehow_ persuade the man upstairs to allow me to cart you along, I gotta worry about watching your tuchus. I can't have you do something stupid."

"What if I bring a pal who can keep me on the straight and narrow?"

"Who?"

Hump feigned rumination and then said, a minute later, "Let's see...welp, there's my son, Hubbie. He's a fancy lawyer. Hubbie would keep me in line. We weren't close for many years on account of my baseball career. Always on the move. Eighty plus days a year on the road. Missed _a lot_ of family activities. The boy developed a profound dislike to my profession. And, I reckon, to me."

"Yeah...yeah," Barrone said. "This could be a...a father and son bonding session. Making up for lost time. Shit, this could work."

"So, it's a swell idea?"

"It has promise, Hump, but I have to run it up the chain. Be patient. I'll give you a call before five."

"At five-oh-one, I'm making other arrangements."

"Got it. Hang tight. I'll get back to you."

***

Ten minutes later, after taking a dribbling piss, Hump placed a call to Hubbie.

"It's Howie," Hump said without introduction.

"Dad-"

"Don't _Dad_ me. I just got off the blower with the FBI. This ain't no ruse. They claim a positive identification."

There was silence and then Hubbie managed to croak, "What else?"

"Ain't nothing else. I told them they could incinerate the remains."

"Jesus, Dad! Doesn't Howie deserve to rest next to Mom?"

"Howie didn't deserve a lot of things. Know what else he didn't deserve? Getting buried in the earth. He always wanted to be cremated."

"Oh? How would you know?"

"I read his journals."

"Ha, his journals. Nonsense Howie wrote when he was drunk or high. Mimicking other hackneyed writers. I never understood his obsession with degenerates."

"Regardless, it was what Howie wanted. And don't be talking about your brother like he was immoral."

"I'm not...forget it," Hubbie sighed.

"His ashes are being delivered to your house."

"Huh?"

"Howie's ashes are coming to you."

"I don't want them!"

"Too late. I've made the arrangement."

"No! Dad, they should go to you."

"I can't take 'em. I'm going to Africa."

"Uh-I," Hubbie stammered. "W-what?"

"I'm going to Africa. To see where Howie died."

"Are you crazy?"

"Nope. A lot of people been accusin' me of being crazy, but they need to mind their business. I gotta see where Howie died."

"Why?"

"I was there when he was born. I helped bring him into this world. Small, helpless and dependent. The burden of a parent is the fear of losing a child. I didn't realize this until years later, when it was too late to save Howie. I failed somewhere along the way, Hubbie. With both of you. I gotta see where he died. I guess people call it closure."

"You didn't fail, Dad. It's just, being gone as much as you were...sometimes I think you cared more about baseball than us. Including Mom."

"I had to make a living. Provide for you. How do you think I could afford to send you to Columbia?"

"I know, I know, you were _working_."

"Damn straight. I wasn't educated. Didn't go to college. Didn't learn spit in school. All I could do was play ball. God put me on earth to be a baseball man."

"Ah, it's God's fault."

"Some people are put on this world with a clear purpose. The course of their lives is a path laid at their feet. And some people got to search for their trail. Your brother was a searcher."

"I can tell you what my purpose is, and it doesn't involve convincing my eighty-three-year-old father to not go to Africa."

"Tarnation, Hubbie, I wasn't calling to argue, and I don't want to leave it this way."

"For the record, I think this is a stupid idea. If you want to charge into Africa, I'm not going to stop you. But it's imprudent, Dad. We have congressmen who are paid, by our taxes, to raise holy hell about shit like this."

"I don't trust no one in the government."

Hubbie giggled and then said, "Of course you don't."

"All of 'em are liars and cheats."

"Liars and cheats, eh? How original Dad. Okay, have fun playing Cornel Wilde."

"I'm going with others. Some people from the media."

"Who?"

Hump didn't want to admit the intrepid reporter was from a publication called _Sports On The Pot_. Instead, he coughed and then said, "One of them internet magazines."

"Oh, sweet Jesus. What are you getting into?"

"It's the only way I can do this. I won't get far by myself."

"Get far doing what? Wait! Hold on! Never mind. I don't want to know. Keep me out of it."

"Funny, but I thought of asking you to come. Then I figured you'd say as much."

"I have a job and responsibilities to my clients. Anyway, Howie and I weren't close. He did his thing and I did mine."

"Wonderful. The least you can do is accept his ashes when they arrive. Scatter 'em across a lake, or dump 'em in the woods. Somewhere in nature. Think you handle the task?"

"Sure. Why not? And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"If you die in Africa, what do you want me to do with your body?"

"I ain't going to die."

"Okay, Dad," Hubbie said in a voice dripping with doubt. "Take care."

Hump dropped the phone on the cradle and shook his head. Hubbie had always been a big pussy. It was a wonder how the guy stood in front of a jury.

He checked the clock, stood, and then headed downstairs. It was closing on three-thirty and supper would be served in a half-hour. In the interim, Hump would kill time talking with Jason.

***

"Man," Jason said, "I'm glad you're onboard. We can start shooting ASAP. Pix has a studio setup in his garage. I mean, it's not his garage. He lives with his parents and-"

"I can't wait," Hump said. "Now, there's one thing I need from you."

"Shoot."

"It's gonna sound strange, but I want to you know I'll take care of your travel costs."

"Travel costs? What are you talkin' about, Willis?"

"I want you to come to Africa with me. The Safaripark in Tanganyika."

"Africa!" Jason yelled. A few heads in the rec room turned as the kid sunk to a knee and stared Hump in the eyes. "You want me to come with you?"

"Ayup."

"Me?"

"Why not?"

"I can't go to Africa. What about my job?"

"Say you have a family emergency. We wouldn't be leaving for weeks."

"How long would we be gone?"

"Seven days. The Krauts only grant seven day passes to the park for non-Europeans."

"Seven days is a long time, pops. Four hundred bucks of pay. Plus I have my customers and..." Jason scratched his head and looked at Hump with anxiety. "It seems kinda weird, is all. I don't know you _that_ well. It can't be cheap to buy me a ticket to Africa."

"No, it ain't cheap. But I've been thinkin' about the Your Tube and how you put me in contact with the reporter and took me to the ballgame. I figure this is the only way I can thank you."

"I thought you were sore at me for hooking you up with Fozzy Barrone."

"Naw, I ain't sore. Turns out he's more capable than I reckoned. I just talked to Fuzzy-"

"Fozzy."

"Right. I just talked to him and he's chompin' at the bit. I gotta good feelin' about this, kid."

"Wow. I need a minute to think, pops."

"It'll make a great story for the Your Tube."

"Maybe. Won't do much good if I'm killed or something."

"You ain't gonna get kilt."

"How do you know?"

"You'd be stupid to pass this opportunity up."

"You didn't answer my question. What's the plan when we get there?"

"I'll let the reporter fella do the legwork. Once Fuzzy finds sumptin, then I'll figure a way to see where Howie was buried. Point is, this kinda thing doesn't have a blueprint. It'll be an adventure and you'll have a front seat. I thought you'd be excited."

"What am I supposed to do? Be, like, an ornament?"

"Alright," Hump said with exasperation. "I'll level with you. The truth is, Fuzzy thinks I'd be a burden if I went with him. Like an anchor weighing him down while he kicks bushes and plays Harry Steele. He wants me to bring a chaperone and I ain't got nobody else to ask."

"You want me to be your chaperone?"

"Ayup."

"Dude, like...are you sure?"

"Positive."

"And this isn't gonna be like something where I'm expected to pay you back? 'Cause I've seen enough Judge Judy to know this thing happens _all_ the time. A trip turns into misunderstanding and then the next thing you know-"

"Kid, I'm not hard up for money. A few thousand dollars ain't gonna send me to the poorhouse. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"Well..." Jason hawed. "You'll pay for everything?"

"Yup. And we'll do the Your Tube when we return from Africa."

"YouTube, pops."

"Whatever it's called. You have a passport, don't cha? If not, you need to get one."

"I have one. Me and the guys go to Canada on occasion for a little northern exposure."

"Good."

"I haven't said I'm going."

"You will. Say, what's your last name?"

"Giel. G-I-E-L. Why?"

"I'll need it for the paperwork."

"I haven't said I'm going, pops."

Hump grinned, patted Jason on the shoulder, and then said, "I know what you'll decide. Now, I need to grab supper. My stomach is growlin'."

***

"No way," Chadwick Carlton said. And, if there was any doubt Fozzy Barrone misunderstood the command, Carlton added, "No _fucking_ way."

"Not even if his son tags along?" Barrone asked, pulling the chair closer to Carlton's desk.

"What did I _just_ say? You want me to spell it? Sign it? Fucking...I don't know...belch it? N. O. End of discussion."

"Hear me out, boss. I think-"

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Fozzy Bear. I do. But there's, like, liabilities and shit you haven't considered. One, this isn't going to be cheap. Alright, like, we're skimming the red and Skinny Pauly's getting a wee antsy. I'm cleaning out the kitty to float you and that dickwad photographer Dirt to fucking-"

"Dirk."

Carlton sighed, rolled eyes, and then continued, " _Dirk_ and you to fucking Africa. The old coot gave a location, I'm giving cash, I expect something for the investment. Correction. You _are_ going to give me something."

"Hump will pay his way," Barrone blurted.

"And his son?"

"Yep."

"He said this?"

"Of course," Barrone lied, throwing in a vigorous head nod to strengthen the fib.

"Eh..." Carlton picked up a paperclip from his desk and straightened it until the thing was an elongated wire. "This is a bad idea," he said, plunging the instrument into his left ear. "I get the intrepid journalist shtick, and I'm sure you'll do a bang-up job, but having to deal with...how old is Hammerbacher again?"

"Eighty-three. But, don't forget, he'll have a chaperone. Whether we get information or not, it's still a great story."

"It's a fucking horrible story," Carlton mumbled as he tossed the paperclip on the desk. "I hate blue news, Fozzy Bear. I didn't start this place because I wanted to report genocide and talk about Nazis."

" _Ahem._ Sports related, former New York Yankee, pull at the heartstrings," Barrone said, lifting a finger from his right hand as he ticked each positive. "I'll fucking twist the heartstrings, big guy. I'm gonna shank the fuck outta this story. Take it to the bank."

"You sound desperate."

"I can't believe I have to sell this. Don't you see the potential."

"I _hate_ Nazis," Carlton said with a frown. "They're no fucking good and we have too many people in this country emulating their shit."

"I agree."

"So there's _that_. And if the Germans planted a bunch of Americans, why would they tell anybody about these bodies?"

"Because Nazis didn't kill them. Or, I don't know...some villager or...whatever they're called-"

"Natives."

"Okay, a native found the remains, reported them to the local authorities and the Germans decided to play CYA."

"Yeah, you're spitting rumors now, Fozzy Bear. No bueno."

Barrone laughed and then said, "This whole place runs on rumors."

"If you're going to do this thing, you need to do it right. We aren't slapping gossip on the net about Nazis killing American aid workers without fact. Big Bozo was one thing. And... _and_ , everything about the freaky bastard was true. We just fucked up the delivery. But Nazis have clout and they aren't afraid to rub out twerps who cross them. I'd wager some of our readers are neo-Nazis. This isn't like...who was the guy on the Jets who bitched slapped you?"

"You're right, it's not the same thing. This is bigger."

"Argh...I know. If there's a chance this was a dud, I wouldn't have signed off on it. But, if the Nazis did do something in...where was it?"

"Grumeti."

" _If_ they did, and they get wind Hammerbacher's heading to Grumeti with reporters, where do you think this story is headed?"

"Into the crapper."

"Correct-o. And then it's game over, man."

"Hump could go to somebody else with his tale. Mainstream media."

"They won't touch it. Not without more."

"You sure?"

"What if they do? It'll save me from dumping cash into your adventure. And it might save you from getting dumped into a hole in Africa."

"I'm not scared."

"Easy to say today, when you're standing in my office."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Christ...I just can't sign off on Hammerbacher. Or his son. It's too risky."

"Hammerbacher's kid is a lawyer, or so Hammerbacher senior claims."

"And?"

"Do you think junior number two is going to let his father blunder into trouble?"

Carlton leaned forward and laid arms on desk. "What _aren't_ you telling me?" he accused with narrow eyes.

"Nothing...except, Hammerbacher's going to Africa with or without us."

"Well, fuck," the Tsar grumbled. "Why didn't you say so from the beginning?"

"I don't like presenting ultimatums. I told him it was a stupid idea, but-"

"I'm already not liking this. The old man has a head full of rocks."

"Look, we can do this with our eyes on him or we can hope Hump Hammerbacher doesn't make a mess on his own. I gotta call him by five, and I need to figure out how to get to the Safaripark. There's a mountain of forms to scale. What say you?"

"You make sure his son understands, Humphrey has to be kept on a leash."

Barrone saluted and then asked, "I take it we're kosher?"

Carlton tapped a foot, checked his watch and then nodded.

"Great," Barrone said, trying to subdue excitement.

"Fozzy Bear," Carlton said without inflection. "If this gets balled up, your ass is grass."

"If this gets balled up, the next story you'll do is my obituary."

"Promise?"

***

Hump returned to his room after dinner and found a pink note sticking to the door. _You've Missed A Call!_ the missive announced. _From: F. Barrone. At: 1615_. Written beneath the name was: _No msg. Phone when convenient._ He swiped the note and crumpled it into a ball. A minute later, Hump had the handset pressed to right ear.

"I want you to know," Barrone said, "I had to get on my knees and practically suck the sausage. My boss isn't thrilled."

"You got the okay?"

"I did, but there's a couple of things. We can't afford to pay your way. Or your son."

"I wasn't expecting as much, and I wouldn't have asked."

"Okay...good. Here's the scoop: I'm going to file a media request through the German Ministry for Nutrition and Agriculture. I want to secure press credentials for a story I plan on running. Something about an aged, baseball hero visiting the Safaripark with his son. A real tearjerker with-"

"My son ain't coming," Hump interrupted.

"-the elements providing a respectable backdrop."

"My son ain't coming," Hump repeated.

"We'll depart WAH after getting the visas from the Germans, fly to Berlin, and then take another bird to Alexandria. From there we hop on a plane to Nairobi. And, last, a drive on the African...I guess they call the highways there a _Strecke_ or something. No doubt I'm butchering the pronunciation. Anyway, I need to secure a ride because I don't...wait, what did you say?"

"Hubbie, my son, ain't coming. He said-"

"No, no, no!" Barrone argued. "Your son is part of our entourage. A piece of the story!"

"Welp, I don't know what to tell you, Fuzzy. Hubbie doesn't want to go."

"Fozzy, goddamn it! _Fozzy_. And you said-"

"I know what I said. Hubbie thinks different."

"What's his number. I want to talk to him."

"You think I'm a pill? Ha! Hubbie will make your ears bleed. Plus he's a lawyer, so he uses them big fancy words. It's like debating a dictionary."

"Oh, man," Barrone wailed. "Well, this is just fucking dandy!"

"It doesn't change anything. Your story ain't Hubbie."

"No, but...you don't understand. Hubbie was part of the deal. My boss expected him to keep you square."

"Your boss doesn't need to know."

"Right, however, this puts the onus of responsibility on me. This is going to screw everything up, old man."

"I'm a step ahead of you, pardner. I've a friend who can accompany. A caretaker."

"Like a nurse?"

"Naw, even better. Think doctor."

"What kind of doctor?"

"Does it matter?"

"This doctor is going to keep you in line?"

"You betcha."

"I need his name for the travel documents."

"Surname of Giel. G-I-E-L."

"Doctor Giel," Barrone mused. "Well, at least the _D_ and _R_ in front of the name adds a measure of respectability."

"Yup," Hump agreed, rejecting the desire to reveal what Jason Giel was trained to do. A surgeon of floor scrubbing and unclogging toilets wouldn't impress Fuzzy Barrone.

"I'll need to meet with him and have a chat about expectations."

"I figured as much."

"What is he? Your shrink?"

"Shrink? I'm not crazy."

"I never said you're crazy. A lot of people see therapists. There's nothing wrong with it."

"He's not a head doctor."

"Ah, a private doc," Barrone alleged. The sound of pen or pencil on paper drifted through the phone before the editor queried, "What's his first name?"

"Say," Hump said, changing the subject. "What are odds the Germans deny your travel request?"

"Yeah, I thought about it. I layered the human-interest. I must've sounded like a used car salesman. Something tells me the German I was speaking with didn't care. We'll see."

"If we can't get visas?"

"I'll cross those bridges if necessary."

"Maybe there's another way to get to Africa."

"Fat chance. Travel to Europe is tricky with the restrictions put in place by the Reich. Berlin, Paris, Madrid, Amsterdam, you name it. Then you got to get to Africa. The safest ways are through Morocco, Libya or Egypt. _And then_ -"

"I know all this," Hump bristled. "I also know thousands of Americans visit the Safaripark every year. It's not impossible to get there."

"It is if you make trouble."

"Which I ain't going to do," Hump assured.

"Uh-huh. Cross your heart and all the rest?"

"It's crossed."

"Grand. Now, what's the first name of your chaperone?"

"Jason," Hump answered.

"Jason," Barrone repeated, scribbling as he spelled, "J-A-S-O...wait a second. Jason Giel?"

"You got it."

"I know this name," Barrone mumbled, which was followed by the sound of shuffling papers, a creaking chair and, at last, a terse snort.

"Figure it out?" Hump asked.

"Christ. Is this the same fool-"

"It's him."

"You can't be serious!" Barrone exclaimed, channeling John McEnroe.

"Me and him are a package deal. Take it or leave it."

"You are something, man."

"I'm tryin' to work with you. I've thought about it and you're right. I won't find nutin on my own. I'll defer to your journalistic instincts, or whatever you call it, and let you handle the heavy liftin'. I gotta go to Africa. I can't sit on my hands while you're walkin' the same ground Howie once did. But the kid-"

"Doctor Giel?"

"Yeah. The kid'll keep me from jumpin' outta my skin."

"What is he?" Barrone asked with a laugh. "Your drug dealer?"

"Matter of fact..."

Barrone's cackle terminated as if the landline had been severed.

"Fuzzy," Hump said. "You still there?"

"What do you mean by _matter of fact_?" Barrone asked, at last, with a snarl.

# 9. Mile High Hump

"I'm not going to repeat myself," Barrone warned. "Listen up: I can't be responsible for keeping tabs on you two potheads, and I won't. Swear to God, if either of you ruin this trip, you'll be walking back from Africa." He glowered at Hump, then Jason, before closing eyes.

The area around Gate 32, Terminal 1, of William Averell Harriman International Airport (better known by the acronym WAH for the FAA identifier KWAH) was half-full of tired, passive travelers awaiting permission to board the Boeing Triple 7. Lufthansa Flight 09, direct service to Berlin's Göring-Templehoff Airport, was scheduled to push at the ridiculous hour of eleven-fifteen in the evening. Hump should've been asleep. Instead, he was crammed into a plastic chair watching the pilots peruse a scroll of paperwork at the dais. Barrone, and his promise not to _repeat himself_ , had already said the same thing four times since the quartet cleared security. And six times in the car on the way to the airport. And a thousand other times in the weeks leading to the trip.

"I'm not going to get in the way," Jason claimed. "I'll be a shadow."

Barrone sighed, opened his eyes, and then whispered, "A shadow, huh?"

"Hells yeah, man," Jason answered. "I can shadow like a champ. You ever see those spooky demons in _Ghost_? Like...you won't know I'm around."

"Uh-huh. Well, the only reason I'm _letting_ you tag along is to keep the old man in check. Dirk and I are going to be busy at the Safaripark."

The fourth member, the aforementioned Dirk, was a stout twenty-something year old cameraman with a messy blond mullet set atop a squashed face covered in a fabulous tan. Dirk's eyes, nose and mouth were positioned within inches of each other, giving his compressed countenance the guise of everlasting annoyance. He didn't speak much, perhaps out of modesty or the refreshing realization nobody cared a lick what he had to express. At present, the cameraman was roaming in front of the picture window showcasing the apron, snapping photos of the giant aircraft with a fancy pants camera.

"Now," Barrone continued, closing eyes again, "let's relax a bit before we get thrust into the high life. Sound peachy?"

Hump grunted acquiesce, adjusted rump, and chased a catnap. For a moment there was silence, then Jason dashed any chance of a kip with an exaggerated yawn.

"Man, it's late," the kid droned.

"Didn't you hear me?" Barrone snapped. "It's quiet time."

"I'm not sleepy."

"Pretend."

"Pretend?" Jason scoffed. "How can you _pretend_ to be tired? You are or you aren't. I'm jazzed, bro. Excited. I want to calm down, but my mind is racing."

"We have a long trip ahead. If you don't rest _now_ , you'll regret it _later_. The jetlag alone is enough to mess you up. Then we're going to be trekking to the Serengeti. It's dangerous there. You don't want to be fatigued."

"What time do we land in Germany?"

"Sometime in the afternoon. Berlin's six hours ahead and the flight is eight and change."

Jason closed his left eye and did the math on his fingers. "Damn," he said at last. "We won't get there until like... _two_ in the afternoon."

Barrone's eyes cracked to half-moon size and he scrutinized the janitor. "And then we have to clear German customs before getting on another flight. _And then_ , after we land in Alexandria, we have to catch _another_ plane to Nairobi before driving hours to reach the Safaripark." Jason began to count on his fingers again but Barrone said, "Don't bother doing the math. We _might_ get there in two days. Trust me, you'll want to sleep now."

"Maybe I'll wet my whistle."

"No drinking."

"I'm not talking about drinking," Jason said, lowering voice. He moved a hand to the buckle of the leather belt wrapped around his waist. Hours ago, the janitor had been persuaded to cut the disheveled hair from head. The resulting doo, a bowl cut, made him appear ten years younger. He'd also donned so-called casual wear: khaki chinos and a red polo. The pants were a size too big and the belt was cinched five notches tight. Thus, undoing the clasp took a few noisy seconds.

"What are you doing?" Barrone asked as his eyes enlarged to full moon size.

"I got the edibles stashed in me drawers," Jason whispered. "I'm going to need one. Or two."

"Not here, idiot," hissed Barrone, shooting a look at the podium. "Why the fuck do you want to get high now?"

"Why the _fuck_ not? Eight hours in the air, man. _Eight_ _hours_! Think about it. We're going to be in the _air_ for _eight_ hours. Eight hours in a pressurized tube. If it goes pop, like...we'll have like a second of useful consciousness. Ain't got to worry about getting enough sleep then."

"Thanks for the info, Einstein. I thought you said you'd be smart with the dope."

"I am. Nobody's gonna want to look in my underwear. It'll be safe and sound next to the foot long."

"They won't need to search if you're flashing the shit around. Then you'll have a _real_ foot long to deal with. Go to the bathroom, numbskull."

"You want one?"

"No fucking way. I like being lucid when I travel."

"Pops, you want an edible?"

The old man stretched, yawned, and then tipped an ear. "Eh?" he croaked. "What now?"

"You want a gummy?"

"I'm right as rain," Hump said. "Maybe later."

Jason patted Barrone's knee and confided, "My medicine works wonders on anxiety. You seem a little edgy, Fozzy. Are you sure I can't interest you in a snifter of some fine, well-aged, chillaxing?"

Barrone glared at the kid's hand and then whispered, "Just keep your stash where it can't be seen, _doctor_."

" _Doctor Feelgood_ ," Jason crooned. _"Who you gonna call but Doctor Feel-"_

"Attention, attention," a female voice announced over the public-address system. "Gate One, attention. Hello, my name is Elsa, and I'm pleased you've selected Lufthansa. Nobody shows the world like Lufthansa. This is Flight Nine, service to Berlin. Before boarding, please take a moment to complete the pre-customs inspection. When we call your row to board, present passport or Schengen Identification Card, and the customs form." Then she spoke in German, French and Spanish in a variation of, Hump assumed, the same message.

"I'll be back in a jiff," Jason said with a wink.

***

"It's time we work on a little of the story," Barrone said a split second the seatbelt sign was turned off. Below, pinprick lights outlining Montauk receded as the aircraft ascended. Ahead was darkness, up and down. The cobalt Atlantic merged with black sky, distorting the horizon into a blurry, purple smudge.

Hump reclined the seat a sixteenth of an inch and settled into the unmalleable...padding. Though, how anyone could label what lined the chair _padding_ was beyond Hump's comprehension. Not even an edible would make a paltry dent in the uncomfortable posture.

"You listening to me?"

"I heard you," Hump said. "Tryin' to get comfortable."

"I have to build a narrative. Let's start cutting wood."

"I talked about Howie."

" _You_ , Hump. I need to learn about you."

"Hell, there's not much to know. Am I still considered the worst Yankees manager of all time?"

"Among the worst."

"Well, the list is short. Me and maybe...Johnny Keene and Frank Chance."

"Right. This is a big portion of identification. The tireless manager who sacrificed family for a worthless career."

Hump almost spat dentures as he exclaimed, "Worthless!"

"Okay, okay...worthless is a tad harsh. You have to admit, however, the managerial tenure of Hump Hammerbacher wasn't glorious."

"No, it wasn't. I can acknowledge I didn't have a good run. But," Hump rasped, waving a kinked finger, "I wasn't the one hitting and fielding. Some of the suckage belongs to the players."

"Shall I quote you?"

"Naw," Hump said, crossing arms. "That one is between you and me. I tried, more than you'll ever know, to motivate my guys. Steinbrenner always delivered big names by spending lots of cash. He could never understand why they didn't produce. Sometimes it ain't in the cards. The game changed and I didn't. But, I tried. Hump Hammerbacher isn't a quitter. You know the buzzsaw I ran into?"

"What?"

"Them damn steroids. Oakland, Boston and Toronto loaded their lineups with modified monsters. Plus, the players got sassy. Bunch of overpaid primadonnas didn't want to listen to Hump Hammerbacher. Steinbrenner used to breathe fire. You know why the Yankees started winning again in the '90's? It ain't no secret. George turned a blind eye to a lot of the things he detested."

"Is it fair to say you and Steinbrenner had a dysfunctional relationship?"

"It was a mite complicated, but George treated everyone the same way."

"Like shit?"

"He was The Boss for a reason. Is your boss soft and fluffy?"

"My boss is an idiot."

"There ya go. I used to think the same about George. Thing is, they're sittin' in the catbird seat for a reason."

"I don't follow."

Hump patted Barrone on the knee and whispered, "Someday you'll understand."

"Ah. You're one of those _the boss is always right_ kind of guys."

"I reckon I _was_ , mister. Steinbrenner always _thought_ he was right. And the problem with me..." Hump sighed and then admitted, "I just wasn't good enough. I lacked guts, fire, the...the fluff and feathers. Guys like Billy Martin have boiling souls. Hump Hammerbacher's managerial philosophy went the way of Connie Mack. I didn't want to make a spectacle of myself. Remember the story I told you about me and Carol? Our dustup?"

"When you got drunk and broke a window?"

"I was so damn ashamed of myself. I vowed to never be the news again because of something stupid I did. But maybe being outlandish is the way to go. Still, I doubt I would've done anything different had I known way back when. Being obsessed by legacy, whatever it means, is a lousy way to live."

"You are, though, aren't you?"

"I reckon everybody is. We chase titles because they look good and people talk about 'em. Sure, I wanted to win the big one, pardner. I got the honor as a player, and as an assistant coach, but to raise the Commissioner's Trophy as a manager is special. It means you took a bunch of guys, all with different backgrounds, and molded the best team in the world. It means them players sacrificed and listened to you. It means you're the best. McCarthy, Huggins, Stengel...Hammerbacher. Kinda rolls of the tongue, wouldn't ya say? I _thought_ I could've been the next great Yankee skipper, and I believed George was capable of givin' me the players. I didn't factor one thing into the equation: you can't bribe fate, no matter how much money you spend. O'course, I learned this too late in life. Hey, you outta be writin' this down."

"Um, yeah...the philosophical musings of Hump. I got it up here," the editor said, tapping his noggin. "The ole tape recorder in the brain."

"Humph. You're lookin' at me cross-eyed, just like the kid does when I talk to him."

"No offense, but you're kinda all over the place. How much, eh..." Barrone pantomimed smoking a joint and then raised eyebrows.

"You ain't puttin' nothin' in your story about me takin' grass," Hump growled.

"Okay, okay. Mums the word on the weed. Look, I'm not judging, man. I partake from time-to-time. You know, I used to think it helped with writer's block. I'd smoke a bowl, sit down to work on this stupid novel and...I don't know. Nine times out of ten I'd end up watching _Scarface_. Pacino is bonkers in that movie. Mesmerizing. Anyway, I can't write stoned. Now I get high to relieve stress."

"Prolly woulda helped me when I was dealin' with Steinbrenner all those years. Hell, maybe I woulda been a better manager," Hump conceded with a chuckle.

"So, he drove you crazy?"

"Oh, I wasn't the only one. Billy, and Bob, and then Lou...The Boss drove men to the bottle, and he made me bonkers."

"Why'd you keep working for him?"

"I thought there was a reason the Boss kept coming back to me. I could've gone into scouting or player development. I did a little of it between stints. Working with prospects was less stressful. Yet, every one of those times George came calling, I bought the fantasy. Call it the ole _I believe this will be the year_ mentality."

"Bought the fantasy, huh?"

"I did. There was something else, truth be told. I hated being unemployed. Problem was, I followed Billy Martin around to damn near every American League team in the late 60's and early 70's. Billy made sure neither he, nor any of his coaches, would ever work again in those cities. Oakland, Texas, Minnesota, Detroit...Chicago. He'd get into the booze, fight with players, fans, and owners. I got pigeonholed in New York. And the worst of it was Billy _won_ with the Yankees. Won the World Series, Division titles, Manager of the Year. He'd come in after I was fired, turn the Yankees into winners, and then get bounced because he pissed-off Steinbrenner. And then George would come to me, because I was Billy's protégé or some nonsense, and undo everything he did. Back and forth this went for a decade. I don't know who was dumber. Me for returning every other year, or George for rehiring me. But he had his reasons and I had mine."

"What were his?"

"George surrounded himself with _yes_ men. He loved being heard. Sometimes, though, you gotta get the _no_ men involved. It's a fine line with people like George. He could accept a certain amount of incorrigibility, but too much and he turned into a lunatic. Billy Martin wasn't ever a _yes_ man. But he won. When Billy got too out of control, George would cast him aside and turn to me. I was a _yes_ man. Steinbrenner knew it. I'd suffer through whatever tirade cast at me and ask for more. Yeah, you could say we had a dysfunctional relationship. Come to think of it, I'd say it's about the same relationship I had with my wife and kids."

Barrone nodded as the beginning of the article assembled in his head.

"And," Hump added, "I wanted to manage a winning team. I chased this demon until it outran me. 'Bout mid-July I'd realize the season was lost. Same month, different years. I hate July. The heat and losing had a bad effect on my personality. I'd get moody and awful to be around. Didn't want to talk to _nobody_. You could say I devoted my life in a hapless pursuit. Although...wasted might be a better description. How will Humphrey Hammerbacher be remembered? A worthless loser. This is my legacy."

"I didn't mean anything-"

"Maybe not, but it's public opinion. Matter-of-fact..."

With the dexterity of a magician, Barrone placed his phone on the armrest and began recording as Hump closed eyes and delved into the ghosts of his past.

***

Humphrey Henry Hammerbacher and Alfred Manuel Martin played musical chairs as manager of the Yankees in the 1980's. A dash of Lemon or Piniella was added to the mix, but all anyone remembered were the half-baked chronicles of The Humpin' Bums and Billy Ball. Hump had been Billy's first base coach for a half-decade when Martin was lured to the Big Apple in 1975. Shipping magnate George Steinbrenner had bought the team in '73 and, with the bombast of a windbag, vowed to return the squad to World Series Champion status. Martin enjoined the combination of traits Steinbrenner adored: insanity, tenacity and calamity. In that order, too. Billy was a "win at all costs" fella, a Vince Lombardi with a ballcap instead of a fedora.

And Billy _did_ win. Somehow, this reedy, foul-mouthed man molded competitive teams wherever he went. Given most of his players grew to loathe Billy, it was remarkable he achieved any measure of success. But, as Hump reckoned long after his days of managing were over, Billy was kinda like a glorified kick in the pants. Martin would castigate, shame and punish those he felt weren't up to snuff. He scared the bejesus out of the younger players, worked pitchers until their arms turned to rubber, and clashed with umpires. Needless to say, there was a short shelf life for this kind of style.

As such, the Yankees thrived the first couple years under Billy Martin's fiery leadership. The Bronx Bombers made the '76 and '77 World Series, winning it all in the latter Fall Classic. In the process, ole Billy instigated hostilities with players and management. It wasn't like Billy was a bad guy, but he drank too much and then flew off the handle. There were times Hump considered Billy crazy. No sane person would act the way Martin did. By opening day of the 1978 season, Billy was a complete paranoid. He stressed over perceived slights, lack of hustle, and other petty transgression like length of hair and mustache. Players were benched and fined for arbitrary reasons. Hump was tasked with playing peacemaker, which added to the problem. The players would bitch to Hump, Hump would talk to Billy, and Billy thought Hump was backing the players. When Georgie demanded an explanation, Billy turned to the press and unleashed an attack which could be described as having as much impact as a dribble of piss trying to punch a hole in steel. Thus, Billy Martin was shitcanned in late '78, but even this was a clever publicity stunt. Steinbrenner pulled the rare manager trade, sending Martin to the White Sox in exchange for Bob Lemon.

Hump was given the option to work under Lemon as his third base coach, or follow Billy to the Windy City. Hump chose to stay in New York, thereby fracturing a twenty-five-year friendship. Long story short, after Lemon moved to the front office in 1982, Hump became manager and led the Yankees to a 79-83 record. Thus, Humphrey Hammerbacher was fired. In 1983, Billy returned to the Big Apple like Napoleon from Elba and, like the French emperor, wore out his welcome in short order and was terminated again after a year. After exhausting a thin pool of managerial candidates, Steinbrenner rehired Hump in 1984. 289 days later, Hump was unemployed. Billy Martin guided the club, yet again, in 1985. He was fired, yet again, at the end of the season. Now, yet again, it was Hump's turn. He managed to survive two lousy seasons before getting axed, yet again, at the end of 1986.

Lou Piniella, a fiery outfielder from the late '70 Yankees teams, was hired instead of Billy for a change. Piniella made it to 1988 before snapping, and fleeing the madhouse Steinbrenner cultivated, for Cincinnati. In December 1988, Billy was rehired by George Steinbrenner. Now, at this point, Hump was ensconced in semi-retirement. He scouted for the Yankees during the baseball season, but was seldom gone from home. Carol loved it, and they settled into a life of domesticity missing for much of their thirty years of marriage.

Of course, this was short-lived. Billy Martin was killed before the 1989 season in a car crash. A drunk driving accident, to be precise, though to call it an accident was disguising the reality of the situation. Billy was an alcoholic, angry man, always picking fights and then apologizing in the morning. This kind of character trait is tolerable for a fella in his twenties, or even his thirties. By the time age forty rolled around, it stopped being cute and became a nuisance. And at fifty, nobody wanted to say it was a problem. Instead, people bolted. Which was what happened to Billy. He became a solitary drunk because nobody wanted to be around him. Nobody but drunks like him, pickled sots who were as fractured as Billy Martin.

It was ironic Martin died in a car he wasn't driving. Hump would've bet his life Billy was behind the wheel, but it turned out the driver was some drinking buddy from way back. They'd been downing beers at a dive outside Binghamton on Christmas Day and then went for a spin during an ice storm. The driver received a broken hip, and a new home in the pokey, but he fared better than Billy.

"I wouldn't be asking if I didn't want you," Steinbrenner claimed a few days later. The phone call hadn't been expected, but it sounded as if Georgie was desperate. Hump knew better than to believe the owner wanted him, _yet again_ , to manage the team. Thing was, nobody else would take the job. The once vaunted position, manager of the New York Yankees, had turned into a turd.

Carol didn't want him to accept. Today, Hump understood why. Then, he thought she was being unsupportive...but was his wife had been loyal for decades. She desired time together, but he couldn't appreciate her feelings. How it must have stung. Hump elected to labor under the sycophant Steinbrenner for another two years. In the meantime, Howie went missing; Carol fell into old, nasty habits. The marriage was never the same, but Hump did a valiant job ignoring reality until it couldn't be flouted no more. Inordinate time rethinking the path selected led to unsatisfying conclusions.

***

"Anyway," Hump concluded, "I was fired for the last time in '90. Howie was missing. Carol was despondent. We fell into a state of listless communication. The passion was tepid. I mean, we had moments of warmth, but most of the time we sorta...tolerated each other."

"How'd you meet Carol?" Barrone asked.

"She was a New York City gal. Trim, blond hair, nice smile, dimples. The whole nine. Beautiful _and_ classy. Looked like Joi Lansing and-"

"Who?"

"Lansing was an actress. Look her up later. The resemblance was uncanny. The guys and I were out on the town one night after a day game. We stopped at the Stork and there she was, sitting with friends. Carol lit up a room. Mickey put the moves on her-"

"Mantle?"

"Ayup. He could charm anyone, but Carol wasn't interested. Not in the Mick. She didn't like showy guys and saw through him like he was transparent. I was never good around girls. Too big and goofy. I was also an unknown on the team. This was the spring of '56. Hump Hammerbacher rode the bench. My teammates received all the press. Turns out anonymity was my greatest ally. She didn't want a showy braggart or a celluloid darling. Hell, she didn't care about baseball. Called it a game for boys, which it is. _Boys who don't ever grow up_. Her exact words, kid. _All of us should be so lucky to get paid for playing games_ , she told me, more than once.

"Anyway, Carol spurned Mick. He couldn't believe it. His big ego didn't get rejected in those days. You shoulda seen his face when she asked me for a dance. I was so shy I didn't know what to say. I musta stepped on her feet about a thousand times. Every time she'd smile and tell me to follow her lead. When we were done dancing, Carol said I needed another lesson. I had two left feet and no rhythm, according to her. But she got me squared away quick-like. We were married in a year. Honeymooned in the Poconos. Howie was born three years later. Carol wanted kids, but I managed to stall it until I thought my career was takin' off. After I got plunked in '62-"

"Plunked?"

"I took a pitch to the face and it ended my playing career."

"Right, right."

"I coulda, perhaps _shoulda_ , hung up the cleats, but I got into coaching. First stop was Lauderdale. Class A. We had Hubbie in '66 and a comfortable life in Florida. Whatcha call the nuclear family. But it wasn't enough for me. I saw old teammates movin' up the chain and got hot feet. So, what did I do? I dragged Carol and the kids around the country, chasing jobs like some damn gypsy. On the road, away from home, seven or eight months, year after year. Good Lord, I see it now."

"See what?"

"See what I missed, what I ignored. You think life won't...it's hard to explain. I ain't a philosophical type. All I can say is, I obsessed about goals and depended on others, my players, to make them tangible. Staking reputation on the actions of subordinates is unwise. Foolish. People are complicated. Petty, selfish, mean. The best leaders have a talent to draw the dreadful, innate passion driving our souls into a unified wrath. Like I said, I lacked this attribute. Maybe it's a good thing I don't have it. I mighta turned out like Billy Martin, but it doesn't matter now, I suppose. I don't have many years left and living in the past, wishing I had done things different, is no way to spend 'em."

"Hump, everybody has regrets."

"I get it. Nobody's life is perfect. But...jeez o'Pete, listen to me. This is malarkey I shoulda been telling Carol before she died. You see what I mean? It's a never-ending string of regrets."

"What did she, um..."

"What kilt her?"

Barrone nodded.

"Cancer. Carol was a smoker. Heavy. Two packs a day until she quit in '79. My vice was dip."

"Dip?"

"Chewin' tabaccy. My pa dipped. My brother dipped. Even Ma'd take a chew workin' the field. I started young and with baseball...welp, _everyone_ dipped. Even the umpires. I went through a pouch a day during the season. I'd throw a dip into my mouth before I went to bed at night. Built up such a tolerance, I could gut snuff."

"Gut?"

"Swallow it."

Barrone grimaced and then said, "Yuck."

"Ayup. There we were, Carol and I, two tobaccy fiends. I mean, _everyone_ smoked back then. I know it ain't a good excuse but we got wise. We didn't want the kids followin' our lead. We wanted 'em to live a long life. So we quit, together, and boy it wasn't easy. I substituted sunflower seeds and Carol took to chewing gum. Anyhow, she didn't touch a heater for ten years. After Howie disappeared, she took to it again. I guess I had Steinbrenner and she had Virginia Slims. Hard to believe her vice was worse, but it was."

"Alright, so you blame yourself for chasing this demon, your words, at the expense of family."

"I conned myself into believing I was makin' a livin'."

"You said she...um, Carol...thought of baseball as a game boys played? This couldn't have helped."

"I didn't mean...baseball wasn't important to her, is all. It should've been, considering baseball put a roof over our heads. Fed, clothed, allowed us to live a comfortable life. She never wanted for anything growing up. Her daddy worked on Wall Street. Even during the Depression, Carol's pappy kept them in milk and honey. I can testify to poverty, and I vowed never to return to squalor. My Pa scratched a living from Mississippi dirt. You ever pick cotton?"

"No."

"It's grunt work. Sharecroppin' is glorified slavery. Pa took everythin' on credit, the seed and tools, farmed land he didn't own, and always owed at the end of the season. _Always._ It's a never-ending cycle of poverty. Doesn't matter how hard you work. There's no way to get ahead. One year the weather would do you in. The next, insects. But, Pa was one of millions who got used and abused in a number of ways. Uneducated, a draftee, denied pay for service. He tried joining a sharecroppers' union in the '30's, but them night riders harassed. And if it wasn't the Klan, it was the courts. The system is rigged against the worker, kid. I saw this as a boy and it wasn't a life I wanted. Lucky for me, I had abilities not many are blessed to receive. I guess, in the back of my head, I worried failing at baseball would banish me to the fields."

"Makes sense."

"So, I pressed ahead and I didn't care what Carol thought. Our kids never lacked anything, except a father-"

"Jesus, Hump, you were doing what you thought was right."

"So were them Nazis."

"Apples and oranges."

Hump waved a hand and then said, "You know, I reckon she went to a dozen games in her life."

"Not a fan?"

"How many wives watch their spouses at work?"

"Good point."

"And, the company I kept wasn't what you would call refined. There were exceptions, of course, but..."

"Those teams in the '50's and '60's had a reputation for getting out of hand."

"We had a good time. After I met Carol, though, my days of partying were over."

"You never stepped out?"

"Hell no! I loved my wife."

"Uh-huh. You know, I was reading about the Copacabana riot the other day."

"Jeez O'Pete. The Copa. Billy caught the ire of Dan Topping for what happened there. Funny thing, he didn't start the fight. Hank Bauer did. A couple Guidos were insulting Sammy Davis, and Bauer took exception. Hank was an ex-marine, served in the Pacific during the war, and was a tough bastard, I kid you not. Wounded several times, Purple Heart, Bronze Stars, a warrior. Bauer took zero lip and threw the first punch. Now, the press knew what went down, but Dan Topping smothered the story. Mister Topping was the owner of the team, and he didn't like Billy Martin. Not one bit. Said he was a bad influence. So, Topping took all of us at the Copa and made us, um...welp, he said none of us better talk about what _really_ happened. Next day, Billy's on the first flight to Kansas. Sayonara. He was a sacrificial lamb. You know, people forget Billy was a World Series MVP. His playing career went to shit after he was traded to the Kansas City Athletics. It ain't no surprise Billy grew a monstrous chip on his shoulder. I reckon the idea of loyalty flew the coop about the same time Billy was wingin' west and he didn't give a damn who he pissed off later. I should've adopted this philosophy. Maybe I wouldn't have been Steinbrenner's stooge."

"Oh?"

"Billy worked it out long before I did. Win at all costs, step on anyone in your way. He had a troubled childhood. No father. It wasn't difficult for him to defy Steinbrenner. You know why Martin kept coming back to the Yankees? He _always_ wanted to get the last word. Meanwhile, I kept my mouth shut. I guess I was raised better or sumptin. I never even argued with the umps, kid. You know how many times I was tossed from a game? Thrice. Two of those when I was a player arguing balls and strikes. Once as a manager, and that was because Big Lee Weyer was havin' a bad day. I was too laid back."

"You think?"

"I know it," Hump mumbled. The vibration of the plane's two engines lulled him into a meditative state. Even the threadbare cushions seemed soft and comfy. It felt good to talk. Barrone was just a nosy reporter, like they all were, but Hump didn't care. He'd treat the frizzy-haired kid as his personal confessor. "Billy craved attention. He loved being heckled or applauded. As long as it was directed at him, Billy didn't care. Me? I guess I tried my best imitation of Connie Mack. I wanted players who were disciplined and engaged. But the game changed. I was a dinosaur and I wasn't even sixty years old."

"I'm sure you have stories."

"Stories are all I got, kid. I'm rich with fairy tales. The problem is, people don't measure the value of a life by the number of stories they tell."

"Some do."

"Not the smart ones."

"Yeah, but what's it matter? Look...pretend you're talking to an old friend and we're shooting the shit. How about...how about you tell me about the riot in Cleveland. What was it called? Nickel Beer Night?"

Hump chuckled and then said, "Tent Cent Beer Night. If the swill had been a nickel, Cleveland might've burned to the ground. I was with the Rangers, the third base coach. Billy was the manager. I reckon if I had to describe my definition of war, it was Memorial Stadium in the bottom of the ninth. The fans went _nuts_. It was the one time I've ever thrown a punch at another man. Even Billy was startled by the mayhem, and he wasn't impressed by much. It started when..."

***

"Whoa," Jason whispered. He tilted head and smeared an oily forehead across the bulkhead window. "It's black out there."

"Shocking," Dirk, the cameraman, said before plunging an earbud in his right auricle.

"This blows my mind."

"Haven't you been on an airplane?"

"Hells yea, bro, but I've never flown over the _ocean_. Do you know there are trenches deeper than the tallest mountains and we're flying _over_ them?"

"You don't say?"

"Right beneath us, there are millions of creatures living and dying. A whole biosphere man hasn't explored. Isn't it wild?"

"I guess," Dirk said with a shrug.

"You _guess_?" Jason cried. He was about to continue in this disposition of outrage when a terrifying thought invaded his addled mind. "Hey, where do we land if an engine quits?"

"Beats me. I'm not a pilot."

"Has the thought, like, crossed your mind?"

"Nope."

"How could these guys land an airplane on water?"

"They have...whatchacallit?"

"What?"

Dirk frowned and then said, "I don't know the term, but those guys get trained to handle all kinds of emergencies."

"Like landing on the ocean?"

"Would they be flying _over_ the ocean if they couldn't land _on_ it? Anyway, pilots don't want to die any more than we do. If something happens, I'm sure they have books and stuff telling them what to do."

"Pilots make mistakes," Jason whispered. "I watched this video about the ten worst aviation disasters a few nights ago. You know what they have in common."

"Why are you talking about this? You're going to give yourself a...a panic attack."

"Pilot error," Jason confirmed. "Even the one when a damn engine flew off the airplane on takeoff. _Flew_ off, dude. Flipped over the wing. It was in Chicago. Killed, like, three hundred people. The narrator said-"

Dirk growled, "I don't care."

"I bet they're trained to crash _into_ the ocean," Jason mused. "I also bet it works better on paper. Maybe there's like...platforms floating along the route. Yeah, emergency platforms."

"Do you know how much distance a plane like this need to land?"

"No."

"Like...miles, man. How are they going to put miles of runway on a platform?"

"Miles?"

"Miles."

"Wait...don't the Europeans use kilometers? Aren't they shorter?"

"It's the same thing," hissed Dirk. "We're on our own until we reach Europe. I don't know if this is good or bad. I'm not a fan of Nazis."

"Me neither, but my old man says they used to be worse and America used to be better. Now he claims we flipped positions."

"Look, I don't want to get into a political discussion," Dirk said. He thrust the other earbud home, thumbed his phone, and then said, "I'm gonna watch a movie and relax, okay?"

Jason didn't respond and stared at the gloom engulfing the plane.

# 10. Hump To Africa

Berlin was shrouded in a wispy mist, affording scant peeks at the gaudy Nazi architecture. Brief hints of marble were engulfed by tendrils before any measurable scrutiny. It was said Hitler and Speer spent years redesigning the city after the devastating Allied airstrikes of the 1940's and, in pictures, the capitol of the Third Reich looked like a cross between Paris and Athens. But, from the airplane, Berlin appeared like every other city Hump had visited.

Aided by a stronger-than-forecasted tailwind, Lufthansa Flight 09 landed a half-hour early and taxied to Gate 4C of Göring-Templehoff Airport. Customs was a monumental cluster, with the line wending around baggage claim carousals.

"So much for German efficiency," Barrone carped. "There has to be checkpoint for media."

Dirk scrutinized the police, dressed in black tactical gear and cradling automatic weapons, and then said, "Yeah, boss, go ahead and ask. I'm sure these cops will be conversational as hell."

Barrone decided discretion was the better part of valor and swallowed the query. It took almost an hour, shuffling forward four steps every five minutes, to reach the front of the line. People were herded by impatient hand gestures to one of four booths guarded by policeman holding leashes of docile German Shepherds.

"You better hope those mutts can't smell your stash," Barrone whispered to Jason from the corner of his mouth.

"It'll be fine," the janitor retorted. "They're engineered odorless. Plus, I got swamp ass something fierce."

_Engineered odorless_? Barrone didn't believe such a thing possible but prayed to God it was. He hadn't asked God for much in his life, and beseeching the Almighty for this favor seemed sacrilegious, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Nächster," a strident female voice beckoned.

Barrone stared at a booth to the left and saw a woman inside the enclosure gesturing with annoyance.

"Achtung," she commanded, rapping the protective plexiglass before pointing at Barrone.

The editor sighed and then said, "Okay, guys. We're on. Let me do the talking." He shot a glare at Jason and repeated, "Let me do the talking."

The quartet walked to the booth and stood at jetlagged attention as Barrone slid four passports and declaration forms through the mail slot.

"Americans," the woman muttered, in flawless English, as she examined the documents. Then she cleared her throat, squinted at Barrone, and woofed, "Your destination is Nairobi. What is your business in Kenya?"

"We're, uh...we're visiting the Safaripark," Barrone answered in a quiet voice. Out of his peripheral, he watched a Shepard sniff around Jason's cuffed khakis.

"Eh? Speak up!"

"The Reich Safaripark."

She averted her gaze to a computer and typed on the keyboard, fingers flying as if they were tickling a piano.

"We're media, ma'am," Barrone added, trying to be helpful. "I have the form from the Ministry of Propaganda. It's there, under the passports, and I made sure-"

"Media?" the woman sneered.

"Um...see, the old man in our party is a famous American athlete. He wants to visit the Serengeti before he dies. We're tagging along to capture the moment."

The clerk opened Hump's passport and recited, "Humphrey...Hubert...Hammerbacher."

"Yes, ma'am. We call him Hump."

"What feat of athleticism did this man make famous?"

"Huh?" Barrone asked, scratching his head.

"You said he is a famous athlete. What did he do?"

"Hump played baseball."

"Ah. America's leisure sport."

"Um...right. And, you see, Hump is a relic from a bygone era. Beloved and-"

"In Germany," the woman said, focusing on the computer screen, "athletes are celebrated in the same manner. You should visit the Hall of Fame des Deutschen Sports in Berlin. Male _and_ female are given equal status. Max Schmeling, Cilly Aussem, Rudolf Harbig...they share equal accolades. There is no gender separation in the Third Reich."

"You don't say?"

"Is Herr Hammerbacher enshrined in an equivalent museum of glory?"

"Eh...soon. Not yet."

"No? Then you intend to paint Herr Hammerbacher in bright tones and make him heroic, yes?"

"Indeed," Barrone said, then swallowed and squeaked, "and, um, what better backdrop than the beautiful Adolf Hitler Safaripark?"

"I couldn't agree more," she said through a smile. "A wonderful choice. You've a seven-day pass. Have you arranged an escort from Nairobi? Africa is a dangerous place."

"Yes. Kenyan Companions."

The woman's face soured and she griped, "Negro escorts. I should have known."

"They-"

"You'd be better served to be met by Germans. I can arrange a suitable chaperone."

"I've paid for the..." Barrone studied the woman's creased face and then mumbled, "negroes."

"Have you made your State Department aware of your travel plans?"

"Of course," Barrone lied.

"Who are the other members of your party?"

"A cameraman and Hump's handler."

"Handler?"

"He's like a..." Barrone stammered, unable to think of the proper term. The way he presented it, Hump was an animal requiring a trainer.

"Like a _what_?"

"Hump is, um...set in his ways. Travelling takes a toll on his patience."

"Yes, who likes to travel? Now," she said, staring at Barrone, "do you have any contraband?"

"No."

"Tobacco is considered contraband."

"I don't smoke."

"Have you visited Mandatory Palestine and, if so, when?"

"Never."

"Never?"

"No."

"Have you had contact with any member of the Irgun or Lehi sects."

Barrone shook his head.

"Nothing?"

"I'm not Jewish," Barrone said, raising arms. "Italian ancestry. My great-grandfather-"

The clerk slid Barrone's passport under the mail slot and announced, "You're cleared. Stand aside for the next member of your party. Who is...Doctor Giel?"

***

From Berlin, the 1700-mile direct flight on Lufthansa to Alexandria, Egypt, took almost three hours. They landed at dusk and the desert heat was stifling. The pilot announced the temperature was thirty-degrees Celsius, which meant nothing to any of the Americans, but it sure didn't feel like the kind of thirty-degrees Hump was used to.

Leg 3 was a torturous three-and-a-half-hour flight in continuous moderate chop aboard an ancient Boeing 707 flown by Kenyan Airways. The plane, crammed with dark-skinned people in exotic garb, lacked working air because, according to the rambling pilot, something called an APU wasn't functioning. The trifecta of strange languages, turbulence, and tart warm air sickened Barrone. He fought an overwhelming urge to toss cookies and rested his sweaty head on the tray table during the frequent oscillations.

Hump, on the other hand, looked right as rain. He sat in the seat like a king, a smile plastered to his wrinkled mug.

"I've never been so miserable," Barrone sputtered.

"And you thought the old Hump would die on you," Hump tittered. "You ain't lookin' so spry, mister."

"Yeah? Well, I didn't eat an edible in Alexandria."

"Neither did I."

"Maybe I should have, except I need my brain firing on all cylinders. We still have to hook up with our ride in Nairobi. Christ, I hope these guys are trustworthy. I paid mucho dinero for the primo package."

"What's so primo about it?"

"Armed guards and bulletproof vehicles. You can't spare no expense for safety. At least, this is what I was told."

"It can't be _that_ dangerous."

Barrone lifted his head, raised eyebrows, and said, "Have you forgotten why we're coming to this godforsaken place? Bandits prowl the roads. Bandits! I have no intention of ending up in a mass grave."

"Could be bandits who killed Howie."

"Maybe, but I intend on learning this information secondhand, if you know what I mean. Um...we should talk about what happens after we reach the Safaripark, Hump."

"What's there to talk about?"

"I wasn't going to tell you until after we arrived, but you seem pretty mellow right now. So, I guess I'll just rip the ole band aid."

Hump frowned and stared at the editor. Barrone, skin glazed in sweat, presented a meek smile and shrugged. "What do you mean?" Hump asked.

"I don't feel comfortable taking you on safari."

"We talked about this."

"I know, but I'm rethinking the strategy. Why don't you let me handle the legwork? You can relax at the Seronera Lodge and, I don't know...eat an edible and watch the animals from afar."

"I could handle a day trip."

"We'll see," Barrone said, patting Hump on the knee. The patronizing tone wasn't lost on the old timer and he sat upright as if stuck with a cattle prod.

"No, sir," Hump said, wagging a finger. "I made it clear what I want to do, and it ain't layin' anchor in some Kraut cabin."

"Listen, you've grown on me the last few hours. I don't want to exclude you, but I feel responsible for your safety. I'll do the digging and, I swear, I'll keep you in the loop. But as far as travelling with me and Dirk to Grumeti...it's not a wise idea."

"I'm part of the mirage, right? If I ain't around-"

"Don't worry about it. I got you to Africa, Hump. I'm working with you. You have to work with me." The plane rolled, or yawed, or both, and Barrone gripped the tray table with a terrified scowl. "Shit balls," he croaked after stability returned.

"The old give-and-take, eh?"

"Huh?"

"Give-and-take. I give and you take."

"No, you're wrong. I-"

"Didn't you hear a thing I said before? Or have you forgotten? I mean to finish this."

"And you will, but you can't finish anything if you're dead."

"I suppose-"

"Humor me and think about it," Barrone interrupted, patting Hump's knee again.

***

The terminal of Jomo Kenyatta International Airport was a thousand times worse than the customs line in Berlin. People were everywhere and threading the masses became an exercise in brute strength. Barrone's pleasant "excuse me" or "pardon" went ignored and he resorted to strong-arm tactics, shouldering bodies and clearing a path for his entourage.

"I was told our escorts would meet us outside security," Barrone explained. "But I'm not certain there is such a thing here."

Dirk mumbled something and pointed at a blue sign hanging from the ceiling. _"Baggage",_ it said in English, followed by several languages written in white squiggly indecipherable script.

"Alright," Barrone said. "We'll give baggage a try."

The four of them trundled along, belongings strung around shoulders, looking haggard and irritable. They hadn't checked any luggage; what could be stuffed into a duffel was the allotment of clothing and toiletries allowed for a week at the Safaripark. In Hump's case, the grand total equaled two pairs of underpants, a t-shirt, blue jeans, orange shorts, two rolls of socks and a baseball hat. Soap, shampoo and shaving cream would be pilfered from the Third Reich. The others had stuffed their bags with similar wardrobes. Dirk brought a second, smaller, bag crammed with three cameras, two notebooks, and a set of pencils. Likewise, Barrone had two bags: One with meager clothes, the other a worn leather satchel containing a laptop computer.

The signage funneled them towards a pinch point and, at last, the Americans reached an exit staffed by a cluster of black policemen. The deportment of the officers as they watched people shuffle past was, to say the least, _vapid indifference_. Some leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and glared. Others talked amongst themselves. Every one of the cops had a cigarette stuffed into mouth or between fingers, and an acrid cloud hung in the hall. A big sign above the door declared, in several languages, _"No Reentrance!",_ with English listed first.

"This must be security," Barrone said as they entered an area crammed with more individuals. He halted, adjusted the bags, and then said, "Holy shit. Where do we go?"

"Geez, man," Jason said, gawking at the horde. "What time is it? I feel like I was runover by a steamroller."

Barrone checked his watch, frowned, and then said, "I think it's ten thirty."

"You think?"

"Do I have to be responsible for everything? Find a clock if you want to know."

"It's ten-thirty," Dirk spat. "At night."

"I know it's night," Jason scoffed. "So, like, what time is it in America?"

"Where in America?" Barrone asked with impatience.

"New York, of course."

"The time difference is nine hours. Do the math."

"Whoa," Jason whispered. "Nine hours?"

"Yeah. And we still have to drive to the Safaripark. I mean, _if_ I can find our man..."

"Why don't you phone 'em?"

"Are you kidding? Calling international will put my company in the poor house. I'm tiptoeing into the red as is."

"What're we going to do? Wander like zombies?"

"You have your job and I have mine."

"I'm so tired, I feel stoned," Jason groused. "And I-"

"Shut up," Barrone snapped. "We're all tired. Look at Hump. He's older than all of us, _combined_ , and he isn't complaining."

"I'm just-"

"Please. No more. Take one of your edibles and..." Barrone trailed off, squinted and then smiled. "See. Prayer answered. Over there," he said, pointing. A white sign, attached to a pole, elevated above the mob and snagged attention. Written on the panel was "DEVIOUS MEDIA" in neat red letters. Barrone charged forward until he found the source of the oasis: a large bald black man wearing combat boots, camo pants, and an olive-colored wife beater. He stood a half-foot taller than Barrone and his arms swelled with muscles. The bamboo pole holding the sign disappeared into the meaty maw of the negro's right hand; the left rested on hip, and the man appeared bored.

"I'm with Devious," Barrone introduced, extending a hand. "Fozzy Barrone."

The black man ignored the salutation and lowered the sign. "Identification," he rumbled. Somehow, his lips didn't move.

Barrone dug into the computer bag and presented a passport and sundry papers. "There are four in the party," he said. "Can we get moving, like, pronto?"

"Take this," the man demanded, handing the sign to Barrone. They exchanged items and the giant perused the documents.

"Hey, dude, what time-" Jason began, but the black man made a shushing sound and then clicked his tongue.

"I'm Reginald," the goon said as he returned the passport to Barrone. "I'm in charge of this detail. I'll hold onto this other stuff."

"What about the placard?"

"Leave it."

"Where?"

"Who cares? Do you have bags to collect?"

Barrone leaned the sign against a stanchion and said, "No. We're all set. What's next?"

"This is your first time to Africa," Reginald pronounced. There was no mistaking the statement for a question.

"Yes. For all of us."

"You should ask to see my identification. Maybe _I'm_ a thief."

"Who else would know we're coming?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised. Don't trust anyone," Reginald said, shaking a finger. "Not even the white men." Then he chuckled and pulled a phone from thigh pocket on the fatigues and started tapping. "We go downstairs and wait for the vehicles. Don't dawdle. Without hassles, we'll arrive at the Safaripark in five hours. Oh, and though it might sound cliché...you're not in Kansas anymore, Mister Barrone."

***

The temperature was a pleasant twenty-one degrees Celsius, but the humidity was high and a gusty wind carried the pungent odor of tar mixed with bitter diesel exhaust. Two brown Humvees skidded to a stop outside baggage claim mere seconds after the Reginald-led group appeared outside.

"Two to a vehicle," Reginald directed.

Barrone jumped in the rear of the first vehicle and pointed at Hump. The editor had neither the desire or patience to deal with Jason. Dirk furrowed his brow and shot his coworker a look of consternation, but Barrone slid across the seat without compunction as Hump crawled in.

The driver was another large man, but of the pale skin variety, with a bushy red beard and long hair. He glanced in the rearview, studied Barrone, then stuffed a cigarette into his mouth. As he lit the heater, Reginald climbed into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and grabbed a handmic tethered to the radio console. After broadcasting a short message in a foreign language, the black man turned in the seat and stared out the rear window.

"What's wrong?" Barrone asked.

"Nothing," Reginald said. "Just checking our comrades."

The radio crackled, emitted a stream of incomprehensible chatter and the driver mashed the accelerator. With a screech of rubber, the Humvee lurched from the curb and butted into a line of traffic as thick as the crowd in the terminal. Hot on their ass was the second Humvee, and then a third joined group behind the second.

Reginald watched the trailing convoy and said, "Yes, we're rolling. You should buckle your seatbelts. Klaus is a crazy driver."

"I'm the bee's knees," the driver claimed.

"Still crazy," Reginald said. "But, with the kind of money you're spending, you get a dash of crazy-"

"And _all_ of the best," Klaus finished. As if to punctuate the statement, he laid on the horn and wrenched the steering wheel. The vehicle swung left, somehow nestled into a narrow gap of traffic, and then came to an abrupt stop when the car in front slammed its brakes.

"You see?" Reginald asked. "Crazy."

"I just want to get to the Safaripark in one piece," Barrone said.

"Oh, we get you there. Can't guarantee what condition. The _one-piece_ deal is an extra two grand. Cash."

Barrone looked at Hump, but the old man was staring out the window, absorbed in whatever his mind saw fit to focus.

"I kid," Reginald said with a chuckle. "Besides, you're from the press. We do a good job, you spread the word about Kenyan Companion. I'm one of the founders."

"So, this is like the red-carpet treatment?" Barrone asked.

"As red as I can make it."

Hump snorted and Barrone braced for a caustic comment. However, none was offered. None but the relaxed breathing of deep sleep.

"Your friend is sawing logs," Reginald observed.

"It's past his bedtime. And," Barrone added with a yawn, "I missed a nap, too."

"Ah, I get the hint. I'll stop babbling."

"I didn't mean-"

"No, it's...how you say...a-ok, yes? Catch a snooze."

Barrone settled into the seat and closed eyes. He felt the Humvee lurch and accelerate, heard chattering over the radio, and inhaled the smoke of Klaus's putrid cigarette. These distractions should've hindered the quest for siesta. Well, this and the realization he was cruising in Africa with bodyguards. But, somehow, his brain lumped both external and internal nuisances into a miasma impossible to explore. Though Barrone tried to claw through the fog, it proved a futile adventure. In minutes, he was asleep inside the downy cloud of fancy.

***

A dream might have kicked Barrone from sleep, though he was at a loss to remember the particulars. Or, maybe, it was the ache in his neck. His head had been resting against the window and the awkward angle induced a wicked crimp. But...was crimp the correct word? Crimp, cramp, crick...whatever...his neck throbbed. Hurt like the dickens.

It took a moment to remember where he was, panicked seconds spent wiping drool from his cheek and staring outside in a stupefied haze. Although Fozzy Barrone hated the word _literally_ (come to think of it, he hated all adjectives and adverbs, though the writers at _Sports On The Pot_ peppered their stories with enough _ly_ words to _literally_ choke their audience), it was _literally_ pitch-black outside. And maybe, Barrone mused, this is how the story _should_ begin:

I'm literally surrounded by darkness. Outside the vehicle, visibility could be an inch or a mile. Inside, my Kenyan escort is blacker than the surrounding night. I don't know which I should be warier.

No...strike it. This wouldn't be an endearing way to start what was _probably_ going to be a polarizing story. Comparing a person ( _specifically_ a black person) to the desolate and dangerous African frontier would rub some the wrong way. It would also make others giddy, elevating Fozzy Barrone in the eyes of part-time fascists and fulltime extremists. In America, the time had come to pick your poison. Members of the media had two choices: side with the Left, or the Right, but don't dare straddle the fence. Fence sitters were the worst kind of scum according to popular opinion. At least the two factions could agree on something, even if it meant those in the middle were dragged, kicking and screaming, to join the self-righteous multitudes.

You see, the year 2017 was the first time, ever, a _majority_ of white people in the U.S. _felt_ marginalized. It should be noted this majority didn't include Fozzy Barrone; he wasn't chagrined. For the most part, things were fine and dandy. Yes, he could (and would) bitch about his job, exorbitant rent, and the cost of cable, but these were First World problems. But many others cuddled with outrage. These angry folks, sharing the same bullshit Bible humping DNA, were joined in solidarity by rednecks, racists, the refined, and the rest. The leaders of this group blamed liberal politicians, and their chums in the media, for soiling the once great nation known as the United States. It was time to _"Reaffirm The Republic By Following The Fife"_ , and by God if it didn't happen.

Maybe it wasn't fair to lump _all_ of President Symington's supporters into the same generic category, but the narrative fit. And this narrative was invented by those who refused to _Follow The Fife_. Brash firebrands had an agenda predicated on the complete overhaul of history, government and decree. They desired to rebrand the United States, to construct a new society, and those who opposed the transformation were not invented to join. The days of meaningful dialogue were over, but perhaps _meaningful dialogue_ never existed. In any case, what was the point of rhetoric if both sides refused to listen?

Fozzy's father, for instance, was one example of this obstinate mentality. Dad wasn't a stupid man, he was just...suspicious of the intelligentsia. The old man alleged the "real" world worked on logic, not literature. The more the leftist press condemned, the more Dad leaned right of right. Adam Barrone's mind was unimaginative and not at all amused by the words of "fantasists". Fozzy remembered a childhood in which Dad watched _NOVA_ and _Cosmos_ on PBS, but even Carl Sagan, and his talk of global warming, became too much for Adam Barrone. Ranting and raving, Dad argued the climate was cyclical; he'd spew jargon: Milankovitch sequences, albedo and orbital forcing, and then cross arms and dare anyone in the Barrone household to refute. Mom, Fozzy and the rest (two older sisters and a younger brother) didn't contradict the old man. In the '80's and 90's, the Carl Sagan's of the world were beating a tiny drum and screaming the sky would fall...someday. But these folks were _always_ viewed as Chicken Little's and pesky irritants.

Well, it appeared _someday_ had come. Fozzy was certain consensus on the environment would never be reached...not like it mattered. History had shown there'd be a glut of morons wearing blinders, clamoring to deny the obvious. And yes, Adam Barrone would be among the masses, clutching sheets of derivatives and infinitesimal gobbledygook. But Fozzy had to acknowledge one thing: it didn't matter what form the end took...cynics and their antagonists would yell at each other as the world burned or froze or spun into the sun. Both sides would claim victory a split second before being turned to slop and everyone would die with their emboldened convictions. No minds would be changed, nothing would be solved.

One of Fozzy's first assignments at Devious was to track down the recalcitrant HIV-positive boxer, and part-time actor, Tommy Morrison. It was the fall of 2012 and rumors abounded Morrison was attempting yet another comeback...which sounded ludicrous considering a confidential source contacted Chadwick Carlton and claimed the former WBO heavyweight champ had developed full-blown AIDS.

"Tommy Gunn is close to kicking off," Chadwick told Barrone, using Morrison's silver screen alter ego. "But he's, like, in denial or something. See if you can't wiggle a few teeth and get his side of the story."

"What side?" Fozzy asked.

"The side in which he's healthy as a mule and ready to take on all challengers."

It took Fozzy hours to make contact. Morrison was holed up in Jay, Oklahoma, and wouldn't grant more than a fifteen-minute telephone interview. But, before the festivities could commence, Barrone had to sweet talk a brusque female (Tommy's manager and wife-in this order-the woman announced) and promise the expose would be _unprejudiced_.

"We've been branded kooks," the wife said. "But Tommy speaks the truth. He isn't ill. I've had unprotected sex with my man a thousand times and I don't have _any_ virus."

"I'll print everything he tells me," Fozzy promised. Meanwhile, his Spidey sense informed this tête-à-tête would be a tad more interesting than anticipated.

At last, the boxer took the phone. He sounded raspy, and the rambling discussion was punctuated by phlegmy coughs. But Morrison claimed he was in fighting shape, tip top condition, and (to borrow from Mark Twain) his demise was exaggerated.

"( _cough_ )I don't got the AIDS( _cough_ )," Morrison claimed through the cross-country connection. "Never had it( _cough_ )."

"What do you mean you don't have AIDS?" Fozzy asked.

"( _cough_ )It's all a big conspiracy( _cough_ )."

"Can you explain...because the-"

"( _cough_ )Everyone's afraid to take me on( _cough_ ). ( _hack_ )So they invented I got it( _cough_ ) to keep me out of the( _cough_ )ring."

"Who is _they_?"

"The people( _cough_ ) controlling boxing. Every( _cough_ ) one of them."

"You're not sick?"

"( _cough_ )Man, you need to fact check( _cough_ ). Nobody dies from HIV( _cough_ ). HIV doesn't( _cough_ ) exist. And even if( _cough_ ) it did, ( _hack_ )I don't have it( _cough_ )."

Fozzy figured Tommy Morrison was in denial, but he wasn't the only one. In keeping with reporter due diligence, Barrone scouted the internet after the interview was complete. What he found plum blew the ole brainpan. A network of likeminded simpletons' setup shop on the world-wide highway and presented a bevy of pseudoscientific evidence disproving the existence of HIV/AIDS. But there was more. So much more on the net. The unrestricted exchange of ideas sponsored a nesting doll of batty inclinations. Day turned into night and, snug in his apartment, Fozzy lit a giant blunt and read about the mythology of AIDS and sundry topics. Fozzy's mind was a tad altered, but it appeared these stories all began with the word _Perhaps_. _Perhaps_ this. _Perhaps_ that. _Perhaps_ into perpetuity.

The hole Fozzy dove into was murky and bottomless. There were conspiracy theories _about_ conspiracy theories. Rants in ALL CAPS. "Investigators" linking crumbs of evidence with brittle threads. He knew schemers, deniers, foaming-at-the-mouth fools...whatever the label...existed. _Naïveté_ wasn't Fozzy Barrone's middle name. This domain, however, exceeded comprehension: UFO's; the Bermuda Triangle; W. Averell Harriman's contributions to Nazi financier Fritz Thyssen in the 1930's...you get the picture.

At first the expedition was amusing. Eye-opening. Then, as the pot took hold, the words became depressing. These adults (so-called) subscribing to these theories...they walked among the population carrying furtive, superstitious beliefs. They rode the Number 4 train, sat next to Fozzy on airplanes and stood behind him at Starbucks. Fozzy didn't want to sound like a paranoid but... _they_ were everywhere and, like Dad, their minds would never be transformed. _And_ , these amateur sleuths weren't even journalists, which was the biggest slap in the face. Their writing was lousy, and the claims were disorganized and laden with qualifiers. Not a one of 'em used the Toulmin method and embraced sensible counter arguments. Absolutes governed, with no wiggle room for contrarian points of view. How could anyone be so dense?

Fitting it took Carl Sagan, Dad's old foil, to make the proverbial lightbulb shine. These words, written by of Doctor Sagan, echoed in Fozzy's head as he stared, slack jawed, at the computer:

... _clutching our crystals and consulting our horoscopes, critical faculties in decline, unable to distinguish between what feels good and what's true, we slide into superstition and darkness_.

Sagan's _Demon-Haunted World_ had been mandatory material in one of the upper level courses at Marist. COM 425 (Comparative Communication Theory) was a ballbuster course lorded over by a severe, antagonistic professor named Langston Landeau. Lectures were like the Nuremberg rallies and Landeau ranted and gesticulated to an assortment of mind numbing, media related themes. Students in the lecture hall sat rigid, avoided eye contact, and made zero sounds. Beginning at eight _sharp_ on MWF, there couldn't be a worse way to start the day. How often had Fozzy been hungover and forced to suffer through diatribes on McLuhan, Festinger and Baudrillard? And this was the tip of an enormous iceberg. Point being, _most_ of the verbiage flew over Fozzy's head. But, if he was being honest, Professor's Landeau's sermons didn't just skim the scalp and beat air with butterfly wings. This was no "light tickle" of ether. So, Fozzy doodled in notebooks and nodded at appropriate moments. He wanted to become a journalist, not delve into societal self-conception, Jungian psychology and Eugène Ionesco's Avant-garde plays. Yet, for all the bitching, moaning and slog of assignments COM 425 produced, Fozzy acknowledged salient themes were traversed by the expeditious Professor Landeau.

"We live in a period of premature, and perpetual, judgement," Landeau addressed as the semester wound down. "The days of ethics and responsibility are kaput...though...as I get older, I'm inclined to think they never existed. Us dinosaurs are blinded by a gilded past as we stand in the dreary present. With apologies to Mister McLuhan... _when senses are altered in any culture, then what had appeared lucid before becomes opaque; what had been vague will become translucent._ What I mean to leave you with is the notion of _perspective_. Nothing I've said over these last seventeen weeks means a hill of beans if you don't strive for integrity. The difference between a professional and a hack isn't a diploma. Certificates aren't sentient. The difference is knowing how to make sense of the senseless, how to make the senseless remain as such, and how to present affront with sagacity and tact."

In Fozzy's humble opinion, not much tact was displayed by anyone these days. Of course, _Sports On The Pot_ wasn't the _Washington Post_ , and Fozzy recognized his erudite attitude needed to be dialed down a notch or two. Worse, he _knew_ "legitimate" journalists thumbed their noses at pennyante internet rags. So, where did this put Fozzy Barrone in the pecking order? This was an answer he didn't want to confront, but the question lingered long after he killed the power to his laptop. And though he didn't take comfort in Tommy Morrison's eventual death, at least the demise of the boxer proved the virus coursing through Mr. Morrison's blood wasn't a fable.

In the meantime, years passed and the world got nuttier. But...no, it wasn't fair to lump the penurious citizens of the _world_ into this whackadoo grouping; the impoverished didn't give a good goddamn if the _Titanic_ was torpedoed by a German U-Boat. And it was fair to presume residents of the Third Reich had neither the time or serenity to deal with nonsense. Matter of fact, the Nazis operated a tight ship when it came to media freedom, though the leash had been extended somewhat in the latter third of the 20th Century. Nazis were still and would forever be (in Fozzy Barrone's humble opinion) evil as all fuck, but they tried to _appear_ amicable...which (in Fozzy Barrone's humble opinion) was more an ode to promotion than any ballyhooed gesture of cordiality.

On the other hand, the United States descended into a technological stupor. Or, if one was an optimist, a _cultural renaissance_...said words pronounced, of course, in the haughty tone of a hoity toity scholar. Since he worked in the medium, Fozzy's view was skewed but...he veered towards the former estimation. What would history report say...five hundred years from now? Would the dawn of the internet be heralded like Gutenberg's printing press? Or would the early 21st Century be regarded as the point when the train went off the rails? Who would be held accountable for this catastrophe? This answer depended on who climbed from the wreckage.

***

For a long time, longer than Fozzy Barrone had been alive, America had been a theoretical democracy. The truth was, it had been ruled by the same faction of elitists and oligarchs since...well, the argument could be made the whole shithouse began with the Founding Fathers, but they were stale scapegoats for the muddle America had become. Perhaps the Presidency of W. Averell Harriman deserved a hearty share of the blame. Or, it could be reasoned, it was the moment the citizens of the United States decided it could stomach sharing a world with the Third Reich.

To be fair, not all Americans believed this was a prudent course, but these folks were the minority. The war had taken a lot of chi and, like it or not, the Japanese were portrayed as an _immediate_ threat to national security. And it wasn't like Tojo's horde was doing the Lord's work. Of course, the Nazis weren't any better, but neither was Stalin and...it got to be a complicated argument. The main thrust, proclaimed by the likes of Charles Lindbergh and James Farley, maintained Roosevelt had tiptoed around American impartiality by supplying weapons to both the Soviet Union and the United Kingdom. Germany never attacked America, unlike the Japs, and FDR's Lend-Lease mumbo-jumbo was a crafty (but illegal) rebuke of the Neutrality Act.

The death of Stalin, the fall of the Soviet Union, the RAF's deployment of Soman at Caen and the disaster in the Ardennes (in this order), cemented American resolve to end the mess across the Atlantic. And it wasn't like the United States lost anything in Europe, or so the rhetoric proclaimed. It wasn't good the Nazis held sway across the continent, but it was considered acceptable because the Germans had defeated the Soviets. Henry Wallace, Roosevelt's once popular vice-president, was shown the door in 1944 by electors uninterested in Mr. Wallace's love of communism. Hence, when FDR died in April 1945, Harry Truman took the oath of president around the time the United Kingdom was suing Germany for peace.

And so, Nazis were tolerated. Not at first, of course. Like an arranged marriage, it took time for the two sides to get cozy and hop into the sack. Harry Truman _hated_ Nazis, and might've continued to fight the good fight if the Germans hadn't agreed to dismantle their concentration camps and transfer the surviving Jews to Mandatory Palestine by 1947. It seemed nobody in the U.S. government cared about the rest of those lodged in German prison camps because the political clout of the Roma, Slavs, communists, and just about anyone else in Eastern Europe who opposed the Third Reich didn't mean bupkes in the big scheme of things. Besides, the United States had a more immediate foe in Japan, and then the Maoists in China after the Japanese were defeated. Beginning with W. Averell Harriman in '56, and continuing with the presidencies of Frank Lausche, Barry Goldwater, William Miller, Edwin "Ted" Walker and John Grenier, the U.S. and the Third Reich coexisted in relative harmony. While the Nazis wrestled stubborn holdouts in East German Russland, Irgun and Lehi Jews in the Middle East, and Arab revolutionaries on the Arabian Peninsula, the United States dealt with uncompromising troublemakers in Asia and South America. Whatever happened in those far off locales went ignored because both the United States and the Third Reich were complicit in the actions necessary to subdue radicals and communists.

Fozzy Barrone didn't understand what made the Nazis better than the Soviets. In high school and college, when social studies delved into the complicated mechanisms of this post World War II landscape, the murder of some three million European Jews and _miscellaneous_ by Adolf Hitler's Wehrmacht and SS was offset by the use of Soman on Caen by the intemperate Winston Churchill. The Soman killed 40,000 or so. To Barrone, these numbers didn't add up. But he was told they did and accepted it without argument because, according to the teachers and primers, communists were the real threat.

Communists and leftists, to be precise, including terrorist organizations (Black Panthers, WOU, SLA, BLA, Jewish Defense League), and spontaneous mobs who rallied for equal rights, burned draft cards and rioted in cities and on college campuses. The rise of these groups shouldn't have been a surprise; America was founded by revolutionaries and Americans were impressed with the notion, from a young age, of this righteous pursuit of liberty. Although, to be specific, it was a pursuit of _liberty, life and happiness_. These absolute freedoms, along with the " _all men are created equal_ " bullshit, were scribbled onto the parchment known as the "Declaration of Independence" by a slave owning, cousin-marrying Virginian named Thomas Jefferson. The irony would be comical, but Jefferson and most of his colleagues in the Continental Congress were too narrowminded to believe anybody _but_ a select few were equal; as such, only these dignified white men were allowed the liberty so many died to gain. And, despite what the rank and file believed, this iteration of American politics hadn't evolved one hundred fifty years and change between the ratification of the U.S. Constitution and the end of World War II. Any whiff of a threat to the Establishment (or the _man_ ) was met with bombast, banishment and force.

The '50's saw the McCarthy Purges of so-called Reds from Hollywood and the government. In the 60's,70's and 80's, conservative powerbrokers blamed progressive music, literature, and the addled minds who crafted such nonsense for instigating civil disobedience. Special House committees spent long sessions deciphering lyrics and grilling the creators of provocative refrains. The FBI watched and listened to those their crossdressing Director deemed a danger to American security. The National Guard shot protestors; leaders of the Left were imprisoned, gunned down or died under strange circumstances. Barrone, who grew up in the '90's, was told countless times by his father how close the United States came to revolution. One of the reasons (perhaps the _one_ reason) Adam Barrone detested his son's choice of career was the _implied_ chaos the press instigated.

Things in the States didn't change until the turn of the century, when an Independent from Maine named Angus King took the oath of the Oval Office. Not by coincidence, it was also when the internet began to assert a dominant role in everyday life. The outspoken and flamboyant could be heard, and were, bringing about a resurgence in the Left plowed under after thirty-two years of Republican Presidents. After King came another Maine politician, this one a woman and Mr. King's vice-president, named Olympia Snowe. To nobody's surprise, Mrs. Snowe continued the progressive policies of her predecessor.

What happened then, in the 2000's, was a dramatic shift towards ostracizing those who allied with the Right. It wouldn't be accurate to call it a revolution, but the microscope of social media played an immense role in dividing those who stood for and against the entrenched order. In fact, a new Establishment was born, one in which sexual orientation, gender choices, legalized abortion, and a variety of predilections were embraced. Affirmative action, a higher minimum wage, and equal pay scales weren't just phrases thrown around to placate minorities and the lesser sex. The draft was outlawed and immigrants were recruited in droves with offers of immediate citizenship. The civil wars between Marxist and Capitalists in Latin America required never-ending hunks of fresh meat. Mercenaries now become the norm, but it was better than sending young American boys to their deaths.

At some point, it was bandied, the wars would end altogether. The fight for ideology had a discernable limit. See, this was _rational_ thinking and boy did people believe the rumor: generations of peace were ahead. What evolved was an Establishment against the Establishment, where taking a knee during the national anthem and throwing pies at politicians were considered healthy displays of protest.

During the sixteen years of Presidents King and Snowe, American foreign policy also changed. The Nazi narrative transformed; the Third Reich was judged "evil", "repressive" and "totalitarian". Travel to Europe was discouraged. Human rights abuses were reported with candor. In the United States, academia began to reconsider the strategies of previous administrations. Shaking hands with the Nazis was tantamount to endorsing German philosophies on race, religion and white supremacy. In essence, a half-century of American dogma was deemed erroneous. Those who supported this doctrine were labelled bigots, extremists and foolhardy. Guess what? The bigots, extremists and foolhardy took umbrage. Moreover, they had a collection of loudmouth cheerleaders stroking the outrage: Alex Jones, Rush Limbaugh, Ted Nugent, Kid Rock, and a shitload of country music artists too numerous to list in totality.

Working in concert, these individuals elected a disgraced former governor from Arizona as the 45th President of the United States. In November 2016, the congenial John Fife Symington III defeated Senator Elizabeth Warren (D-MA)...and the result wasn't close. Mr. Symington carried 31 states and 376 electoral votes; Warren won 19 states, the District of Columbia, and 161 electoral votes (One faithless elector from Minnesota wrote in "Chief Redhawk"). Senator Warren wouldn't have been the first woman elected President, but she would've been the first _avowed_ socialist. Good or bad, America wasn't ready to embrace this reality.

Ms. Warren was articulate, intelligent, but divisive. An ombudsman and tenured professor at Harvard, Ms. Warren was appointed by President Angus King to serve as an advisor on the National Bankruptcy Review Commission in 2007. Two years later, Ms. Warren participated in TARP oversight brought about by the 2008 U.S. Financial Crisis. Knowledge of bankruptcy and trade law made Ms. Warren one of the foremost critics of the antiquated "debtors punishments" piled upon the insolvent. In 2011, as a counsellor to President Olympia Snowe, Warren became the leading advocate for the formation of the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau.

She became a darling of the Democratic Party after defeating incumbent Republican Scott Brown in the 2012 United States Senate election in Massachusetts. Ms. Warren's unexpected victory, as well as restructuring the Glass–Steagall Act while a member of the Senate Banking Committee, catapulted her to heiress apparent once President Olympia Snowe's second term expired. In 2015, Ms. Warren declared her intention to run for President after Vice President John Edwards, encumbered in a paternity scandal, bowed to pressure from the Democratic hierarchy and withdraw from consideration. Running all but unchallenged, the primary and caucus season amounted to glorified campaign rallies for the Democratic presumptive nominee. In July 2016, Ms. Warren earned the nomination at the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia.

Warren had no qualms declaring the United States was mired in a "class struggle". The wealthiest Americans, she pronounced, were _obligated_ to "pay forward for the next kid who comes along." Failure to do so violated a tacit social responsibility.

" _You_ , the upper one percent, moved your goods to market on the roads the rest of us paid for," Warren said in a campaign speech in Andover two months before the presidential election. " _You_ hired workers the rest of us paid to educate. _You_... _you_ were safe in your factory because of police forces and fire forces the rest of _us_ paid for!"

Citing strife in Central and South America, Ms. Warren promised the United States would aid those governments in turmoil instead of ostracizing them: "The policy of previous administrations, though softening in the last score, made distinct efforts to isolate nations in distress who didn't pander to the rhetoric of American capitalism. The time has come to work with our fellow Americans, _all of the them_ , to build unity. The time has come to show the other half of the world cooperation is blind to economic ideologies and the color of ones' skin!"

Ms. Warren also claimed minority status by tracing lineage to a great-great-great-grandfather who was part Cherokee Indian. Genealogy records, unearthed by a conservative internet website, provided no _definitive_ proof of Native American blood in the Reed/Herring family tree. Furthermore, allegations were made Warren used this minority status to gain employment ahead of more qualified candidates at Harvard.

"Elizabeth Ann Warren is a socialist fraud!" the conservative media trumpeted. She was portrayed as a shuck and jive artist, a Marxist pandering to the minority and female vote. Worse, the Right promised, her designs at "wealth redistribution" and relaxed immigration threatened to destroy the American middle class.

"From Latin America the jobless will flock," _Inforwars_ promised. "They will come seeking handouts because they've been promised spoils and acceptance. While hardworking Americans give away paychecks and livelihoods, new residents and their strange voodoo cultures flourish. The choice is obvious, people! Follow the Fife to an American Renaissance!"

Cited as the Second Coming, Fife was also embraced for being mortal. The great-grandson of Henry Clay Frick, Fife Symington was a Harvard graduate and Bronze Star decorated Air Force pilot. He believed in UFO's, developed real estate in the Phoenix area, and radiated plenteous charisma from a tanned, cherubic face. The good looks, cultured pedigree, military service, business acumen and conspiratorial leanings appealed to an assortment of fastidious voters. Beyond these attributes, though, there was another factor driving Mr. Symington's revival. Skeletons in the closet, in the form of questionable business dealings and insolvency, made him a target the Left pummeled without mercy. After filing for bankruptcy, while serving his second term as Arizona's 19th Governor in 1995, Symington was indicted for extortion, making false financial statements, and bank fraud. Upon conviction, the governor resigned and then enrolled in a culinary instition.

The hullabaloo enveloping Symington wasn't titillating. There was no mistress stashed aside and no lascivious bra snapping antics caught on camera. He didn't use pejoratives, shoot meth or drink to excess. Most people found Symington's dirty laundry mundane and drab. _A whole lot of handwringing about nothing_ , argued Symington's supporters, ad nauseum, on the political thinktank shows. He endured round after round of affronts and emerged more emboldened after each attack. Nothing, it seemed, could damage Fife Symington's popularity.

Besides, Symington had been absolved of his crimes. While awaiting sentencing, the former governor was granted executive clemency by President John Grenier in 1999. Grenier's midnight pardon didn't generate uproar at the time, but the act of forgiveness heralded Mr. Symington's slow, methodical return to the arena of politics. Symington refurbished reputation by serving in various state departments under both the King and Snowe administrations, and was viewed as a "reasonable" Republican. Who would've thought this bendy path would one day stop at the White House?

Needless to say, it did.

Snug in the Oval Office, Symington dipped a ladle in the well of the state he once governed to fill his cabinet. The infamous Sheriff of Arizona's Maricopa County, Joe Arpaio, was picked to lead Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Sheriff Joe wasn't the only controversial appointment, but he was a lightning rod for protest. The implementation of Arizona's SB 1070 became a national law on 2 March 2017, and armed, deputized citizens were permitted to stop, question and demand identification from anyone without cause. There were other draconian measures Symington supported, among them Secretary of State Russell Pearce's plan of requiring single-woman under Medicaid to undergo forced sterilization if convicted of a felony crime. This bill was defeated in the Senate, but the crazy was just getting started.

In fact, Symington accomplished little in his first six months of office. Bill 1108, another Republicans sponsored measure, would've made it a crime for public schools to "denigrate American values and the teachings of Western civilization". B1108 also prohibited the formation of groups "based in whole or part on the race of their membership". This bill also fell in the Senate when number of progressive Republicans sided with their Democratic colleagues across the aisle.

Secretary of State Pearce stepped down in May, a mere four months after inauguration, after admitting he had "ties" with the Federation for American Immigration Reform, identified as a "hate group" by the Southern Poverty Law Center and founded by, among others, Sidney Swensrud, the former president of Gulf Oil. Pearce was also a deacon in the same LDS church as a number of white supremists, including J.T. Ready.

Up until this point, Fozzy Barrone had no political leanings. He never voted or cared a lick about politics. He ate the heaping plate of "land of the free" horse patoot served in school without complaint. If anyone did question this sentiment, the teachers wouldn't hesitate to point at a map of Europe and say, "Go ahead. Leave. See how many freedoms you have under the Third Reich."

Barrone never considered the hypocrisy until a few months ago, 'round about the time the shit with Russell Pearce hit the fan. The uproar engulfing the Secretary of State, the rhetoric used by those on the Left, was inflammatory but eyebrow raising. Allegations Pearce, and by default the silver-haired and congenial President Symington, were trying to turn America into a version of the Third Reich, sounded ludicrous. _Or_ , it sounded scary. It had to be one, or the other, and people gravitated to a conclusion based on whatever narrative fit their interpretation. In other words, the inference was subjective and perspective was fashioned by prerogative.

Millennials were a strange group. Social media made this generation aware of every injustice, but the insincere characteristic of this Frankenstein monster chagrinned. Bullying was decried. Yet, at the same time, it was okay to deride Sheriff Joe for doing the chub-and-tuck. There were ways to torment those the Left opposed, but it wasn't considered mistreatment. _Quite frankly_ , it was this sort of double-standard the Nazis employed in their rise to power. Barrone wasn't comparing Nazis to the Left, but he could see how popular opinion could be controlled and primed to attack whatever the popular media deemed unworthy. However, the more he examined the _legitimate_ claims levied by activists, Fozzy Barrone realized there was merit behind all the screaming.

As if to strengthen the point, violent demonstrations erupted between members of the Left and Right. While "real" journalists were covering these events, Fozzy Barrone was putting together one thousand-word essays on European soccer club gang-bangs. He took a hard look at his folding table masquerading as a desk and realized Devious catered to an audience of stupid readers. Stupid because they'd rather read gossip of athletes and pop stars than genuine news. ARod's imploding love life was a bigger deal than neo-Nazis staging rallies for the President. They were stupid because they enjoyed watching guys get hit in the privates with baseballs. They were stupid _and_ Fozzy Barrone was stupid. Chadwick Carlton, and his entourage of frat boys, were stupid.

How many times had he fought with the Tsar about doing real work? But no, Chadwick insisted on running slop. Like the Big Bozo story turned multi-million-dollar slander suit. The company bled money to lawyers. Advertisers jumped ship. The revenue flow turned into a trickle. Still, Tsar Chadwick wanted to run more of the same garbage. Nothing had been learned. God, it was maddening. Getting the approval to do this expose on Hump Hammerbacher was _way_ harder than it should've been. In the end, Barrone got the green light, but he had a moment of clarity in the Tsar's office during the last visit: _Chadwick Carlton's a coward._

The Tsar was afraid of Nazis, and the Third Reich wasn't warm and soft, but there was more. Chadwick didn't fear lawsuits; he was frightened of pissing off the _wrong_ people. The Big Bozo's of the world were easy to torment. Skinheads were a different beast. This didn't sit with Fozzy. Journalists were supposed to stir shit. What kind of world would they live in if voices of dissent were terrified to speak? The Third Reich, _that's_ where.

***

Well, Fozzy Barrone wasn't scared. He'd take this bull by the horns, slay the best, and display the carcass for the world to see. No agendas, no lies, no holds barred. Journalism from a bygone era, when everything was written on typewriters and people could smoke at bars. He imagined a ten-thousand-word depiction everyone would accept without argument. Fozzy Barrone was no schemer. _Alphonso_ Barrone wanted to write the truth. And just so there'd be no confusion, he had already composed the opening salvo of this story...with a little help from Mark Twain:

_Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect._ _I wish I could claim the statement, but the genus words were written by one Samuel Langhorne Clemens, otherwise known as Mark Twain._

Mark Twain...now there was a goddamn genius. Twain would be tickled by the direction the United States had taken. Or maybe he'd be annoyed. Either way, there'd be plenty of fodder for his quick wit. The beauty of Twain's rhetoric was irony. The ole yin and yang. Contradiction, like wading into warm ocean and feeling the nip of dense cold water at ankles. Life was full of paradoxes, the biggest being nothing gained in this realm meant squat in the next. But boy did people sweat it. Even Fozzy, though he made a valiant effort to embrace jocularity, couldn't deny he gave a fuck. The key was to hone humor, but remain competent to be taken serious, before getting the one-way ticket punched to damnation. There had to be a happy medium and, if there wasn't, Fozzy would die trying to find it.

_I'm not among the majority, but I've never considered my place until a few months ago. Pause and reflect...what poignant advice. Try it sometime, dear reader, and see where spirit leads. Sometimes the destinations aren't good. No...no,_ most _of the time they aren't...but in every hole grows a flower. My soul took me to a fork in the road. I took the trail to the left and it led to Africa._

I'm surrounded by darkness. Outside the vehicle, visibility could be an inch or a mile. Inside, my Kenyan escort is blacker than the surrounding night. I don't know which I should be warier. Headlights grind through gloom, penetrating a sleepy cat's-eye vision of the Kenyan Strecke. Except for a short nap, I haven't slept in twenty-four hours. I've crossed six time zones with an eighty-three-year-old man named Humphrey Hammerbacher. I know him as Hump. Hump has come to Africa to find the truth about his son, Howie. I've come to Africa learn the truth about Hump. Somehow, through this exodus, I've discovered a truth about myself.

Too mawkish? No, because it was the truth. If Barrone was lucky, he'd get a nugget of real news about Howie and the rest of those with the AUH. Something awful, like they were murdered by a warlord or executed by Nazis. However, in order to do as much, there couldn't be _any_ distractions. The man snoring next to him was the donkey following the carrot, not the other way around. Barrone would never get anywhere if Hump started running his mouth and acting like an ass.

The sound of clicking drew Barrone's attention to the front seat. Reginald had slapped a clip in a weapon of some kind (Barrone didn't know shit about firearms) and was checking the safety. Or something. The sight of the gun filled the editor with terror and glee. It meant shit was getting real, but he didn't want shit to get _too_ real.

"What are you holding?" Barrone asked.

Reginald turned his head and then crowed, "Ah, sleepy head. Have a good nap?"

"It could've been better, but I'm wrenched into this seat. I've a wicked knot in my neck."

"The beds at Seronera will work wonders. The lodge is a four-star hotel. Not long now. We've about two hours remaining."

"What're you holding?"

"Oh, my gun?" Reginald asked with a straight face, like it was no big deal.

"Um, so...are we in dangerous territory?"

"Not dangerous, but one can never tell. Kenya is, for the most part, safe. However, as we near Tanganyika, the occasional band of troublemakers can make an appearance. We're southbound on the Bernd Strecke, north of Talek. Then it's the Safaripark entrance. Used to be you could enter without hassle. Now, the Germans guard the boundary. They claim it's to dissuade poaching. Ha, like those scoundrels would enter on a road."

"The appearance of security-"

"Discourages? Ha-ha, Mister Barrone. All the guards do is look snappy and inconvenience the lawful. I now must possess a pass to gain access to the grounds by personal vehicle. No weapons are allowed, so we must surrender arms until we leave. It never used to be this way. In the halcyon days, militants could stroll into the Safaripark. Like they did in '57, he-he. None of this _ridiculous_ foreplay."

"You're speaking about the assassination attempt on the Chancellor?"

"Ah, bravo. But don't forget: your President Harriman was a target, too."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"Well, another round of applause for you and your knowledge."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Not at all!" Reginald boomed. "Most Americans are _not_ aware. At least, those I'm...eh... _privileged_ to escort through my beautiful Kenya. Then I have to explain their past to _them_. Imagine, a black African lecturing Americans about American history, he-he."

Barrone yawned and then said, "I'm not surprised. Our tastes have veered towards the smutty aspects of life."

"It's because Americans have too much leisure time. But, I'd say it's a brilliant master plan by whomever is manufacturing your entertainment. It deadens senses and makes compliant zombies."

"You can thank a whole bunch of people for our decadence."

"Of which you are one."

Barrone shrugged and then said, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but the assassination attempt took place at Ngorongoro."

"Eh, you're not wrong, but it doesn't change the story. Ngorongoro borders the Safaripark to the east. In other words, _close enough_."

"Close enough, huh?"

"What's the difference, right? Ngorongoro...it's a conservation area today, but once upon a time it was a killing field."

"A killing field?"

"It reads like the evolution of man which, by the way, can be traced to the nearby Olduvai Gorge if the German paleoanthropologist Bruno Beger is to be trusted. Primates, Mbulu, Datooga, Maasai, English, German...who will be the next dominant group to rule the area? Of course, homicidal conduct isn't unique to those standing on two feet. The animals are plenty vicious, but they don't bother with the tepid justifications of liquidation. Killers or the killed. It is what nature devised. Perhaps it's the same with homo sapiens."

"I should be interviewing you. These quotes are gold."

"He-he. Did you hear the man, Klaus?"

"I heard," the driver said. "Don't give him a big head, Mister Media. Reginald doesn't need more hot air shoved into his melon."

The black man twisted in the seat, fixed bloodshot eyes on Barrone, and said, "Friend, I am _full_ of stories. My grandfather was a party to the Young Men of 40 movement."

"Here we go," Klaus griped.

"Young Men of...what did you say?" Barrone asked.

"You've not heard to the Young Men of 40? Kenyan separatists who fought, and defeated, the Third Reich to gain independence. How have you no knowledge of this? What about the Mau Mau?"

"Chinese communists?"

"Chinese?" Reginald sneered. "Goodness. I'd have thought a member of the media would be better informed."

"I'm a sports journalist. Besides, American schools don't spend much time on African history."

"Then you haven't heard of the Battle of Kobason?"

"The...what?"

Reginald guffawed and then said, "I kid. I know this is not worthy of the fables you've learned. Your corrupt institution of government is beyond reproach."

"Can I quote you?"

"Ha-ha. Sure. But, make sure to mention my Mau Mau roots."

"Who were these Mau revolutionaries?"

"Patriots of Kenya. Kikuyu people. Former members of Hitler's African Rifles during the Sequel War. They joined the HAR in 1940, hence the name _Anake a 40_. Young Men of 40. Or Mau Mau, if you please. Though, some in the Kikuyu community consider this nomenclature an insult. Yes, imagine, black men fighting for the Third Reich. The Mau Mau had no love of Germans, but they wanted to stick it to the English. So did a lot of the indigenous. The English colonialists made zero friends of the people here, and there was no shortage of volunteers desiring payback. There is a saying: _the axe forgets what the tree remembers_. In Africa, there are plenty of trees. Do you understand?"

Barrone nodded.

Reginald stroked his weapon and continued, "See, the trick is to cut them _all_. You leave one and it will spread roots. Do you know why nobody worries about the Carthaginians today? Hmm? The English won battles, enslaved people, plundered land, but they didn't destroy all the trees. So..."

"The trees grew into Nazis," Barrone pronounced.

"Not grew, mister. No, no, no. It was an alliance of convenience. The Germans trained the HAR, provided arms and education. It was guerrilla war, a mere footnote when compared to the conflagration engulfing the world, but the battles fought in the Sub-Sahara played a role in driving the English from Africa. Then it was only a matter of time before the Germans were forced to deal with this monster _they_ created. However, it wasn't just the indigenous who fought for Kenyan independence after the Sequel War. German soldiers in the African Rifles decided to remain in what was once known as Egyptian Sudan."

"Like my grandfather," Klaus boasted. "Pappy Kurt was former Heer and an NCO in the African Rifle company. After the Sequel War, he became a coffee grower near Kobason. Took five wives from the local population and had a vigorous life, if you know what I mean. In August 1957, he helped the Mau Mau drive an SS battalion from the village. My grandfather's attack was coordinated with the assassination attempt of the German Chancellor."

"I thought Jewish commandoes tried to kill the Chancellor," Barone said.

"The Mau Mau _and_ Jews were working together," Reginald clarified.

"Is this rumor or fact?"

Reginald grinned and then said, "Sixty years later, _everything_ is rumor. What isn't, though, is the Young Men of 40 succeeded where so many who faced the Germans failed. The Nazis learned a lesson about arming mercenaries your government would be wise to study."

"My government?" jeered Barrone. "I didn't vote for those clowns."

"Somebody did, eh?" pestered Reginald.

"More than a few, I suppose."

" _A lot_ more than a few."

"What about the assassination?"

"Hmm?"

"I asked if you were spilling rumors or facts and-"

"Oh, yes...who knows at this point? The Mau Mau wrecked the SS and suffered no reprisals. This is fact. The rest of the gossip...well, it's abundant."

"Like?"

"I'm not capable of making sense of lies and truths. If you're curious, I could lead you in the right direction. Be warned. Nothing you'll hear will jive with the official version. You'll have to piece together fact from fiction. This would be no easy task. What I've discerned, filtered through the decades, is confusing. Who knows? It might make a better subject than whatever it is you plan to do at the Safaripark."

"It's a human interest piece," Barrone said.

"I looked into Devious Media," Reginald said before delivering a cynical cackle.

"So?"

"So? Human interest, you claim?"

Annoyed, Barrone jerked his head at the slumbering Hump and said, "He's a baseball legend."

" _Him_?"

"Yes, him."

"Like, eh...Babe Ruth?"

"Not quite, but close."

"You come to the Safaripark for what? Write a story about this old baseball player and his journey to Africa?"

"Hump's been dying to make this trip for years."

"Is the Safaripark sentimental?"

"You know, I'm the one who's supposed to be asking the questions."

Klaus laughed and then asked, "Getting uncomfortable, Mister Media?"

"I don't know why this is a big deal," Barrone argued.

"Seems like a lot of running around for a human-interest piece," Reginald said. "But, what do I know? Anyway, this weapon in my hands? It gets more use on animals than people. We've hit so many on these drives, or come across herds stopped on the Strecke, I use the gun to relieve misery or motivate. Impalas, hyenas, nothing big. Striking a giraffe or elephant would be catastrophic, but those things have smarts. They stay away from the Strecke, unlike the thieves. You're wise to pay for escorts, and I don't make this declaration because it's money in my pocket. Many are the tourists who regret being cheap."

"These thieves. Who are they?"

"Riff-raff from Tanganyika. The Kenyan military does a respectable job of protecting the border, but there is leakage. Tanganyika is a lawless place. Full of-"

"Mau Mau?" asked Barrone.

Klaus snickered and Reginald shook his head before saying, "No. The Kikuyu are Kenyans and Kenya is the safest spot in Africa. Uniting Kenya, and the multitude of...you would call them tribes...was the first order of business after gaining independence. Tanganyika, on the other hand, is full of strife. Maasai, Luo, and Kwavi in the lakes region. Arabs in the east. Rastafarian devotes from the Abyssinian Revolt mixed amongst them all. This is just the tip of the spear. Different factions, each with agendas, prevent stability from flourishing."

"Why?"

"This is boring talk," Reginald claimed with a yawn.

"Humor me. I don't want to stare out this window for the next two hours."

"To comprehend the problem, you have to understand the history of this place. I won't bother explaining, but it begins before your nation existed. It's easy to blame the Europeans for the misery of this continent, and they deserve a modicum of culpability. The, uh...the unpleasant truth is Africans are the root of their evil. Primitive superstition is one piece of the puzzle. Greed is another. Kenya has overcome its diversity to create a nation of substance. Tanganyika never will. Or it won't until one ethnic group wipes out the rest. This nonsense has been going on for centuries. It won't end until a single group remains. And this won't happen because not one group is strong enough to eradicate the others. Yet, they'll keep trying. The saying goes _practice makes perfect_. A depressing reality, is it not?"

"Is this what happened in Kenya."

"Ah, I see what you did," Reginald said, pointing a finger at Barrone.

"What?"

"Don't play innocent reporter. There was no genocide in Kenya. At least, none committed by the Kikuyu."

"Is this rumor or fact?"

"Demonstrations against the government occur, sometimes violence, but this is no different than what happens in the United States. In August, there is a general election for president of Kenya. His Excellency Uhuru Kenyatta, the son of Jomo, is the incumbent. The challenger is Raila Odinga. I would be a fool to say the supporters of either man wouldn't raise a stink if the results don't go the way they want. For better or worse, civil unrest is part of the equation. After a week of demonstrations, order will be restored and Kenya will return to normal. This is how my countrymen purge anguish.

"But Tanganyika...you see, Tanganyika is a state created by foreign rulers. The Germans made Dar Es Salaam their colonial capital after World War Two and ruled the colony with ingenuous diplomacy by an apt governor named Vorbeck. He treated the indigenous like stupid children. The Nazis had grand plans for Tanganyika. Gold mining, coffee plantations, a vacation spot and second home for their goose-stepping population. The same kind of things the English tried, and failed, to impart. When the Germans realized it was a sunk cost, they left. In addition, they had bigger problems in the Middle East, as well as natural resources to protect. Today, their presence is confined to the Safaripark."

"Do the Nazis venture from the Safaripark?"

"Oh, they have, but it was to protect their precious Serengeti. In the late '80's, the Maasai had to be moved from the Ngorongoro District. The government of Tanganyika was trying to turn the crater into a Game Reserve and the Maasai refused to budge. This has been Maasai land for centuries, a connection to their primeval past, a spiritual haven. The bones of the ancient ones seed the ground, provide food for cattle and sustenance for the Maasai soul. I can't make a white man understand the link. Your ties are to a God requiring faith. The passion of the African is felt in its paternal land. Our God is the tangible world. I don't mean to sound longwinded, but it's important to understand the Maasai motivation wasn't abstract. This is why they resisted. And they weren't fooling around, he-he. Made a rumpus and threw the nation into unrest. Food and petrol shortages, kidnappings and killings. Tanganyika was the definition of lawlessness. Then, the Maasai took it too far."

"How?"

"They bombed the German Embassy in Dar Es Salaam. Of course, the government of Tanganyika blamed Arabs for the attack. I don't why, I don't understand why, so don't ask me _why_. It just _was_. Chancellor Stuckart ordered the German military into Tanganyika and the Wehrmacht swept the nation. Cleaned it of Arabs. While they were at it, the Germans moved the Maasai from Ngorongoro. Or at least from the area near the crater. Yes, it was a spanking by the Third Reich. A much-needed spanking. The people of Tanganyika didn't know what to do with independence. They'd have been better off forming several nations but, for whatever reason, this didn't happen. They fight, kill, steal and then ask for help. Kenya is tired of dealing with their refugees and inanity. Do you know where aid goes when it is sent to Tanganyika? Not to the people who are in need."

"What about mass graves?" Hump asked. He had awakened during Reginald's monologue and leaned forward in the seat, restrained by the belt across chest.

"Huh?" Reginald asked.

"You know," Hump prodded. "Mounds of bodies. Men, women and children."

"Ha! So, you did learn something in school, old man! There are corpses _everywhere_ in Africa. But, there are corpses scattered _everywhere_ in Europe and the Americas. It's no different here than it is anywhere else in the world."

Barrone glanced at the gun and raised eyebrows.

"No different," Reginald asserted.

"What've you heard?" Hump asked.

Reginald rubbed the barrel of the weapon and asked, "Of mass graves? They're found from time to time."

"Any in the recent past?"

Reginald's eyes narrowed and he growled, "Why?"

"We're nervous," Barrone interjected, fixing a hairy eye on Hump.

"You'll not find any around here," Reginald said. "If you go north, near Egyptian Sudan, the SS planted twenty thousand indigenous during the Kenyan revolution. Today, the Nuer are engaged in a war of independence with the Egyptian forces of the Alawiyya government. I believe the Germans refer to the Alawiyya as the Khedive Dynasty, but it's the same thing. The followers of Muhammad Ali Pasha, a venerated bloodline, are Muslims loyal to the Reich. Devotees first to the Reichsmark, and then Allah. Even I won't take people to South Sudan, my friends, and it's not because the trip is long. Sudan, South Sudan, Remote Egyptian Sudan, the Sudd, Bahr al Jabal...the name changes faster than the maps can be updated. If you want to find graves, you'll not be disappointed. Problem is, you'd get the all-inclusive tour. White faces are the first to get planted, he-he."

"What about missionaries?" Hump inquired. "Or aid workers and-"

" _And_ tourists," Barrone added with haste.

"What did I say? There are bodies _everywhere_. It's so common, people don't talk about it anymore. You know, the German evacuation of Eastern Europe gets more attention than anything taking place in Africa and _that_ happened some seventy years ago."

"Them Krauts killed a couple million," Hump reasoned.

"Do you know how many the English killed in Africa? Or the Belgians, Portuguese and Italians? A couple million Jews and communists are nothing. And the killing will continue until Africa looks like Europe under the Nazis. One dominant class, hmm? Their Master Race, so-called. In Africa it'll be the same, but the master race will be black-skinned and less...media savvy. Which reminds me: the Germans are charming hosts. The Safaripark is their jewel, evidence of Hitler's compassion to animals. I admit, the park is amazing, but the irony isn't lost on me. The Germans are sensitive about reputation and they...eh, let's just say they discourage negativity. You'll be watched and guided to the appropriate conclusions."

"What about near the Safaripark?" Hump barged. "Are there graves around there?"

"Hump," Barrone scolded, "would you calm down?"

"You'll be safe, old man," Reginald said. "Safe and sound. The Germans enforce a rigid border. They have their vaunted SS platooned in the Serengeti. Yes, the most dangerous part of this trip is the drive."

# 11. Hump In The Safaripark

"What did I tell you?" Barrone whispered. He was tired, cranky and unimpressed by the speed at which the counter staff worked. Seronera, the theoretical headquarters of the Safaripark, was desolate at this ungodly hour. Except for the "crack" employees struggling to access the computer ( _lousy internet access_ , the apologetic male clerk said in stressed English as a sullen woman observed with crossed arms) and, of course, Dirk and Jason (sprawled in giant leather recliners), the lobby of the eight-story building was empty. Reginald and the rest of the Kenyan Companion escorts departed in a shower of pebbles for the return to Nairobi. Barrone was relieved to see the Hummers swallowed by the moonless Serengeti night, more because the codger continued to chirp like an apprehensive chick about massacres and indigenous butchery. Near the end of the journey, Reginald's disdain for the never-ending cavalcade of questions crossed whatever threshold the black man deemed acceptable. What happened next, a terse exclamation to _"shut the mouth, old man",_ ended further inquiries and plunged the vehicle into uncomfortable silence for the remaining duration of the drive.

Hump, appearing tired and cranky as well, mumbled something incomprehensible and then yawned. It was an innocent gesture of the geriatric, containing as much malice as a drowsy infant invokes at naptime. But Barrone wasn't fooled.

"Your act is wearing thin," the editor claimed.

"Act?" Hump asked. "I'm dead nuts tired."

"You know what I mean. You're making waves. What if those guys tell someone-"

"Them blackies ain't going to tell anyone, least of all the Krauts. You see how fast they got the hell out of dodge?"

"Regardless, we need to keep a low profile. How am I going to get anywhere if you're ranting and raving about dead bodies?"

"We came to learn about dead bodies, didn't we?"

"Hump, we won't learn jack shit if you're badgering people. Then where will you be?"

Appearing chagrined, Hump lowered his head and said, "I'm eager, Fuzzy. And exhausted. I need some shuteye and I'll be right as rain. You don't have to worry about me, mister."

"Herr Barrone," the counterman droned. "My apologizes, again, for the delay. The satellite Wi-Fi is fickle and our landline connection is slow. I have your party checked into rooms 608 and 610. Elevators are behind you. The _Frühstückszimmer_ bistro opens at six for breakfast, and the Leopard Lounge serves dinner and cocktails. We also have live music performances with the spry-"

"Wonderful," Barrone interrupted. He glanced at Hump before continuing, "And, um, I enquired into the pioneer safari to Grumeti when I booked this trip."

"Ah, the game reserve," the employee confirmed. "I have space for your party, if you're so inclined. Although..." the young man assessed Hump with a shrewd grimace and then said, "we do have certain...physical requirements necessary for a three-day excursion into the wild."

"I'm right as rain," Hump squawked.

"Yes, Herr-"

"Hammerbacher," Barrone said. "We're American media, doing an expose on Mister Hammerbacher."

"I see," the counterman said. "I'll have to speak to a ranger. Exceptions have been made in the past and-"

"Say, kid," Hump interjected. "Is Grumeti safe?"

"Safe?"

"You know, what kind of animals are prowlin' out there?"

"The Safaripark is home to a multitude of creatures. Too many to list in totality, but everything ranging from dik dik's to the famed Masai lion and African leopard."

"But Grumeti ain't as safe as the Safaripark," Hump accused.

Like he was reciting from a brochure, the worker said, "The pioneer camp, known as Singita Sabora, is nestled beneath the canopy of forest at the juncture of the rivers Grumeti and Suguti. You can expect to view Nile crocodiles, wadi monkeys, hippopotamus, and flocks of aviary species."

Hump leaned across the counter and asked, "I ain't askin' about _those_ kind of animals, sonny. What about Africans?"

"Pardon?"

"Them Sambos with machetes. Whatcha call 'em in Krautland? Der schwarze or sumptin?"

Barrone swopped, throwing an arm around Hump's shoulder, and nudged the man away from the front desk. "Alright, Hump," the editor said with a nervous chuckle. "It's _well_ past your bedtime. Scoot."

"What about security?" Hump asked. "Ya'll got the SS here to keep ole Hump safe, don't cha?"

"SS?" the employee asked, looking from Hump to Barrone. "You shouldn't worry about the SS. The Safaripark rangers are trained in recognizing and preventing injury on safari."

"Didn't ya hear me?" Hump screeched. "I ain't worried about them stupid animals. I'm worried about goddamn blackies!"

The female employee, a stout woman with a short haircut and the faint beginnings of a mustache sprouting beneath a bent beak, queried her compatriot behind the counter with a harsh, _"Was will er?"_

"Git," Barrone ordered, shoving Hump.

"I need to make sure I ain't gonna get tossed into a pit of death," Hump maintained.

"Herr Hammerbacher," the male German said, "I assure the park, and the surrounding area, is secure."

"And another thing," Hump said. "Why do you keep calling me _her_? I'm a guy, for cryin' out loud!"

Barrone's eyes narrowed and he gave Hump another push toward the chairs. "Move," he snarled.

"Okay, okay," Hump said, shuffling away. "No need to get snippy."

"I'm sorry for my companion," Barrone said after the old man was downrange. "We've travelled a long way and he's exhausted."

"Perhaps a man his age would be more comfortable sitting beside the pool," the woman said.

"Not a bad idea," Barrone answered.

" _Ich werde den gästen helfen_ ," the woman hissed to the male. "Mach eine pause _._ "

"Wie du möchtest," the male associate answered. "Have a pleasant stay," he told Barrone, glancing at the woman before departing.

The woman scrutinized Barrone and, when they were alone, said, "You're the press junket. What is your outfit called?"

" _Sports On The Pot_."

"I have not heard this name."

"We're an independent internet news agency, part of the Devious Media franchise. I'm the lead editor for the sports slice."

"Ah. Independent. Is like...freelancer?"

Though he hated the label, Barrone nodded. In his imagination, the term _freelance journalist_ conjured a rumpled, whiskey sodden degenerate _a la_ Paul Kemp.

"I'm familiar with the idea," the woman said, "but such platforms don't exist under the Third Reich. Do you know why? Any crackpot can post unfounded trash. Conspiracies, gossip, no verifiable proof but theories masquerading as truth. Tell me I'm incorrect."

"Yes, you're right," Barrone said, choosing his words with care. "This is the curse of free press, I suppose, and Devious is no stranger to this kind of junk. However, there's a desire among those who pull the strings to move Devious in a legitimate direction. I happen to agree with the sentiment. What better way than a human-interest story?"

"And you're doing a such piece on Herr Hammerbacher?"

"Well, believe it or not, it's been his desire to visit the Safaripark."

A raised right eyebrow indicated she appeared _not to believe it_ and Barrone resisted the urge to giggle at the exaggerated mannerism. Instead, he shrugged and said, "Look, I was assigned this story. My cameraman and I are keen on capturing the beauty of this place, but Hump, er, Herr Hammerbacher, is...let's just say he's a handful."

"I can see as much."

"Right. My goal is to keep him from ruining this excursion, if you know what I mean."

"He is quarrelsome. Why compose an expose on this crabby man?"

"Hump is an archaic celebrity. My supervisor thinks I can squeeze a diamond from an old lump of coal. You know," Barrone said in a conspiratorial whisper, "he won't be kicking much longer. We have to get while the getting's good. Strike while the iron is-"

"I understand," the woman said, sliding the key cards across the counter. "We have grumpy residents at this lodge. A truculent expatriate _and_ a former bigshot from the SS. One is boorish, the other likes to talk. Both have to be watched like wild animals."

Barrone swept the keys into his hand and then said, "I assumed everything, and everyone, is being watched. No offense, but it's kinda the reputation you Germans have in the States."

"The Safaripark is sacrosanct. Visitors from the world over expect to view this habitat free from the rantings of lunatics or the senile. Would your government allow someone to stand in front of the White House and hurl insults?"

"Um, well...yes. Have you ever visited the United States?"

"You're not in America," the woman snapped. "The Third Reich, and its protectorates, have zero tolerance for outlandish behavior. You, and your party, will be expelled without a second thought."

"I get it, and the last thing I want is to be shown the door. My boss would have my hide if I returned emptyhanded."

"Oh? Perhaps the story would be a scandalous tale of being...what did you say? Shown the door? Sensationalism is a hallmark of the American media."

"Lookit, I'm not Randolph Hearst or Joseph Patterson. I have a job and expectations."

"Hmm," the woman droned, tapping the marble counter with stubby fingers. "I believe you're sincere, but it'd be a shame to get barred because of the ill-tempered behavior of your luminary. What a waste of time and money."

"Um...do you have a name, miss?"

"My name isn't important, but I have one you should become familiar. Bernhard Zaic."

"Bernhard...who?"

"Herr Zaic. He's a reporter from Deutscher Fernseh Rundfunk and will accompany you to Grumeti."

Barrone scrambled his face and sputtered, "Deut...Fern...what now?"

"German television."

"This arrangement wasn't mentioned by anyone in the Ministry of Propaganda," Barrone said, trying hard to remain neutral.

"Propaganda _and_ Enlightenment."

"Whatever it's called."

"To foster _enlightenment_ , Herr Zaic will assist on your expedition. His guidance will be constructive and solidify the fruits of your labor."

A faint bop of Barrone's Adam's apple as he swallowed protest elicited a conceited nod from the German Frau. Or Fräulein. Barrone wasn't sure but, judging by the peach fuzz beneath her nose, it was a safe bet this beast was single. Matter of fact, he'd lay his last dollar on this reality. However, her marital status wasn't the issue. A chaperone shouldn't have been a surprise, and Barrone felt confident he could work with anyone, but Hump and his damn fool mouth would be a problem.

"I have another suggestion," the woman said. "It is my opinion Herr Hammerbacher would be safer at Seronera than on safari."

"Is this a proposition or an order?"

"A recommendation, one I will present to the senior ranger leading your outing. Tell me you don't favor this offer."

Barrone watched Hump for a moment and then said, "Yes, I agree. Full confession: I worry about his welfare in the bush and fear he'd be an impediment."

"Good. Herr Hammerbacher will be comfortable at Seronera. He'll be managed by the staff. Pampered. Does this not sound grand?"

"I'm sure you folks will do a bang-up job, but Hump has a...a caretaker. The young man asleep on the chair in the red shirt? He's a specialist from the care center Herr Hammerbacher calls home."

"A nurse?"

"More or less."

" _More or less_ is not an answer."

"They've a good relationship, like grandfather and grandson. Listen, your recommendation can't come from me. Hump will think I'm trying to exclude him. Our relationship is rocky and-"

"Say no more. Feign angst at the directive, raise a stink, do what you must to appear outraged. Make sure your nurse, or whatever he is, understands Herr Hammerbacher must be a cordial guest. A short leash will be allowed, but demonstrative behavior won't be tolerated. If this occurs, the Safaripark will become off-limits to him, you, and your party."

***

"Welp," Barrone said, "you heard the man."

The _man_ , a Safaripark ranger, was a beefy towhead wearing khakis and cradling a large caliber rifle. Pa would've call the muzzled monstrosity an _elephant gun_. Sumptin along the lines of a Nitro Express. Eyes shielded by reflective sunglasses, the senior ranger appeared indifferent to Hump's glare and protruding chin. In fact, the man was more interested in the activity behind Hump. A half-dozen beige Volkswagen Iltis, and a cosmopolitan horde of tourists slouching under the weight of sleeping kits, were primed for the trip to Grumeti. They talked in excited bursts of incomprehensible tongues and it appeared Barrone and his cameraman were the lone Americans among the group.

The ranger's irrelevance would have been maddening, but ole Hump knew exclusion was a forgone conclusion after his performance the night before...really this morning, but this was splittin' hairs. Now, standing beneath the rising plump sun, Hump had to appear peeved, though he was anything but. He was tired, not angry, and mustering outrage took a bit of acting. Besides, crocodile tears from an old fart wouldn't change anyone's mind. Not including Hump had always been Barrone's plan, and why not? Even Humphrey Hammerbacher wouldn't have included Humphrey Hammerbacher in such a delicate exercise.

"So, what am I supposed to do?" Hump asked, kicking a clod of dirt.

"It's nothing personal," the ranger said. "Day trips would be _more_ suitable for a man your age."

"My age?"

"A night at a pioneer camp, sleeping on the ground, would murder your bones."

"I'm right as rain!"

"Eh? What does this mean?"

"I'm healthy as a horse!"

"I don't care what you feel. My authority permits restricting those I asses as frail or unhealthy. If you'll excuse me, I need to finish loading the vehicles and take a headcount."

"Do I look frail? Jeez O'Pete!" Hump hollered at the departing ranger. A few heads turned, but the Kraut didn't acknowledge the outburst.

"Shush," Barrone hissed. "I told you this kind of behavior would be a problem. In fact, I've a new friend taking your place. See him on the porch?" He directed attention to the wooden portico. A thin, bald man wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved waffle shirt leaned against a buttress and stared into the morning sky.

"Who is he?"

"Bernhard Zaic."

"Is this supposed to raise my skirt?"

"Zaic is a reporter from some German television station."

"Ah...I get it. Them Krauts are gonna play peek-a-boo."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"They ain't gonna show you anything but what they want you to see."

"Of course, but I expected as much. I'm a little surprised they're letting people go to Grumeti, but I guess they need to maintain the illusion nothing is wrong."

"But you know better."

"As do you, which is why you need to keep the lip z-i-p-p-e-d."

"This is your doing, isn't it? Gettin' me axed."

"Don't blame me. Your little tantrum at check-in made our friend-"

"Our friend?"

"The forceful frau at the front desk. Something tells me she isn't a nominal employee. More like quality control. You need to mind your manners. The moment they think you're here for something other than our contrived excuse, we're shitcanned. You don't get closure, I don't get my story, and we'll have nothing to show for this trip."

"I get it."

"Do you? Because last night...hell, what got into you?"

"I'm antsy, is all. Can you blame me, Fuzzy?"

"It's _Fozzy_ , dude. My name is Fozzy. Or Alphonso. _Not_ Fuzzy."

Hump waved a hand and said, "You see? I can't keep my thoughts straight."

"Uh-huh. What you are is a nuisance. We had a deal, remember? I do the digging and you don't poop in the hole. Want me to explain the lousy job you're doing?"

"Save your breath. I'm gonna hit the sack."

Barrone gave the old man a soft jab in the shoulder and said, "There ya go. Docile and demure. When I return, we'll chat about what's next."

" _If_ you get anything."

"Worry not, old man, and don't get crazy in the head. This will work. We're a team. _All_ of us. Like your baseball days. The pieces need to work together."

"I was a lousy manager, in case you've forgotten."

"You had lousy players."

"Jeez O'Pete, enough. I hate ass kissers. You want me to sit on hands, I'll sit. But," Hump added, jabbing Barrone in the chest, "if you don't return with something, I'm going on my own."

"This is a three-day slog. If I don't come back with information, we'll reassess."

"Seven days, minus three, leaves us-"

"I can do the math. Trust me, we're not leaving emptyhanded. Now, why don't you get your roommate and tell him I need a few words."

"A'right," Hump said, extending his right hand. "Be careful out there, pardner."

"I will," Barrone said, pumping the arm.

Off the old man went, toddling through the crowd and scaling the porch steps. Later, after speaking with Jason, Barrone caught sight of Hump slumped in a wicker chair. When the Volkswagens belched to life, firing clouds of diesel exhaust into the air, Hump stirred and snorted like a dragon. Boy, he looked hot. Or maybe Barrone was imagining things.

***

"Damn internet," Jason complained, tossing his smartphone on the bed. "I can't get a signal greater than a bar."

"Boo-hoo," Hump jeered. "Why don't you try reading a book?"

"Yeah, smartass? How many books have you read?"

Hump crossed his arms and stared at the television. The muted Safaripark Channel displayed crocodiles frolicking in a river. A whole herd of 'em, rollin' 'round in mud. Hump never realized how much crocodiles looked like dinosaurs. Or maybe they were dinosaurs. Of course, nobody knew what dinosaurs looked like. All the pictures of terrible lizards were guess work. Hearty imaginations gave life to moldering bones. More life than the monsters deserved. Stupid reptiles with pea brains were studied and catalogued. How did they spend their miserable existences? What did they do to subsist? What killed them? Meanwhile, pits of dead people were forgotten, or made to be discarded, as if they never walked the earth.

"Mm-hmm, I thought so," Jason said.

"I'm counting 'em in my head," Hump answered.

"Sure you are. Well, let me be the first to say this sucks rotten eggs. I thought we were gonna do something. Instead, I'm stuck in this room like a prisoner. Can't even access the net. We might as well be on the moon."

"Your doodad doesn't work because the Krauts won't let it. And, by the by, you're free to go where you want. I ain't your warden, kid."

"No? Try telling Barrone. He made me swear to watch you like a hawk. Why, I bet he's having a grand ole time."

"Ayup. Sloggin' in the jungle sounds like a blast."

"Pops, I don't get it. You wanted to come here, begged me to-"

"Begged?"

"Yes, _begged_. I owe Javy big time for takin' some of my shifts _and_ , pops, I lied to my parents so they wouldn't worry. I told them I was goin' to Utica to see some girl. Utica!"

"Then they'll be pleased as punch you ain't in the scrub."

"My point is, I didn't come to sit on my ass. I could do that at work and get paid."

"All I hear is gripin'. Meanwhile, who in this room is takin' care of expenses?"

"Yeah, yeah, you're the Monopoly Man."

"I don't know what you're complainin' about."

"I'm confused, pops. You were gung-ho to find out about your son. Now, you're like...man, I don't know. It's like you got castrated or something."

"Your grass has mellowed me, kid. I see the big picture. I'm lettin' nature take its course."

"You want to sit here and watch television all evening?"

"I'm enjoyin' myself."

"You don't even have the sound up!"

"Doesn't mean I can't peep the pictures."

"Cryin' out loud, pops! They're _real_ animals outside."

"Didn't cha hear the ranger? I'm too old to view _real_ animals."

"Come on. Quit sulking. He didn't say you couldn't see wildlife. He said you couldn't go camping."

"It's implied."

"Alright, sit there and pout. What do I care?"

"Do I look like I'm poutin'? I'm thinkin'."

"Suit yourself. I'm going downstairs. There's a lounge off the lobby with live music and Happy Hour specials running until midnight." Jason tossed the informational magazine onto Hump's bed and then said, "Take a gander. Drinks and some tunes. Couldn't be worse than watchin' whatever this is."

Hump twirled a finger in the air and whispered, "Whoopee."

"There might be babes down there."

"Babes?"

"You know...women."

"What woman would be interested in me?"

"You'd be surprised. There are these chicks with fetishes and-"

"Enough," Hump spat. "I'm not movin'."

"Geez, pops," Jason whined. "I gotta stick with you, and I was hoping you'd want to do something a little less domestic."

"You don't have to be my babysitter. Where am I going?"

Jason shrugged and then scratched his chin. "Yea...yea, I guess you're right." Then he smiled and said, "Thing is, I need some dough."

"Tarnation. I gave you a couple hundred before we left for the airport."

"I had to buy some things. Look, you promised to float my expenses. I wouldn't have come if-"

Hump swung a leg, rolled to sitting position and then said, "You're right. A deal's a deal. Thing is, if I'm gonna spend money, I could at least enjoy it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Maybe they got kangaroo steaks down there."

"Kangaroo steak? Are you kidding?"

***

The Leopard Lounge was, intentional or not, a spitting image of a 1970's era nightclub, complete with mood lighting and disco balls. A giant parquet dance floor lay in front of an elevated stage. At present, both floor and stage were empty of people. A black piano sat in the middle of the riser flanked by a drum kit on the left and a guitar to the right. A dozen tables were spaced in irregular intervals behind the floor; a bar spread along the left wall. For all this space, there were seven people in attendance: Hump, Jason, a black bartender, a couple at a table, a busty Aryan female server in a leopard spotted outfit and a withered old man tucked into the corner of the room.

Jason took one look at the place and his face soured like he sucked on a lemon. "Oh, pops," he moaned, "this dump is dead."

"Yep," Hump answered. "What'd you think? We'd walk into a Playboy convention?"

"Ha-ha. No, but I expected more than _this_."

Without comment, Hump moseyed to a table and took a seat as Jason continued to gawk.

"Guten abend," the waitress said with a seductive wink before laying a cocktail napkin on the table in front of Hump.

"Scotch and water for me," Hump demanded. Then he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the kid and said, "Get him the same."

"They're known as Lion's Skin here."

"Come again?"

"Scotch and water. A Lion Skin."

Hump shrugged and muttered, "I don't care what you call 'em. Just bring two. And a couple menus."

The waitress tipped her head and turned, bosoms bouncing in the tight garb, and sashayed towards the bar.

"She's cute," Jason said as he plopped into the chair next to Hump. "Did you order a kangaroo steak?"

"Better. I got us Lion's Skin."

"Huh?"

"I ordered Lion's Skin. One for you, one for me."

"I ain't eating a lion's skin," Jason said with a grimace. "No way, bro."

"It's a drink, kid. Scotch and water."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

The waitress returned with their drinks and offered a choice of four specials. German cuisine, all of it, which Hump declined. He wasn't hungry enough to eat kraut, or blood sausage, or whatever mishmash of offal the cook could smash together. He ate enough German food as a kid. Ma Hammerbacher was also German in roots, her maiden name was Wertzer, and she cooked nothing but old country food. This was no small miracle in the South. Grits, BBQ, hush puppies...none of this dope fare was served in the Hammerbacher house.

Jason was in the middle of ordering/sweettalking the server when a well-dressed man appeared on stage. The lounge emcee, or whatever the Krauts called 'em, lifted a cordless microphone to his mouth and said:

" _Ahem. Guten abend meine Damen und Herren_. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I present the headliner for tonight, known in the Fatherland as Herr Mörder-"

"Hey," Jason whispered into Hump's ear. "What's Bregenwurst and Grünkohl?"

Hump peeled eyes from the stage and said, "Brains, bellies and kale. Hope you got it in a stew."

Jason turned pale...or was it ashen? Hump wasn't sure there was a suitable designation for the kid's color, or lack thereof. Even the dim illumination of the restaurant couldn't disguise Jason's blood-drained face. "Why in a stew?" the kid asked, at last, in a queasy voice.

"Because, it can be served raw."

"Wha?"

"...let's give him a hearty Leopard Lounge welcome," the host finished. He slunk to the side as a drummer and guitarist took the stage to a scattering of applause. Then a third member appeared from the left wing and ambled to the piano. An old man, like Hump, but skinny and dressed in a blue velvet suit. His hair was tuxedo black, a paint job, and greased backwards on the scalp. Giant yellow glasses hid eyes. Hump squinted and tried to study the musician as he sat down on the bench and exercised the piano's foot pedals.

"Raw?" Jason asked, tugging at Hump's sleeve.

"Huh?"

"Raw?"

"Raw. And bleedin'. The more blood, the better."

"Wonderful," Jason rasped. "I ain't eating it. I don't care if it stands between me and a good time with the waitress. No way. You can have it."

"I don't want it."

"Maybe I could get a hamburger. Weren't they invented in Germany?"

"Quiet," Hump scolded. "The band's about to start."

"Even better," Jason scoffed. "What the fuck is this? The Perry Como Triplets? Get a load of this dude at the piano. He looks older than you!"

The piano player grabbed a mic stand from behind and placed it next to the bench. "Howdy folks," he said with a southern twang. There was something familiar about the voice, something Hump recognized from vinyl. But it couldn't be...

"Here comes the lounge music," Jason whispered.

"I'm Jerry Lee Lewis from Ferriday, Louisiana," the piano player declared, tapping a few high notes with his right hand.

Hump's heart palpated and he hummed, "Oh, this ain't no lounge music, kid."

"No?" Jason jeered. "This guy looks like Perry Como."

"It ain't Perry Como and we aren't gonna hear 'Juke Box Baby'."

"Say what, Willis?"

"Close your mouth and open your ears. You might learn sumptin."

"Yea, right. Like how fast I fall asleep when-"

With no warning, Lewis brought both hands down and launched into "Mean Woman Blues". The piano shook, drums crashed and bass vibrated. The lounge filled with rock-and-roll, and not the crap Howie listened to. Lewis's voice was strong, pulsating. Not a screeching whine like most of the troubadours of later generations.

Jason stiffened, perhaps recoiled, but cocked an ear. By the second verse, the kid's left foot was tapping. During the musical bridge, his head kept the beat. Meanwhile, the Killer's hands flew across the keys, not a hint of stiffness or binding in the joints.

"I can't believe it's him," Hump said with hushed reverence.

"Who?" Jason asked.

" _Him_. The Killer. Jerry Lee Lewis."

"Never heard of him."

"Never heard of him? 'Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On'? 'Great Balls Of Fire'? Eh? Ring a bell?"

"He sang those songs?"

"You betcha. The Killer."

"The Killer, eh? He murder somebody?"

"Just the piana. And this ain't nothing. He's just gettin' warm. Listen up."

They guzzled drinks as the band thrashed through the remainder of the Claude Demetrius penned blues tune made famous by Elvis Presley. As the last pinged chords receded into silence, Lewis said, "Thank you, thank you much. Looks like a small crowd tonight, but no matter. Old Jerry Lee will get you shakin' in no time. Before I continue, I'd like to give a greeting to an esteemed member of the audience. The former Reichsführer, Joachim Peiper. Where you hidin', killer? Give a wave."

The elderly gentlemen in the corner stood and Hump craned for a better look. Peiper wore a black patch over where the left eye should've been and his head was deficient of meaningful hair. What stalks remained were wispy sprigs sprouting in random patches of rough, hewn scalp. Several fingers from his left hand were missing, including the thumb, and a cane was clasped in the claw of his right. He waved the walking stick at the Killer before collapsing into the chair with a pained expression.

"What's a Reichsführer?" Jason whispered.

"I don't know. A big cheese, I reckon."

"Damn, he sure looks old, too."

"Boy oh boy," the Killer continued, sweeping the lounge. "I can't see a whole lotta shakin' happening tonight. You either got it or you don't. Start with your little finger and wiggle it like so." He lifted his right pinky, exercised it like a worm, and then said, "Maybe we'll see some action, maybe we won't, but one thing is certain: Jerry Lee will do some shakin' if ya'll can't."

The female half of the couple in front giggled and the Killer lowered glasses to the tip of his nose. "Hey, darlin'," he crooned. "You feel like shakin' with Jerry Lee?"

"We on honeymoon," the male answered in broken English.

Lewis rolled his tongue, growled, and then declared, "Oh, they'll be some shakin' later. Let Jerry Lee get the juices flowin'. We're ya from, lovebirds?"

"Madrid," the man said.

" _Ma-dread_ ," the Killer trilled. " _Tierra de las mujeres magníficas._ Oh yea, Jerry Lee's been all over, man." He pushed the glasses from his nose, focused attention to Hump and Jason, and then said, "Don't think I can't see you sittin' back there. I know the world's gone kooky, but don't tell me you're on honeymoon, too."

Jason laughed and then responded, "We're just in the gettin' to know each other stage."

"Fishin' for a sugar daddy," the Killer said, playing a chord of "Money". "Boy, don't come knockin' at Jerry Lee's door," he harmonized. "I'll be busy with the birds and bees, if you know what I mean."

"You don't have nothin' to worry about," Jason crowed.

The Killer stopped playing and asked, "You two from the States?"

Mortified by the attention, Hump shrank in the seat. He felt like a kid in grade school and the teacher was calling on _Humphrey_ to answer some foolish question. Hump was a big dumdum, an awful student, and the snooty Yankee instructors made it a point to showcase his stupidity with pointed questions most adults in Mississippi couldn't answer, let alone a boy with baseball on the brain.

"We're from New York," Jason said. "Near the city."

"Lookit this," Jerry Lee chirped. "A couple big shots from the Big Apple."

"Well, I was born in New York," Jason explained. "My pal is from...where was it?"

Hump mumbled, "Come on, kid, leave Jerry Lee alone."

"He's the one who-"

"We got ourselves a lovers spat," the Killer joked. The drummer bashed a cymbal and the bartender chuckled.

Feeling heat in his face, Hump glared at Jason and said, "I'm from Winona, Mississippi."

"What'd ya say, killer?" Lewis asked. "Your voice ain't fleet of foot."

"Winona," Hump annunciated. "Winona, Mississippi."

" _Wee-nona_!" Lewis screeched. "Holy Toledo! All the way from _Wee-nona_. I haven't been to _Wee-nona_ since I was knee-high.

"I live in New York now," Hump clarified. "Listen, Mister Lee, we aren't a couple of, you know, queers."

"I'm just pokin' some fun. Nothin' personal. No hard feelings?"

Hump raised his glass in a mock toast and said, "None taken. Matter of fact, I-I've been listenin' to you since-"

"Whoa, hold it there, fella. No need to start digging our graves." Again the cymbal crashed before Jerry Lee added, "Tell you what, killer. I don't do this often, but maybe you have a favorite of old Jerry Lee you've been pinin' to hear."

Hump didn't need more than a half-second to answer, "How 'bout 'How School Confidential'."

"How 'bout it?" Lewis asked, banging the piano. "I say, how bout we liven up this joint?"

***

Jerry Lee, and ensemble, performed a five-song set, finishing with "Long Tall Sally", before retiring to the bar. Hump watched him belly-up and reduce a draught to backwash in three swallows. Then the Killer belched and motioned for a second drink.

"Man, he sure brings it for a geezer," Jason said.

"This ain't _nutin_ ," Hump alleged. "Back in the day, the Killer would jump all over the piana. Pound keys with his feet and play blindfolded. He once lit the piana on fire."

"Are you sure this guy isn't an impersonator?"

"You've heard of many Jerry Lee Lewis imitators?"

"Well...no. The only Jerry Lewis I know is the guy who does those telethons."

"Right. We got ourselves the real deal, and at the Reich Safaripark, of all places."

"Yeah, so why's this guy _here_? Hard up for cash or something? How old do you think he is?"

"Shit, he's gotta be eighty."

"And you were cross cause you couldn't go on safari. This has to make your day."

"I didn't come to sit on my rump, but this beats lounge music."

"I guess," Jason said. He pushed the plate of uneaten German fare aside and then drained his third Lion's Skin.

"Not interested in the Bregenwurst?"

"I'll tell you one thing, a couple more of these beverages and _maybe_ I'll take a stab at the grub."

"A couple more and I might have the stones to approach Jerry Lee."

"I take it you're a fan?"

"Ayup. I can't believe he's here. I started listening to the Killer before he hit the big time. Then he faded like we all do."

"Faded? He sounds crisp."

"Not his music, kid. Him. The polite way to phrase it is...Jerry Lee had _personal problems_."

"What happened?"

"Jerry Lee got crazy is what happened. Or he was bonkers before hittin' it big. He married his cousin, committed adultery, his music was blacklisted and...there was all kinds of nonsense."

"His cousin? Like...eww."

"This is the tip of the iceberg. The negative publicity made him unplayable in the States and England. He toured Europe for much of the Sixties and Seventies. Tried doing country in the Eighties, but his audience had dwindled. Then he got into jam with the IRS and fled the U.S. for good. Damn shame if you ask me. The last I heard, he was living in Ireland."

"Welp," Jason said, half-turning in his chair, "I suppose we should make a new friend."

"Huh?"

"You aren't gonna let this opportunity pass, pops. Say hi, shake his hand, get an autograph."

"Jeez O'Pete. Do you think I want to meet him after the embarrassin' exchange we had?"

"What? You heard him. He was screwing around."

"I don't know. He doesn't look like he wants to be bothered."

"What're you, shy? Killer!" Jason hailed before Hump could react. Jerry Lee pivoted and stared at the kid over the lip of a stein. "Killer! Come on over! My pal wants to say hello!"

"Tarnation," Hump whispered. "What are you doing?"

"Pops, you're giddier than a little girl. And petrified. If you won't make the effort, I will."

Jerry Lee pushed from the bar and staggered to the table, removing the tinted glasses and sliding them into a pocket as he approached. Hump tried to appear casual and reached for his drink. A few ice cubes remained and he swirled them in a futile attempt to appear distracted.

The Killer put both hands on the table, leaned towards Hump and appraised with pinprick sized pupils. _"Wee-nona,"_ he leered with a slur.

"Pull up a chair," Jason instructed. "This is one of your biggest fans, Mister Lewis."

"Call me Jerry Lee. I'm tickled to meet you, but I only have a couple minutes before the next round of boogie-woogie."

"Alright, Jerry Lee," Jason said. "My friend came all the way from New York to see you."

"Oh? I didn't think my shows were publicized."

"They aren't," Hump muttered. "Don't listen to the kid. I mean, it's great hearin' ya, but I'd rather be on safari."

"Ain't nobody come to Africa to see Jerry Lee," the Killer lamented. "Always wanting to see lions and crocodiles. Don't they know the real show is going on in the lounge? Say, what's your name, killer?"

"Hump. Hump Hammerbacher."

"Hump? Sounds like a rock-and-roll name. Maybits you a former bass player from Nashville?"

"No, I never learned to play an instrument. Baseball was the one thing I was good at."

"Baseball? That fool sport?"

"Hump managed the New York Yankees," Jason said. "Like, six times. Or was it seven?"

" _Four_ times," Hump corrected.

"Get outta here!" the Killer squealed. "You pullin' my leg?"

"No, sir," Hump asserted.

"Ole Jerry Lee ain't a baseball fan, but I've heard of the New Yorker Yankees. Say, if you're in the mood, stick around after the show. We'll have a couple drinks and shoot the shit. I don't talk to a lot of Americans anymore. And the ones coming around don't know who the hell I am!"

Before Hump could answer, Jason said, "Hell ya, we'll stick around."

"A'right," the Killer said. Then he yanked the glasses from pocket and flicked them quick-like on his face. "Wanna hear anything else tonight, Hump?"

"Jeez O'Pete. You're puttin' me on the spot. I hate to make demands."

"Hells bells, man. If ole Jerry Lee is asskin', you know I ain't asskin'. I'm _tellin'_."

Like a spot lit critter, Hump stared at Jerry Lee and tried to dig an answer from his brain. Sumptin, anythin'...

"Yeah, you're a fan," the Killer griped. "Can't even name a tune, boy."

"Pops is shy," Jason said. "I never seen him tongue-tied before tonight."

Hump blurted, "How 'about, 'To Make Love Sweeter for You'?"

Jerry Lee frowned and then asked, "You wanna hear one of my ballads?"

"I'm partial to it," Hump explained.

"If you say so. I guess I can dig 'er out of the cobwebs. I don't know what these Europeans will do if I break out in country. They love rock-and-roll, the louder the better."

"Judging by the look of this place," Jason said with a giggle, "I'd beg to differ."

"I told ya," the Killer growled. "Animals are the attention getter here."

On the riser, the drummer banged the skin and then shouted, "Come on, old man! Time to kick it!"

Jerry Lee pointed a finger at Hump and said, "After the show. My treat."

***

Hump knew he was shitfaced well before he vomited in the john. When was the last time he was this drunk? Since he'd been consuming edibles, drinking had been whittled to one libation a night. Some evenings he drank nutin. So, when the fourth Lion's Skin splashed down Hump's throat, he saw the big STOP sign in his noggin. No more, señor. But then Jason flagged the waitress for a fifth. And then a sixth. Jerry Lee was drinking with 'em, and he was two fisting. Beer and a chaser. Beer and a chaser. At one point, the Killer produced a medicine bottle and swallowed a couple pills, hurtlin' 'em down his throat with a swig of brew.

Then the whirling, rotating, table gripping spins. Hump didn't want to collapse in front of Jerry Lee; he gripped the remaining stalk of equilibrium and held tight, but he knew he was faltering. Back and forth Hump weaved, the world taking on a runny, water down window pane, appearance. Jerry Lee's face looked like it was melting. The more Hump blinked, the worse it became. At last, the Killer called it a night and stumbled away after a fierce, arm wrenching handshake.

And what a night it had been! Then Hump yakked into the toilet while Jason laughed in the next room. Blew chunks with such force, Hump's teeth flew out of his mouth. There they floated in filth, sneering at Hump to fish 'em out. What was he supposed to do? Could he clean and then use 'em after stewing in vomitus? Did he have a choice?

Instead of confronting this decision, Hump slumped to the floor and rewound the evening. Or as much of it as he could remember. At some point, small talk turned into drunken investigation. Careful to keep his secret, Hump groused about coming to the Serengeti, only to be denied a chance at bonafide adventure...

***

"I'm on the big ole hook," Hump lamented. "These Krauts ain't gonna let me venture further than a toddler around a swimmin' pool."

"Take it from me," Jerry Lee said. "Goin' on safari ain't all it's cracked up to be."

"Now you sound like one of them."

"I ain't one of them," the Killer growled.

Hump raised hands and avowed, "Hey, I'm just sayin'."

"And I'm _sayin'_ you'd be wise to stick around the grounds near the lodge."

"I don't come to stick around."

"Alright, fellas," Jason said with a nervous chuckle. "No sense gettin' argumentative."

"I ain't arguin'," Hump argued.

"Back in the room you said you'd be fine watching television," Jason contended. " _Let nature take its_ course ring a bell, pops?"

"Maybe I changed my mind. _Maybe_ nature is takin' a course."

Jerry Lee said, "Well, if you're hell bent on getting out, I might be able to steer you in the right direction."

"How?" Hump asked.

"You spy the old timer in the corner?" the Killer whispered.

Hump could see the man, but in triplicate and rotating like a kaleidoscope.

"I gave him a courtesy howdy during the set," Jerry Lee continued. "Do you know who he is?"

"No," Hump hiccupped.

"The former Reichsführer. Joaquim Peiper."

"Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"Boy, Peiper is the _original_ bad ass. He's been shot, stabbed, bitten by insects, blow'd up. No shit, hand to God. Survived the assassination attempt in '57. He was also the poster boy for Nazi soldiers during the war. He headed the SS until retiring _thirty years_ ago."

"SS, you say? Like the Interpols?"

"Interpols? Hell if I know. Anyway, how old do think Peiper is?"

"I dunna. Reckon older than us."

Jerry Lee crossed arms and declared, "One hundred and two."

"Jeez O'Pete!"

"Still gets around fine for someone with one good wheel _and_ he can carry a conversation. It's the damn Nazi science, you know. Makes a man age slower."

"What now?"

"It's crazy shit, man. Lookit Peiper. He's spry as a teenager."

Based on what Hump viewed earlier, Peiper didn't look so peppy. But then again, maybe he was when compared to most hundred year old people.

"Yep," Lewis said. "And boy, if you let him, Peiper will talk circles 'round ya. Make yer head spin. Matter of fact, I taught him all the naughty words in English. I don't think he likes rock-n-roll so much, but at this point in his life, Peiper ain't got much of a choice considering I'm just about the only show in town."

"Yeah, about _that_ ," Hump slurred. "What're ya doin' in Af'ica?"

Jerry Lee sighed and then mumbled, "My manager screwed me but, um...I don't wanna dwell on negatives."

"Then tell me about Peiper," Hump prodded.

"He retired to Seronera after leaving office. Guess he's gushy about the Serengeti, though I didn't think those guys had an ounce of sentimentality. If you want, I could chew his ear and see if I can't rustle you a personal tour courtesy of ole Jerry Lee."

"I wanna go to _gore-on-goro_ ," Hump said. "There's supposed to be some crater there."

"Yer talkin' about the caldera," the Killer confirmed. "It's a drive but-"

"How long a drive?" Jason interrupted, eyeing Hump with suspicion.

"Couple hours one way," Jerry Lee said. "But, um, there's a teensy problem. Ngorongoro is closed."

Hump knew as much, of course, but feigned shock and squawked, "Whadda mean it's closed?"

"Pops," Jason said, "don't you remember? The Safaripark website?"

"You're thinking of something else, kid," Hump said. Then, to the Killer, he repeated, "Whadda ya mean it's closed?"

"You think I know why?" Jerry Lee responded. "The Nazis don't consult me on these matters. My little world is this lounge. Although...there's an airstrip near, about a klick west of Seronera, home to a helicopter and single engine pistons. The Germans use them to spot poachers and look for injured animals."

"I wanna go by vehicle," Hump stated. "Get an up close and personal view."

"Wait," Jason said. "Since when do you care about craters?"

Hump sighed and then said, "Shaddup, kid. I'm talkin' to Jerry Lee."

"Yea, boy," the Killer enjoined. "We're doin' some serious conversin. Drink up and let the adults chitchat. Now listen, Hump, if you're serious-"

"Damn straight I am."

"I ain't sayin' I got the pull of a team of horses, but me and Peiper got a decent back-and-forth. I'll tickle 'im and see if he can't work somethin' out for my new pal."

***

Hump was elated and took solace in the promise. It burned in his heart like an ember, scorched the dreaded headache and upset stomach. Made him forget the dentures. It even blocked out Jason's rough laughter. This is how Hump fell asleep, curled like a comma around the commode. When he awoke a few hours later, he felt decrepit and plucked the teeth from the toilet without reservation.

# 12. Hump 'n Peiper

Hump gave up the hope of sleep before the sun rose. Achy and cranky, he rode the elevator downstairs and stumbled into the _Frühstückszimmer_ , following the smell of breakfast. The restaurant was all but deserted. The lone occupants were a server and four Orientals sitting around a table, sipping from Styrofoam cups, dressed in business suits.

"Coffee," Hump told the perky attendant. "Coffee, scrambled eggs and fried schlackwurst."

"We have a delicious-"

"I don't want anything else," Hump groaned. " _Schnell_ with the coffee, please and thank ya."

Halfway through breakfast, the withered form of Joachim Peiper appeared. Aided by a walking stick, he shuffled across the floor and fell into a nearby chair, groaning with relief. Seconds later, the waitress presented a coffee cup and a newspaper. Without an exchange of words, she left the mug next to Peiper's right elbow and the folded paper abeam his right hand. Peiper opened and then smoothed the periodical on the table, taking great care to flatten the edges with his gnarled left hand. When the ironing process was finished, the former Reichsführer dove into the paper, head down, with the occasional sip from cup.

Hump eyeballed Peiper and listened to the Orientals chatter in their strange language as his empty stomach made godawful sounds. The food, when it arrived, provided no relief; he shoveled a few forkfuls of bright yellow eggs before growing nauseous. He abandoned the remainder, leaving the schlackwurst untouched, and decided to stick with coffee. The lone saving grace was the potential of an afternoon nap. Hump wouldn't last the day in this wretched condition without a siesta. Not even an edible would overwhelm the colossal pain, but Hump was tryin' to abstain from-

"You're the American from last night," Peiper said in flawless English.

The icebreaker shattered Hump's thoughts and he gawked at Peiper slack jawed. No matter how hard Hump willed, his peepers kept focusing on the black patch hiding the spot where Peiper's left eye should've been nestled.

"The Leopard Lounge, so called," Peiper elaborated.

"Yeah, I know what you're talkin' about," Hump said. "Sorry, my mind's a little tacky."

Peiper chuckled and then said, "Sure, a _little_ tacky."

"I had too many of them Lion's Skin concoctions."

"Löwenhaut."

"What?"

"Lion's Skin. Löwenhaut."

"Oh...yeah, pardner. I shoulda stopped at four."

"I learned this a long time ago. Safari is difficult to enjoy with headache."

"I'm not going on safari," Hump griped. "No, not me. Too old, the ranger said."

"Why not a day trip? You could go to the Mara, and back, in less than six hours."

"I don't want to go Mara. I want to camp and...ah, forget it. You don't want to hear my complainin'."

" _The_ Mara is a river to the north, near the border with Kenya."

"I don't want to see a river. There are plenty of rivers where I'm from. I'm interested in the seeing the crater. Whatchacallit?"

"Ngorongoro."

"Bingo."

"Yes, I know. Your musician friend spoke to me last night after you left. He thinks I have pull, or something, at this place. I tell him, I'm a retired civil servant. A private individual. Besides, you don't want to go to the Ngorongoro Crater. Forget about it and visit the Mara instead."

"Why?"

"Ngorongoro is a wicked place," Peiper asserted, waving the maimed travesty of his left hand. "Site of many depravities, including my own disfigurement sixty years ago this August."

Curious, Hump scooted his chair closer and asked, "What depravities?"

"It's the site where paranthropus boisei was discovered by Herr Beger. Location of early man and the birth of superstition. The indigenous negroes claim the Ngorongoro Crater was created by the body of Mũrogi after it fell from the sky."

"Who is _Moo-ro-gee_?"

"It's like...a devil. I say _like_ because I can't describe. The natives relate it's a force diminishing life."

"Death?"

"Death, dying, malevolence, the end. Mũrogi's repellent remains poison the air and ground of Ngorongoro. Nothing good happens there. The indigenous slaughtered many near the crater, then the English slaughtered the indigenous and, of course, the attempt on Chancellor Dönitz happened at Ngorongoro. So much death."

"I don't know nothing about _that_ ," Hump said. "I've always wanted to see the crater."

"Are you a caldera enthusiast?"

"I reckon," Hump said with a shrug.

"Ah, look at me. I'm intruding on your peace. My apologies." Peiper winked the good peeper and then returned attention to the periodical.

"It's fine, mister," Hump said. "I could use the distraction of conversation."

"There aren't many Americans visiting the Safaripark these days," Peiper said as he perused the newsprint. "Your country has made travel to foreign locations a thorny endeavor."

"Not all places."

"Yes, I suppose you're truthful. I should restate, hm?"

"Nazi places," Hump pronounced.

Peiper looked at Hump, smiled, and then said, " _Or,_ settings under the benevolent umbrella of the Third Reich. It's nice to see a face undeterred by the negative propaganda infesting your media."

"Come again?"

"Your president, Symington, is a magnet for pessimism. I read the articles in _Völkischer Beobachter_. The American liberal opposition is vicious in their harangues. It is a short leap from bombast to violence."

"Them liberals ain't gonna get violent."

"I'm not speaking of the liberals. At least, not in this situation. But since you've broached the subject...Delano Roosevelt was a Democrat. He was not afraid to _get violent_. And Truman. The atomic bombs and-"

"Different situation, pal. And just because I've come to the Safaripark doesn't mean I'm a supporter of President Symington. Or Nazis."

"But this is what your American liberals would argue."

"They'd be wrong. Matter of fact, my brother fought in the War. What you fellas call-"

"The Sequel War," Peiper finished.

Hump took a sip of coffee before saying, "Hank was U.S. Army, stormed Normandy and pushed into Belgium."

Peiper's eye widened and he asked, "Ardennes?"

"Ayup. Hank was attached to Patton's Third Army. They were supposed to push towards Koblenz but got stuck near Malmady."

"Patton's Boondoggle," Peiper declared.

"Jeez O'Pete. Even you guys call it that?"

"We have a more...shameful name. _Patton's Versauen_. Means cockup or fuckup. The OKW took advantage of Patton's enthusiasm and let him blunder into a trap."

"I don't know what the OKW is, but Hank always claimed it was a German feint."

"Oberkommando der Wehrmacht. High Command. And yes, it was planned. What happened to your brother?"

"He caught shrapnel but managed to make it west. Died twenty some years ago of cancer."

"Condolences."

"Hank and I weren't close, but I appreciate the sentiment. He fell into the liquor bottle and never climbed his way out."

"Battle scars aren't just physical."

"You're darn tootin'. Back in the day them doctors called it shell shock. It was implied the effect would disappear after a spell. Like a hangover. But...memories don't fade so easy. You can't sleep 'em off."

"Truer words were never spoken. I was in Belgium. A stone's throw from Malmady."

"Small world."

"Indeed. I ruminate about the experience. Not as often as I once did because other events..." Peiper cracked a smile and then said, "Did you know the Wehrmacht could've crushed what remained of the U.S. Third? Your General Eisenhower negotiated a ceasefire while the bulk of the American army retreated. A goodwill gesture extended by the Führer. How many men returned like your brother? Guilt-ridden. Ashamed. For what? The Führer didn't have animosity against America. Your country was tricked into warfare by your devious politicians and their industrialist cohorts. Roosevelt claimed neutrality but sent weapons and oil to the English and Russians. Colonialists and Communists do not make good allies."

"I reckon you're correct, but I'm not a history expert. All I know is Hank was sure bitter. My pa also served, but he did a rotation in the First World War. And, like Hank, he was sour."

"Combat is cruel," Peiper confirmed with a sedate nod.

"Speakin' of which...last night, Jerry Lee said you were a Reichsführer. Mentioned you were a bigwig in the SS or sumptin."

"Many lifetimes ago. Yes, many. And many lifetimes ago, I would have taken offense at your characterization."

"What now?"

"Perhaps you meant no ill will, but my comment of _combat is cruel_ commanded your insolent declaration and..." Peiper studied Hump's mystified expression and then said, "It was how you articulated the statement."

"I meant no disrespect. I'm curious how a fella elects to retire here. Off the beaten path, wouldn't you say?"

"Hmm...yes, the Safaripark is _off the beaten path_. I tired of city life and Berlin grew into a place I didn't recognize. After my wife died, the Serengeti seemed an apt spot to abscond. I'll die, and be buried, here. Seems fair. I should've been killed at Ngorongoro in '57. Or, if you like, Mũrogi compels my return to claim what it wants. Perhaps it's fate. Do you ever think about fate?"

"Once in a while."

"As I age, my mind drifts to the past. I'm sure yours does the same. Decisions, regrets, joy and heartache. It feels as if...don't laugh at me, but I wonder if I'm reliving my life as I lay on my deathbed. Before I know it, I'll be there. Waiting for the end, thinking about where all the time went, understanding life's moments, like this conversation, are transitory."

"A dark thought, pardner."

Peiper shrugged and took a mouthful from his cup.

"I'm not planning my funeral yet," Hump said. "Though, right now I feel ready to be planted. I need to sleep off this hangover. I'm hopin' my roommate can keep quiet for a few hours."

"Your friend, the one you were sitting with last night. Who is he? Grandson, companion..."

"He's my doctor."

"Please," Peiper said with a snort. "The lad I observed is no doctor."

"Welp, I'll tell you a secret. He's not a people doctor."

"What kind of doctor is he?"

"He, um...he's a whiz with them computers and...whatnot. And I'll tell you sumptin else. The kid is my caretaker at the community I reside. Yeah, I know he doesn't look like it, but Jason's a big help."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but the boy appears incompetent."

"He's supposed to keep me from bein' a nuisance."

Peiper had another sip before saying, "You came here with others. Media, if I'm not mistaken."

"You sure do pay attention for someone who claims to be retired."

"Ha-ha. I could see where you might take offense. My SS roots present themselves at inopportune moments. The phrase about old habits? It's true."

"Them two others work at a sports computer magazine. They want to write a story on me. I used to be a semi-famous athlete and baseball manager."

"If they're writing a story about you, why did they leave you?"

"Good question, general."

"General," Peiper laughed. "I don't mean to be nitpickish, but the equivalent rank of Reichsführer to a Heer officer-"

"Heer?"

"The German army. The equivalent rank is _Generalfeldmarschall_. Or, in terms of your American military, a General of the Army. What is referred to as a five-star general. You've heard of this, eh?"

"Sure. A big shot."

"The biggest. In the _Schutzstaffel_ , the SS, I was top of the pyramid. Only six people have held this baton. I was the third."

Hump whistled and then asked, "How long?"

"Thirty years, almost to the day. I was appointed in '57 after my predecessor, Herr Kaltenbrunner, died. As a matter of fact, he passed in Seronera. Ernst had a...a poor heart. Every job in the Reichstag is bad for the ticker, but Reichsführer-SS is the _worst_. This job ages men faster than the typical slash of administrative drivel."

"Sounds like a season with Billy Martin."

"Who?"

"An old chum. Billy liked to live the fast life, but it killed him young. But, see, it looks like you figured a way around the potholes."

"I don't follow."

"You said the job of Reichsführer was bad for the health. I ain't talkin' to a ghost, am I?"

"Oh," Peiper chuckled. "As you can see, I'm decorated with the physical hardships of civil service. I should be dead. _Blessed is he who bleeds after battle, but heroic is he who breathes no more_. Do you know who said this?"

"I don't even _understand_ it."

"Himmler claims the quote, although I have my doubts he conjured the words. The man was two-dimensional and sniveled at the boot of the Führer. Verbose vocabulary for an agronomist, wouldn't you say? It means heroes find ways to die for country. Some of us aren't fated by Providence to become icons, but it's not because we don't try. In regards to my tenure...I encountered trouble from the start. A few days after assuming control of the SS, the assassination attempt was thwarted. I wasn't enthusiastic about the Chancellor hosting a summit in Africa, but I understood the motivation. Alas, the perfect storm of treachery fermented. But...eh...pardon my flapping gums. I could wax the historical shoes for hours and make them shiny, but we were talking about your friends in the media. How they abandoned you."

"Ain't it grand? Left me for the wonders of the Serengeti. Guess they got tired of my blabberin'."

Peiper jabbed the newspaper in front of him and declared, "The press is always duplicitous. I'm not too dense to understand hyperbole. Like your factions in America. They are stoked by the media and when violence escalates, there is much handwringing. In secret, though, the press celebrates. Drama sells a narrative. People would be wise to see through the ruse, but they are blinded by outrage. I used to believe this a unique problem of your beloved and ballyhooed American freedoms, but even in the Reich we have troublemakers."

"My guys aren't...what did you say?"

"Duplicitous. Means deceitful and-"

"I get it. Those folks aren't tricky. They write about sports. I reckon they just tired of me."

"Ah," Peiper sighed. "It's tough getting old. Tougher still when you don't feel the age. At some point in our lives, we reached the point where we stopped being adults and became children. Do you follow?"

"Mister, I know _exactly_ what you mean. I just wouldn't have been able to say it without getting my tongue twisted."

"You can blame my second career in politics for the robust verbiage. When I was a soldier, my vocabulary was concise and truculent. _Ahem_...back to the discussion at hand. Regardless of what you say, I don't believe your sports journalists are impartial. They have an agenda, do they not? Debate of coaching strategies, players, the officials, and so forth."

"Ayup, you make an argument, though I figured the press was just doin' a job. When I was coaching, I caught hell on a regular basis and you know what? I deserved the scrutiny. The diehard fan has an interest in a team transcendin' even personal relationships. There's a spiritual investment. Nutty as it sounds, a club becomes the identity of the individual."

"A physic connection. Yes, I grasp the implication. Similar to the stem duchy or _Volksgemeinschaft..._ although...forgive me, I am using the concept in an obtuse fashion. I mean to say the team represents a community invested in the same goal. Piety for country, and sport, is slaked _only_ by victory."

"Yes, sir, but there's also tangible relationship. Stadiums, paraphernalia, players, coaches and-"

"Say no more. The Führer's idea of melding...how I do say...the corporeal and conceptual. Do you follow?"

Hump _didn't_ follow, but nodded like he did.

"And you're an icon of the baseball?"

"Baseball, Peiper. You can drop _the_ and call it baseball. And, um... _icon_ is a lavish description."

"You're humble. Modesty is a commendable attribute. What organization did you swear allegiance?"

"It doesn't work like..." Hump began, before deciding to sacrifice a lengthy explanation. "The Yankees," he reported. "The New York Yankees."

"I've heard of this team. The fat man, Babe Ruth. He was a Yankees baseball icon."

"Him and about a hundred others."

"I confess, I know little about your American baseball. The Yankees and...what club was it?" Peiper drummed fingers on the tabletop and then said, "I recall a woman owner who complemented the Führer. This was decades ago."

"You're thinkin' of Marge Schott."

"Was she a Yankee?"

"Nope. Cincinnati. The Reds."

Peiper grimaced and then said, "The Reds? Ack, what a dreadful appellation. Christened for communists?"

"They used to be the Red Stockings, but the name was shortened long before commies came to be."

"I'm surprised it's allowed to remain. This wouldn't be allowed in Germany."

"People in America separate sports from politics. Or they used to, I should say. I guess there's no escaping the grandstanding today. At one time, sports were a distraction from the world. Those days are long gone."

"The baseball commotion never took in Germany, or Europe. Football is popular, but competition of individual endeavor is preferred. Pugilistic exhibitions, tennis or track and field. Baseball is like, eh...how do I say without offending?"

"If you're gonna say it's too slow, then you better not tell me your football, so-called, is like watching fireworks. Soccer is the pokiest game I've ever seen."

"No, I wasn't going to say anything of the sort. Perhaps baseball is _too_ American. Unique to your society. Nuanced and peculiar, with copious rules. Football is unfussy. Kick the ball into the goal. The field is rectangular. There is a set time, a running clock."

"I thought Germans enjoyed rules."

Peiper chuckled and then said, "Germans enjoy _making_ rules. But having to follow a rubric constructed by non-Germans is another matter."

"I can school you on the particulars if you're inclined."

"Come to think of it, I do have a question. What is it called? The championship trophy match?"

"The World Series, I think is what your askin'."

"Yes. Did you play in one?"

"One? Hell, I played in seven. Also was an assistant coach for three. Ten total. Six rings."

"Impressive. No wonder they do a story on Herr...I didn't catch your name."

"Hump. Short for Humphrey. Hump Hammerbacher."

"Herr Hammerbacher," Peiper cooed. "A strong German surname."

"Yep. I was third generation removed from the old country. O'course, I guess back when my grandpappy left it wasn't a country."

"You are accurate. Germany was a collection of autonomous territories after the collapse of the First Reich, known in Western history books as the Holy Roman Empire. Like your American states under the Articles of Confederation and Perpetual Union. In the case of Germany, Otto von Bismarck unified these regions into a nation. The Second Reich. He was our George Washington and Jacob Shallus."

"Jacob who?"

"The man who penned your Constitution. Are you not familiar with this name?"

"Jesus, pal. You know more about American history than I do."

"It's important to brush-up on adversaries. Of course, the Third Reich and the United States are no longer antagonistic superpowers. Together, we've stomped from the earth the scourge of communism."

"Right. Together. When I was kid in the late forties, everyone in the states was worried about finding communists. We went to war with the Chinese while you guys were brawlin' with what was left of the Ruskies."

"Yes, the Partisan Wars in Russland. The Yaik Cossacks were stubborn people. Nasty business. As the head of the SS, I had a full plate."

"Speak of the devil. Can I ask a question?"

"Hmm?"

"What does the SS do?"

"Do?"

"I've heard about them relocation camps and stuff."

"Ah, of course. The _concentration_ camps. _That_ is a hackneyed subject, Herr Hammerbacher."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the SS was in charge of 'em."

"Not the Waffen-SS. We were warriors, not babysitters of retard heredities. The real problem were the nitwits tasked with custodianship of those sites. Totenkopfverbände degenerates. Make-believe soldiers, the lot of them. Couldn't run a watch, let alone a penal camp. Lousy sanitation, diseases, wretched planning... not to mention the medical experiments. Deviant trials run by sick individuals. The Medical Corps...what a disgusting group. Pardon my language, but the subject irritates."

"Let's pretend I didn't ask."

"No, no, I intend to answer. You asked what the SS does. The simplest explanation...mmm, the SS is a police force."

"But ya'll fight in wars?"

"Perhaps your definition of war is different than mine. Do your police not shoot criminals?"

"Doesn't mean they're at war with the people."

"No?" Peiper queried, wrinkling his brow. "There is racial strife in your country and your police are obligated to protect the law abiding from the lawless. The lawless are your negroes and foreigners."

"Not all of 'em. Mister, we got plenty of white folk who are more than capable of causing havoc. You ever heard of Charles Starkweather? Ted Kascizsky?"

"Let me rephrase. No, not _all_ , but the majority. The SS handles things in the same manner. The stated goal is to enforce peace and protect the Chancellor. Those who wish to do harm are the same tripe causing havoc in your country. Foreigners, superstitious denominations and minorities."

" _Enforce peace_ sounds like an oxymoron."

"Believe it or not, I agree with you...more or less. No matter what anyone says, peace cannot exist in a world were factions are allowed to flourish. The Greater European Reich, known today as the Schengen Area, _is_ peaceful. The continent was swept clean of those with questionable lineage and the foolish who swore allegiance to the imaginary almighty. The experiment your nation likes to _pretend_ is a success, this rash idea of a melting pot, promotes discord. It's as if Americans are blind to the failures of race mixing. You'd think the pendulum would've swung in the other direction by now."

"To what? Segregation ain't the answer. I lived in the South during Jim Crow. Them blacks were treated like vermin."

"You misunderstand. I'm not talking about segregation. Germany tried to separate races before and during the war. This model failed. I'm speaking of removal. Short of exclusion, you'll always have minorities in protest, screeching about rights, and creating havoc."

"Yeah? If the German model is such a success, why the need for the SS?"

Peiper scooted his chair a smidge closer and then said, "The German model _is_ a success. Do you know what the Führer managed to achieve in his tenure? He displaced the agitators and those with polluted ancestries. _Die Große Evakuierung_ is the term Herr Goebbels liked to spew, but it's an apt description. It means The Great Evacuation. The Reich managed to remove blocs of undesirables and prevent them from harming both the Germanic bloodline and the sanctity of the German way of life."

"By plunging the world into war."

"A war Germany did not start."

"Bah," Hump said, waving his hands. "You may not have started the second one, but your kin started the first."

"You need a history lesson, Herr Hammerbacher. A concise explanation of what happened during, and after, the First World War."

"You fellas lost is what happened."

"Yes, Germany surrendered with a standing army in enemy territory. This is quite a novel concept, wouldn't you say?"

"I'd say your Kaiser listened to reason."

"No, the Kaiser was stabbed in the back by the rascal Scheidemann and his Jew coffers. And what did they do in the aftermath? Created the toothless Weimer Republic and embraced rampant inflation instigated by Jew moneylenders and their communist rabble-rousers. But...I'll take pity on you. It's too early for elegiac conversation."

"Say what?"

"History is a melancholic subject and you were asking about the SS. As I said, it's a police force. No more, no less. The requirement to maintain peace is those tasked with enforcing it. The world abounds with scoundrels' intent on inflicting agony on those who have what these rascals desire. Call it what you want. Jealousy, avarice...some religious mania knowing only blood to satiate anger. Notice how I used the term _evacuate_ when describing the Führer's plan? Pardon the expression, but the Führer killed two birds with a single stone. One, it cleared Europe and Russland of those who'd never assimilate. Two, it placed these folks far from the Reich. The Sequel War achieved peace in Europe for centuries to come."

"But not peace in the world."

"My point. Look at the Middle East. Could you imagine what the militant Jews would do to Berlin if they were allowed to inhabit the place? Instead, they tangle with Arabs and launch nuisance attacks on German targets in the Levant. However," Peiper added with a satisfied nod, "they don't strike the heart of government. You'd think, by now, these Yid terrorists would've learned their lessons. But no, it's the same trouble year upon year, decade upon decade. The Wehrmacht can do so much. Those men and women are soldiers, airmen and sailors, not trained police. Hence, the SS must take responsibility and _enforce peace_."

Hump wasn't impressed and said, "Evacuated, huh? The SS killed them Jews, pardner."

"The Aliyah was bungled, I'll admit, but the relocation of ten million European Jews to Mandatory Palestine was a massive undertaking. There were partisans among the bunch, and the old and scheming as well. The Yids are a devious lot and they..." Peiper pursed lips and exhaled, as if forcing his tongue to cooperate. Then he smiled and said, "Regardless, mistakes were made. I wasn't aware of the degree of depravity, nor were many in the Reich hierarchy. I was at the front almost the entirety of the Sequel War. Appropriate punishment was meted after the Red Cross report. Himmler was cashiered, the Reich Racial Hygiene doctors were imprisoned or executed, and the Jews received recompense. And... _and_ , the Jews received their precious Homeland, Mandatory Palestine. What does everyone remember? A few million dead Jews, not the work and expense the Third Reich shouldered to make the exodus a success. Do you know why? The international cabal of Jewry. Your country shares some of the blame. The Hollywood types, the liberal literati, and those who are ignorant to history try to sway opinion and market lies. There needs to be a reasonable counterargument to the hysterical misinformation, but your country, despite so-called freedom of expression, refuses to allow those of sensible leanings to present a defense."

Well, like it or not, Hump had opened a can of worms he couldn't close. The last thing he wanted to argue were semantics with a man who used more brain than Hump did on his best day, let alone a morning with a mind saturated in cheap scotch. Peiper could've been one hundred two or two. It didn't matter. The former Reichsführer could talk circles around a subject Hump knew little.

"Here I am," Peiper said with a smile, "jabbering like I'm in the Reichsführer's office at Number Eight Prinz-Albrecht-Straße. Not at breakfast talking to a famous American baseball player. My apologies. Again."

"It's alright."

"No, I see trepidation on your face. I'm passionate about this subject and you asked me a question. I can't help but expound."

"Well, I think you answered it."

"Not quite. The Schutzstaffel are police, this much is factual. The best constabulary force in the world. Better than your FBI. Every man, enlisted to officer, swears a loyalty oath to the SS. The preservation of the Reich is foremost. My wounds were received fulfilling this mandate. Look at me. I wear these injuries with pride. You don't know what I endured to prevent Chancellor Dönitz from being killed by the Jews and indigenous. Would you believe I saved a man I despised?" Peiper became animated as he asked the question; spittle flew from his mouth and his right eye narrowed. The Orientals at the nearby table grew quiet and Hump leaned backwards. Peiper answered his own query a second later with a flash of red in each cheek, adding rosette to his gray pallor. "The Chancellor wanted to eliminate the SS. He thought of us like all the officers of the Wehrmacht did. Those fussy _zu's_ and _von's_ , baron _this_ and Graf _that_. Why do you think I never took a monocle? This patch signifies sacrifice. Salic Law's and patrilineality is a vestige of the Middle Ages. The SS, and its hardscrabble servants, propelled the Reich to a world superpower."

Thankfully, at this moment, Jason appeared at the entrance. Hair askew and eyes bloodshot, the kid looked worse than Hump felt. Dressed in a yellow tank top, orange baggy shorts and flipflops, Jason rubbed eyes, yawned, and then blinked. Though the bistro was almost empty, the kid took an inordinate time scanning the room. At last he spied Hump and weaved to the table.

Meanwhile, Peiper continued to talk in the same agitated manner. He managed to dovetail the camps the American army corralled Asian communists to the internment centers the Germans collected European Jews, Roma and communists in. Then he mentioned the United States used atom bombs to level Japanese cities full of civilians. Hump had to damn near bite tongue to keep quiet. It took Jason forever to cross the floor, but he didn't disappoint when arriving. The kid stumbled over feet and fell into the table, rattling Hump's cup of coffee and spilling a few drops. Peiper snapped his mouth shut and frowned at the intruder.

"Here you are," Jason said. "I rolled outta bed and thought you wandered into the Serengeti."

"I ain't senile," Hump said.

"Jury's still out," Jason replied with a smirk. Then he grimaced and declared, "Man, I feel like dogshit."

"Ahem," Peiper grumbled. "Quite a noisy interruption. I presume this whirling dervish has a name?"

"Ayup," Hump said, elbowing Jason. "Kid, say hello to Reichsführer Peiper."

"I'm Jason," the kid announced. Then he turned to Hump and whispered, "Am I supposed to, like, shake his hand or his..." Jason glanced at Peiper's unpleasant left appendage and winced.

"He doesn't have leprosy," Hump said.

"What're you doing, pops? You scared me."

"I was havin' breakfast and Peiper wandered in. We're makin' small talk."

"Sure, great," Jason replied. "I'm going upstairs to crash for a couple more hours. I just wanted to make sure you're hunky-dory."

"Right as rain," Hump claimed. "Say, kid, the Reichsführer was yappin' about the crater."

"Ngorongoro," Peiper added. "Your charge seems hellbent on visiting."

"Not the crater again," Jason griped. Then he mussed Hump's hair and declared, "Lover of landscape, this one."

Peiper said, "A genuine naturalist, eh? I'd love to make this happen, but I'm afraid the Ngorongoro caldera is closed to visitors. I enquired this morning, about procuring a vehicle and ranger, and was told no traffic is allowed. However, the highlands are open. Of course, this is between you two and me. The official word is there is a cordon around the crater, extending about thirty kilometers in every direction."

"Sounds serious," Jason said. "Maybe we should pass on seeing this hole in the ground, pops."

"Nobody is allowed?" Hump asked. "How can a crater be closed?"

"Yes, it sounds outrageous," Peiper said, "but the answer is suitable. There is a controlled burn taking place within the crater. The area has been socked by drought since the turn of the century. Those with education feel now is the time to prevent a conflagration in the future. It's far beyond my level of understanding, so I'll accept the thesis. To wit: German scientists are concerned a brushfire caused by a natural, or unnatural accelerate, would be disobedient. Hence, the decision was made to thin the grasses in the crater."

"Not the highlands?" asked Hump.

"No, but a good question. I can only assume those brainboxes are concerned a burn on the highlands could spread beyond containment. The crater sits in a basin-"

"I know what a crater looks like," Hump said. "This cordon...you mean like guards?"

"Guards?" Peiper laughed. "I doubt it. The Reich respects the sovereignty of Tanganyika, no matter how worthless it is. Bringing the Heer onto their wretched soil would cause some handwringing. No, I'm told it's being handled in an innocuous manner. Brabag has been given tacit permission-"

Hump's eyes widened and he interrupted with a throaty, "Brabag?"

"Yes, it's a German company," Peiper explained.

"I know what Brabag is," Hump said. "They handle energy and stuff."

" _And stuff_ ," Peiper said with a grin. "Ah, I enjoy how Americans are so...vague in their language. No offense."

Waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, Hump thought of Barrone and wondered how the editor was making out in Grumiti.

Peiper continued, "If you'd like, I could see about getting you a touch closer. Not close enough to stand in the crater, but inside the ring zone. I know of a few choice locations. You'll be able to see the basin, as well enjoy the serenity of sward and lazing animals."

"You could do this?" asked Hump.

"My reputation still carries weight," Peiper said in a haughty tone. "And, if repute doesn't do the trick, a few Reichsmarks will."

"Oh, man, you don't got to bribe anyone on our account. This seems like more trouble than it's worth. Right, pops?" Jason asked, nudging Hump's shoe with a flip flop.

"Pfft, thinking nothing of it," Peiper said.

"Hmm," Hump mused. "I'd hate to cause trouble."

"I agree," Jason seconded.

"On the other hand," Hump said, "I'll never get this chance again."

"Then it's settled!" Peiper exclaimed.

"Hold on, pardner," Hump said. "You aren't speakin' in code, are you?"

"Code? I'm afraid I don't follow."

Hump glanced around the restaurant, then stared Peiper in the eyes and asked, in a hushed voice, "There ain't like militants in the area."

"Goodness, no! Where did you get such a wild idea? Wait, let me guess...your media pals?"

"Who else but them," Hump said with another wave of his hand. "Well...them and the fellas who carted us to the park from Nairobi."

"Negroes?" Peiper asked.

"Negroes," chuckled Jason. "Good Lord, are you from the Deep South, too?"

"What would you call the indigenous?" Peiper asked.

"I don't know...how 'bout _indigenous_?"

"Call them what you like," Peiper bristled. "Appellations aren't important."

"One of 'em was black," Hump reported. "The other, the driver, was a white guy."

"The dudes in our ride were black," Jason said. "And they weren't the talkative type. Unlike Hump, who could peel paint with his voice. Ain't you about ready for a nap, pops?"

"I'm right as rain," Hump declared.

"He slept on the floor of the bathroom last night," Jason informed. "I mean, after he puked. You shoulda heard him. _Blaach! Blaach!_ I thought pops was gonna hurl a lung."

Hump rolled his eyes and said, "Scoot, kid. You're lowering the collective intelligence at this here pow-wow."

"The lad is charming," Peiper said with a nod, "but I'm afraid I must be going. I stick to a routine and now's the time I take my constitutional. I do a kilometer every morning. Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure. And if you are serious about visiting the highlands, let me know."

"I'm sure a quick peek wouldn't hurt," Hump said. "You could come, Peiper. We'll make a day of it."

"Me? Ha, I'm afraid not. I've no desire to cram into a Kubelwagen for hours and see a crater. I spend my days on the porch and, believe you me, this view is plenty satisfactory for a man my age. Perhaps _you_ can join _me_ , Herr Hammerbacher, when you're feeling livelier. We can continue our discussion of politics. Or, if you like, sports." Peiper winked his eye and gathered the newspaper, ending further conversation.

***

"Way to go, kid," Hump bitched, staring at the ceiling. "I was gettin' somewhere with Peiper until you came along."

Jason, digging through a duffel bag, ignored the comment and said, "What we need is an edible. Nothing better for a hangover than a little wakey-bakey."

"The best cure is sleep. And water. We should be drinking gallons."

"Did you read this in _Poor Richard's_?"

"Jeez O'Pete. Aren't you a barrel of laughs? Put your grass away. I don't want any. I just need some shuteye to feel right as rain."

"Suit yourself, but I'm not drinking water from this place. It's crawling with microbes and shit. And I do mean shit."

Hump stretched, tried to get comfortable on the rigid box spring, and then counseled, "You'd make a better impression if you weren't such a chucklehead."

"Chucklehead?"

"An idiot, dummy."

"Who am I trying to impress?"

"It's called decorum. What adults used to have before the world went kooky."

"Mm-hmm. You ought to give your hero Jerry Lee Lewis a pep talk on decorum, because he sure needs one."

"The Killer ain't...lookit, these Europeans are a little more rigid."

"Because they're Nazis," Jason said. He yanked out a couple of shirts and tossed them aside before returning attention to the duffel.

"Correct. And when I'm chattin' with Peiper, the last thing I need is you corruptin' the moment."

"Captain Hook," Jason giggled. "Because, you know, he has an eye patch and-"

"You don't need to elaborate. And this is what I'm talkin' about, knucklehead."

"Yar matey. Guy looks like a science experiment gone wrong. How old did Jerry Lee say he is?"

"Hundred and two."

"Eh gods! I guess he doesn't look _too_ bad for being over a century old. I mean, once you forget about the missing eye, fingers, and stitches...oh yeah, and the grafted skin. Did you see his neck?"

"Ayup."

"What was the guy? Reichsfucker or something?"

" _Reichsführer_ , dumdum. Head of the dog and pony show. He also mentioned the SS are glorified policemen."

The kid paused rustling and snorted, "Yea, right."

"His explanation, not mine."

"You better watch what you say to him."

"I'm makin' a friend. An _important_ friend."

"Because you wanna go to this stupid crater. The one boarded and nailed shut."

Hump closed his eyes and said, "The best play might be to take a tour of the highlands, like Peiper offered. My damn head hurts so much, I'm havin' a hard time thinkin' straight."

A moment later, the foot of the bed dipped with the weight of the kid's rump. Hump opened his eyes and watched Jason dig through the Ziploc of edibles. He removed a blue gummy, inspected it in the light, and then tossed it into his mouth. Noisy chewing followed, then a sigh, and Jason slumped forward, resting his head in both hands.

"I hate hangovers," the kid complained. "So, pardon me for being irritable. How about you tell me what's goin' on."

"Nothin' is _goin' on_ , other than I want to see _gore-on-goro_."

Jason turned his head, a sluggish movement, and stared at Hump like a beat dog.

"Why you given' me the pouty face?" Hump asked.

"Because you got a bee in your bonnet and I wanna know what it is. _The best play_ , you said. Explain."

"Ain't no bee in ole Hump's bonnet."

"I know you think I'm stupid, and maybe I ain't the brightest bulb, but you're up to something."

"If I'm up to sumptin, you'll be the first to know."

"See, just like I said."

"What?"

"You're treating me like a moron. Look, I'm supposed to keep you from doing something idiotic. First you were talking about going to the crater last night, and this morning you're doing the same with Peiper."

"I wanna go to the crater. Big deal!"

"Big deal, huh?" Jason tossed the Ziploc aside and then said, "I bet I know why. Your son was found there, wasn't he?"

"I don't know."

Jason rose from the bed and began pacing from the bureau to the foot of Hump's bed, left hand on hip, right scratching the back of his neck. "Yea, it makes sense," the kid said. "You're playing Barrone. Sending him to...where was it?"

"He and Dirk went to the Grumeti Game Reserve. Along with, I might add, them Krauts who want to keep tabs on nebbish journalists."

"Uh-huh. Barrone isn't going to find anything, eh?"

"Beats me."

"Ha, sure! Alright, genius, what are you going to do if can get to this crater."

"I just want to see it. Nutin else, kid."

Pausing in front of Hump, Jason squared shoulder and shook his head. "You heard Peiper," the kid said. "It's closed. There's no way you're getting a tour of it."

"Who said I wanted a tour. Ain't you listenin'? I want to see the crater. _See it_. You see with your eyes."

"Nothin' else, right?"

"I mean..." Hump yawned and then mumbled, "perhaps I could talk Peiper into lettin' me go into the crater."

"To do what?"

"Look around."

"You need sleep. You're making zero sense."

"I got this far, didn't I? I'm in Africa after everyone told me not to go."

"Yeah, you're in _Africa_. It's not like you went to the moon, pops. Guess what? I'm in Africa, too. With you. In a place run by Nazis. You want to see the crater because you think your son was buried there? Alright. I'll buy it. You don't want Barrone nosing around? Okay. I just think you're pushing _our_ luck. Be satisfied with where you are, not where you want to go. Make sense?"

"It's a good thing Christopher Columbus didn't listen to people like you. He'd have never found America."

"Columbus didn't find America, and we're not talking about the same thing. Barrone told me these Germans will kick us out if you make a scene. Maybe arrest us. And he made me swear I wouldn't let this happen. So, why don't you eat an edible and relax. You're agitated."

"I'm not eatin' anymore grass," Hump argued. "I gotta have a clear head."

"A clear head to do what? Devise a scheme?"

"There's always a way. Every problem has a solution. This situation isn't different than figurin' who to pitch in a close game."

"Geez, pops, this ain't no baseball game we're playing."

"What if it is?"

"Uh-huh. Now you're speakin' gibberish."

"Bucky Dent," Hump retorted with a sneer.

"Bucky Dent?"

"Bucky Dent hit a three-run dinger off Mike Torrez in '78 to help us win the AL East title from the Red Sox. He was the ninth batter and hit sumptin like thirty career homers. Bucky never hit for power, but he found lightnin' in a bottle in Boston."

"You were the manager?"

"Bob Lemon was. I was the third base coach."

"And I should care because..."

"Aren't you payin' attention? Sometimes a man is put in the right position and finds a...a way to triumph."

"What about the guy who served up the pitch?"

"Mikey Torrez? What about him?"

"You talk about success, but there's the other side of the coin."

"Who cares? What are you? A Red Sox fan?"

Jason scoffed and then muttered, "You're a pain in my ass, pops."

"Here's the straight poop, kid. Torrez was on the Yankees in '77. Helped us win the World Series, and then bolted to Boston as free agent. A lot of guys were sour at Mikey. It seemed fitting he served the gopher ball to Bucky. This is what I'm talkin' about when I say sometimes things don't happen by accident."

"Right, because God decided he wanted the Yankees to win."

"Or, it could be God was givin' Mikey Torrez a taste of humility."

"Ever heard of coincidence?"

"Ayup, and if this is the case, I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"I can play this game, too. You ready for it?" Jason smirked and then announced, "Harry Truman."

"You got sumptin smart to say about one of the best presidents?"

"Not the president, pops. The other one."

"What other one?"

"The stubborn codger who refused to move when Mount Saint Helens was rumbling."

"Bah," Hump mumbled. "You're inventin' shit."

"I saw a video about him on-"

"Your Tube," Hump finished. "Another one of your stupid videos, huh?"

"Truman refused to budge and guess what? When the volcano erupted, his house got buried under, like, two hundred feet of ash and lava. Matter of fact, he was about your age. And you kinda look like him."

"So what? _If_ this fella is real-"

"He _was_. And if he would've listened to people, he'd be alive. Well...I guess he'd be dead now, but he wouldn't have died then."

"And you're talkin' about him today, which means he accomplished sumptin."

"Oh, for cryin' out loud! You didn't even know who he was. How famous is he?"

"And you never heard of Bucky Dent. I guess we're square."

"Alright, let's say you can't convince Peiper to let you go the crater. What're you going to do?"

"I don't know...yet. I reckon I could ditch the escort-"

"Ditch the escort? How? Wrestle him to the ground and truss him?"

"I'll do what I gots to do. Then I'm gonna hoof it to the damn hole in the ground."

"Hike! Are you crazy? Shit, maybe you are. Those animals, man. Some of 'em eat people! And it's hot out there! You'll die of a heatstroke."

"I'm not living forever."

"Well, I'm convinced."

"Convinced of what?"

"Convinced you _are_ bonkers!"

"Look, I can't expect you to understand. I've been thinkin' about this. Thinkin' _a lot_ , kid. Destiny and...fate, I guess you could call it. Jerry Lee Lewis is here. So is the former Reichsführer. How else can you explain this?"

"I can't, but I know one thing: God had nothing to do with it."

"How do you know?"

"Aye caramba. I'm _positive_ God doesn't have a hand in this. I mean...fate is weird, I'll grant you, but all of this could be like...a complicated math equation. Something us puny brains can't comprehend. There's a band called Modest Mouse, and they have this song. 'Never Ending Equation' is the title. The jist is the entire universe is an equation. If someone could figure it out, they'd know the future, or how to control it. Of course, there's no way to decipher the problem because we lack the intellect. Follow?"

"Fine, math or God, does it matter what you call it?"

"I'll say one thing: if this equation involves a hundred-year-old cripple and a piano player, there's not enough weed to make me understand!"

"Kid, you're a barrel of laughs."

"I'm not trying to be funny. You need to listen to what you're spouting."

"Them Krauts are scouring the crater, kid. They're up to sumptin."

"They're up to something, all right. They're burning the crater, like Peiper said."

"You believe him? He's a Nazi. They're bred to lie. And what I think," Hump whispered, sneaky-like, "is they're hidin' clues."

"Even if they are, and even if you somehow get there, they ain't gonna say shit to you. Prolly arrest you if you get in the way. You should've told Barrone. He's gonna meltdown when he realizes you lied."

"He'll get a story. It's just me who's tellin' it. Kid, you wanted sumptin for Your Tube? This will make you the cat's meow."

"It's _YouTube_ , for the hundredth time. But..." Jason rubbed his chin, chuckled and then pronounced, "You're whacked, pops. I can't let anything happen to you, man. I made a promise and I'd feel awful if you got hurt."

"I absolve you of guilt," Hump said, closing eyes again.

"If you plan on going to the highlands, then I'm coming with you."

"I'll think about."

"No, you don't have a say in the matter."

"I'll think about," Hump repeated. "Now, no more talk. I need a nap. You wanna close the curtains, kid?"

# 13. Hump 'n Idea

Four hours and ten minutes later, around what passed as lunchtime at the Safaripark, Hump found the former Reichsführer folded into a rocking chair on the porch of the lodge. At first it appeared Peiper was napping, a feat impossible to comprehend in the heat and humidity. However, as Hump neared, he saw Peiper clasping a pencil in his right hand and tapping the led point in a puzzle book resting on his lap. A creaking board betrayed Hump's position.

"Grab a chair," Peiper said without glancing from the crossword.

Hump complied, dragging a wicker bucket seat next to Peiper, and brushed cobwebs from the seat.

"American general and politician," Peiper said. "Seven letters. Begins with S. Third letter is C."

"You got me," Hump replied as he sat.

"Hmm...I've been stuck on this word for what seems like hours."

"What's the title of the puzzle?"

" _Antebellum To Appomattox_."

"Antiwhat?"

"Antebellum. Before your Civil War. Appomattox. The place where-"

"Yeah, I know what Appomattox is."

"I suppose I've reached my Appomattox with this puzzle," Peiper said, dropping the pencil and then tossing the book to the wood planking.

"We all have one."

"Indeed, but I would argue we have more than one. Life is full of defeats. It's a constant struggle to overcome the scorn of Providence. And, in the end, we are doomed to the biggest downfall of them all."

"I reckon you're speaking of death."

Peiper touched the tip of his nose and then smiled.

"My wife turned to the Lord at the end," Hump said. "She wasn't religious until the last few months, when the cancer was beyond treatment."

"Condolences, Herr Hammerbacher."

"Call me Hump. None of this _Herr_ stuff."

"Alright, Hump. If I may, what kind of cancer took her?"

"Lung. She was a heavy smoker."

"My wife, Sigurd, had a stroke. She was in the kitchen making supper and hit the floor. Thud. The doctor told me she was dead before hitting the ground. Here one second, gone the next. I try to be pragmatic but, at the same time, I wish I could've spent more time with her. Even if it was watching her die in a hospital bed, at least I'd have the chance to say goodbye. Do you know what my last words were to her? 'Hurry with the eggs. I'm starving.' And then she was gone."

"Wasting away ain't no picnic."

"I've seen so many die who would've loved another second, no matter how awful it may have been. My brother, Hans, died in combat. Obliterated by artillery. He became a memory in the time it takes to blink an eye. Eh...perhaps you're right. Maybe it's better this way and I'm the selfish one for desiring more time."

Hump grunted and fixated on a ranger crossing the dirt road in front of the lodge. In his right hand was a sack, in the other something resembling a noose attached to a long pole.

Peiper followed Hump's gaze and said, "He's hunting weasels or aardwolves."

"What about rats?"

"I've never seen a rat at Seronera. Honey badgers are prevalent, and they are mean. There are hen houses in the rear and the honey badgers raid the coops. The rangers tried using Shephard dogs to protect the poultry, but the badger is undeterred. Their population is growing in exponential numbers."

"I reckon there's more of those badgers than people here. This place seems dead."

"It's the slow time of season, between migratory patterns. Would you believe it's winter?"

"Winter?"

"We're below the equator and the seasons are reversed. Something about the tilt of the earth, but I'm no expert."

"Sure doesn't feel like winter."

"No, it does not. There isn't much discrepancy in temperature, but there is a rainy season. Alas, June is not it. Seronera is, for the most part, desolate until mid-July when the wildebeest migration commences from the south. They trek north and cross the Mara at the border of Kenya with hordes of camera totting naturalists and gawkers in tow. I've seen the crossing once, and once was enough. Lions feast on the plains, and crocodiles in the Mara turn the water red. Yet, every year the wildebeest make the same trek. And, in turn, the people flock to see the exodus. Nature is a predictable mother, Hump. People like to think their destinies are determined by life choices. Choice, however, is a product of environment and environment is manipulated by unseen hands. Observe the wildebeest migration and tell me what choice they have."

"They also have pea brains."

"Hm...do you know something? The wildebeest doesn't comprehend its lack of intelligence, nor does it judge the insect. The wildebeest exists for the wildebeest. The Safaripark showcases the simplicity, and complexity, of the biosphere. I'll tell you something else. There was talk of constructing hotels and a theme park at Seronera in the mid-sixties. Conrad Hilton and Walt Disney approached the German government, but cooler heads prevailed. Herr Hitler was a firebrand, but he adored animals. His legacy can be defined by two things: resorting pride to the German people and this gift of the Safaripark."

"Hitler loved animals?"

"The Führer respected animals more than people. The world of beasts is less complicated than politics. I suppose it's also one of the reasons I retired to the Serengeti. Silence and serenity, unlike the choking smog and cacophony of the city. Goodness, could you imagine what an amusement park would do to this beautiful spot? They even wanted to build accommodations in Ngorongoro. Let me tell you, it's not easy keeping the Serengeti safe from predators, and I'm not just speaking of venture capitalists. As Reichsführer, I had to find ways to handle the devious poachers without provoking the locals. My solution was the Safaripark SS Otto Kumm Company. One hundred men and a helicopter was all the Chancellor would allow platooned. He feared inciting the indigenous, and Kumm Company is restricted to the Serengeti and the few conservation sites boarding the Safaripark."

"Not good odds if an army masses to attack."

"Eh, the SS defies odds, and they're a tough nut to crack. The men stationed here are hand selected and dogged. They have heavy weapons and training. These indigenous are...well, it would be equivalent to an elephant versus an ant. Does this make sense?"

"Sure, but ain't the ants in Africa kinda fierce?"

Peiper frowned and then sighed. "You're missing my point," he mumbled.

"I get your point, I'm just sayin' a hundred men doesn't sound like much."

"A hundred men _and_ a helicopter. A gunship. Regardless, these soldiers of Kumm Company know what's at stake. There is much to protect, and what's below the surface is more valuable than what's on top. There's kerogen shale buried, enough to keep the Reich supplied for a century. Or so the geologists theorize."

"Kerogen?"

"Oil shale. Different from crude oil. Everything about extraction is expensive, and the subsequent product must be purged of impurities and boosted by adding hydrogen. Otherwise, the kerogen is equivalent to synthetic grade petroleum. There are methods to boost the hydrocarbons, but it's not simple. During the Sequel War, Germany employed the Fischer-Tropsch process. In essence, the FT progression combines synthetic gas with cobalt, ruthenium or an iron-based catalyst. Then, the syngas is transformed into aviation or diesel fuel."

Hump blinked and then said, "I don't follow a word you're saying, pardner."

"Ha, I suppose it must sound like gibberish. You understand jet engines require a higher octane rating because-"

"Yeah, I know how a combustion engine works. You'll have detonation or knockin' if you use the wrong fuel. I reckon a jet engine operates the same."

"More or less. As I learned, petroleum is a complicated resource. Most people believe you can stick a pipe in the ground and presto! No, there are differences in viscosity, centipoises, mining methods, etcetera, etcetera. When I retired, there were 500 million residents of the Schengen Area. The oil has to come from somewhere and the United States is a fickle trading partner. They have monopolized Asian and South American fields, leaving the Reich to lean on its unscrupulous Arab partners. German self-reliance was a cornerstone of the Führer's appeal. Those ideals have been forgotten by this newer generation. They have zero work ethic and an inability to problem solve."

"I hear ya. The kid I have holding my leash is more interested in Your Tube and shootin' senseless movies."

"Your Tube?"

"It's a computer thingy-me-bob. People make videos and tack 'em for the world to see. I watched one of 'em and let me say, I _wasn't_ impressed."

Peiper clicked tongue and then said, "Listen to us, carping about the bane of growing old. I've become everything I loathed about my father. Funny how this happened. Indifference to change spurned an inability to evolve."

"This is prolly something every old timer has declared since Adam."

"Adam? Oh, you mean Adam of the Bible. Hmm...the Bible has nothing on the _Allbuch_. This is the other reason I'm here, by the way. I desire to be far removed from the characterless bureaucracy of Berlin. At least I won't be around to see what the distant future holds."

"You never know what God intends. Hell, you might live to one-hundred fifty. Ain't you Nazis got advanced science or sumptin?"

"It's no more advanced than what the Americans have. I'll tell you a secret. If I do live to one-fifty, I won't be sitting on this porch wrestling with crossword puzzles. All of this will be gone."

"Come again?"

"The Safaripark will be plundered, but it won't be for decades. All other sources have to be bled. In addition, the _Alter Kämpfers_ , fighters of staunch nationalism, must die of old age. It'll be a changing of the guard."

"Sittin' on a lot, huh?"

"Pardon?"

"You said this park is sittin' on a lot of...what was it?"

"Kerogen. And I can't quantify what _a lot_ means."

"I reckon there'd be more of this crap around the park."

"The Kenyans mine kerogen. Their country sits atop one of the largest pockets in Africa, located in the Burnt Forest region. Tanganyika is flush, too, but the government is inept. They dig graves for the countrymen instead of cracking boreholes. In addition, kerogen is difficult to extract and creates environmental discord. The process of removal causes damage."

"How come?"

"You don't want to hear this long, boring explanation," Peiper said with an in indifferent shoulder shrug.

"What else is there to talk about?" Hump pushed.

Peiper smirked as if he could read Hump's thoughts.

"Alright," Hump said, "you wanna hear about the time I homered off Hal Woodeshick?"

"I think you're humoring an old man."

"I'm no spring chicken. I'm just makin' conversation."

After a weary sigh, Peiper said, "Well, you asked for it. When I was Reichsführer, I had many unenlightening conversations about this subject with the Minister of Economics, Walther Funk. Germany was perfecting a number of methods to be used in Russland, but water was vital for shale extraction. Funk estimated ninety percent of ground water in Estonia would be required to process the graptolitic argillite of the Türisalu Formation in Estonia. Depleting Estonia's water table was possible because the population was thinned-"

"Kilt," Hump interrupted.

Peiper cleared his throat and corrected verbiage. "The population was subjected to the horrors of combat, the scourge of disease and famine. This, of course, meant-"

"It meant they were kilt."

"Not by the Wehrmacht or SS. The Soviet NKVD was ruthless and-"

"Lookit, you can call it what you want but...do you know the phrase lipstick on a pig?"

"Lipstick on a pig?" Peiper mused. "What is this?"

"A pig is still a pig, even if you doll it up. It'll roll in slop and-"

"Ah, I understand. The pig will always be unpleasant."

"Correct. Same as your executions."

"I don't mean sound to combative, but Americans are bred on hypocrisy. The entire world knows your nation is like...well, this is apt. _A pig with lipstick_. You dare accuse Germany of committing genocide, when your government does the same. Your country was founded on genocide. Your-"

"Hell, pardner, _everyone_ in the U.S. knows what's-what. We have a fractious past, ain't no doubt about it. Nobody is pretending everythin' is hunky dory. Anyway, you know what I think? Nobody was playin' fair in the war. War ain't like baseball, pal. War doesn't have rules."

"I'm glad you see the fallacy behind this logic. Indeed, atrocity is a scourge of _all_ factions. I had the foolish notion, once upon a time, Germany would transcend this primeval bloodlust. The problem isn't the desire to quench homicidal tendencies. The problem is so many groups, through stubborn action, make themselves foils. Like the wildebeest migration, there are those who will never be broken of their natural desire to stir the pot. As a consequence, there are those who must dole punishment. It's the natural order of life, a prey-predator interaction. One cannot begin to explain why, but it is an assured component."

"You reckon?"

"We're getting off track. My point is, in Africa, groundwater is scare. Kenya happens to rest in the Great Lakes Region of the continent. A fortuitous position for the nation. Lake Turkana, Njanee See, plenty of water to draw. This was what their revolution was about in '57. Water and oil. I say this and people think I'm a fool. _No, it was about equality and self-government_ , these idiots argue. What can I say? Nobody wants to hear the truth, least of all from an old man."

"I believe you. The bodyguard fella in the car last night claimed his grandfather was a member of something called...Men of 40, I think."

Peiper stiffened, if just for a moment, before rocking backwards in the chair. "Young Men of 40," he corrected. "The Mau Mau. Yes, I know who they were."

"He told an interesting story."

"I'm certain the negro did, but I can top whatever he said. I met the Mau Mau leader in Kobason not long after I became Reichsführer. His name was Dedan Kimathi. I don't mean to sound damning with faint praise, but Kimathi was well-spoken for a negro. But, like his contemporaries, he was a savage without decorum or bearing. He carried a shotgun like an ornament. Imagine trying to talk sense with such a savage. The Mau Mau brokered a cease fire, then had the temerity to attack an SS division. Felix Steiner's men of the Arthur Nebe Division were routed and forced to retreat to Lokichar. I was instructed to negotiate and...placate the beast. As if to, um...leave no doubt as to the seriousness of the situation, the Mau murdered a Reich journalist named Fredrich Kaltenbach and hung his body from a Baobab tree. I'm not insinuating Kaltenbach didn't deserve to die. The idiot was a pest, a...a member of the media who believed _he_ could dictate the situation in Koboson. Yes, he caught the scoop of a lifetime. Kaltenbach," Peiper muttered. "I wasn't sorry to see him kaput, but it complicated the situation.

"A few days later came the attack on the Chancellor, the one in which I was maimed. As a result, the Chancellor handed Kenya to the Mau Mau with nothing in return. In fact, the Reich was obligated to admit Steiner's men had butchered a number of inhabitants during their race to quell the rebellion. I don't blame Chancellor Dönitz for bowing to the Mau. After all, much of Africa was in a state of revolt. Arabs, Jews, indigenous, Free French mercenaries from the Levant, the Rastafarian rabble of Abyssinia...it seemed they all gathered to air their grievances. The Wehrmacht had to prioritize. Imagine, though, the conversation when Interpol arrested Felix Steiner in his hospital bed. The poor man had his balls and a foot blown off."

"Interpol?"

"Remember when I told you the SS is a police force? One of its functions is the administration of Interpol. It's the International-"

"Yeah, I've heard of it."

"I went through hell to save the Chancellor," Peiper said with a scowl. "The duplicity of the assassins was impressive, but they were aided by Germans. Some were rangers at the Safaripark. Others were former members of the German Heer. Veterans of the Africa Campaign settled here after the war instead of returning to the Fatherland."

"Oh?" Hump asked, thinking of the driver from the previous evening.

"It's a complicated tale," Peiper said. "I reconciled fact from fiction as I convalesced, but...it's not something I care to recall."

"I'm sorry I brought it up."

"Bah! Don't apologize. Look where this wending conversation terminates."

"I don't follow."

"We've returned to the beginning. The discussion about Appomattox."

"Come again?"

"I mentioned we all have our version, or versions, of defeat. For our wives it was the illnesses robbing them of life. For us the end remains undecided. But we've tasted loss. I'm sure you know what defeat feels like."

"1960 World Series. _That_ was a tough loss, bub. We outscored the Pirates 55-27 and somehow, they won." Hump shook his head and then mumbled, "GFS. Game fucking Seven."

"Game Seven?"

"It's a best outta seven contest. First to four."

"So, it was tied three-three?"

"Ayup. We won Game Six twelve-zip. In number Seven, I hit a homerun. I had two in the series. So, the long and the short of is, the score was tied nines going into the bottom of the ninth. Pittsburgh was the home team, so they had final bats. The ninth is the last inning, so if the score remains tied, the game goes to extra innings. Now, with this in mind, don't bother askin' me to explain any other rules of baseball. It'd be like listenin' to your oil discussion. Just take my word for it."

"As you wish."

"Fine. Now, picture this: it's the last of the ninth and batting for the Pirates is Bill Mazeroski. Maz is a solid fielder, one of the best, but not a power hitter. He's squarin' against Ralph Terry, a good pitcher and friend of mine. Guess what ole Billy Maz does? Ayup. Bill Mazeroski _crushed_ a homerun over the left field fence. Game over. Pittsburgh wins the series. Believe you me, it was quite the scene. Them Pittsburgh fans were runnin' on the field, mobbing Maz. I didn't think he would cross home plate. But...he did. Maz tallied the winning run. And those of us in the Yankee pinstripes...Peiper, I never seen a group of men so despondent. Not one of my teammates could think of a thing to say. Micky, er...Mantle...Micky cried. Terry was inconsolable. Our manager, Casey Stengel, the best baseball man in the game, was fired. It was a nightmare, one I relived all winter. Yes sir, it took it me a long time to get over the '60 Series."

"It sounds as if you still think about it."

"Not as much as I once did. A lot of other lousy things have happened since, but Maz's shot was the first time I ever felt..." Hump hesitated and studied his hands before saying, "Listen to me. I'm bein' a drama queen about a stupid baseball game."

"Nonsense. Your story resonates. I know what you feel," Peiper claimed, tapping his chest.

"Do you?"

"Are you kidding? Defeat wrenches soul, transforms passion into unspeakable rage. My game seven...this is the proper term?"

"Ayup."

"For me it was Ngorongoro. I was overconfident. What could a few assassins do but fill body bags? So many victories made me feel invincible. Good men under my command died because I was cocky. It's the same with your baseball, absent the death. Winning and losing becomes something you deal with. Absorb, react with indifference, move to the next event. But then, one day, your wife falls dead. Or a foe knocks an improbable hit. _Bang!_ Time catches you and wallops with a hammer. There can be no doubt you're a changed man after suffering this blow. No warning, no chance to recover piety, no..." Peiper paused and look into Hump's eyes. "My apologies. I'm babbling. Can you see why I'm left alone? I'm an old, foolish man incapable of making sense. Those in the Reichstag are happy I've banished myself to this park."

Hump didn't know what to say. Comforting people wasn't his specialty. "Easy, pardner," he mumbled, touching Peiper's knee.

"I have nobody," Peiper said. "I've outlived my children and grandchildren. How could I think this would happen?"

"You couldn't. Not a one of us knows what the future holds."

"I pray for release and providence heaps years upon my shoulders. I'm being handed a life sentence when all I want is death. Death and a burial at the crater. I deserve this much. I'm not ashamed to admit it's hard being alone. I apologize for talking your ear bloody. No doubt you desire to flee."

Hump looked around and then shrugged. "Where am I goin'?" he asked. "I've been abandoned at this lodge and my companion is sixty years younger than me. Me and him ain't got what I would call _common ground_."

"I've been meaning to ask, but I assume you'd feel I'm prying."

"Ask what?"

"Your companion. I find him a strange choice to...eh...let me be blunt. The boy doesn't seem responsible."

"He ain't, but thank the Lord I don't need someone to wipe my ass."

"Goodness," Peiper chuckled. "I wasn't implying you're helpless. What I meant was...wouldn't a suitable companion be your age. Or family? Do you have children? Grandchildren?"

"Oh, I reckon I'm kinda like you in this regard, Peiper."

"Your kin are deceased?"

"Welp, they ain't dead. More like we don't have a close relationship. Or, if I'm being honest, _any_ relationship. I got me two boys. Hubbie's my youngest. He's an attorney. We don't speak much. And his children are spread across the United States. I don't hear from them _at all_."

"And the other?"

"My older boy...I don't keep in contact."

"How dreadful."

"Yep. So, I know what you're yappin' about. Life ain't a bed of roses."

Peiper twisted in the chair and asked, "What differences come between you?"

"I reckon...you could say it was a generational thing."

"I know what you speak. Such a problem exists even in the Reich. Giving into the tantrums of misguided youth is never a good idea. You're wise to be obstinate."

"Sure," Hump said in a lackluster voice. "Howie was...um, I mean...he's into the arts."

"Say no more," Peiper said with a sympathetic shake of head. "He's a victim of the media. The arts corrupt mind and body. I've never cared for it. Antiquity, modern, you can pick the period and it's all the same to me. Coarse. Extravagant. Subliminal. Perhaps it's because I've a mind for the practical nature of man. Those who indulge in fantasy are oafish. Real work is what sharpens the body. I have to admit..." Peiper leaned forward and then whispered, "I hate the Führer's book. My Struggle, yes, but the struggle is to get through the dreadful thing without falling asleep. Have you read it?"

"No, sir, but I ain't much of a reader."

"Goebbels was a fanatic about the theater and radio. His films were ostentatious and tedious. While soldiers did the work of securing the Third Reich, Goebbels wrote screenplays and scripts. He took credit believing his _Eighth Great Power_ secured victory, but without the military his drivel was _das leeres gerede_. An empty speech. All the hyperbole was _hot air_. Like your American singer, Herr Lewis. What a _loathsome_ man. Did you know he was enticed to perform in Germany?"

"I don't know anything about it. Enticed? Whadda ya mean?"

"It is the most outlandish disgrace. Opening our arms to American and British artists was an attempt to integrate our culture with yours. Far be it from me to make sense of the idea, but the... _die gründung_. How do I translate? Bedrock-"

"Foundation?"

"Ah, yes, Hump. The _foundation_ was laid during the occupation of France. Goebbels secured the services of Édith Piaf, Yves Montand and Didi Duprat. There were others, but these three were distinguished French singers. You understand, using icons to inspire the population isn't a novel concept."

"I believe it's called propaganda, pardner."

"True, but it's also presentation. And, in the example of France, it worked. However, Goebbels recognized it was necessary to stimulate American and English sentiment. What better way than with their own countrymen? Ezra Pound, Lord Hee-Haw, Fredrich Kaltenbach, Max Koischwitz. Goebbels failed to realize those fools wouldn't be taken serious. They were jeered and mocked in their countries of origin. After the war, when relations thawed between the United States and the Third Reich, there was a renewed effort to assimilate culture."

"You're saying it started with Jerry Lee Lewis? I reckon you coulda picked better."

"I didn't handle the vetting," Peiper said. Then he clicked his tongue and mumbled, "Many errors were made during this process. People shoddier than Herr Lewis were christened to serve as luminaries. There was an American painter the Reich Ministry of Propaganda and Enlightenment contracted in the early '60's to design posters. Name of Warhol. Do you know this man?"

"Ayup. Queer fella."

"Queer is an apt description for a _number_ of reasons. Warhol was the beginning. Then it was Herr Lewis, the Beatles and then, in perpetuity, vagabonds and sybarites. I foretold this was a bad idea, but this was the direction selected by important men and women in the Reichstag. What do I know?"

"My boy Howie is into music," Hump confirmed. "And not the kind Jerry Lee plays. It was about a thousand times more dreadful"

"Ack," Peiper spat.

"Ayup. He got into painting and photography, too. I guess he wants to be well-rounded. Anyway, he painted me something when he was younger. A picture of the gore-on-goro Crater. I've always wanted to see it with my own eyes."

"My, you are a mawkish sort."

Hump, who didn't know what _mawkish_ meant, smiled and nodded.

"Did he ever visit the Safaripark?" asked Peiper.

"I don't think so."

"Why...what is you boy's name?"

"Howie."

"Why does Howie have an interest in Ngorongoro?"

"Beats me. Understand, I'm gettin' no younger. If I can't have a relationship with Howie, then I'll have it with the damn crater. At least I can see for myself what he treasured."

Peiper clicked his tongue and muttered, "Tsk, tsk. What a shame to come all this way. Nobody mentioned Ngorongoro was closed when you made enquiries about this trip?"

"Not a peep."

"Hmm," Peiper hummed as he sat back in the chair.

Hump whispered, "Ayup. Oh well, I guess. Least I got to see Jerry Lee Lewis. I suppose this trip ain't a complete bust."

"As I stated, I could get you a ride to the highlands. This will have to suffice."

Hump pretended to consider the offer for a moment before saying, "I'd feel strange imposin'."

"Nonsense! Don't be truculent. Your highlight of the Safaripark shouldn't be Herr Lewis."

"Well, sir..." Hump pondered, drumming fingers on the arm of the rocker. "I mean, if it ain't a problem..."

"Pfft. I know you want to go. You've been begging since the moment I began talking to you. Now's not the time to be coy."

"Then I suppose I'll take you up on the offer. But-"

"Grand! I'll talk to the-"

" _But,_ there's one other thing, Peiper."

"Oh?"

"I'd like you to come."

"Me?"

"I enjoy our conversations, even if we don't agree on everything. You could impart some historical knowledge. Color the landscape."

"Yes, I _could_ talk your ear off. You see, though, I dislike the jarring of vehicle. The drive is long and-"

"You look right as rain. Besides, how many people could claim they've had a personalized tour with a former Reichsführer?"

"This is something you'll brag about?"

"Maybe not brag but...I'd appreciate the company."

"I'll think about," Peiper claimed.

***

"What'd you say, pops?" Jason asked as the band warmed-up on the stage behind them. The Leopard Lounge was empty, again, and the kid's voice ricocheted throughout the close space.

"You heard me," Hump confirmed with a solemn nod. "I'm going to them highlands and Peiper's comin' with me. At least I think he is."

"This doesn't sound like a smart idea. He kinda creeps me out."

"He'll be my tour guide."

"Yea, right. You don't want a tour guide. You think he knows something about Howie."

"Maybe," Hump said with a shrug. "And maybe not."

"Uh-huh. _Maybe._ "

"Or maybe not," Hump repeated.

"I ain't a dope. I can read your eyes. You squint when you're lying, pops. What makes you think Peiper's gonna take you to the crater?"

"Call it a hunch."

"Why?"

"Jeez O'Pete, take my word for it."

"You aren't gonna do something stupid, are you?"

"What do you think?"

"Oh man," Jason whispered. "Promise me you're not gonna do something stupid."

Hump stared at the kid and said, "I ain't doin' sumptin stupid. There, you see my eyes turn oriental? I'm tellin' the truth."

"I don't believe you."

"Then why are you givin' me the third degree?"

"Holy shit, you're impossible. What did you guys talk about?"

"I don't feel like transcribin' the guts of the conversation I had this afternoon. I'm not even sure I understand it," Hump said, screwin' up his face and adding two dozen fresh wrinkles to the grizzled visage.

"How 'bout giving me the gist."

"It's complicated, kid."

"Sure it is. You got some hunch, huh? First you had to get to Africa. Then you lied to Barrone-"

"I didn't lie. I knew as much as him."

"You lied. Just like you're lying to me about wanting Peiper to go with you."

"This ain't your problem. It's mine. I ain't askin' you to come with me tomorrow. Matter of fact, I want you to stay here."

"No fucking way. I'm going. Remember our YouTube deal?"

"What about it?"

"Right. It doesn't mean anything to you, but it's the _only_ reason I came to Africa. I ain't letting you screw me over. We're supposed to be partners, pops. How am I gonna shoot video if Reichsfucker Frankenstein-"

"Beats me," Hump said a second before Jerry Lee jammed both hands on piano keys. Then, without introduction, the Killer flung the band into "Mean Woman Blues". "Besides," Hump added in a whisper, "who said you were invited?"

For the first time in their short relationship, Hump saw something resembling anger cloud the kid's face. And believe-you-me, when the kid assembled a mean face, he looked capable of snapping steel girders.

"We'll talk about this later," Hump whispered. "After Jerry Lee is finished."

"Whatever, asshole," snarled Jason, chasing the obscenity with a slug of Lion's Skin.

Like the night before, Lewis and company played the same six songs before breaking for a quick kicker at the bar. Unlike the previous evening, the set was sloppy and punctuated by frequent halts in the music. It seemed Jerry Lee was well-oiled and the band bickered between cacophonous swells.

Lewis also wasn't chatting up the crowd. For one, it was only Hump, Jason and a handful of lounge employees. Not even Peiper had bothered to show. For two, Lewis looked like he was in no mood to make small talk.

The Killer was a sweaty, disheveled mess. A wrinkled, untucked, white t-shirt stuck to his skin, and baggy corduroy pants sagged to Lewis's groin. Leaning against the bar, Jerry Lee held the loose slacks with one hand while the other gripped a frosted bottle of beer.

Meanwhile, Hump and Jason nursed their drinks without conversation. Both pledged, an hour before in the hotel room, to limit their intake. Hump had no desire to repeat the upchucking episode from the night before, and he wanted to be sharp in the morning for the jaunt to the highlands.

"I noticed the Reichsfucker isn't here," Jason said. Then he added, in a taunting voice, "Where's your new best buddy, pops?"

"Prolly rustlin' my ride," Hump answered.

" _Our ride_ , you mean."

"Hey, lovebirds," Jerry Lee called from the bar. "You wanna hear some smooching music?"

"Anything will do, Killer," Hump replied. "You sound great tonight."

"Ah, fuck ya," slurred Jerry Lee. He leaned left, remedied list, and then pushed from the bar. First, he stumbled into a stool. Next, Lewis bounced into a table. At last, the Killer mounted the stage and fell onto the piano bench.

"He has violent mood swings," a hoarse voice said into Hump's right earhole. Before Hump could respond, Peiper slithered into an empty seat next to Jason and explained, "I'd blame the booze, but he's also developed a weakness for the Pilot Salt."

"What's Pilot Salt?" asked Jason.

"Pervitin," Peiper said. "Methamphetamine developed by Reich chemists during the Sequel War."

"Get out of here!" Jason cried. "Meth?"

"It's speed," Peiper explained. "Gives a burst of cognizance."

"Oh, I know what meth is," Jason said. "It turns people into zombies. My pal Tito got hooked on crystal. He thought he had bugs living under his skin. All his teeth fell out. I don't talk to him anymore. Tito went loco."

"It is a wild drug," Peiper agreed. "While under its spell, the men called it _die Raserei_. The rage. Sounds pleasant, does it not? Pilot Salt was consumed by most in the Wehrmacht, but it was first used by pilots in the Luftwaffe. During the bombing of London, something had to be done to keep airmen from falling asleep. The sorties were night raids and the flights long."

"Nazi pilots took meth?" Jason cawed. "Holy shitballs! How the hell do you handle a plane on speed?"

"You'd have to ask those intrepid fliers, but it worked...more or less. Soon the pills were distributed to everyone. Even the SS took this garbage, myself included. Imagine a never-ending day, cartoonish in lucidity, and you'll get the idea. The Führer was prescribed Pervitin by his doctor to counter other health issues. The result was a disaster, and a microcosm of the scourge the Reich faced following the close of hostilities. The glut of addicted soldiers returning from various theaters of operation was overwhelming. Indeed, it was a trying time for the police. On the one hand, these men were war veterans and worthy of pity. On the other, some committed brutal criminal acts as if they were at the front."

On stage, Jerry Lee flicked the mic with a finger and then declared, "I'm keepin' this here set short and sweet." With a moan, the Killer began "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On". Four minutes later, he kicked the mic stand and then slammed the piano top closed. Hump and Jason offered lukewarm applause, but Peiper remained stoic with hands planted on the tabletop.

"He's on the meth, eh?" Jason asked.

"Having the frenzies," Peiper replied. Then he looked at Hump and said, "What we discussed earlier? I've arranged our ride. Meet me on the porch tomorrow morning, 0600 hours. The ranger, Herr Schmidt, wants to get underway by sunrise."

"You said _our_ ," Hump said. "You're comin' with?"

"Per your request. I thought it over and decided in the affirmative. The least I could do, after you travelled all this way, is provide company."

"I appreciate the gesture," Hump said.

"I want to come," Jason blurted.

"You want to see the highlands of Ngorongoro?" asked Peiper.

"I'm bored hanging 'round this lodge," Jason said.

Hump glared at the kid, but Jason raised his right hand and crossed heart with left. "I'm responsible," the kid pronounced. "I was a Boy Scout once upon a time. I've been camping and built fires with nothin' but twigs and a flint."

"Goodness," Peiper gasped. "We're taking a drive, not spending a week in the bush. I don't care if you desire to join. Herr Hammerbacher?"

Hump was about to answer, but his response was stifled by the gaudy voice of the Killer.

"Lookit you three!" Jerry Lee hollered as he approached the table with a beer in each hand. "Guess I played matchmaker."

"What you didn't play is a long enough set," Peiper scolded. "Not feeling well?"

"Naw, killer," Jerry Lee replied. "But I'm tickled you want to hear more of my golden tongue. Take a gander at this dump. The place is d-e-a-d: dead. Dead as the moon and less hospitable. Time to kick this boogie-loo into high gear. Say, Peiper, Hump talk to you? This old boy has itchy feet."

Peiper nodded and then said, "Yes. We're taking a drive to the highlands tomorrow."

" _Really_ ," the Killer crooned, kicking Hump's chair. "See, I told you this dude could pull strings."

"I can't thank you enough, Jerry Lee," Hump said.

"Sure ya can, sport," the Killer said, setting the bottles on the table. "You want company? 'Cause Jerry Lee wants to get away for an afternoon. I got the morrow off. Some blowhard European band is takin' the spotlight."

"This is a private tour," Peiper announced. "A gift from me to a revered American athlete."

"Private?" squawked Jerry Lee. "Hey, my contract says I can venture wherever I desire."

"Your contract states you can explore the park," Peiper corrected. "We're leaving the Serengeti boundary for Ngorongoro."

Jerry Lee whined, "Come on, killer. Ngorongoro's _right_ next door." The sound of the Killer's nascent begging was like nails on a chalkboard. Worse, Jerry Lee's bloodshot eyes beseeched like a beggar.

"No," Peiper intoned.

Hump cleared his throat and then said, "If it's all the same, I wouldn't mind."

"How well do you know this man?" Peiper asked Hump, jerking his head at the musician as if he wasn't hovering within earshot.

"We met yesterday," Hump answered. "But I feel like I've known the Killer for almost my whole life. I've listened to his music for sixty years."

"Yes, I sometimes forget Herr Lewis is _semi famous_ ," Peiper said.

"Peiper," Jerry Lee said, "do you know how many people come through this mothafuckin' joint and don't recognize who I am? I got me a _real_ fan here. Salt of the earth. A boy from the Deep South like me self. Who knows when this will happen again?"

"I'm not babysitting him," Peiper snarled, thrusting a kinked finger from the gnarled left hand at Jerry Lee.

"Fair enough," Hump said.

"You don't gotta worry about me," Jerry Lee said, winking with left eye. "I'll be a choir boy."

Peiper grunted and then rose from the seat. "Gentlemen, until tomorrow morning." Then he glared at the musician and added, "0600 hours, Herr Lewis. Six in the morning. If you're late, we won't wait."

Jerry Lee snapped a sloppy salute and clicked heels.

With a snort, the former Reichsführer departed and Lewis scrambled into the vacated chair. "I knew Peiper would relent," the Killer confided as his ass hit the seat. "Me and him are tight."

"Yeah, sure," scoffed Jason.

"You don't believe me?" Jerry Lee asked. "Son, I've been rubbin' elbows with the _original_ killer since my first visit to Germany in '63. Peiper pulled _mucho_ strings when he was the Reichsführer. Of course, we didn't develop a personal relationship until I arrived in the Safaripark some..." Jerry Lee paused to count fingers and then said, "Damn Sam, I've been at this dump almost fifteen years."

"Why are you performing here?" Hump asked. "I'd have thought you'd be retired or sumptin."

"Don't I wish. Man, it's a _long_ story. Let's just say this is where I belong. They don't want Jerry Lee in the States, and-"

"They?" Jason asked.

"Boy, I got on the wrong side of the _man_. Once you get on the wrong side, it's damn near impossible to get on the right. You dig?"

"Didn't you live in Ireland for a spell?" asked Hump.

Jerry Lee took a pull, closed eyes, and appeared to be deep in thought. Then he opened his mouth and trumpeted a belch both earsplitting and nose hair scorching. The aroma of beer and knockwurst fashioned into mist so dense, it appeared to hover above the warped tabletop like radiation fog on warm Mississippi morning.

"I get your point," Hump said, fanning the air. "Forget I asked. I'm buttin' into your business."

"Naw, it's fine, killer. I'm a bit gassy tonight. This food...what you'd ask?"

"Ireland. Didn't you live there?"

"Ireland, yeah. _Woo wee_ , what a disaster. I called Dublin home for ten years startin' in '92. I moved back to the States in the seventies, tried my hand at country, played the Opry. Supposed to be my comeback, but it fell flat. Time had passed Jerry Lee, or people were still holdin' grudges. I think it was the latter, but the popular music was in those strange discotheques. I couldn't compete with the jive sounds."

"I liked your country albums," Hump said.

"Appreciate it. You're one of the few. Yep, I packed and moved to Ireland when the Feds came knockin' for all this mysterious income I made while I was an expatriate in Germany. But then I got kicked outta there and-"

"Out of Dublin?" asked Jason.

"Outta Ireland," Jerry Lee said, arching back.

"Wait!" Jason exclaimed, pushing aside his potation. "You got 86'd from a whole fuckin' country?"

"Don't let their drinkin' fool ya. Them Irish are a conservative bunch. I don't know what's worse. Catholics or Southern Bible thumpers. Anyway, I had nowhere else to go. Tax problems in America, the English weren't hospitable and...I thought about South America but, um, let's just say I was flat broke. Yea, boy, the Nazis were pleased as punch when I came sulking back. I kinda owned them, too, but I had such a good time the first go-around in Germany, I figured why the hell not? I guess it ain't all bad. I don't know what woulda happened if I went to the U.S. Uncle Sammy and I don't see eye-to-eye. Besides, I only gotta few more years of doing this before me and Third Reich are square."

"Watcha mean?" asked Hump.

"You know. Paid off. I owe these crazy bastards about six million Reichsmarks. It seemed I had, ahem, _reneged_ on my contract when I returned to the United States in the 1970's. The Nazis say I fled, but they kinda exaggerate things. Matter of fact, the Germans were going to put in me in jail. The cost of doing business," Jerry Lee said in a matter-of-fact tone. "They weren't serious, but it motivated my sorry ass. The Nazi prisons are no joke. I coulda done worse than the Safaripark. You ever heard of a langstrafenanstalt?"

Jason looked at Hump; Hump looked at Jerry Lee; the Killer took a plug, belched again, and then looked into his beer.

"How much is six million Reichsmarks in American dollars?" Jason asked.

"Fuck if I know," Lewis answered. "A whole metric shit ton. More than I ever thought I was worth. Then again, I was livin' like a king in Berlin. High on the hog. Yes, sir. The Germans bankrolled my career after I left America at the beginning of the sixties. I assumed the perks were a package deal. Nobody told me the Nazis were calculatin' a tab. Believe you me, Germans love _nothin'_ better than keepin' track of things."

Hump cleared his throat and then asked, "They stuck you here to work off your debt?"

"One way to look it. Try to follow," the Killer said, leaning on his right elbow and staring at Hump. "First time I came to Germany was 1963. Man, did I cause an uproar at home...but what the hell else was I to do? I didn't have nowheres else to go and nobody was spinnin' my tunes except Alan Freed. You know what the U.S. government did to Freed? Arrested him for payola. Yeah, sure, this was the excuse, but Jerry Lee knows better. Freed caught hell because he was playin' _my_ music. So, there I was: banned in the Midwest, the South...hell, the U.S. entire! Sam Phillips at Sun wouldn't release no more Jerry Lee Lewis records unless it under a pseudonym. Ha! Nobody tickles the ivory like Jerry Lee, and anyone with an ear for music knew who 'The Hawk' was. And when this secret was broken, guess what? The Hawk got as much air time as Jerry Lee. Meaning none. Zilch. Nada. I was snakebite. My contract with Sun ended in '63 and zero producers from them other fancy companies wanted to sign ole Jerry Lee Lewis. And why? Because I married Myra."

"Wasn't she your niece or something?" Jason asked.

"Jesus, kid," Hump scolded. "This ain't a question you ask, knucklehead."

Lewis waved a hand and said, "I don't wanna talk about Jerry Lee's lady troubles. We'll be here all night. I will say the fiasco with Myra was a publicity stunt launched by my no good, hypocritical, preacher cousin Jimmy Swaggart. Yep, Jimmy made a name for himself. Ruined my reputation and threw poor Myra into the worst hysterics. The ensuing fallout poisoned my marriage and destroyed my livelihood. The only places I could find gigs were road house and restaurants, earning next to nothing. There were days I wouldn't eat a thing. Poor as I've ever been. Then a miracle occurred. One hot summer evening in July of '63, I got me a phone call from my agent, Kay Martin. She said some German broad wanted to talk to me about producing an album. Turned out this skirt was none other than Leni Riefenstahl."

"Who?" Jason asked.

"Yea, my reaction, too," the Killer said, crossing arms. "Frau Riefenstahl was a big cheese and she wanted Jerry Lee. I guess it didn't dawn on me I was signing up to play Nazi Germany until I arrived in Berlin. Then I figured, _oh fuckin' well_. It couldn't tarnish my reputation any worse."

"But who was this Rothstein," Jason persisted.

"I'm gettin' to her," Lewis growled. "So, this _Riefenstahl_ was a minister in the Nazi propaganda whatchacallit. Them Nazis called her a ministrix. I knew zero German, and I got the sense the translator wasn't always being forthright, but I was happy playin' real, honest to goodness gigs again. And the crowds? They _loved_ Jerry Lee. Tickled me pink. Turned out, the Wehrmacht used my music when they rode into battle against them commies, Arabs or whatever they were fighting at the time."

"My buddy Billy Shantz got hands on a copy of a performance in Hamburg," Hump said. "'Bout '64, I think. Bootleg record he found somewheres."

"The Star Club," Lewis affirmed with a wink. "Me and the Nashville Teens. They were from Surrey in England. Peak Jerry Lee Lewis right there. And the audience was wild. Yes, sir, I was spicy. The U.S. wouldn't play nothin' I released in Germany, which is a shame because I was clickin' on all cylinders. All them charlatans in the music bizness got sticks up their asses. But what did I care? Jerry Lee was makin' bank in Germany. For a while I was _the_ vanguard of music in Europe. Of course, there wasn't anybody else puttin' on the exhibitions I was capable of performing, but that all changed not long after I arrived.

"Yep, I was the tip of the spear, fellas. A trailblazer. The first American or British artist to perform in Nazi Germany since before the war. After me came waves of imitators. Shaggy longhairs lookin' to hit pay dirt in the European market. You get in good with the Nazis, and they promised a huge audience. Hell, they control everything in Europe. Yeah, greed compelled and I was too stupid to see Riefenstahl was playin' me. See, she had a plan. The old girl was mapping a new Reich, a Fourth Reich, and she wanted to use music to take over the world. Listen here..."

# 14. Hump 'n The Killer

Thus, Jerry Lee Lewis unwound a lengthy tale. First, though, to understand the _miracle_ which revived (and then condemned) the Killer's career, it's necessary to grasp the historical background making such a thing possible. Forgive this narrator for not being pithy and, considering this information is available for perusal in a variety of other sources, perhaps this summary is superfluous. Yet, it seems pertinent to include the following evidence:

World War II, Sequel War (whatever the nomenclature), by mid-1944, the confrontation was in doubt for Germany. It wasn't obvious in the Nazi media; the Volksempfänger rattled non-stop messages of glorious victory. Dr. Goebbels called radio the "Eighth Great Power" and the hyper imp filled the airwaves with hyperbole. Still, not all the chatter was exaggeration and there were periods when the clouds parted and hope shone down. Josef Stalin, perhaps the one man whose paranoia and lust for blood exceeded Adolf Hitler, died of a stroke in February of '43. Uncle Joe's death was celebrated in Germany as something of a Godsend. _A great lash of fate,_ Volksempfänger declared. _The vile gangster of a murderous partnership between East and West is kaput!_ This declaration was followed by _The_ _Horst Wessel Song,_ then the first stanza of _Deutschlandlied,_ before the content voice of the Führer declared, _Providence has afforded the German people a gift for the ages._

Indeed, Stalin's death provided enough of a distraction to allow a miracle. General Paulus, left for dead in Stalingrad, managed a breakout (although he lost close to 90,000 troops in the process) when von Manstein's Army Group Don slipped north, crossed the Volga near Oleyne, and surprised the Soviets. The Red Army fell into disarray as leadership changed hands several times. First it was Khrushchev, then Mikoyan, before the perverted Lavrentiy Beria wrested control. Even with all the chaos of sloppy regime changes, the resistance of partisans and determined pockets of Red Army soldiers made slow going for the Wehrmacht.

Over time, the Red Army took to fighting amongst themselves as units aligned with different figureheads. Some favored Mikoyan, others Khrushchev. Many were loyal to the dead Stalin. As the Soviets splintered, Beria took the reins and purged the apt commanders he deemed untrustworthy. Mass graves were discovered by the Nazis and they flaunted heaps of corpses for the world to behold. The Red Cross was called in to verify the findings and their reports scorched the Russians.

"This is the consequence of bolshevism," Goebbels screeched after Katyn was revealed. "This is why we fight the Reds!"

There was international outrage, but the English and Americans decided to continue to pretend the Soviets were worthy allies. Or, at the least, worthier than the Nazis. To cement this point, the Allied bombing raids of Germany became quotidian occurrences. The Americans targeted factories, warehouses, railroad trestles and sundry infrastructure. The Brits levelled cities and decimated the population. Rationing was harsh and people went without. Nazi journalists tried to dress the attacks as a barbaric assault of the people of Germany. Flogging the citizenry to resist at all costs, it was stated defeat would mean extermination for all who supported the Führer.

In late May 1944, The German 6th Army reached Moscow, at last, and entered the desolate capitol as tired, churlish warriors. This was the ceremonial death blow to the Soviets as far as the Führer was concerned. Not long after, Beria was captured in his native Sukhum Okrug (present day Abkhazia) cowering in a closet. With rumors of a Western Front bandied about as early as 1943, the OKW rotated battled-hardened soldiers to France and put the cunning Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel in charge of preparing defensive measures to stem the anticipated invasion.

And, like it had been ordained, the Allies launched for Western France in early June. Despite the extra troops and the construction of Rommel's Atlantic Wall (Fortress Europa, the Reich called Western France), the Allies succeeded in making inroads due to a progression of well-placed diversions. These tricks are recorded in the annals of history, more amusing now in the aftermath, but the result was the Fortress had been splintered.

Lo, when it appeared things were at their bleakest, the English released a terrible weapon. Caen had proved a tough nut to crack. The English had planned on taking the city in its initial landing with the British 3rd Infantry. Caen had strategic implications; a major hub to the south of France, it afforded the movement of troops along the highways and Orne River.

A hodgepodge collection of Romanian, Hungarian and German infantry resisted the initial thrust, holding out for weeks as reinforcements, the 21st Panzer led by Erwin Rommel, hassled from the south. In the interim, both sides engaged in vicious street battles which claimed and lost blocks of Caen every other day.

The fighting took a nasty in late June. To snap the stalemate, the British resorted to artillery and aerial bombardment of the city, hampering the German defenders with the evacuation of civilians. 1,500 residents of Caen were killed in these "salvos conjured by the wicked Churchill", as orated by Dr. Goebbels, and the throng of refugees clogged roads. On the 27 June, Rommel ordered a withdrawal of all German forces from the city with the intent of holding the bridge crossing the Orne, south of the suburbs. Meanwhile, the 1st SS Panzer Corps swung to the west, crossed the Odon River, and launched a midnight attack on Carpiquet Airfield. The 1st Corps sliced deep into the sleeping British and Canadian forces, wreaking havoc and triggering the "Massacre at the Bottleneck" the following morning.

An hour after sunrise, the Brits bombed the German forces, snarled on the bridge and highway and mixed with civilians, with a nerve agent called Soman. The Soman presaged a counter-attack launched by the British, but RAF Air Command overestimated the necessary quantity and dosed their troops in the process. Important Germans were destroyed: Rommel, Dollman, von Schweppenburg, Dietrich; vital British commanders had been killed: Rennie, Crocker and Keller; another 40,000 died in minutes: soldiers, noncombatants and the rest.

A hasty cease-fire was crafted and the Red Cross dragged the dead to a field near Cormelles and buried them en masse. Reporters and poets cataloged the misery. Ezra Pound composed a depressing canto and broadcast the stanzas from exile in Rome. Robert Capa snapped hundreds of lurid pictures. These images graced the cover of newspapers worldwide, triggering outrage in all civilized nations. Today there is a memorial on the grounds where British, German and French rest for eternity. A wall was erected with the names of the dead, so protracted it consumed a half acre. Beginning with the Führer and then continuing with his successors, a brief ceremony is held at the monument every 28 June.

The fallout doomed the British. Churchill expressed profound regret, but insisted the RAF had not dropped Soman. To most, the words were pointless. It was war, after all. People died. How didn't seem important. Was being gassed was worse than being killed by a bomb or shot by a gun? Why the hand wringing? The point of war was to kill. But this...this was beyond the scope of decency, so said the Führer. The new American President Truman echoed these sentiments, and so did the British population. The backlash was immediate and intense. The Germans threatened to arm V-2 rockets with Cyclosarin and launch them at cities on the British Isles.

The war didn't end the next day, or the day after. In fact, conflagration continued in spastic outbursts. Churchill, the story went, sank into a prolonged drunken stupor; on 30 October 1944, King Edward VIII replaced the sodden Churchill with Clement Atalee. The British were fractured. Their troops refused to fight when ordered. There were riots in London, demands to end the war. The civil unrest was spurned by shame and fear. The Americans plodded along, but the French Resistance splintered. They hated the Nazis but no longer trusted the British and their American allies. American public opinion sided with the Germans and the Japanese appeared to be a greater danger.

After the failure of Ardennes, the last great Allied Offensive of Europe, the British sued for peace. In the interim, General Jan Smuts replaced Atalee as Prime Minister. The Germans accepted the British surrender and Hitler signed his name (with a hand already beginning to show signs of the Parkinson's) on the Treaty of London in May 1945. The terms were favorable: no German involvement in the American war with Japan, no German aggression against the United Kingdom, the cessation of British colonies in Africa to be awarded to Germany and, of course, the resettlement of European camp Jews to Mandatory Palestine by the end of 1947.

Just in case the Nazis got bold, the Americans showed off the awesome might of their atomic bombs on two Japanese cities in August 1945. The world entered a new stage of peace then, an uneasy one in which the Germans minded their business in Europe, Africa, and the territory of the old Soviet Union. The United States concentrated on rebuilding Japan in a vision of Western capitalism, mirroring what Commodore Perry strived to succeed in the 19th Century. This was important business; the menace of communism in Asia, the rise of which filled the vacuum by the subjugation of the Imperial Japanese in these agrarian nations, was deemed a potent threat to world security.

By the late 1950's, things were beginning to thaw between the United States and the Third Reich. Up to this point, the Americans and the Germans tolerated each other. The atomic bomb kept the German expansionist policies in check while Nazi missiles, capable of reaching the American East Coast, stared down the Yanks. New U-boat designs, the behemoth Type XVIII with the Walter system (air-independent propulsion), were capable of launching V-3 "Busy Lizzies" and carried a float plane on the hull. And in '61, when German scientists developed their own version of the atom bomb, it appeared any world conquering would be done in vain. With both the United States and Nazi Germany stockpiled with enough atomic bombs to kill the world a few hundred times over, only a madman would pursue conflagration. It was doubtful these two superpowers would meet in combat.

Thus, President W. Averell Harriman opened the door for cooperation and commerce, and Chancellor Dönitz was more than willing to negotiate. An understanding existed between the two men, and the nexus of the agreement rotated around the notion communism was a scourge meant to stopped. Harriman, a former Ambassador to the old Soviet Union during World War II, was one of the first to shake Felix Steiner's hand when the SS general arrived in Moscow on 25 May 1944. And Harriman had business interests with the Nazis predating the war. The Germans were willing to be amicable trading partners, but this didn't mean the battle was over. Many Americans remembered the bungled, clumsy relocation of Jews. Worse, a number of Jews were entrenched in positions of influence in the U.S. The government, Hollywood and, of course, the financial institutions were thick with Yids. With perfidy and cunning, these people worked to sabotage the fresh American-Third Reich bond. The wedge the Jew tried to drive was flogged with a hammer of German depravity. The International Red Cross report estimated two to three million Jews died during the Aliyah. Himmler, Ritter, Justin, the long dead Heydrich...no matter who the German government served, on silver platters, to shoulder responsibility for the crimes; no matter the reparations paid to the survivors, the compensation delivered to the government of Mandatory Palestine; no matter the apologies tendered...nothing appeared to be enough to placate the screeching of the Jew. In the minds of the ministers of the Reichstag, an international cabal of Jews and weak-minded gentiles meant to plunge the two superpowers into a third world war.

***

All of this was beyond Jerry Lee Lewis's comprehension. For the Killer, his revival began in 1960, when Chancellor Karl Dönitz appointed the aforementioned Leni Riefenstahl as the new Reich Minister for Propaganda and Enlightenment. The spry age of fifty-seven, Riefenstahl was the famed directrix of the groundbreaking films _Herzensbrecher bei Caen_ , _Triumph des Willens_ and _Olympia_. Ministrix Frau Riefenstahl fashioned a severe appearance: body frame, thin and sleek, gave way to a bird-like head and big beak. Dark, frizzy hair stood on her skull like it'd been blown by a stiff wind. Not a glimmer of humor penetrated her pinched mien. Riefenstahl looked pedantic, but the saying about not judging a book by cover...it rings true. Indeed, Leni Riefenstahl was an innovative thinker. Unlike her two predecessors (Goebbels and Fritzsche), Riefenstahl envisioned a Third Reich rising above the halcyon days of torches, Nuremberg rallies, and the pageantry of staid Nazi demonstrations.

However, this was a road fraught with potholes and ruts; a chasm existed between young and old. Strident Nazis argued self-expression was an extraneous concept. The Third Reich had their fair share of musicians, writers, actors and actresses. Theater, film, literature, song...all mediums followed a predictable formula. Demonstrative wasn't a word used in connection with art sponsored by the Reich Culture Chamber...and if the Reich Culture Chamber wasn't sponsoring, the art wasn't going to be seen. Joseph Goebbels dream to stimulate the Aryanization of German culture prohibited cacophonous Jewish and Negro music, as well as surrealism, cubism, and Dadaism.

As expected, Goebbels rubberstamped projects were insipid and boring. Hans Fritzsche, Goebbels replacement, carried the torch of minimalism like a loyal toady, but his heart wasn't made for the long hours and he went tits up in late 1959. With an eye towards inventive moviemaking and music, Riefenstahl's ministry loosened restrictions on "degenerative" art. American and English so-called rock-and-roll music, white minstrels mimicking negroes, was more entertaining than Werner Egk's Stravinskian snooze-inducing elegance, Hans Pfitzner's frigid operettas, or the Obernkirchen Children's Choir. Under Riefenstahl's direction (and with the Chancellor's permission), censors stopped limiting foreign songs, even the most suggestive tripe, and the result was a surge of nimble-legged youths engaging in outlandish, avant-garde dancing not of the goose-stepping variety.

Embracing the popular culture of their former adversaries in war would smudge the notion Nazi Germany was a humorless, unimaginative nation. Leni Riefenstahl dreamed her efforts would rebrand the Nazi swastika and make it appealing to those of impressionable age in distant milieus. The Ministry of Propaganda and Enlightenment formed Parlophone Records and Neue Constantin Film Production. Yes, it was clear to Riefenstahl where the next battle would be fought: it would be a war for the young mind run through advertisements and cultural icons.

The first American artist to make a name in Nazi Europe was Andy Warhol. In 1961, Warhol was commissioned by Ministrix Riefenstahl to construct several flattering prints. His posters for the German Labor Front, _Deutsche Arbeitsfront_ , the German Woman's Order, _Deutscher Frauenorden_ , and the German Faith Movement, _Deutsche Glaubensbewegung_ , became commercial successes. Soon Warhol was the premier illustrator for Siemens, Porsche, Volkswagen, and IG Farben.

Warhol even came to Berlin, once, to receive the prestigious _Deutscher Nationalpreis für Kunst und Wissenschaft_ award for artistic excellence. Needless to say, the visit did not go well. Warhol was addled and flamboyant; the Gestapo badgered and hounded. It took all of Leni Riefenstahl's influence to save the waifish queer from a date in a cellar cell of Number Eight, Prinz-Albrecht-Straße. Not by coincidence, this disastrous trip to Germany initiated a spastic transformation in Andy Warhol's work.

Toiling from his studio in Midtown Manhattan, Warhol produced kitschy, if not absurd, reproductions of iconic German celebrities and politicians: Adolf Hitler's face, captured in such a way it appeared he was at the moment of orgasm, was plastered to orange wallpaper; Erwin Rommel's stern profile was reproduced in triplicate and highlighted in purple; Mimi Pollak, Chancellor Dönitz, Kurt Zeitzler and so forth until it appeared the peculiar artiste had lost his mind. Though the caricatures would've sold well in Europe, Riefenstahl realized there was a limit to the creative endeavors she was willing to back. When Warhol's predilection drifted to manufacturing obscure, silent films, Riefenstahl parted ways with him and focused on another medium with promise: rock-and-roll music.

In mid-1964, The Beatles produced an album in Hamburg for the Reich-controlled Parlophone label entitled _Die Beatles in Deutschland_. German-language versions of popular Lennon-McCartney penned tunes were released, and the Beatles launched a well-publicized twenty-seven-day tour of Europe. Exclusive distribution to the nations of the European Reich raked in millions of Reichsmarks for the band. Other performers (The Vipers Skiffle Group, Adam Faith and The Temperance Seven among the most recognizable), saw the potential for wider distribution and profits. Many acts signed truncated contracts for single album deals. But, before these groups, there was Jerry Lee Lewis. He was the first to perform in Germany and his shows in Hamburg were instant hits. Parlophone inked a six-record contract with a frenetic Lewis, who was relieved to have a career again.

The fancy lodging, cars, and trips he calculated as something akin to an all-inclusive resort. The Germans had other ideas. Had the Killer been offered a proper accountant, perhaps what transpired later could have been avoided. Jerry Lee's German manager, Oscar Preuss of Parlophone, stole millions. Preuss had borrowed against future royalties and wasted most of the money on extravagant trips to Morocco, the Canary Islands, and Greece. After Preuss died in 1970, detectives from the Economic Bureau of the Kripo paid Lee an unscheduled visit. The first order of business was presenting the Killer with a lengthy receipt. _Unpaid expenses_ , the grim Kriminalrat explained. Jerry Lee tried to argue to the contrary, but the German cops weren't interested in having a two-way discussion.

The second bomb was worse. It seemed Oscar Preuss hadn't been a fan of paying taxes. Not a Reichspfennig, let alone a Reichsmark, of Jerry Lee's revenue went to German excises. _Ever._ As a result, Lewis faced a daunting future. The Germans offered a solution to Jerry Lee's problem: return to the United States and become a spokesperson for the Reich. And so the Killer returned...but he didn't say boo about the Nazis. Instead, Jerry Lee dabbled in country music, ran afoul of the law and women, and encountered hostile crowds. Then the Internal Revenue Service wanted their piece of the Killer's pie and Jerry Lee beat feet for Dublin. Ireland turned into a disaster and, with nowhere else to go, the Killer returned to Germany.

***

"One thing about America was how much had changed when I returned in the '70's," Lewis said. "Damn FBI took to watching me. The queer sonabitch Hoover loved peepin' on men. You wanna talk about a Gestapo operation...fellas, I been done setup at least a dozen times by the Feds. And they spread all kinds of gossip, none of it true. Someone started tongues wagging about how I fled the U.S. in '63 so I could avoid the draft and the next thing you know...." Lewis lifted the bottle of beer and then slammed it on the table. "Crash, man," he whispered. "Then Elvis and Johnny joined in. They said I was a coward and all kinds of bullshit. Fuckin' Presley became a Deputy Marshall or some nonsense. Shit, ole Elvie was fucked up on more things than a goddamn circus elephant. You know something else? I had two wives die while I was in the U.S. One drowned, the other shot herself. Do you know what I think?"

"What?" Jason peeped, voice cracking an octave.

Jerry Lee tapped his temple as he said, "They were killed. Also had two of me boys die under strange circumstances. One drowned and the other died in a traffic accident."

"Hells bells," Hump whispered.

Lewis wiped at his eyes and then shouted, "But you know what? They couldn't get Jerry Lee! And they'll never get Jerry Lee! Motherfuckers!"

"I can't believe comin' back to the Nazis wasn't a smart idea," Hump said.

"Shit, brother, you don't know the half of it. They were kinda sore at me," Jerry Lee confessed. "One because I owed them and two, I didn't do what they wanted. The Nazis made me tour for seven years straight. No home, no petty cash, no kind of life but the music life. I wasn't a young man then, and the schedule took its toll. I started doing this damn Pervitin to keep Jerry Lee goin'."

"Pilot Salt," Jason said with a knowing nod. "Speed."

"How'd you know what it's called?" Jerry Lee asked with a cocked head.

"Them Krauts made you a slave," Hump concluded.

"You know what they claim about answered prayers," the Killer said. "You never know if the Devil is gonna grant it. At last, I broke down. Man, the Killer had zero zip. They were days I couldn't get outta bed. Still, those bastards lashed until the ole ticker up-and-seized one night in Munich. I wish they woulda let Jerry Lee go quiet-like into the night. Instead, they brought me back from the dead and then shipped me here. A permeant position, if you get what I mean. Those Nazis plan to squeeze every last drop of sweat from poor Jerry Lee. Do you want to know somethin' else? I believe Peiper was sent to watch me. I know, I know, it sounds crazy. But how else can you explain why he retired _here_."

"What do the Germans think you could do?" Jason asked.

"I don't know," the Killer answered, reaching for a beer. "Ain't nobody flocking here to see me anyway. Jerry Lee Lewis is irrelevant."

"You should talk to them fellas who came with me," Hump said. "Media types. Maybe they could write a story or sumptin."

"Yeah," Jason seconded.

"Bah," Lewis scoffed. "It won't do no good. I'm justa crazy old man. My whole life is a study in insanity. Nothing I say will be met with a semblance of belief."

"The Fourth Reich nonsense," Hump said. "Are you pullin' my leg?"

"Well, sir," Lewis said, "take a look at the U.S. and tell me I speak nonsense. There's a Fifth Estate of artists and journalists workin' to undermine the American system. In the 60's it was them hippies and Black Panthers. In the 70's it-"

Jason hooted and then asked, "Are you kidding me?"

"Nope," Lewis said before draining the remainder of one bottle and then belching again. "The damn FBI kept files on everybody they thought were subversives. How many musicians and writers and actors died under mysterious circumstances? Huh?" Jerry Lee sat back and let the question hang in the air a tick before answering, "It ain't no coincidence."

***

"I think he's loco," Jason confided later, as the two laid in opposite beds. Hump's cot, close to the window, allowed an unfettered view of the drive-up area at the front of the Seronera lodge.

"Who?" Hump mumbled.

"Your boy, Jerry Lee Lewis."

Hump snapped the curtain shut and let his head flop to the pillow.

"Does he sound lucid?" Jason needled.

"No, I suppose not," Hump relented.

"Hey, what does Fifth Estate mean?"

Hump sneered and then said, "Uh-huh, let me understand this. You're sayin' Jerry Lee is crazy, but you don't know what he was talkin' about."

"I gathered enough from the conversation, smart guy. The Nazis were sending people to America to, like, spread dissention. Am I warm?"

"Yeah, you're hot."

"It's an interesting idea."

"But you think it's a _crazy_ idea," Hump pronounced.

"I mean, meth doesn't do any favors in the noia department."

"Jerry Lee's here, ain't he?"

" _And_? Maybe he _wanted_ to come to the Safaripark. Stay on the downlow so the IRS can't get their hands on him."

"So, you believe _that_ part of his story?"

"I don't know, pops," Jason whined.

"Then maybe keep your opinions to yerself."

"What I do know is there are a bunch of weirdos wandering around this place and I'm going for a ride with most of 'em tomorrow morning."

"Nobody's twistin' your arm."

"Oh, I ain't letting you schlep to Ngorongoro by your lonesome."

"Have it your way."

Jason rolled to his right and elevated on his elbow. Then he stared at Hump for a few seconds before stating, "No funny stuff tomorrow, pops."

"Listen, kid, why don't you sleep in and let me take care of my business."

"No, I'm not letting you go out there alone. I promised-"

"Save it. You wanna keep me safe. Suit yourself."

"You aren't planning something stupid, are you?"

"Depends on your definition of stupid."

"Aw, geez, it's the same as yours, pops."

"This is something I shoulda done thirty years ago. I had plenty of excuses then, and not a one of them holds water. Now's the time, I'm here, and I ain't _ever_ comin' back. Make hay while the sun shines, kid."

"We're not making hay, man."

"Why don't you kill the light, kid," Hump snuffled. "We've an early wakeup."

Jason desired to continue the chat, but Hump closed his eyes and then twisted his head away from the kid. A moment later, Hump was snoring and Jason had no choice but to pull the metal string on the lamp next to the bed.

# 15. Hump 'n Ngorongoro

Senior Ranger Klaus Schmidt, a bearded fireplug of a man dressed in wrinkled khaki shorts and polo shirt, adjusted the sweat stained pith hat on his head and appraised the four men standing on the portico of the lodge. Three could be described, in the nicest verbiage, as mature. Peiper, though, had another twenty years on Jerry Lee Lewis and the other American codger. The former Reichsführer wasn't old...he was damn near prehistoric. At least the fourth member, a twenty-something with chaotic dark hair and an annoying penchant for yawning, looked capable of handling a weapon should, on the off chance, a tetchy situation present itself.

Schmidt had convinced himself the excursion would be an easy daytrip. Two-and-a-half hours to the Ngorongoro Highlands, thirty minutes ( _maybe_ an hour...tops) to sightsee, have lunch, rest rear-ends, before returning. If everything went well, they'd be snug at Seronera before fifteen hundred hours without anyone who gave a tinshit being none the wiser. And for this effort, the Senior Ranger would collect weighty compensation from Peiper because this trip was supposed to be "under the radar". Schmidt wasn't sure why Peiper was being cagy but, if the former Reichsführer asked for a favor, it was wise to acquiescence. Most of Schmidt's Safaripark coworkers would claim deference to the man's heroic service to the Third Reich. Or, perhaps, Peiper's advanced age induced profound brown-nosing. Yes, admiration beget sycophantic simpering. Well, they were liars. Peiper may have been a dinosaur, but there was no dumb, vacant expression in his eyes. Unlike most seniors, the former Reichsführer was acute and cognizant. Senior Ranger Schmidt wasn't ashamed to admit Joaquim Peiper was a terrifying man.

Of course, there was no _contemporary_ precedent to base this philosophy; Peiper had never done anything but toddle the park grounds and take the occasional daytrip like other sightseers. Reputation alone sufficed and Schmidt knew the Schutzstaffel wasn't in the business of baking cookies. He was also aware Peiper had run the gauntlet back in the day The Sequel War was one thing. The assassination attempt was another. And then there were the sundry ornaments Peiper wore when the feeling struck: _Deutscher Orden, Ritterkreuz des Eisernen Kreuzes mit Goldenem Eichenlaub, Schwertern und Brillanten, SS-Dienstauszeichnungen, Medaille zur Erinnerung an die Heimkehr des Memellandes._ Of all the merits, the _Deutscher Orden_ was the gaudiest...and for good reason. The gold German Order, worn around the neck, was nicknamed "The Dead Hero Award". Heydrich, Todt, Bürckel, and a half-dozen others who'd sacrificed life for the Reich, had been bestowed with the posthumous gift. If looks were any indication, Peiper _should've_ died for Germany. But he hadn't, and he flaunted the Order medal like a talisman. Who could blame Pieper if he wanted to show it off? It was, for lack of a better word, _bad ass_.

Most of the time, Peiper liked to bend ears and expounded on an assortment of subjects both tedious and beyond comprehension. He veered into abstract cogitations...Schmidt caught the brunt of one such monologue four year earlier, not long after arriving at Seronera as a junior ranger. It was a head scratching critique on Phaleristics and the English King George VI. There wasn't _anything_ Schmidt could add to the meandering discussion, but Peiper wasn't soliciting for a chitchat partner. No, this conversation was the purest definition of _one-sided_. In the interim, there were more exchanges conducted in the same vein. When at all possible, most of the staff avoided Peiper. Schmidt did, too, but Peiper caught him flatfooted the previous day and badgered for a ride. Thing was, Peiper hadn't mentioned a cadre of associates. And Ngorongoro was a hotspot as of late.

Employees of the Safaripark had been told the crater was being thinned of combustible foliage, and this was an apt excuse, but even the spotter planes had been prohibited from flying in and around the caldera. Nobody dared ask questions, and Safaripark Director Kolb wasn't one to rock the boat, but Schmidt got the sense there was more at work than a controlled burn. Intuition was a lousy source, however, and gossip would never leave the Senior Ranger's lips. Rumors were a bad thing to start at the Safaripark; there were plenty of tattletales roaming the Seronera grounds and this meant it was _always_ safer in the bush. At least the animals didn't care what you said. Most of the creatures respected men and their boomsticks; the beasts who didn't could make a meal of a man in a hot second...but this was nothing compared to getting on the bad side of the Safaripark SS.

Peiper tapped his cane on the planking and rattled, "Ist es zeit, sich zu bewegen, Senior Ranger?"

"Sie und ein anderer, hm?" Schmidt answered as he dabbed forehead and then lowered the hat. "Ich erwartete kein volles haus."

"Änderung der pläne," Peiper said. "Treffen sie Hump Hammerbacher und seine...hausmeister. Ich vermute, sie kennen Herr Lewis."

Schmidt nodded at the men and then said, "Ich erwarte, vor dem abendessen zurückzukehren. Kein lollygagging im Hochland."

Hump ignored the babbling and focused on the diarrhea yella Volkswagen bug responsible for transporting them to the Ngorongoro Highlands. It wasn't the same type of robust all-terrain vehicle Barrone and his party departed for Grumeti a few days prior. This hunk o' junk was smaller, looked about as old as Hump, and lacked a top.

"What're they talking about?" Jason whispered to Hump.

"How the hell am I supposed to know?"

"I thought you spoke German."

"I know a little German, kid. Not enough to-"

"Our escort is anxious to get underway," Peiper intoned. Then, to Herr Schmidt: "Bitte geh weiter, Senior Ranger."

"Eh...I'm ecstatic to be of service," Schmidt claimed in shipshape English. The flat inflection, and the ranger's stony expression, seemed to betray his alleged excitement.

"Are we all gonna fit in this car?" Hump asked. "And what is this thing anyway? It looks sumptin the Flintstones used to putter around in."

"Ah, a joke," Schmidt muttered with derision.

"I'm not joking," Hump retorted.

Peiper cackled and then said, "If I'm not mistaken, this is a Type 18 Volkswagen. A Gendarmerier. Reliable _and_ comfortable."

"Type 18A, Reichsführer," Schmidt corrected. "I couldn't procure a Kübelwagen or Iltis. Those are the preferred vehicles for excursions but-"

"But this ole girl ain't," Hump concluded. "Will it run?"

"Will it run?" Schmidt scoffed. "Do you think I'd select a vehicle incapable of delivering me from A to B, and then the reverse?"

"Wonderful!" Peiper hailed. "The time for small talk can come later."

"Just a moment, sir," the ranger said, raising his right hand. "I have a couple of provisions. I take you to the Ngorongoro Highlands. The caldera and grounds around Lake Magadi are prohibited."

"I'm aware," Peiper said.

Schmidt sighed and then said, "Yes, Herr Peiper, I know _you're_ aware. I'm informing the others I won't take _any_ detours. No visits to Oldupai Gorge, the crater, the rhino-"

"Yes, yes," Peiper said with a nod.

"Second, I don't want anybody wandering from my vicinity when we stop. Most of the wildlife will scatter from people, but there are some frisky creatures who aren't deterred by the sight of man. Last, we leave when I say it's time. No exceptions. Someone will notice our ride missing come evening and I don't desire the pleasure of a carpet dance."

"Sie haben nichts zu befürchten, Senior Ranger," Peiper said, waving his cane in a flippant manner.

"Ich würde lieber nicht schicksal verführen," Schmidt responded in a meek voice.

Jason nudged Hump in the ribs and asked, "What're the saying?"

"Jeez O'Pete, kid, I already told you I don't know."

"Senior Ranger Schmidt is cautious," Peiper answered, hobbling towards the porch steps. "Nothing wrong with this attribute, mind you, but we're not doing anything indecorous."

With a peek towards Peiper, Schmidt asked, "Does everyone understand?"

Hump nodded, Jason grunted and Jerry Lee...well, Jerry Lee didn't respond. He wasn't looking so hot this morning and swayed in place with half-open eyes and a slack jaw.

"Good," Schmidt said. "Now, as to your question, Herr Hammerbacher. Three can sit in the back, but it'll be a tight fit. I wasn't made aware the number of interlopers. Reichsführer Peiper never mentioned a cadre of associates."

"Herr Hammerbacher is an esteemed American athlete," Peiper said as he descended the warped steps. "This excursion is his request. As for the others...you know Herr Lewis, Senior Ranger. The third member is Herr Hammerbacher's caretaker." Schmidt came forward to assist, but the former Reichsführer shrugged from aid and queried, "Mittagessen ist gepackt?"

"Jawohl. Ein leichter kost von früchten und Mettbrötchen."

"Genug für uns alle?"

"Wir können es funktionieren lassen."

"They're talkin' about lunch," Hump reported to Jason. "At least I think they are."

"Lunch?"

"Sounds like it. Früchten is fruit. Mettbrötchen is..." Hump glanced at Jason and then said, "Ah, forget about it. Stick to the fruit."

Jason saluted and then departed. Hump hiked his britches, already feeling swap-assish, and watched Jerry Lee saunter forward. The Killer's skin was ashen and goose-pimpled; a coating of flop sweat pebbled forehead.

Lewis moaned and then croaked, "Sorry, fella. Jerry Lee ate somethin' foul. It ain't agreeing with the tum-tum. Damn Germans and their raw meats. You'd think I know better by now."

"You ain't lookin' spry," Hump affirmed. "A little south of right as rain. The food, you say?"

"Yeah, buddy. And, um...I don't know what I was thinkin' when I agreed to this. Guess I wasn't thinkin'. But I'm thinkin' now. You wanna know what I'm thinkin'? I don't _think_ I'm goin', old man."

"A'right," Hump said, extending right hand.

The Killer took it, pumped once, and then leaned in and whispered, "Tell you something else: I have a bad feelin' about goin' out there. Hit me like lightning as I was standing here. I got senses like a cat and they serve we well. Be careful. There's a lotta bad juju out yonder."

"Funny," Hump rejoined, "but I never took you for a coward, _killer_."

Jerry Lee stiffened and dropped Hump's hand. "What you say?" he asked, squeezing the words between pressed lips.

"You heard me."

"And you didn't hear me. I said I'm not feelin' well."

"You're not feelin' well because of the dope."

"Ain't none of your business."

"Don't you wanna get outta here?"

"Outta the Safaripark? There ain't no place I can go. Hell, I explained my situation. Besides, who's takin' me? You?"

"Those boys from the internets are returning this afternoon. Room 608. Talk to 'em. The queer guy with the crazy hair is an editor. He's an oddball, but worth his salt."

"I appreciate the offer, but I won't be speakin' to anybody. Nobody'd believe me."

"You'd be surprised what people believe."

"How long do you think I'd kickin' ifin I blabbed? I wouldn't be the first person the Nazis knocked off, and I wouldn't be the most famous." Then the Killer belched, swallowed, and grimaced (not in this order) as his stomach grumbled. "I gotta lie down," he muttered, his skin turning a mite grayer.

"Gentlemen!" Peiper yelled as he opened the passenger door. "Chop, chop!"

"I'm comin'!" Hump answered. To Jerry Lee: "This ain't no way to live."

"I gotta good life here," Lewis whispered.

"Fella-"

"Don't make no trouble for me. I want no part of whatever you're scheming."

Hump studied the Killer's pallid expression and then smiled. "I'm up to nutin," he said, patting Jerry Lee on the shoulder. "If anybody asks, I'm just takin' a journey to see the crater." Then he turned and left the miserable singer underneath the shaded portico. By the time Hump reached the Volkswagen, Lewis had disappeared into the lodge.

"Herr Lewis isn't coming?" Peiper asked with a puzzled expression.

"He ain't in any condition to travel," Hump reported.

Peiper clucked tongue and then said, "A shame what those poisons do to the brain. At least we won't need to watch the man."

"Right, Peiper," Hump said, climbing into the back. "We ain't gotta worry 'bout nutin."

***

The Safaripark Strect was paved, the ride smooth, and Hump's relaxed mind lapsed into sublime nostalgia. He recalled tooling with Carol and a young Howie in their baby blue Buick Electra 225. This was the Florida years, the period before Hubbie was born, and the diminutive Hammerbacher clan pinballed up, down, and across the state, like bloated retirees, during the baseball offseason.

Yes, sir...top down, the warm breeze blowin' brine, and the neon static of Gulf thunderstorms brewin' big with carbuncles plumb full of moisture...of all the stops on the trek across America, Florida had been Hump's favorite. For starters, it never got cold in Florida. Sure, once and a while it could freeze in the winter, but people in the north woulda given their first born for a January high in the lower thirties. By midday, the sky was severe clear azure and the sun would warm the air to short sleeve temperatures. The _only_ thing a man had to worry about was hurricanes. And serpents. And sinkholes. But these snags were trivial impediments. Takin' a drive in the middle of January with the top down beat all those problems with a stick.

One thing was certain: the Serengeti would never be mistaken for Florida. The jungle, mayhap, but not the plains. Forest fell away quick, a scant fifteen minutes from Seronera, and the Volkswagen burst from the humid canopy into brilliant sunshine. Hump had to blink eyes several times to acclimate with the brightness. There was an awful lot of savannah and few trees. On occasion, Hump caught peeks of animals huddled underneath the tangled branches of a Kigela. Zebras, mostly, but he also saw panting lions once and shrunk into the seat with a terrified expression.

Schmidt, glancing in the rearview, smirked and then shouted, "All kinds of beasts here. The good _and_ the bad."

The wind dashed the words to the ether; Hump leaned forward, cupped left ear and squawked, "Come again?"

"I said, all kinds of beasts here. The good and the bad."

" _And_ the ugly," Hump pronounced.

"Eh, it's a matter of perception," Schmidt said. "Spend a few hours watching these creatures and tell me what ugly is."

"They eat each other, don't they?"

"Some do. It's part of the circle of life. Nothing goes to waste. Everything has a purpose."

"What happened to the people livin' here?" Hump asked.

"Nobody lived here," Schmidt said. "The Maasai are nomadic and raise cattle. The term is _pastoral_. They treated the Serengeti as a vast trough."

"So they moved somewhere else?"

"Yes, but they still have access to the Serengeti. Trespassing is a felony. If the Maasai are caught, their cattle are taken and they face a stiff fine. We don't catch many," Schmidt added with a shrug.

"Before you get antsy," Peiper said over his left shoulder, "know the British relocated the Maasai in the early Twentieth Century. The exodus made our handling of the Yids years later a _minor_ affair. But, did you ever hear of the Maasai Relocation?" Hump shook his head and Peiper then cried, "Of course not!"

"What about the crater?" Hump asked. "The other morning you said the Maasai had to be moved from Ngorongoro in the late '80's."

"Did I?"

"I think so. Or maybe it was the fella from the car ride the other mornin'."

"The negro?"

"Negro," Jason mumbled.

"Matter of fact," Hump said, "it was him."

Peiper twisted in his seat until most of his body was facing Hump and then asked, "What did he mention?"

"Sumptin about the Maasai being forced from the crater."

"My point. Those..." Peiper sneered at Jason and then continued, " _indigenous_ peoples meant to incite revolution. They blew up the German Embassy in Dar Es Salaam. There wasn't a question of how to deal with the rabble."

"What happened to 'em?"

"Relocation in most cases. Those too dogged to accept removal took arms. Not many fare well when faced with the might of the German SS. I had retired by then. It was time to let younger men take the reins. Similar, I'd wager, to what happens in your sport of baseball. Politics and athletics are a game for the agile."

"I never got the chance to fade quiet-like."

"Oh?"

"I got beaned in the head."

"Beaned?"

"Hit by a pitched ball."

"Goodness!"

"It all but wrecked my confidence. I couldn't stare down a pitcher without thinkin' he was gunnin' for my noggin'. Scared ain't no way to play."

"This beaning wasn't intentional, was it?"

"No. Just a bad pitch, bad luck, bad everything. The stars aligned, for better or worse."

"Well, here you are," Peiper concluded, turning around. "This is what Providence divined."

"I reckon," Hump said, watching the grasslands dash past.

***

The Safaripark border, some seventy kilometers southeast of Seronera, was delineated by a large sign decorated in several languages. " _Now Leaving The Reich Safaripark_ ," the English version announced in script so microscopic Hump had to ask Jason what the words said. Just beyond the sign, the paved portion of the Strecke terminated next to a squat concrete building. Several jeeps were parked along the perimeter, and two men wearing brown and yellow camouflage stood sentry beneath the overhang of the structures roof. The road beyond was dusty and the landscape full of scrub and rocks. This roasting, russet demesne slithered in thermals; high above, giant turkey vultures rode the invisible rollers of hot air.

"We're about to enter Tanganyika," Peiper informed as Schmidt brought the Volkswagen to a stop abeam the two guards. "You can see the Strecke suffers from neglect. It will be a bumpy ride for the next hour."

The border agents, tall, white and young, wore brown, crumpled, forage caps pulled to their eyebrows. They were strapped and carried small arms on the hips. A third man appeared in the doorway of the outpost cradling what looked to be a large caliber rifle.

While one of the guards orbited the Volkswagen, the other placed a booted foot against the left fender and engaged Senior Ranger Schmidt in a lengthy conversation. The language, spit machinegun-like, was impossible for Hump to follow. Instead, he lowered head and twiddled thumbs.

"A formality," Peiper assured the passengers as the dialogue became protracted. Sitting under the sun, without shade, was akin to fryin' in an oven. "These lads are with the SS Otto Kumm Company."

"What do they want?" Jason asked.

Peiper ignored the question and informed, "Otto Kumm was a friend of mine. He was killed during an ambush a few hundred clicks northeast of here, near Lake Natron. I was winged, taken prisoner and subjected to debasing affronts. My captors were Jew terrorists, Free French mercenaries, Arab radicals and a host of, ahem, _indigenous_ species. Me and another man, a Senior Ranger as a matter of fact, were held in the den of vipers for days before I made an escape."

"You don't say," Jason said, craning his neck to watch the sentry complete a third revolution.

"Yes," Peiper continued. "During my travail, I was bitten by some horrid venomous creature and the wound became infected. I almost lost my right root. And the bullet wound...let's just say it was an _awful_ experience."

"Those were the same people who tried to kill the Chancellor?" Hump asked.

"Some of them. Others were looking to spread dissention in parts of Sudan and French Equatorial Africa. A real motley collection of extremists. The least I could do for Otto was name the Safaripark garrison after him."

"What happened to the ranger you were taken prisoner with?" asked Hump.

"He had the Strecke running north from Seronera named for him. Want to guess why?"

"I reckon it didn't turn out well for him."

"No, it did not. Uwe Bernd, a young man...about your age, I would estimate," Peiper said, nodding at Jason. "He was killed by the Mau Mau. Eviscerated and left for the animals to consume."

The guard doing laps paused next to Peiper and began speaking to the former Reichsführer. With both front seat occupants engaged in discourse, Jason nudged Hump on the thigh and whispered, "I'm recording all this."

"What?"

"With my phone," the kid explained, gesturing at an iPhone sitting on the seat beside him. "I figure it can be content for our YouTube page."

"Don't let 'em see ya," Hump said out the left side of his mouth.

"Gee, you think?"

The guard at the front of the Volkswagen removed his foot, straightened, and then stood aside. "Gehen und vorsichtig sein," he said, gesturing down the road.

"As I stated," Peiper said. "Just a formality. Like your border patrol in America."

The Volkswagen crept forward and Hump offered a timid wave at the Aryan behemoth stroking the elephant rifle.

***

Then it was another hour of up-and-down travel over the unpleasant, empty road. Who could have imagined Ngorongoro was so jagged? Why would anybody want to live here? Peiper's explanation of this place echoed in Hump's head. Some nonsense about it being inhabited by evil. But he'd been talking about the crater.

"This area is part of the Great Rift Valley," Schmidt explained. "As we continue east, the ground becomes less craggy. The hills are gentile and sloping, and I'll be able to open up the engine."

"Open her up?" Hump yelled. "To what? Faster than a walrus?"

"This vehicle can do close to a hundred kilometers per hour," Schmidt refuted.

"In English," Hump gnashed.

"Sixty miles an hour," Peiper droned.

"We'll crest the peak spot in the highlands soon," Schmidt said. "About twenty minutes or so. This is where we'll stop."

"Does this road lead into the crater?" Hump asked.

Schmidt glanced in the rearview and then said, "There are several routes into the caldera, Herr Hammerbacher."

"What's in there?"

"Besides wildlife, there's a lake in the northern portion of the crater during the rainy season. October through April. This time of year, the lake is a fetid watering hole. The remainder of the area is grassland and Fabaceae forest."

"Hence the need for a controlled burn," Peiper said.

"Correct," Schmidt said, sneaking another peek at Hump in the mirror. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious, I reckon. I told Peiper my son used to paint pictures of the crater. I always wanted to see it in person. Guess I'll have to settle for the next best thing, eh?"

Schmidt grunted, shifted the Volkswagen to a lower gear as it struggled up an incline, and then said, "Yes. Apologies for the inconvenience, but the burn is necessary. Or so I'm told. I must claim operational ignorance, but you understand I'm just a ranger. I will say no measurable rain falls between May and late September. We're in the thick of the dry season."

"How big is this thing?" Hump asked.

"The crater? Hmm...best guess is about 250 square kilometers," Schmidt answered. Hump opened his mouth but Schmidt beat him to the punch. "It's large," the ranger confirmed. "I can't give you an estimable comparison, but it's wide enough to allow a variety of creatures to roam in herds."

"Predator and prey interaction is robust," Peiper added.

"No people live there either?" Hump asked.

Schmidt said, "Not since the Tanganyika government forced the Maasai from the land in the '90's. With a little help from the Reich, of course." The ranger jerked his head towards Peiper and then asked, "The SS got their hands dirty, eh Reichsführer?"

"The connotation is unpleasant, Senior Ranger. They handled a throng of troublemakers. Nothing more."

"You know," Hump said, "I'm no scientist, but it seems Maasai cattle would be beneficial in thinning those...whatchacallit...grasses and whatnot."

" _Combustible_ grasses," Schmidt said. "Well, I'm not a scientist either because I happen to agree with you."

"None of us are scientists," Peiper announced. "Thus, it's impossible for us to understand the thought process. It'd be like me telling Herr Hammerbacher how to strike ball with bat. Or he telling me how to run the Reichssicherheitshauptamt. Er, the Reich Main Security Office, Hump."

Hump eyed Jason's phone on the seat and wondered what the device was recording: clear and vibrant voices of men in thoughtful conversation; indecipherable vocals flogged by wind; a confection of both realities...warbling spliced with a clear word, etcetera, leaving no ability for even the best computer to decipher?

"Why don't you regale us with a gay anecdote about your baseball days," Peiper suggested.

"Huh?" Hump asked, peeling peepers from the phone and fixing on the former Reichsführer.

"You've told me about your awful defeat in the World Championship. How about something of a humorous tone?"

"I don't feel like talkin' about baseball," Hump deferred.

"He's throwin' the first pitch in Yankee Stadium at the end of July," Jason interjected. "Ain't you, pops?"

"This is a big deal?" Peiper asked.

"Sumptin like it," Hump said. "I've been spendin' most of the spring working on my delivery."

"They honor sports heroes like warriors," Peiper announced.

"It's a symbolic gesture," said Hump. "Ain't but a handful of us left from the '57 team. In a couple of years we'll be a bunch of names and a pennant waving from the flagpole."

"A pennant?"

"A flag the league gives teams who win a division, league or World Series. The '57 team got two of the three."

"Another loss in the world championships?"

"Another Appomattox," Hump said as he leaned forward. The hill had levelled and the Volkswagen was gathering momentum. Ahead, as far as the eye could behold, was a view of tree covered rolling hills. "Hells bells," Hump said with genuine awe. "Looky, looky. What a gorgeous view."

"Most are surprised by the number of trees," Schmidt said, turning the steering wheel right. The Volkswagen departed the road and entered a bumpy sward of tall yellow grass. "We'll park near the cluster of bussei ahead."

Hump gripped the back of Peiper's seat as Jason snatched the phone in his right hand. The kid wrapped fingers around the device, shielding it from view, as he lifted and then tilted his hand as if to rub nose.

# 16. Locked And Loaded Hump

"Recall what I said at the lodge," Schmidt lectured as he rustled through the storage compartment at the front of the Volkswagen. Out came a small cooler, tossed to the ground like an afterthought, before Schmidt's upper body emerged from the cavity. In one hand was an elephant gun; in the other a box of ammunition. "Nobody wander further than my sphere," the ranger warned. "I'm _not_ in the mood to shoot anything today."

The kid gawked at the gun and then asked, "Like...what kind of danger are we talkin' about?"

"Nothing this Nitro can't handle," Schmidt assured. "Problem is, I have two shots before having to reload. Sometimes it takes more than two to make these animals see reason."

"Wonderful," the kid squeaked.

"But...eh...to be frank," the ranger whispered, "I don't like firing this thing. The kick is profane. The 700 express cartridge generates over 12,000 joules."

Jason stammered, "Could your...whatever you call it...could it kill a rhino?"

Schmidt shrugged and then answered, "Depends on a variety of factors. Distance, maturity of beast...how much I'd be shaking. Good thing we won't see rhinos here. They gather in and near the caldera."

"Maybe I'll stay with Peiper in the car," Jason said, gesturing at the Reichsführer sitting in the front passenger seat.

"What'd you think would be out here?" Hump asked. "This ain't the pettin' zoo, pardner."

"Hey, I'm awed by the majesty, or whatever you want to call it, of nature," Jason said as he raised arms to the blue sky. "Yeah, it's cool as fuck. But you know what? I don't need to get up close and personal with a bear."

Schmidt, loading the rifle, snorted and then said, "There are no bears in Tanganyika."

"Whatever, man," Jason said.

"Don't be such a scaredy squirrel," Peiper taunted.

"I don't see you out here," retorted the kid.

"I'm also seventy years older than you. I don't move well after sitting for a long spell."

"Nothing will eat you," Schmidt said, "as long as you stay near me. Now, if you'd like a snack, help yourself to what's in the cooler."

"I'll pass," Jason said.

In the interim, Hump meandered forward. Beyond the diminishing hills, cloaked in sinuous haze, a giant valley, boarded by highlands, stretched left to right. Where the world met, sky to soil, the compression point of attainable sight, this depression sank into infinity. Hump blinked and then rubbed his eyes for good measure.

"Quite a sight," Schmidt said as he approached. "I never tire of it."

Hump thrust at the hole with his right pointer finger and asked, "The crater?"

"Yes. We're about, oh...twenty kilometers as the crow flies."

"Jeez O'Pete," Hump whispered. "It's huge. Damn asteroid cause this thing?" He was expecting something a mite smaller. Locating men, or whatnot, in the hole was impossible from this distance.

"It's a volcanic caldera. Once home to an active volcano. Imagine...it towered over the land. Um-hmm. Over centuries the magma chamber emptied and the ground sank."

Jason joined them and whistled long and slow.

"Does this resemble what your son painted?" Schmidt asked.

"Wha?" asked Hump

"Your son. You mentioned he painted the Ngorongoro Crater."

"Er...yeah...it...it looks about the same."

"I'm going to meander down the hill," Schmidt said. "Scout for droppings. Holler if you need me."

Jason edged next to Hump and the two watched the Senior Ranger jog down a worn conduit in the grass. "Great," the kid whispered, "he's leaving us."

"He's a stones throw," said Hump. "What do you think of this place?"

"It's cool. Real chill. Now you've seen it, pops. Can we scoot?"

"I want you to take a picture."

"Here?"

"Why not?"

"I thought-"

"Take a picture," Hump pressed.

"Alright," the kid said, digging into a rear pocket of his shorts. He produced the phone, touched the screen several times, and then raised the device to his face. "You know," he said. "I could get a panoramic-"

"Bilder sind verboten!" Schmidt hollered from below. "You...put the camera away!"

"Sentimental keepsake," Hump explained.

Schmidt hustled to them and then wheezed, "No pictures."

"Why not?" Hump argued.

"Herr Hammerbacher, the crater is off-limits. You shouldn't even be this close. I did the Reichsführer a favor, but I'm afraid-"

"I don't see no smoke out there," Hump interrupted.

Schmidt followed Hump's gaze and then said, "I'm sure there's a schedule of some sort. Restrictions or...I don't know."

"Well, good," Hump said. "I was afraid a giant cloud of smoke would ruin the shot."

"There will be _no_ pictures," the ranger fussed.

"I came all this way," Hump whined. "What's a couple of photos gonna hurt?"

The ranger muttered a string of inaudible words, frowned, and then said, "Fine. A couple is what? Two or three? Be quick."

Jason grinned and raised the phone, but Hump said, "How about me and the kid with the crater in the background? Look nice, wouldn't it?"

The Senior Ranger adjusted the Nitro in his arms and said, "Hand me the phone."

"You gotta press right on the circle," Jason said as he passed the device. "Or else you won't-"

"I know how an iPhone works," Schmidt said, laying the elephant gun on the grass and then taking the phone in his right hand.

"Hey, pardner," Hump called. "Whadda ya say we pose with your bore gun? Give this photo an authentic feel."

"I suppose," Schmidt relented, bending to retrieve the weapon. Gripping the barrel with his left hand, the ranger tried to hand the stock to the kid.

Jason winced like the Nitro was mephitic and said, "No way, Jose. I don't handle guns, man."

"Just take it," Hump said. "Hurry up before the sun angle gets all wonky."

"Sun angle?" Jason squawked before giggling.

"Yeah, the sun angle," Hump said.

"Since when do you know anything about photography?"

Schmidt tapped a foot and raised eyebrows. "Either take the gun or don't," he said. "But, please, can we speed this up?"

"I've never touched anything stronger a squirt gun," Jason said. "I don't intend to break this impressive streak."

"It won't hurt you," Schmidt argued. "To discharge the rifle, you'd have to-"

"Dude, I once saw a video on YouTube where a policeman, teaching gun safety mind you, shot himself in the leg. Uh-huh. I'd sneeze and blow a hole through my crotch."

"I'll take it," Hump said, striding forward. " _And,_ you don't gotta worry about me blasting anybody by accident." He took the weapon, marveled at its weight, and then cuddled the Nitro against his chest.

"Wonderful," Schmidt said, glancing at the Volkswagen. "Are we ready?"

Hump shuffled backwards and then asked, "How's this spot look?"

The ranger considered the screen and then nodded.

"Come on, kid," Hump urged. "Stand next to me and smile."

"You better not shoot me, pops," Jason said, inching close to Hump's left shoulder.

"Say cheese," Schmidt instructed before jabbing the phone several times. Seconds later, the ranger informed, "There. I took three."

"How 'bout one with me posing with this fancy rifle?" Hump asked. "I feel like Hemingway or sumptin. Move aside, kid."

Jason scurried to his left and reported, "With pleasure."

Hump swung the double barrels of the rifle toward the ranger and grinned.

"Eh," Schmidt said with a nervous chuckle, "why don't you point the bad end away from me."

"No," Hump mumbled between puckered lips.

Schmidt's face soured and he lowered the phone. "You aren't holding a toy, Herr Hammerbacher," the ranger scolded.

"I reckon I ain't," Hump said, "which is too bad for you."

"I'm serious," Schmidt said. "Put the gun down."

"Pops," Jason hissed. "Enough fooling around."

"I ain't fooling. Toss the fancy schmancy thingamabob, mister, and keep your hands raised."

"Listen to your companion," Schmidt said, dropping the phone. "Do you know what kind of trouble you'll face for threatening an officer of the Safaripark?"

Ignoring the question, Hump asked one of his own: "Where's your sidearm?"

"In the vehicle."

"Where?"

"Next to my seat."

"Where?" Hump repeated, stepping forward.

"Between the driver and passenger chair. I left it for the Reichsführer."

"Grab your doodad, kid. You might wanna start recording."

"Are you insane?" Jason asked as he repossessed the phone.

"Nope. I'm right as rain. Now, mister ranger, we're going to walk to the Volkswagen. Don't do nothing stupid or I swear to the good Lord I'll pull these triggers."

"What are you trying to accomplish?" Schmidt asked. "Because I can tell you nothing good will come of this."

"We're going for a ride," Hump said. "Into the crater."

"The crater is prohibited."

"Move," Hump demanded.

Schmidt desired to say more, perhaps talk Hump out of this ridiculous behavior, and opened his mouth. But another elegiac look, first at the elephant gun, then at Hump's hard blue eyes, and the ranger shut his trap and scowled.

"I don't aim to kill ya," Hump said. "I just want you to be my chauffer."

"It doesn't matter how you phrase it," Schmidt said in a quiet voice. "This is an abduction."

"Move," Hump repeated.

"What about Herr Peiper?" Schmidt asked.

"He's comin' with us."

***

Schmidt, arms raised to shoulder level, was at the head of the trio as they approached the Volkswagen. Jason, second in line, was indeed recording the action, albeit with a shaky hand and frequent peeks over his shoulder at the crazy _armed_ old man trailing a step to the right and behind. Hump, looking content, held the rifle's twin barrels pointed at the desiccated ground.

Meanwhile, Peiper appeared either dead or asleep in his seat. In Jason's estimation, it was a crapshoot and the way things were progressing, it wouldn't have been a shock if they had to deal with the corpse of the ancient Nazi. Right eye closed, left hidden by the black eyepatch, the former Reichsführer's head lolled backwards revealing a supple turkey neck of pale flesh. Peiper didn't hear, or paid no mind, to the men slogging through the bush.

"Kid," Hump said as they neared the car, "open the door and grab the ranger's handgun."

"Me? Dang, pops, I _hate_ guns."

"Just do it without complaining. You," Hump said, nodding at Schmidt. "Stand aside and keep your hands raised. What kind of weapon is it?"

"Smith and Wesson."

"Eh? I figured you for Luger guy."

"Out here?"

Jason lowered his phone and stared at the door handle as Schmidt shuffled towards the front of the Volkswagen. Then he gazed at the sedentary Peiper. The man was breathing in shallow gulps. Maybe it would've been better if the coot was dead, the kid thought. He imagined Peiper waking just as the door opened. Waking and reaching with his good hand for Jason's wrist. Twisting and breaking said wrist with some kind of super-secret SS karate move. Rendering Jason in stupefying pain and-

"Do you see it?" Hump asked.

Shaking his head to clear the vision, Jason stared into the car and saw a giant handgun on the floorboard between the driver's seat and Peiper. The silver barrel glistened, awash in sunlight. The kid dry swallowed and then nodded.

"Get it and hand it to me," Hump directed.

"Pops, man, you're gonna get us killed."

"You're just as much a hostage as these two."

"Am I supposed to feel better?"

"I'm not gonna argue. You want me to leave you here?"

"You wouldn't."

"Just open the door and grab it, kid."

Jason touched the handle, looked at Peiper, and then wrenched the door. It opened with a squeal of metal, a grating sound impelling a flock of birds to take flight from a nearby tree. Peiper didn't move, though, and Jason reached for the handgun as if prodded by lightning. As the fingers from the kid's right hand wrapped around the butt, Peiper snorted and then opened his eye.

Just like Jason knew he would.

"Don't tell me you've finished enjoying the sights," Peiper said in a somnambulistic murmur.

Frozen in place, Jason squeaked, "Um, yeah, dude. We're all set."

Peiper rolled his neck, yawned, and then said, "How long was I asleep?"

"Beats me, man," the kid said, forcing a smile. Meanwhile, his testicles retreated north, as far into the body cavity as nature allowed, and heart thudded.

"The sun is like a sedative. I always fall asleep in its rosy glow. People ask why I chose Africa and I say the sun. In Berlin, you can go days without seeing the sun in the winter."

"You don't say?"

"Get the gun, kid," Hump instructed. "And walk it to me."

The former Reichsführer's eye narrowed and then focused on the origin of the voice. "Hump, there you are," Peiper hailed. "How did you enjoy the view."

"It's marvelous," Hump said. "But I'd like to get a little closer."

"Ah," Peiper said, "I see you're taking the Nitro for a spin."

"Er ist verrückt, Reichsführer," Schmidt said. "Der alte mann bedeutet, uns gefangen zu nehmen."

"Was sagst du?" asked Peiper, straightening in the seat.

"Shut up with Kraut," Hump growled, raising the rifle. "We speak English from here on out."

"What are you doing?" Peiper asked. He looked at Hump, then Jason, and last Schmidt before inquiring, "Was ist los, Senior Ranger?

"Just sit tight, Peiper," Hump instructed. "Grab the gun, kid, and hand it to me."

Peiper tried levity and cracked a tired smile. "Enough fooling around, Hump," he said.

"Do I look like I'm foolin'?"

"He's serious, dude," Jason confirmed.

"Der mann ist verrückt!" Schmidt said, jerking his head in Hump's direction.

"I said no more Kraut," Hump growled. "Both of you, shut yer traps."

"Listen to me," Peiper demanded. "Put down the Nitro and let's talk about whatever...irrational notions you have."

"The only person I plan on talking to is down in the crater."

"What are you babbling about?" asked Peiper.

"Them Interpol boys are down there and I plan to have a chat with one of 'em. Now, please and thank you, the gun, kid."

Jason lifted the weapon and retreated from the car, offering Peiper a sheepish grimace. "This isn't my idea, man," the kid claimed, handing the firearm to Hump. "I had no clue pops was gonna do something like this."

"Interpol?" Peiper asked. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumdum," Hump said. "Interpol's pickin' through a mass grave down there, aren't they?"

"How would I know?"

"Yea," Hump snorted. "Which is why I gotta do this legwork. Nobody knows nutin. So, instead of wasting time discussing _why_ I'm doing this, let's hit the road. Ranger, you drive. The kid and I will sit in back. If you think of touching the radio, or doing sumptin stupid, remember I've this thing pointed at your back. And yours too, Peiper."

# 17. Lookin' For Hump

Barrone pounded on the door of Room 610 for the third time, counted to five Mississippi, and then sighed. _Five Mississippi_ , the duration allowed before a rusher could attempt to sack the quarterback in the neighborhood football games he played as a youth, was always a hurried sum, spit out like an auctioneer with a Daffy Duck-like lisp:

_Onemissippitwomissippithreemissippifourmissippifivemissippi_!

It never mattered how fast a boy could blubber. You could cheat and trim "Mississippi" into a drunken slurry of consonants, wave arms, scream the words...didn't matter. By the time one reached the magic number of _five_ , and the quarterback's invisible forcefield was deemed penetrable, the ball was cast downfield. The five Mississippi rule was stupid. And Barrone was dumb because five Mississippi times three equaled fifteen Mississippi and fifteen Mississippi was a ridiculous total of Mississippi's to be waiting for someone to answer his knock.

He placed his right ear against the fake oak, trying to decipher a snuffle, sneeze, fart... _anything_ of inhabitance, and heard nothing but his own breathing.

"Where the fuck are you guys?" the editor muttered.

This was his fourth trip to the locked chamber of 610 since returning to the lodge some two hours earlier. Dirk, bug bitten and grimy, beelined for the shower, but Barrone had other business to attend. The first was to pin down the recalcitrant Hump and pick his brain. He used the Mississippi count on those visits, too. Then, for good measure, he pummeled, kicked, and tried the rigid door handle. Barrone attempted to look through the peephole, but all he saw was a pinhole of darkness. There was a temptation to call hotel security and let the Nazis barge in, but this was sorta what one would term a _last resort_. And for what? The two fools were out and about, footloose and (one assumed) enjoying the Safaripark, leaving Fozzy flummoxed with a thumb up the butt.

It goes without saying, but this wasn't Fozzy Barrone's plan. And, at this moment, his mind was slush, making the development of a new strategy problematic. Lacking ideas was bad, and Barrone kept circling back to a grim conclusion: he might be placing a call to Chadwick in New York to confess a dead-end had been reached. What then?

Barrone didn't want to admit he'd been suckered, but _something_ was fishy. The trek to Grumeti tilled nothing but gorgous photos Dirk fawned over like some mushy teenybopper staring at a Hollywood Bohunk. And the Reich handler, the reporter named Zaic, stared at Barrone as if he had two heads when the editor broke down and asked, pointblank, if Grumeti was the sight of the execution of relief workers.

"Who told you this?" Zaic inquired.

Trying to be diffident, Barrone claimed it was scuttlebutt he heard from the escort who transported him to the Safaripark.

Zaic _seemed_ amused and affected cheery ignorance: "Your intel is wrong. Is this why you came here? Tsk, tsk...what a waste of time. Nothing here but the bodies of animals. I'm afraid whatever you've been told is the work of the wild imagination of the conspiratorial indigenous."

Well, Zaic was telling the truth or a good liar. Why not both? Regardless, Barrone had let the cat out of the bag. No doubt Zaic informed somebody the slugs from the American media were stirring the pot. Paranoia pervaded Barrone's thoughts; he expected to get shot on safari, or dragged into the Grumeti River and fed to crocodiles. Sleep was impossible, but returning to Seronera hadn't lessened apprehension. Barrone glanced at the security camera lodged in the hall ceiling and then wondered if listening devices and cameras where in his room. Peeping, eavesdropping, seeing him take a dump...oh, the humanity.

Thing was, Hump's kid _had_ gone missing. This wasn't a fib. Bones had been found. Howie's bones. Maybe Hump was senile and didn't get the right location. Or somebody lied to the old man. Yes, this was possible. Told Hump the wrong site and... _and_ , it didn't matter, in the end, what happened. Because, when it came down to it, Barrone had spent a lot of money to chase this rabbit. Not his money, mind you, but the money of Chadwick Carlton. Ole Chadwick was pretty reluctant to fund this endeavor. Barrone had begged, for God sakes. Pushed all in like a sucker, convinced this excursion would make Fozzy Barrone a household name and restore a semblance of integrity to Devious Media.

"Christ," Barrone moaned, beating the door until knuckles hurt. Where was Hump and his handler? The rigid frau at the front desk had checked the computer and claimed the duo hadn't departed on a day trip. They weren't wandering the grounds in front of the lodge, or having beers in the lounge. They weren't answering the door. It appeared they upped and disappeared.

A door opened to Barrone's left and Dirk thrust his crumpled face and dripping mullet into the hall. "Shower's open, brother," the cameraman said. "Damn if I don't feel like a million bucks again."

"Good for you. Better enjoy it. We might be homeless after we return to the States."

"No," Dirk said, shaking head. "There ain't no _might_ about it. Except for the _we_ part, I mean. My butt isn't in the wringer."

"Thanks, asshole."

"Look, man, I know you thought this would turn out different. It still might, you know."

"I hate it when people lie."

"Okeydokey. Then all I can say is, I'm glad I'm not on the hook for this one."

Barrone smiled and then said, "Fuck you."

"You could..." Dirk began, before scrutinizing Barrone with beady eyes. "Yeah, forget it," he said. "You don't want my help."

"I could _what_?"

"Brother, I've been thinking about it. I know you're pissed, but you could cobble a story about Grumeti. I took some killer pictures."

"Nobody who peruses _Sports On The Pot_ wants to stare at pictures of the Grumeti Reserve, let alone read about it."

"Then...um...what're you going to do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Howie Hammerbacher was the story. Not Grumeti. Not the Safaripark. Not Hump. I can't go to Chadwick with a piece on Hump Hammerbacher visiting the Safaripark."

"You can't write _nothing_ ," Dirk scoffed. "Chadwick will have a conniption."

"What do you want me to do? Make something up?"

"You could tell the truth. We came, camped, Hump got stoned, yada, yada, no corpses and...end scene."

"Mm...no grit, no substance...no bueno."

"You're telling me you can't conjure anything? Besides, it's not like we're leaving tomorrow."

"We have two and a half days left and I shot my load with the German reporter. I guarantee we'll spend the remainder of our time being guided around by Zaic."

"Well...you _could_ -"

"Alright, man, you seem to have a bushel of ideas. Why don't you take a stab at the article?"

"Me? No way. I write blogs about photography. Five hundred words, poor punctuation. I'm not a writer."

"Uh-huh. Well, I'm not submitting five thousand words, let alone a sentence, heralding Nazi ethos. Or whatever you call this. I'll never work again."

"You _could_...I don't know..." Dirk closed his left eye and then said, "I mean, say what you will, at least the Nazis care about animals."

"Is this how my article should start?"

"I'm brainstorming. Trying to help."

"Thanks, I guess. I need to have a discussion with our old as fuck partner, but nobody's answering the door."

"I bet they're kissing the sky and looking at clouds."

"Maybe," Barrone said before rattling the door again.

Dirk waited for the ruckus to halt and then said, "I might be going out on a limb, but I'm pretty sure they're not in."

"You don't say?"

"Call it a hunch."

Leaning against the door, Barrone shook his head and asked, "Dude, what the fuck am I going to do?"

"You want to know something?"

"What?"

"I never thought we'd find anything."

"No?"

"Are you kidding? Did you? I figured I wouldn't have another opportunity to go to Africa with all expenses paid. And shit, I got some nice photos to boot. I bet I can sell 'em and make a bit of Moola."

"I thought...fuck, it doesn't matter. Man, I must be the stupidest person on the planet. Or the most deluded."

"You got Chadwick to pony up for this fieldtrip, so you're not the stupidest."

"I want to get drunk," Barrone announced without enthusiasm.

"Yep," Dirk answered in a solemn tone. "Sounds like a pretty fucking good idea, chief."

"First, I need a shower," Barrone said, not caring about cameras and probing eyes. He smelled vile and desired to blast the stink of Grumeti from his skin.

***

Out of an abundance of comfort, or because he was frightened, Schmidt insisted on keeping the Volkswagen at prudent, old fart speed. In this puttering vein, the itinerant foursome entered a dense area of verdant splendor. Trees and knee-high foliage swaddled both sides of the shitty road, and a thick green canopy blotted the sun overhead. The ranger's eyes rotated on a constant clockwise scan Hump could watch in the reflection of the rearview. Instrument panel, side mirror, front window, rearview, radio, and back to panel to repeat the process. Peiper, hunched like the letter c, rested chin on the palm of his right hand and stared at the passing shrubs. Jason held his phone in front of him and recorded the journey. Hump observed Schmidt and, every few seconds, stroked the barrel of the elephant gun. The rifle stretched across Hump's lap, the stock sitting at the approximate eight o'clock position. It was too long to lie perpendicular, so Hump fixed the double barrels on Peiper's seat. Should the gun happen to fire, the former Reichsführer would be cut in two.

They hadn't spoken for ten minutes. At first, Peiper tried to drum conversation and engage Hump. The effort was futile. Peiper wanted to know what Hump was trying to accomplish; he asked if Hump was on medication; the Reichsführer even promised to help lesson whatever punishment came from this _foolish_ behavior...all of this harping was met by Hump's stony indifference.

For you see, Hump wouldn't let himself get distracted. No sir. This was the real deal, fella. The Big Show. The _Biggest_. How Hump laid in the lodge bed dreaming of this moment, caressing flamboyant fantasy in the state between the tangible world and dreamland. Well, so far so good. It hadn't gone perfect, let's not get carried away, but Hump was pleased. Now, instead of relishing on a minor victory, he had to approach the next step. In one sense, this was like a day at the ballpark. Three, maybe four, at bats a game. One hit, satisfactory...two was nice...three...three hits started raising eyebrows. But a four-hit day was special. Four for four was the lede in the papers; it meant everyone else was buyin' drinks. Bein' perfect earned the right to strut for the day.

To string a consecutive hit streak together, you had to push them other success from your mind. Previous AB's meant nothing. _Dwell on the past and you'll miss the next pitch_ , the Old Professor once lectured a green Humphrey Hammerbacher. _This isn't the Sally League, Hamburger. People pay to watch us play at this level. And they give a good goddamn._ _They won't remember anything else you did for the past couple hours if you strike out to end the game._ Boy, the old man was a marvel with language. Stengel could communicate with a cockroach. And his words, sixty years later, resonated. The syllables echoed in Hump's head. It was like the Old Professor was sitting next to Hump, whispering in an ear, imploring: _Hamburger...only Caesar gets to rest on laurels._

So, in this disposition, Hump faced the coming challenge.

There was still the matter of determining how this beautiful day was going to conclude. Hump's mind didn't lead him in this tawdry direction as he fell into slumber. And with good reason. It dawned on Hump, as the car meandered forward, there was a better than average chance _none_ of this would end well. Call it intuition, or a sixth sense...mayhap divine inspiration or deductive reasoning. How could Hump's brother jump from a Higgins and storm a Kraut beach knowing what carnage awaited? Sure, it took balls, but there was something else compelling Hank and all those ordinary, sane men to embrace senseless behavior. The answer, it seemed, was denial. The ole brain wouldn't, or couldn't, factor death as an assured fate. It appeared Hump had fallen into the same trap. If so, there was nothing to be done about it now.

Perhaps this is why Humphrey Hammerbacher had been a lousy manager. He lacked the ability to see games through to the end. Situational baseball...Hump believed he was as good as Sparky Anderson, Whitey Herzog and Earl Weaver. Or...maybe he wasn't. Humphrey Hammerbacher couldn't handle situational _and_ contemplational duties with aplomb. Worst Yankees manager _ever_. Ha! Those assholes could shove their opinions where the sun don't shine. Hump Hammerbacher would show everyone a little sumptin about Hump Hammerbacher.

The Volkswagen slowed as it negotiated a hummock. Schmidt wrenched the shifter, grinded gears, and then jammed the stick into second. The vehicle lurched as if an invisible hand slapped the rear and Peiper glanced at the rifle pointed at his left flank.

"Eh," the former Reichsführer said, "you do know what happens if your cannon should fire."

"Nothin' good," Hump opined.

"Yes, an apt statement. Nothing good for me. Nothing good for you. It won't matter if it is an accident. Say...if the gun should discharge due to the actions of a hapless driver who manipulates manual transmission like a novice."

"I've shot plenty of weapons," Hump retorted. "If this baby decides to blow chunks, it ain't because I made a boo-boo."

"Pops won't shoot anybody," Jason said, though neither his expression or tone suggested otherwise. The kid looked, and sounded, petrified.

"If Herr Hammerbacher does shoot anyone," Peiper said, "he will be signing his death certificate. Unlike the United States, the Reich does not treat murderers with kid gloves. Accident _or_ otherwise."

Hump snorted and then said, "You're amusing, Peiper."

"I'm glad you find succor, but I'm certain you'd feel different if a weapon was pointed at your skin."

Yawning, Hump said, "I reckon."

"I can do more than _reckon_! I can _testify_ with certainty."

"I assumed you'd be used to this here situation based on previous conversations."

Peiper ignored the comment and instead focused attention outside the vehicle. Phone in hand, Jason panned left to right, and then in the opposite direction, like a torch in a lighthouse. Schmidt continued to scan, now adding Peiper to the tedium. Hump nibbled on his bottom lip and observed all of this without comment.

Minutes later the forest thinned and the emerald weedy overgrowth lessened to russet sward. Peiper craned neck, whistled, and then said, "Ah, it's not far."

"The crater?" Jason asked.

"No. Well, yes, the crater is near, but I was referring to the site of the attempted assassination. Soon we'll reach a plateau, another scenic area, and a vehicular turnaround. Amongst the picnic tables is a modest plaque." Peiper closed his eye and then recited: " _Here, on 11 August 1957, seven men of the 1st SS-Panzer Division Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler, under the command of Reichsführer-SS Joachim Peiper, gave their lives in protection of the Chancellor, and in sacrifice for the Third Reich. Dedicated this day, 20 September 1957_."

Hump yawned again and then asked, "How long to the crater?"

Peiper opened his eye and said, "Why don't you tell me what you expect to find at the crater."

"Someone from Interpol."

"Why would Interpol be there?"

"Don't _why_ me, Peiper. You told me _gore-on-goro_ was evil, and I expect you know _why_. And don't give me mumbo-jumbo about spirits."

"Ack! This is like talking to a child. You're speaking in riddles."

"I'll dumb it down for ya. How many people did the SS bury in Tanganyika in the '90's?"

"During the conflict with the Maasai? I told you, I retired in 1987. If you want to know the answer, ask former Reichsführer Joeddler. I think he's still alive."

"Too bad for you he ain't here. Besides, the only thing Krauts do better than pass the buck is bury bodies."

"You, sir, are out of line! I'll forgive your imprudence as a niggling, temporary absurdity, but you'd be wise to apologize to me and Senior Ranger Schmidt when lucidity returns. Correction. _If_ lucidity returns."

"I ain't crazy. Let me ask you another question: how many aid workers were killed along with the Maasai?"

"Aid workers?"

"Maybe I can be specific. Aid workers from American United Hands. Say...twenty of 'em. Jog your memory?"

"Oh...oh, you think..." Peiper clucked, rubbed his chin and then asked, "You think the SS executed American aid workers?"

"Not all of 'em were American, but this is splittin' hairs."

Peiper squinted at Jason, recording the conversation like an extended tennis volley, and asked, "What do you plan on doing with this material?"

"I don't know. Like, I don't even know what's going on," the kid confessed in a tinny voice.

"Your companion is accusing the SS of executing foreign aid workers at the Ngorongoro Crater. Do I have it right, Herr Hammerbacher?"

"Right as rain," Hump answered.

"All of this foolishness because...what point are you trying to make?" asked Peiper.

Hump said, "I'm tryin' to get the truth."

"About _what_?"

"I see what you're doing, Peiper. You're playin' possum."

"Then please, inform me what I'm concealing because I haven't the faintest."

"Twenty bodies...or what was left of them, among them my son Howie, were found in gore-on-goro a few weeks ago."

"Your son?" Peiper squawked.

"He, and companions, went missing sometime between arriving in Africa in 1989 until somebody in the AUH realized as much in the summer of 1990. They didn't die from no lion attack. They were killed and then buried. Maybe it was the other way around...I don't know. Now, I doubt I'll ever find out what happened because these things have a way of getting swept under the rug. Like all them Jews and gypsies during the war, or those Africans the SS murdered in Kenya, or wherever else you Krauts see fit to change the demographics of a region."

"Swept under the rug?" Peiper cried. "Men were held responsible!"

"I don't recall seeing your beloved Hitler swingin' from a rope," Hump said. "Funny how it's always the same outcome. Expendable minions shoulder the crimes of their master. This thing in the crater? It ain't nothing but a handful of people. My government isn't investigating because, oh, you know, it's Africa. Shit happens in Africa. Instead, Interpol is doing the diggin'. Guess what they're gonna find? Jack and squat. If I want answers, I have to go to the source."

"Your son," Peiper whispered, shaking his head. "My condolences."

"Phooey," Hump grumbled. "I bet you've had a lot of sleepless nights thinkin' about Howie Hammerbacher."

"You know, we could've skipped this nonsense of hostage taking. Had you just asked me, I could've posed germane questions to those in Berlin."

"See, this is the problem. Havin' to deal with a middleman is a recipe for misinformation. I came here to skip all the bullshit. Like this story of a controlled burn. I reckon this is a ploy to hide evidence."

Peiper chuckled, then spied Hump's angry expression, and compressed lips.

"Right," Hump groused. "This is a big laugh to you."

"No, no," Peiper objected. "I'm not finding humor at your expense. It is as I suspected and I have nothing but pity for your condition. _Senior Ranger, bitte verlangsamen das fahrzeug._ "

"No speakin' Kraut," Hump snarled, raising the rifle.

"Apologies," Peiper said. "This is...how do I say? Hmm...I'm certain imagination has led you astray. You are searching for German demons when there are none to be found. Who discovered these victims?"

"Them people from Brabag, or so I was told."

"And this grave contained, you believe, victims of homicide perpetrated by the SS?"

"I don't believe. I'm positive."

"So, what is the end game?"

"Pardon?"

"If the SS committed this crime, wouldn't Interpol be working to cover evidence?"

"Whadda think this controlled burn is supposed to be?"

"And," Peiper steamrolled, "if Interpol _was_ hiding evidence, why would your government be informed of this discovery?"

"I don't know," Hump answered. "But, in case you haven't noticed, the current administration squatting in the White House ain't unsympathetic to Nazis."

"Yes, it's a big conspiracy," Peiper fussed. "Why don't you clarify why your son _had_ to be executed."

"I'm workin' it out, mister."

"Let me help. If Interpol is, _or was_ , on site, then reason dictates there is, _or was_ , an investigation in progress. The crater would be a crime scene. Ergo, your son and his companions were murdered-"

"You ain't tellin' me anything I don't know."

"Would you listen," Peiper snapped. "Pay attention! You said they went missing in 1989?"

"They arrived in Africa, Sub Sahara Africa, in '89. I didn't hear spit from Howie after about February of the next year. American United Hands admitted they lost contact with the 'em in August, 1990."

"Hm...Tanganyika was a cesspool in the early '90's. Aid workers were frequent targets for opportunistic thugs. To blame their deaths on the SS shows a lack of insight. Now, I'm not judging you as ignorant, Herr Hammerbacher, but it's clear you've been subjected to heavy doses of the poisonous tripe the Jews and other so-called literati tout as fact."

"I'm not goin' through the paces of this argument again," Hump griped.

"1993," Peiper said.

"What about it?"

"In the summer of '93, a querulous faction levelled the German Embassy in Dar Es Salaam with a truck bomb. In response, Germany and its European allies sent peacekeepers to Tanganyika. I'm certain, based on what you've told me, your son was already...deceased."

"Then it couldn't have been the SS," Jason added.

"Correct," Peiper said. "Herr Hammerbacher, your poor son was executed by savages. By pulling this stunt today, you _will_ hamper progress in discovering the perpetrators of the crime."

Hump scoffed and tried to appear defiant, but his stomach felt a little herky-jerky.

"You can't argue with fact," Peiper said.

"You see..." Hump began, searching for an appropriate rebuttal. When none came, he offered a meek, "You're bein' sneaky, Peiper. You're tryin' to trick me."

"Nonsense! Sir, there could've been other ways to gain this information. The means by which you're going about it _will not_ endure sympathy."

"I reckon it won't. But, if I didn't do this, I'd never learn the truth."

"What I don't understand...why didn't you bring your media friends?"

"I don't trust 'em. I agree with you about the press, Peiper. They're vultures, liars and immoral. Besides, I figured they'd be honey for your Kraut goons."

"Bah," Peiper spat. "You're a paranoid."

"I tell pops all the time he has the noia," Jason affirmed. "Dude is high strung."

"Senility is an awful condition," Peiper niggled.

"I ain't crazy," Hump said. "I ain't senile, or addled, or any of them other fancy words."

"I bet he got concussed when he was hit in the head," Jason reported. "You know what concussions do to a brain? Gives it scars and shit."

"Shut up," Hump muttered. "All of you, shut up."

"Eh," Schmidt garbled, "there's a vehicle ahead."

Five eyes disentangled from fierce glowers and shifted forward. There, on the turnaround to the left, a green jeep idled. Black exhaust twisted from the tailpipe. Two men sat in the front. Both were wearing black sunglasses, but the joint scowls their mouth-lines formed couldn't be mistaken for looks of bliss.

"I thought you said there'd be no guards," Hump said, poking Peiper in the ribs with the rifle barrel. "Caught you in another lie."

"I was wrong," Peiper said. "Now, please, don't jab me again."

"I'll jab you anytime I see fit," Hump said, twisting his head as the Volkswagen passed. A few seconds later, the jeep executed a U-turn and joined the gravel Strecke in pursuit of the interloper. "Great," Hump gnashed. "They're followin' us."

"Let's pull over and end this farce," Peiper said.

"No way," Hump said. "Keep drivin', ranger. Take us into the crater."

# 18. Hump 'n Trouble

Flashing headlights, the jeep trailed at a nonthreatening distance and didn't try to initiate a stop. Instead, the passenger talked into a walkie-talkie or sumptin. Fresh out of ideas, Hump clenched the rifle and then poked Peiper again, relishing the look of angst on the former Reichsführer's face.

"Whadda ya think, pops?" Jason asked, lowing his phone. "These dudes know we're here."

"Listen to reason," Peiper said. "You're trespassing and compounding charges by the second. Let Senior Ranger Schmidt stop and we can sort this out."

"No," Hump said. "We ain't stoppin'. Where does this road lead?"

"There's an intersection ahead," Schmidt said. "Left and this trail descends into the crater. Straight and it's more of this until the village of Karatu."

"You better go left, mister," Hump said. "And step on it."

"Step on it?"

"Schnell. Make this hunk of junk rattle."

"It's not safe to reach imprudent speeds on this rotten strecke," Schmidt protested.

"I don't care."

Schmidt sighed, mashed the accelerator, and shifted the Volkswagen into third and then fourth gear. The vehicle rumbled, exhaled pungent diesel, and increased velocity. The jeep didn't keep pace; soon it was quarter mile behind with the distance increasing by the second.

"Pops!" Jason screamed over the wind. "We're losing 'em!"

"Maybe. What do you think, Peiper? Have we ditched your friends?"

"I think you know the answer!" Peiper hollered. "Don't say you weren't given plenty of chances to end this imprudent trek!"

"Keep recording," Hump whispered to the kid.

"Yeah, except there's one problem," Jason said. "I'm runnin' low on battery."

"Alright, then save it until we get to the crater."

"Then what?"

"Then you start recording, kid."

"I have to agree with Peiper, pops. I don't think there's a coverup or anything."

"I guess we'll have to take a look-see to know for certain."

"They're gonna arrest us, man."

"This ain't got nothin' to do with you."

"Do you think the Germans give a fuck?"

"I'll vouch on your behalf," Peiper soothed. "You're a victim as much as anyone."

"The turn is coming," Schmidt warned. "I'll have to slow to take the corner. The road into the crater is steep, and in worse condition than the one we're on."

"Keep drivin', boss," Hump said, watching the pursuer recede.

***

Ranger Schmidt wasn't exaggerating about the condition of the road as the Volkswagen descended into the crater. The trail was a white-knuckle special, both steep and jolting. At times, the ascent angle was damn near thirty degrees. In those moments, the view through the windshield was nothin' but Mother Earf. What a pilot would see if they were havin' a _really bad day_. Not a one in the car said much, unless grunts and curses counted for words, and Schmidt handled the shifter, floor pedals, and steering wheel as a stain of sweat widened across the back of his khaki shirt and under both arms.

The road became less turbulent as they neared the floor of the crater. Mollified, Hump twisted his neck, feelin' the bones pop, and peeked at the rollercoaster of a road they had descended. Above, high above, he saw the chase vehicle parked at the edge of the crater. The sun bounced vibrant light off the jeep's windshield, blinding in intensity, forcing Hump to squint. It didn't appear the jeep was following and, as Hump watched, both front doors opened and the occupants appeared. They looked like two stick figures, one on each side of the hood.

"Is this the only way in?" Hump asked.

"No," Schmidt answered. "There are a number of paths. I promise we'll be using another to leave."

"Whoa," Jason said. "That was like... _fucking_ intense, dude."

"We descended almost six hundred meters in less than a kilometer," Schmidt reported.

"Sure, man, but I don't know what any of _that_ means," Jason said.

Schmidt shifted the Volkswagen into neutral and stomped the brake. After the vehicle jerked to a stop, the driver twisted in his seat, glanced at the elephant gun, and then at the man holding it. "What do you see?" the ranger asked Hump.

"Them two goons back yonder."

The driver snapped his fingers and Hump pried peepers from the jeep. "No," Schmidt said. "Forget about them. What do you see _in front_ of you?"

A whole lot of nothing is what Hump saw. Miles and miles of tall grass in the foreground, with solitary, lanky branched trees mixed among the savanna; a bushy, tangled forest to the distant right; a stream and small lake to the left. Fat, sluggish animals milled near the water. Jason began recording the scene as Hump struggled to answer the question.

"So," Schmidt said after Hump failed to respond, "tell me where you'd like to start."

"I don't know," Hump said. "Hey, Peiper, where are your Interpol chums?"

"I've told you-"

"Pops!" Jason cried. "Over there!" The kid stood and pointed to the nine o'clock position where, at the end of his outstretched digit, two wisps of gray smoke wafted into clear sky. In seconds, the tendrils became profuse, intertwined; the offspring of this smoldering couple was a giant plume, mushroom-like in appearance. A light wind aloft, from the east, carried wisps of the anvil towards the smudge of orange sun.

"I reckon we follow the smoke signal," Hump said.

"It's the controlled burn," Schmidt explained. "Or it's an uncontrolled fire. Either way, I don't suggest heading towards it."

"Of course it's the controlled burn," Peiper said with irritation. "Do you see, Herr Hammerbacher, what we've told you is factual?"

"Drive," Hump instructed.

"Oh mein Gott," Schmidt groaned.

"The only conspiracy is in your head, Herr Hammerbacher," Peiper alleged.

Hump repeated, "Drive," and then wiggled the rifle for effect.

Aggravated, Schmidt punched the shifter and gave the Volkswagen gas. The vehicle lurched, throwing Jason into his seat, and then began a dawdling, arcing trek to the left, skirting the water hole and its listless denizens.

Watching the animals, Hump asked the kid, "Are those boys up top following?"

"Naw, pops. They're just sitting there."

The Senior Ranger mumbled something unintelligible in German and then swung the Volkswagen further right.

"You tryin' to avoid those buffalos?" asked Hump.

"They're wildebeest," Schmidt answered. "And no, I'm not trying to avoid _them_."

"What else lives here?" asked Hump.

In a tired voice, Schmidt rattled, "Elephants, hippopotamus, tierboskat-"

"What about lions?" Jason asked.

"Maasai lions," Schmidt informed. "Nasty creatures. Most wildlife follows a pattern of migration in and out of the crater, but the lions do not. Their bloodline has been poisoned by decades of inbreeding. Don't fret. I doubt we'll see lions. Their numbers have dwindled since the turn of the century. Less than fifty head remain, or so I've heard."

"Just keep us pointed in the direction of the smoke," Hump instructed. "I didn't come to gawk at animals."

"What happens when we find nothing but burned grass?" Peiper asked.

"There's a bigger problem than finding nothing," the ranger said, gunning the engine. Instead of accelerating, the Volkswagen maintained the same unhurried pace. In fact, it felt like they were slowing. "Yes," Schmidt said, glaring at Hump in the rearview. "You feel it too, don't you?"

"The engine crapping out?" asked Hump.

"Crapping out?"

"Shittin' the bed."

"Er fragt, ob der Motor kaputt ist," Peiper translated.

"Nein," Schmidt spat. "Das ist nicht gut. Das gelande...ist sumpfig."

Peiper's mouth dropped, and then he peered over the top of the passenger door and stared at the ground.

"What?" Jason asked. "Is something down there?"

"This watering hole to our left is a lake during the rainy season," Schmidt mumbled as he downshifted. Then he mashed the accelerator again and the Volkswagen inched forward.

"Umkehren!" Peiper exclaimed.

"Es wird nicht helfen," Schmidt replied. He squashed the go pedal, again, and the Volkswagen's Type1 1100 four-cylinder engine screeched beneath the trunk panel. The car, however, didn't budge. But the tires were working. The two in the rear spun underneath the frame and kicked wads of black sludge backwards.

Slack jawed, Jason looked at Hump and croaked, "Pops, we're stuck."

Hump swatted the ranger in the back of the head, knocking Schmidt's pith hat askew, and then snarled, "You playin' a trick, mister?"

Schmidt didn't respond. Instead, his sweat slicked right arm and hand worked the shifter through reverse and low gears while his right foot pressed the accelerator. Nothing the Senior Ranger did changed the result, and it became clear this was no fancy hoax. They were trapped.

At last, Schmidt removed his foot from the gas; the vehicle stalled with a rumble and then settled a few inches lower. Hump craned his head left and stared into what appeared to be compacted loam. Then he looked backwards and beheld the path they travelled. Indentations from the tires delineated the Volkswagen's rutted tramp from the crater road into sludge.

"Dude, you need to get us out!" Jason exclaimed.

"There is no _getting out_ ," Schmidt hissed.

"Are we in quicksand?" Jason shrieked.

The ranger removed his hat and fanned face before answering, "No, and to answer your next question: we're not going to get swallowed in this quagmire."

"How could you do sumptin so stupid and drive into this?" Hump demanded.

Schmidt swung around, pointed the hat at the geezer, and then said, "You are the idiot, Herr Hammerbacher. With your threats, I failed to notice the drenched sediment left over from the drying lake."

"Whadda we do?" asked Jason.

"We walk," Hump concluded.

"You want to walk through this?" Schmidt asked. "Ha! Best of luck! It'll take hours to make it a kilometer. Every step would be like freeing your foot from wet concrete."

"You did this on purpose," Hump claimed.

"Think what you want," Schmidt mumbled. He turned around and smashed the pith hat on his head, then added, "Ich bin gefickt."

"You can't expect Peiper to walk, pops," Jason said. "He's, like, older than you. And... _and_ he has a cane!"

"I reckon Peiper can wait here," Hump said, sounding magnanimous.

"To do what?" Jason cried. "He's gonna die if we leave him!"

"Them nimrods who were following us can see we're trapped," Hump said. "They'll come down, get Peiper and..."

Jason touched Hump's arm and said, "Yeah, so maybe we should _all_ wait. Face it, man, this is the end of the road. The literal end-"

"You want to turn turtle?" Hump asked. "Fine. I'll leave all ya."

"You're gonna die out there, pops. For what?"

"Don't bother with reason," Schmidt bellyached. "Your friend is suicidal. Let him go."

"C'mon, pops," Jason pleaded, "give it up. Look, you gave it a shot and it didn't work. You've seen where Howie was killed. Matter of fact, your sitting in the general location. Does how, or who did it matter? And what are you going to do about it anyway? Kill Peiper? Kill the park ranger? You're not a killer, pops."

Hump turned away from the kid and his sad, beseeching eyes, and stared at the undulating cloud of smoke in the distance. The boy was correct: Hump wasn't a killer; there was no way he could shoot a person. What was he doing? Maybe Hump _was_ crazy. _Verrückt_. Or, perchance, Hump had the noia (like the kid would say) and he had it bad. It had to be one or the other.

The smoke billowed upward and with it, perhaps, evidence of Howie's killer. Hump watched the gray billows separate, form curvy threads, and then fade to the color of the ether spackled orange by the sunset.

Jason nudged Hump and then said, "Pops, those guys who were following us are coming down the hill."

Hump shook his head and croaked, "Wha?"

"Those guys in the jeep. Look. They're heading this way." Jason directed Hump's attention to the rear. A puff of dust ensconced the jeep as it ricocheted down the road. "Just...give me the rifle and the handgun," Jason implored. "Or throw them out of the car. Don't give them a reason to shoot you."

"I don't care if I die," Hump mumbled.

"I do," the kid said. "I like you, Hump. You're a cool dude and we got a great adventure to share on YouTube."

Hump sighed, glanced at the rifle and then handed it to the kid. Jason held the gun for all of a hot second before chucking it out of the car. It landed in the slop with a wet thud. Next to get a mud bath was the Smith and Wesson Model 29 .44 Magnum. Emptyhanded, Hump crossed arms across chest as Peiper and Schmidt exhaled.

"You made a wise decision," Peiper praised. "I'll be sure you're not treated with malice."

Schmidt flipped a switch next to the radio and said, "Nur für den fall."

"What'd ya do?" Hump asked.

"Is a locator transmitter," the ranger answered as he turned on the radio and increased volume with the knob. "I don't know if those men intend to rescue us, but I don't want them getting stuck." He grabbed the handmic and then added, "I hope they're monitoring the emergency band."

"Don't bother," Jason said. "They've stopped."

Indeed, the jeep had concluded its descent and idled at the base of the crater.

"You know," Peiper said, "we may have to walk out of here after all. I don't think I'll fare well if this is the case."

Schmidt keyed the mic and then transmitted in German. When he was through, the speaker crackled. After a moment of white noise, a voice answered in the same guttural language. The ranger cocked his head, grimaced, and then rattled a terse reply.

"They, the men following, want us to wait," Peiper translated.

"For what?" Hump asked.

"There are more coming from the burn site to assist."

"Who?"

Peiper grinned and then said, "Workers from Brabag. Not the SS. Not Interpol."

"Then what?" asked Jason.

"We return to the Safaripark. I'm sure many questions will be asked. Some hands will be slapped. I will speak to the park Director, and the security coordinator, on your behalf. Herr Hammerbacher, Hump, though your actions today were criminal, I attribute temporary insanity to the behavior. Given what it is on your mind, this is an apt excuse."

"Wonderful," Hump said.

Peiper continued, "You'll be expelled, Herr Hammerbacher. As will your entire party. There is no way around this fate. But, it could be worse."

"I reckon," said Hump, watching the distant smoke.

***

Fozzy Barrone was at least four sheets...maybe five, and it wasn't yet six thirty. The hangover would be massive, head-cracking and awful, but it'd prepare him for the unpleasant conversation with Chadwick on the morrow. Hell, Barrone planned on slithering out of the rack and pouring a drink before the dreaded phone call. Day drinking was something an unemployed journalist better get good at. Why not start tomorrow?

The quartet on stage was some European pop-rock glam band and they played a style of American rock-n-roll popular in the 1980's. Heavy on the synchronizer, if you catch the drift. The singer looked like a cross between Meatloaf and Liberace. With journalistic cunning, Barrone conjured a suitable name for this warbling travesty: Liberloaf. Herr Liberloaf had long, red hair, wore leather pants six sizes too small, and swathed his upper body in a something a torero would wear. The Spanish called the sequined, tasseled outfits of bull killers "the suit of lights", but on Liberloaf it looked more like the ensemble of a jester. Meanwhile. the rest of the band, swaddled in spandex, leg warmers and bandanas, preened with faces spackled in makeup sitting beneath dirty blond crimped hair.

The Leopard Lounge denizens, of which there were quite a few, lapped the lousy music like it was mana. Barrone recognized most from the uneventful, disappointing trip to Grumiti. It was their last night at the lodge and they were whooping it up. The sight of their cheerful, ecstatic faces incited fury in Barrone's mind. It seemed the only way to smother the flame was a healthy quantity of liquor.

Dirk also seemed content, another aspect Barrone found irritating. The cameraman bounced to the music and downed drinks with no hint of trepidation. Why would Dirk have a care in the world? He wasn't going to get shitcanned, the fucker.

"You want another?" Dirk asked during a lull in the, so-called, music.

"Keep 'em comin'," Barrone encouraged. "Company's paying, right?"

"I like the way you think," Dirk said with a wink before sauntering to the bar.

Barrone dropped his head onto the table and closed eyes. He wondered where Hump and Jason were, and then decided it didn't matter. Those two knuckleheads were on their own...wherever it may be. Fozzy Barrone was done playing babysitter. The least he could do in the meantime was inspect the novel already taking form in his head.

I'm sitting, head down, in a kitschy bar called the Leopard Lounge. Drunk, bewildered and angry (mostly drunk...and angry), I listen to crappy music and contemplate the future. Take it from me: the future isn't looking bright. Not a sparkle of motherfucking hope. Not even a goddamn nightlight, fellow reader. I'm not trying to sound whiney, or pathetic, but...for fucks sake, I might as well drop the charade of stoicism. You see, I am wretched. I'm a two-bit editor for an internet rag and I'm going to be fired come sunrise. Of course, I'm speaking about dawn on the East Coast of the United States. By the time my ass is grass, the sun will be shining above the Safaripark. High noon, or thereabouts. It is with utmost certainty I can report my ironclad plans on being intoxicated when the shit hits the fan. Maybe I'll just stay in Africa and write travel brochures for the Third Reich.

"Is this seat taken, Herr Barrone?" asked a voice from above.

The editor exhaled, then lifted head and opened eyes. The German reporter, prim and smooth-talking Herr Zaic, hovered next to an open chair.

"Sorry to interrupt your...what were you doing?" Zaic asked.

Barrone hiccupped and then said, "Meditating."

"My apologies for ruining your moment of lucidity. I-I don't mean to be presumptuous, but is something wrong?"

"Whatever gave you such an idea?"

Zaic appeared anxious to expound, but decorum prohibited elucidation. Instead, he fidgeted with hands.

Barrone snapped his fingers and asked, "Hey, do you need something or can I go back to listening to my self-indulgent inner voice?"

"I wanted a chance to chat with my contemporary in the media. We didn't get to talk, what you say one-on-one, on safari."

"I don't know how much longer I'm going to be a contemporary," Barrone admitted. "But...whatever, let's break bread."

"How do you mean?"

"Forget it. Have a seat."

"Thank you," Zaic said as he dropped into the chair. "I hope I've been a suitable tool to help craft your story."

"You've been a peach, pal. A swell fella."

"Wonderful! When will your article on Herr Hammerbacher be ready?"

"Oh...I donno," Barrone slurred. "Next month." _Or never._

"Next month? I wouldn't have taken you for the diligent type. Many journalists these days are impetuous, no more so than American scribes."

"In case you haven't noticed, the internet isn't full of brain surgeons. Anybody can slap something on the web and call it news. Fake, real, who can fucking tell? Who fucking cares? What's it fucking matter?"

Zaic studied Barrone for a tick and then declared, "Pardon my...astonishment. I'm not used to such candor."

Barrone snorted and waved his left hand in a dismissive gesture.

"I'm serious, Herr Barrone."

"One of the perks of free press is the bliss of frankness."

"A perk, you say? I'm inclined to think this benefit, so called, is injurious."

"Oh? What do you know about it?"

"We have internet across the Schengen Area. However, it is controlled by the Ministry of Enlightenment. The curious and mischievous gain access to forbidden sites gushing with this frankness you extol."

"Yeah, well...oorah for them. Welcome to the computer age, Zaic."

"A new department of Sipo have been organized to combat this naughty behavior."

"Sipo?"

"Eh...an infusion of Gestapo agents and kriminalrats from the Kripo."

"What is a kriminalrat?"

"A detective. Like the famed English gumshoe Sherlock-"

"Got it. Bro, the net is impossible to police. Your Sipo people will be chasing their tails."

"I agree, but I struggle with marrying both sides of the argument. On the one hand, I believe there should be no walls. Restrictions make people covetous. Then again, I've seen some of these blocked sites and...they are _scandalous_ , Herr Barrone. The appeal is abstract to me. Perhaps you can explain."

"There's nothing to explain but human nature. Repellent, unpleasant, if it leads it bleeds...this is the appeal. You can't be so dense to think your compatriots are immune to the gawker mentality. Anyway, it's impossible keep a lid on everything. Good, bad, false, true...at some point, the cream rises to the surface. Like you said, the more you tell someone they can't have something, the greater the appeal to get it."

"But in America, it seems there is no limit. You talk of cream, but cream is a small dollop in the drink. The remainder is dark and bitter. People gravitate towards the unsavory and acrimonious. The confection is no longer tasty."

"Wrong," Barrone jeered.

"Wrong?"

"Dude, you got it backwards."

"But-"

"No buts, Zaic. Zip your lip and listen to me. Everybody wants the cream. It tastes good, it's bad for you, and you can't help but put a second spoonful into your cup. Then a third. In no time, the cup is full of cream. Do you understand?"

"Ah...I see. A clever analogy. Hmm...then it reasons too much cream makes one sullen and lethargic."

"Yep. In for a pound, you know."

"My government has tried expanding media freedom. This is, how you say, a slippery slope. Are you familiar with the Spiegel Affair?"

"Huh?"

"I shan't burden with detail, but _Der Spiegel_ ruffled feathers by insinuating the head of the Minister of the Reichswehr accepted bribes from military contractors. The story caused an uproar, but I think...no, I'm convinced it is better unscrupulous intricacies are swept aside for the good of the nation. Would you not agree?"

"It must be nice pretending to live in a society lacking scandal."

"No, no, don't misunderstand. People in the Reich aren't without flaws. Must they be exposed, I ask. What good comes of peddling garbage?"

"Sometimes it ain't garbage."

"And sometimes it is."

Barrone snorted again and then said, "You got me there, comrade. Yes, there is garbage. A fair amount. Look, maybe it ain't so bad you Nazis don't want to air your dirty laundry. And maybe it's bad you don't. The problem is, there's no middle ground. I also think it's impossible to keep secrets hidden forever. So, where does this leave ya?"

"Hmm..." Zaic droned, tapping his chin.

"Don't worry, pal. People never get the full story, do they? It's impossible to know truth from fiction." Barrone cleared his throat and then recited, " _If you don't read the newspaper, you're uninformed. If you read the newspaper, you're misinformed_."

"This is a cunning riddle, is it not?"

"Mmmm...I don't think so. Compliments of Mark Twain, by the way. I assumed he was a pessimist. But no, Twain understood. And, at last, so do I. Took me long enough, huh?"

"I...I wouldn't have presumed you for a nihilist."

Barrone presented a wry smile and shrugged.

"Will this sour attitude permeate the piece you're composing? If so-"

"Listen, dude, I don't want to talk shop. This is my relaxing time. Besides, I know why you're here."

"You do?"

"You're a chaperone. Fine, I get it. You don't trust me."

"I wouldn't say-"

"Yes, you would. And you should. You know, Zaic, it turns out my old man was right. The press are parasites. Me, you...all of us playing this stupid game. We scurry, we hide. We invent and exaggerate. What a way to make a living. I shoulda stuck to mathematics or computer science. My father used to say there is order in numbers. Anything in nature can be predicted through discipline and calculation. People, though..." Barrone trailed off and then wet a finger from a bubble of water on the tabletop.

"I think I understand," Zaic said with patient diplomacy. "Now a confession. I'm not picking your brain out of curiosity. We have...there's a minor problem."

"There's no problem. You've done a bang-up job showing me around. Everything is Christine pristine. I can't think of a negative thing to say about Herr Hitler's zoo."

"You don't radiate a cheerful vibe."

"No? I guess I ain't drunk enough. Where is Dirk with the cocktails?" Barrone asked, scanning the lounge.

"Heed, I have something to tell-"

"Wait! Before you start gossiping, _I_ got big news. I'm making a change in my life!" Barrone exclaimed, pounding his right fist on the table. The fussy German shrank and flinched at the sound.

"Whoa," Dirk said, threading through patrons with drinks in hand. "Time to dial down the volume, chief."

Barrone snatched one of the tumblers and toasted, "To the Safaripark!"

Other patrons, at least those with steins and cups, raised their glasses and echoed the sentiment. Then they drank, and Barrone joined them. He polished half the high test and then wiped his mouth the back of a hand.

"Easy," Dirk chided. "You're gonna be kissing the crapper if you don't start pacing yourself."

"I'm being merry," claimed Barrone. "Come on, drink! Let's whoop it up!"

"Perhaps this isn't the right time," Zaic said, glancing at Dirk. "I was about to explain-

"Explain what?" asked Barrone, lowering his cocktail.

Zaic said, "The other two in your party-"

"Hump and his...whatever you want to call him," Barrone said. "Doofus. Yeah. Senior Goofus and his pal, El Doofus".

"Yes," Zaic confirmed. "They've gone missing."

"Missing?" Dirk asked.

"Not to worry," Zaic soothed. "It seems Herr Hammerbacher, Herr Giel, a Safaripark ranger, and the former Reichsführer departed this morning for the Ngorongoro High-"

"The former who?" Barrone interrupted.

"Reichsführer Joachim Peiper," Zaic said. "They left the park through a checkpoint on the Safaripark Strecke and were later spotted entering the Ngorongoro Crater. It appears their vehicle has become lodged in sludge on the crater floor. A rescue party is being readied to extract them from the location."

"Where did they go?" asked Dirk.

"The Ngorongoro Highlands," Zaic said. "South and east of the Safaripark."

"You're sure it's Hump?" Barrone asked. "I mean, like...one hundred percent positive?"

"Confirmed by an employee who was scheduled to go with the men, but decided to pass at the eleventh hour. According to the source, the Safaripark Ranger was escorting former Reichsführer Peiper and your companions outside the park boundary."

"Why?" asked Barrone.

"A daytrip, sightseeing...I'm not sure. The crater is closed for a controlled burn, so they should've ceased travel in the highlands. The visit wouldn't be any more than say...a few hours roundtrip. As you can ascertain, they haven't returned. Security near the crater tracked the men and made contact after their automobile became stuck. In addition, an ELT was activated and it pings to a spot in the Ngorongoro crater. The transmitter uses a frequency in the same range as those used by Safaripark vehicles, something in the kilohertz-"

"What do you want me to do about it?" griped Barrone. "Hump Hammerbacher is your problem. I wash my hands of him."

"Do you have any idea why they might've gone to Ngorongoro Crater?" Zaic asked.

The German was smiling, but his tone was less cordial. Barrone set back, crossed his arms and glanced at Dirk. The cameraman appeared reticent, as usual, and sipped his libation.

Zaic said, "I ask because the crater is off limits and the ranger would not have entered...pardon me, _should not_ have entered. This is a grievous mistake or a coerced deed. Alas, there is speculation the latter conclusion is apt."

"What do you mean?" Barrone asked, though he had suspicion Hump, the damn fool, was chasing ghosts.

"Some chatter from the ranger over the radio suggests Herr Hammerbacher commandeered a weapon and forced this disobedient trek."

"Hump?" Dirk cried, spraying liquor from his mouth.

"Yes," Zaic affirmed with a sedate nod. "It would be appreciated if you'd accompany the rescue party."

"Are you kidding?" Dirk asked. "Why?"

Zaic leaned closer to Barrone and said, "In case...well, I hate to say this but..."

"Spit it out," Barrone coaxed.

"In case Herr Hammerbacher refuses extrication," Zaic said. "Now, I don't mean to sound like an ambassadorial worrywart, but for the sake of argument let's pretend your friend refuses and becomes...combative. And don't tell me this isn't a possibility. I'm told he displayed demonstrative behavior at check-in."

"Jesus," Dirk whispered. "Is he still armed?"

"It doesn't appear so," Zaic said, "but anything is possible. To avoid a nasty situation, it's been suggested Herr Hammerbacher be coerced with an approachable face. The last thing anyone wants is an international kerfuffle caused by a senile old man."

The drummer on stage beat skins, and Liberloaf yowled into the microphone. He sounded like a cat being run though a meatgrinder, tail first.

"Me and Hump aren't on the best terms," Barrone confided. "I don't know how much help I'll be."

Zaic winced as the caterwauling went into the upper decimal region and then hollered, "Let me put it another way! It'd be better if this was observed by someone who's eyes aren't German! Do you understand?"

"You want impartial witnesses in case the shit hits the fan," Barrone concluded.

"We want to be candid!" Zaic yelled. "Please, I don't want to beg but-"

"Lead the way, Zaic," Barrone said. "I'd rather look at Hump's corpse than listen to any more of this shit."

***

The Sikorsky CH-53D Sea Stallion, coated in pea green paint, was firing its main rotor as the Volkswagen Iltis, carrying Dirk, Fozzy and Herr Zaic, rolled onto the grounds of the Seronera airstrip. A dozen armed soldiers wearing black beanies and russet fatigues, gathered near the door on the right side of the fuselage, tossed duffel bags through the opening.

"Holy shitballs," Dirk murmured from the backseat. "It looks like they're readying for war."

"One can never be certain in Tanganyika," Zaic said.

"We're going in a helicopter?" Barrone asked.

"It would take too long to drive," Zaic said, maneuvering the vehicle to a stop about one hundred feet from the helipad. He reached for the keys to kill the engine, but Barrone placed a hand on the German's right wrist.

"I've never been in a helicopter before," Barrone said. "I had a few beverages at the lounge and if I get in that thing, I'm gonna yak."

"There are sickness bags in the cabin," Zaic said.

Dirk exclaimed, "And I don't have my camera! Any chance you could take me to get it?"

"We don't have time to return to the hotel," Zaic said. "The Obersturmbannführer insists we depart before it gets dark."

Zaic silenced the car and the trio watched the six blades of the main rotor, and then the four blades on the tail, increase in speed until they were an indistinguishable blur. The whining engine saturated the quiet of the automobile and the draft from the airship buffeted the car frame.

Well, Fozzy Barrone had it to hand it to Hump. The old bastard was on the precipice of getting smoked by Nazis but even they wanted to treat him with deference. Or, at least, the Germans were pretending to offer this courtesy. Barrone considered, for a moment, the notion Hump found something about Howie in Ngorongoro. Was it possible? Maybe the Germans were planning on making the whole lot of them disappear. Like son, like father...and all of father's travelling companions.

What had Zaic said? The Germans wanted a third party to provide a narrative in case Hump decided to go postal. What if the Nazis wanted to make sure _no_ account ever saw the light of day? It wasn't like erasing four Americans would be a difficult task. Moreover, the Third Reich was notorious for using homicidal methods to handle problems.

A not so unique sensation saturated Barrone's nerves and his legs started trembling. The first time Fozzy got laid, as a freshman in college to a plump chick he met at a house party, his legs shook like they were electrified. The girl (her name was Maggie, she smelled like peppermint schnapps and, when they got to banging, Barrone lasted twelve seconds before filling the rubber) thought he was being goofy. But he wasn't playing around; Fozzy Barrone was scared. Kinda like now. Equating his first sexual experience to the thought of being snuffed out of existence was something Barrone would have to investigate later...if there was a later. Maybe the moral of the story, if one was to be found, involved a lot of nonsense about overcoming fears.

He placed both hands on his thighs and took a deep breath. Yes, this was like getting laid. Indeed, when the panties fly off, the time to turn into a scaredy cat was long past. Anyway, why would the Germans send a platoon of goons to kill an old man, his stoner buddy, and two journalists?

"I'm serious," Dirk whined, breaching the silence. "I need my camera."

"I'm afraid you'll have to go without," Zaic said.

"Like...these army guys-" Barrone began, but Zaic scoffed and then scolded:

"Those men are SS. Members of the Safaripark Otto Kumm Company. Don't _ever_ accuse them of being Heer."

"Fine, whatever, but um...they're not going to shoot anybody, right?"

"Herr Barrone," Zaic soothed, "nobody wants bloodshed. Recall, in the lounge, you mentioned mendacities and the abhorrent methods the media presents news."

"I didn't use those exact words, Zaic. I don't even know what _mendacities_ are?"

"Fabrications. Like the rubbish you were digging for at Grumiti."

"Tell you the truth, I thought you may have been lying to me."

"See, this is the problem. Whom can you trust if everyone is a storyteller?"

"Granted, you make a valid point but-"

" _But_ nothing. Didn't you come to the Safaripark to do an expose on Herr Hammerbacher? If something should happen to him, wouldn't you like to be the one reporting the newsflash?"

"I guess," Barrone said with a shrug. "I just don't fancy _being_ the news."

"Boss," Dirk said, "this could get us...er, I mean _you_ , out of the shithouse."

"Are you in trouble?" Zaic inquired.

"No," Barrone answered, eyeing the chopper.

Zaic opened his door and then said, "It's your call, gentlemen, but I don't suggest dragging feet. The SS is ready to fly and time is of the essence."

What could Fozzy Barrone do but swallow trepidation. Perhaps Hump had stumbled upon something. Or, the ancient fool and his dazed caretaker would meet with calamity on their improvised daytrip. Either way, as Dirk alluded, something could be mined from the misfortune. And, after pushing aside the notion Fozzy Barrone was indeed a parasite, the editor climbed from the car and then followed Zaic to the helicopter.

# 19. Hump, No More

Though it had been a half-hour since the premature end to the trek, it felt like longer to the marooned men in the Volkswagen.

Peiper whittled time by slugging from a canteen; Jason flexed hands, mumbled to himself, and took incalculable peeks at the jeep and its sedentary occupants. Schmidt whispered into the handmic, glancing at Hump with conspiratorial menace. But Hump stared at the cloud of smoke and tried to discern shapes in the grimy miasma.

The vehicles from Brabag appeared, at last, as chestnut specks against the gritty backdrop of gray smoke. It was the one-eyed Peiper who discerned the Brabag cavalry. Hump ignored the former Reichsführer's chirping and instead tried to find Carol's face in the hazy firmament. As Schmidt jabbered into the mic, Jason stood and waved arms like a lunatic.

Annoyed by the kid's excitement, Hump scolded, "They know we're here."

"Guess I'm excited, pops."

"Sit down. You look a fool."

Jason complied and then said, "Jeez, man. Ratchet down the 'tude."

"You broke my concentration."

"Of what? Staring into space? Well...excuse me." Jason looked at Peiper in the front seat, then whispered, "You know, you ain't off the hook. You better at least _pretend_ to be sorry."

"I'm a crazy old man," Hump said, watching the approaching vehicles take shape. There were three: two medium sized single cab flatbed trucks and a sports utility vehicle, all with coffee-colored livery. In the bed of the trucks, black men lounged and sipped from water bottles.

"You're crazy," Jason confirmed. "No doubt about it."

"Darn tootin'. What're the Krauts gonna do to me?"

"'Cept I know you're _not_ crazy," Jason confided in another scheming whisper.

"I wish I was. Then I wouldn't feel the way I do."

"Huh?"

"I never caught a break."

"What're you talking about?"

"A whole goddamn life of bad luck lands me here."

"Yeah...but, like...you kinda had a hand in this, don't cha think?"

Before Hump could answer, Schmidt turned around and informed, "Be patient. They're going to park on the perimeter. The negroes will then stretch a guideline from dry border to our vehicle. They will also fashion a trail through the ooze."

And, as promised, this is what transpired. The workers pounded an iron "T" stake into ground, and then one of the skinny blacks plodded through the ankle-high sludge carrying the end of a thick rope. He reached the Volkswagen, cinched the line around the front bumper, and raised a muddy hand. Two hundred feet away, the other end was then wrapped around the stake until the guideline was taut. Moments later, five negros trudged single file to the car, each carrying shovels.

"Reichsführer, ich bestehe darauf, dass du zuerst gehst," Schmidt said.

Peiper nodded, flung open his door, and then stepped into the mud. He took a tentative step, grabbed the line and, aided by one the workers, shuffled forward.

When the former Reichsführer was halfway across, Schmidt said, "Your turn, Herr Hammerbacher. Please, avoid making a scene. Everyone is far too exhausted to deal with further shenanigans."

Without a grumble, Hump acquiesced and crossed the slop without assistance. It wasn't too difficult, but he used previous footprints for his own and restricted the viscosity of the mud. On dry ground, he was given water to rinse the spackled sludge from his legs and boots.

"You lucky," a young black man claimed, handing Hump a towel to dry his limbs. The fella was as thick as one of Hump's legs, covered in gray ash, and stank like oil.

"I reckon," Hump said. "Say, what are burnin' over there?"

"Grass," the man answered. "Tall, dry grass."

"Anything else?"

"Olerai."

"Huh?"

"Is tree. Fever tree. Please, sit in car," the native said, directing Hump by the left elbow to the SUV.

"You ain't burning nutin else?"

The Sambo smiled, nudged Hump forward, and said, "Relax. A-ok?"

Peiper was reclining in the passenger seat of one of the trucks, talking to someone with flamboyant hand gestures. Hump flopped into the SUV, toweled off his ankles, and then watched Jason ramble to firm ground. Meanwhile, Schmidt and the black men with shovels worked around the stranded Volkswagen.

The driver's door opened and a white, pudgy, middle-aged bald man, wearing sunglass, stuck his head in and said, "I'm Herr Brandt. And you are Herr Hammerbacher?"

"Ayup."

"Good. How are you feeling? Any dizziness, labored breathing, chest pains, palpitations...anything unusual?"

"No. No. No. No...and yes."

"Yes to what?"

"The anythin' unusual question. I just walked through a swamp, mister."

"Ah. Your sense of humor is intact. Did you drink plenty of water today?"

"What are you?"

"I'm a doctor."

"Military?"

"Once upon a time. I'm a physician for Brabag, Herr Hammerbacher. I keep these negro contractors healthy. Stupid people, dumb as primates, but dedicated workers. Their superstitious nonsense does not endure to the sorcery of modern medicine. The problem is, they view me with apprehension. Not many white faces have helped the African negro and the indigenous are suspicious."

Hump thought of Howie and said, "They seem cordial."

"I suppose. The Brabag foremen treat them dignity but..." Brandt laid two fingers on Hump's wrist and acquired a pulse, adding in a mumble, "I don't trust them."

"Why?"

Brandt ignored the question and removed his fingers. "Your pulse is high, but understandable given the situation. I need to get your blood pressure, but my kit is in the Unimog with the Reichsführer. I must retrieve it."

"Hold on, mister. Yawl is burning the crater?"

"Part of it."

"Because of drought?"

"Yes. Eh..." Brandt climbed in and shut the door before confiding, "I'm to assess your mental facilities."

"Yeah, I reckon this was comin'."

Brandt removed the sunglasses and then said, "What you've done is serious, Herr Hammerbacher. Do you understand the situation?"

"I just wanted to visit the crater. I guess sumptin snapped."

"Was this a premeditated action?"

"Does it matter? I reckon I'm gettin' the boot."

"Oh, you're getting the boot. The question is, will you be tossed to Americans, or escorted to Berlin with German chaperones?"

"I mean...I didn't think about consequences."

"This much is obvious. You know, your State Department has been informed. They are _not_ pleased, Herr Hammerbacher. There is talk about charging you for this rescue operation. Today, the bill goes to your government. Tomorrow, the bill will be passed to you."

"Well, I didn't consider none of this shit. And, tell the truth, I don't give a rat's ass."

"Why did you want to come to the crater?"

"My son died here, I think. Regardless, his body was found in a pit somewhere in this crater."

Brandt inhaled and then asked, "When was he found?"

"A few weeks ago."

"How did you know it was here?"

Hump squinted with suspicion and then said, "I figured it out. Do you know sumptin?"

"As a matter of fact," Brandt said as he reached across Hump and popped the glove compartment. The doctor dug a folded map from a mess of papers and said, "I was here when those bodies were found. Twenty, I believe. The workers were digging a firebreak and disturbed artifacts. Further digging yielded the...bones."

"Bones?"

"Heaped upon each other. They were buried with personal items, so those who killed them were either in a hurry or they didn't care. In my opinion, it was robbery. I was certain when we continued to excavate."

"Why?"

"The killers claimed anything of value. What remained were sundry items: identification badges, wallets emptied of everything but credit cards and photographs. No clothing, shoes, hats. They were stripped, murdered and then tossed into a hole. Buried under two meters of soil so as not to be mined by animals. Those responsible for the carnage did not want these people found."

Brandt paused to unfolded the map, and then smoothed it across the seat with part of the border resting on Hump's left thigh. It was a relief chart of the crater decorated in concentric circles, German scribbles, arrows and asterisks. "We found them here," the doctor said, jabbing in the northeast quadrant of the crater.

Hump studied the spot, then looked outside and asked, "Where all the smoke's comin' from?"

"Thereabouts. We're just starting to catch up for the lost days. There was a two-week delay while men from Berlin removed the remains."

"Interpol?"

"Yes. It was a mixture of kriminalrats, SS bigwigs, some Americans from Nairobi and a few higherups in the Tanganyika government. We also found a second site, about a kilometer east. Impossible to speculate how many were dead and an exact count will never be known." Brandt stared over Hump's right shoulder, out the window at the smoke, and then said, " _Ever_."

"Whadda ya mean?"

"Unlike the aid workers, those in the other grave were Africans. The indigenous employed for Brabag are Gisamjanga people, a tribe of the Datooga. They identified the dead as Rootigaanga based on clothing and other trinkets."

"Who killed 'em?"

"Take your pick. There are countless tribes in Tanganyika, let alone Africa, and it's impossible to keep them straight. I've worked this area for almost a decade, and I learn of a new cluster or language every quarter. With so many different groups, these outbreaks of ethnic cleansing are profane but common. This group, that group, the government...do you understand? These slaughters are entrenched in the negro bloodline.

"The kriminalrats from Interpol asked questions and these workers claimed there were countless murders committed during a violent stretch in the early '90's. I wouldn't be surprised if we uncover more remains before we're done. So, to answer your question, it's impossible to determine the culprit. It could be relatives of these negros outside. At least your son, and the group he was with, were identified. Those other bones...well, they're fuel for the fire."

"Jeez O'Pete," Hump whispered.

"Don't ever say us Volksdeutsche don't stick together," Brandt said with a wink. "These negros treat each other like garbage. The lot of them, corrupt and despicable. Those remains we found, your son and his associates, are an example of the foolishness of rendering assistance to those who are too unwise to accept help."

"What's Brabag doin' out here? And you? Ain't this helpin' 'em?"

"This," Brandt said, jerking his head towards the controlled burn, "is the Reich promoting ecological sanctity. It has nothing to do with helping these primates."

Hump tensed his hands into fists and felt muscles constrict. It made sense now, why Hump's brother and all those other men jumped from airplanes or boats or bombed German cities during the war or used atomic bombs on Nips and poison on the Krauts. It wasn't because the GI's thought they were immune to death, and it wasn't because they were cruel. They understood the Nazis and their chums were bad dudes. And Howie...he wasn't scared of dying either. Howie wanted to make a respectable difference in the world; he wanted to change the world.

"Herr Hammerbacher? You're flushed. Do you desire water?"

"Howie wasn't foolish," Hump mumbled, relaxing hands. "Idealistic would be a better description, but the boy was no idiot."

"I didn't mean to offend, Herr Hammerbacher. My condolences are genuine. Your son didn't know Africa like I do. Aid workers are easy marks. Often food and medicine are stolen. The added insult of execution is a primal method to purge anger. It's not meant to be personal, or those responsible would make a show of slaughter. The beheadings are-"

"Beheadings!" Hump cried.

Brandt's face drained of color and he stammered, "I-I...again, I'm speaking without a filter."

"They were beheaded?"

The doctor frowned and then nodded.

"How do you know?"

"Er...eh..." Brandt fretted. Then he fumbled with the map and folded it into an untidy rectangle.

"Tell me, mister. I came all this way to learn sumptin. I knew it wasn't gonna be good, okay? And I ain't wearing a skirt, so you can stuff the chivalry."

"All we found were bones, Herr Hammerbacher. The skulls were missing. As were hands."

"But not their identification? What sense does this make?"

"It makes no sense, but little in this place does."

"Jeez O'Pete," Hump whispered again.

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad-"

There was a knock at Hump's window and then the door opened. Peiper, steadied by one of the workers, lowered his cane and presented a scowl.

"Let me get my kit," Brandt fussed, shoving the map in the glovebox and then slamming the compartment shut.

"Herr Brandt," Peiper said, "Der andere Amerikaner braucht aufmerksamkeit. Ich brauche einen moment mit Herr Hammerbacher."

"Wie du möchtest," the doctor replied. Then Brandt cleared his throat and said in a grave voice, "Herr Hammerbacher, I've determined you weren't sound of mind when you pulled this deed today."

"Wonderful," Hump said without emotion.

Brandt scurried from the SUV without further comment and, when he was gone, Peiper shooed the indigenous aid away with a feeble swat. Hump, steamrolled by Brandt's candid admission, studied his fingers and visualized Howie's final moments on this wretched planet. What was Hump doing when this happened? Managing a game; throwing back a beer; watching the television...while his son was _beheaded._ Did the executioner cut through Howie's long hair before slicing the neck, chopping blond locks like Hump had threatened to do a million times out of anger?

"I spoke to the man in charge of this detail," Peiper said. "He informed me of the mass grave you were seeking."

The boy had come to Africa, unconcerned about the dangers. He was in love and had a big heart. Howie wanted to help. All it got him was _beheaded_.

Peiper continued, "Interpol _was_ here, but I'm told their investigation was fruitless. In addition...are you listening to me?"

_Beheaded._ Hump felt woozy. It didn't help to ascribe anything to fate but, like it or not, this was Howie's destiny. It had been sealed the moment Carol and Hump met. Or, further, the instant life began on earth. Further still, at the flash of creation, when the universe assembled. Howie was _always_ going to find his way into a hole dug in Ngorongoro with no head. And, somehow, Hump had arrived at the same place.

"Hump!" Peiper squawked, rattling the open door with his cane.

"Wha?" Hump asked in an aggravated voice.

"Are you paying attention? I have information."

"I already got it. The doctor was a witness."

"Ah. Are you satisfied with his summation?"

"Am I satisfied?" Hump gnashed. "What do you think?"

"Are you satisfied it wasn't the SS who killed your son?"

"Jeez, I don't know."

"I assure you-"

"I don't know what to believe. If you people say Africans killed Howie, then I guess I'll have to accept it."

"It _is_ the truth," Peiper stressed.

"Last night, Jerry Lee told me a story about Germany sendin' artists to America to stir dissention."

"Oh," Peiper chuckled, "you can't believe a thing he babbles. The man is addled. I told you about the Pervitin-"

"Jerry Lee says one thing. You say sumptin else. Everythin' is one man's word against another."

"Or, you can recognize one man is a liar and the other speaks the truth."

"Uh-huh. So, which one are you, Peiper?"

The former Reichsführer sneered and then said, "You should thank your guardian angel you've the ability to insult, Herr Hammerbacher. You've committed a crime worthy of exacting punishment instead of conversation with a doctor. Nevertheless, this episode has been escalated to the highest level of government-"

"You can save the lecture."

Peiper's eye twitched and his voice turned gruff as he explained, "Here's what will happen next: a helicopter is coming to retrieve you and Herr Giel. On board are your media friends. All of you will be flown to Dodoma, where you will sit in German custody until an American transport arrives from Nairobi. You'll have plenty of time to drone nonsense to your embassy officials on the flight to the United States. Doubtful they'll pay attention to a single word after what you've pulled. And, after arriving safe and sound in your country, I hope you take advantage of the freedoms of your press and blab the same drivel about Herr Lewis, Ngorongoro, and whatever else you see fit. You'll prove the _exact_ point of why the Reich doesn't need to implant subversive elements in your culture. You Americans do well enough on your own."

"Leave me alone," Hump said in a tired voice.

"You are a stubborn man," Peiper declared. "I've tried my best to lead you to reason, but your mind is warped." Then, the former Reichsführer, age one hundred and two, mustered enough strength to slam the door.

***

Thump, thump, thump, thump...

Barrone, strapped into the fold down jump seat, leaned his head against the bulkhead and felt the engine vibration ooze through helicopter's fuselage. It was a diminutive, but soothing tremor, like tiny fingers massaging scalp. Next to him, Dirk leaned elbows on knees and cradled his blockhead in hands. It was impossible to know how long they'd been aloft. There were no windows and the view through the cockpit windshield was blocked by the shape of both pilots and a third observer.

The dozen others in the hold ( _SS_ , Barrone's brain reminded), sat with either eyes closed or hands checking weapons. The commandoes looked like they'd been cloned; cultured in the same Nazi petri dish. Barrone, Dirk and Zaic boarded after the SS had been settled, and took seats across from the soldiers. Not a one bothered to make a gesture construed as welcoming. A few _might've_ glared, or this _might've_ been Barrone's imagination. O'course, he was kinda tipsy and, go figure, intoxicated American journalists _probably_ didn't endear itself to Nazi stormtroopers. Oh, and there was the little matter of why this jaunt was taking place.

Dirk turned his head and spoke, but his words were muffled by the plugs stuffed in Barrone's ears.

_I can't hear you_ , Barrone mouthed.

"My camera!" Dirk yelled.

Again, Barrone mouthed, _I can't hear you_. For good measure, he crumpled his brow in a show of confusion.

Dirk tried pantomime, twitching his right pointer finger like he was pressing a shutter release.

Barrone shrugged and then closed eyes. The cameraman had a one-track mind. What did the fool expect Fozzy Barrone to do? Demand they return to Seronera? Perhaps Dirk didn't appreciate the gravity of the situation, although...it could be Barrone was being shortsighted.

I'm sitting on a German helicopter somewhere over the Serengeti. I'm told we're heading east, to a place called Ngorongoro, where one of my travelling companions has taken hostages. Joining me are SS commandoes who, I recall from my lackadaisical education, aren't known for having patient trigger fingers. I've come to Africa for a story and an adventure. The story would make me a famous journalist; the adventure would provide the necessary ingredients to flower a bestselling novel. I should be thrilled. I'll be the envy of my contemporaries. Even better, I won't have to work at Devious Media no more. During my book tour, I'll bang a chick in every city I visit. Maybe I'll wear a rubber. Maybe I won't. You see, friends, I'm daring. Fozzy Barrone is not scared. Not scared at all...

A jab at Barrone's right bicep stirred the editor from sleep. He snorted, ran a tongue over lips, and then blinked eyes. The dim hold of the helicopter materialized, then the strained face of Zaic and his unblinking eyes.

"What?" Barrone asked in a muffled voice. He puzzled over the sound, then remembered his ears were plugged. Removing the two foam bungs introduced a rattling din akin to being in a paint mixer.

"We're about to touch down!" Zaic screamed.

Barrone gave a "thumbs up" gesture and reached to adjust the shoulder strap.

"There's been a change of plans!" Zaic yelled.

"What kind of change?"

"Herr Hammerbacher surrendered without incident!"

Barrone and Dirk shared a glance and then the editor hollered, "Everything is kosher?"

"Herr Hammerbacher and Herr Giel will be collected, and you all will be transported to Dodoma!"

"Where's Dodoma?"

Zaic shook his head and then yelled, "This is the nicest way possible to tell you're being sent home!"

"Hold on!" Dirk exclaimed. "We can't return to the Safaripark?"

"No!" Zaic answered. "Obersturmbannführer Hrbek received the order minutes ago. I'm sorry, but there's nothing to be done about it!"

"What about our luggage?" Dirk asked. "My camera? And...shit, I got all my pictures on my computer!"

"Your personal effects will be shipped!" Zaic replied. "The arrangements can be hashed by your embassy! Again, I apologize-"

The helicopter pitched up, yawed, trembled, and Zaic stumbled into the seat next to Barrone.

"We're landing," the German reported.

"All my photos, man," Dirk whined. "Fuck me!"

Barrone had no response. In his head, the beginning of the story constructed before falling asleep was being fed into a shredder. And, with it, Humphrey Hammerbacher...feet first. There was a good chance Hump wouldn't make it to Dodoma if Barrone was able to wrap his hands around the old fucker's neck.

***

Hump and Jason heard the copter before they saw it, and the kid stepped from the SUV to record the descent with his phone. A black man waving orange wands directed the noisy ship to a shaggy grass plain one hundred yards downwind from where the vehicles from Brabag were parked. Hump sidled next to the kid as the helicopter touched down and then shut down, the main rotor completing a final, lazy spin as the fuselage door on the right side of the craft opened. Seconds later, soldiers filed out, cradling weapons, and formed a crude perimeter. There was no sign of Barrone or the cameraman, but a reedy fella dressed in jeans and a polo emerged after the soldiers took position. Hump recognized the man from the porch of Seronera as the German reporter assigned to babysit Fozzy Barrone. He stormed head down, was joined by one of the soldiers, and both marched towards the SUV where Hump and Jason stood.

"I'd recommend puttin' your doodad away," Hump said.

"Yeah," Jason mumbled. He shoved the phone into his pocket and then said, "I guess this is it, huh? These guys are serious."

Hump didn't respond because the question was ridiculous. The kid was tryin' to make conversation, and had been for the last half-hour, but Hump wasn't in a mood to talk. He felt drained and depressed. The culmination of this journey had ended. He had achieved what was desired...sorta. But there would be no justice for the killed, all of 'em, and no punishment for the killers. The Nazis were awful, as advertised, but they weren't better or worse than anybody else on this godforsaken planet.

The conversations with Peiper, the ease at which the man could lapse into philosophical rhetoric to justify whatever contribution he played in making this planet godforsaken, would always bother Hump. More bothersome was the idea _godforsaken_ wasn't an apt description of this world-whirling, swirling, blue and white and brown hued Mother Earf-so many creatures called home. _Godforsaken_ meant God, whatever _it_ was, existed at one point and then absconded. No, God never left; God was hanging around and God was one _mean_ motherfucker. Perhaps Peiper was right: Ngorongoro was evil, home to evil, saturated in evil. Evil all around, an evil born from the universe. In the end, this intrinsic malevolence would consume itself when the universe collapsed into nothing.

Indeed, it was easy to justify malevolency as the reason for misery. At its core, life was brutal, competitive and repellent. If given the choice, Hump wouldn't have hesitated to select _no_ existence over the one he had. A lifetime of wretched sadness, with pleasant moments sprinkled here and there, would soon culminate in death. Yes, evil flourished. Those who understood how to use this force without compunction, tap cruel essence and submit to ruthlessness, would _always_ stand atop the dung heap until they were claimed. But, there'd always be someone behind them, eager to fill the vacated spot.

Howie never stood a chance. He was a good kid. Maybe Hump should've been tougher on him, put his foot down, channeled the sternness of a disciplinarian. He could've molded Howie into a stoic, not a bleeding heart. But what did Hump know? He was a baseball player, good enough to be a pro; a manager, bad enough to be immortalized in jest. Hump didn't know squat about the world.

"Pops," Jason whispered. "You owe me something."

"What?"

"You said you were going to teach me a German swear."

"Now's not the time."

"I think now is the _perfect_ time."

Hump smiled despite himself and then muttered, "Scheisse."

"What's it mean?"

"Shit."

The two Germans halted within pissing distance of Hump and Jason. The blue-eyed soldier studied Hump, the kid, the Volkswagen being dug out with shovels by negroes covered in mud, other negroes laying wood planks on either side of the guideline, Ranger Schmidt buried to his ankles in slop screaming instructions, the plume of smoke fading into the obscurity of approaching dusk, former Reichsführer Peiper sitting in the cab of a truck, Doctor Brandt drinking from a jug. Then the warrior spat a wad of black snuff on the ground. He mashed the wet tobacco into grit with the right toe of his boot, and then focused peepers on Hump with a furrowed brow and curt grunt.

"Herr Hammerbacher, Herr Giel," the reporter said with a nod to each. "I'm Bernhard Zaic from Deutscher Fernseh Rundfunk. Let me explain what will-"

"Could I get a chew?" Hump interrupted.

"Pardon?"

"A pinch of snuff. For the gums. Your boy just hocked a hunk." Hump looked at the soldier and queried, "Tabak?"

Zaic opened his mouth, but the soldier dug a tin of Grizzly wintergreen long cut from a thigh pocket of his fatigues and then flipped the can to Hump.

"Danke," Hump said, prying open the top with a trembling hand. "I haven't had a chew in almost forty years. Last place I'd expect to have one is Africa, but seems like I might not get the opportunity later."

"We're not here to kill you," Zaic protested. "Where did you get this absurd idea?"

"I don't know," Hump answered, raking a small portion out of the tin. "Call it divine inspiration." He stuffed the wad between gum and cheek, closed eyes, and savored the flavor.

"You're being taken to Dodoma," Zaic said, sounding fussy. "This should've been explained."

"Peiper's hot," Hump said. "I thought he might've changed his mind."

"Reichsführer Peiper has no say in the situation. He's retired, and peacefully so, until this afternoon. Do you know what you put the man through? He's over one hundred years old!"

"You don't gotta scold," Hump said, opening eyes. "I'm contrite and confess the error of my way."

"I suggest you present the proper theatrics to those who are _most_ aggrieved. Your friends are aboard the helicopter, and they are perturbed."

"I reckon they are."

"Please, this way," Zaic said, motioning with his left arm. "The pilots are anxious to get airborne before dark."

Hump nodded and handed the tobacco can to the soldier. He took a final look around, avoiding Peiper's malevolent stare, before following Zaic and the kid. Then it was a slow slog through knee high grass, past the pickets and their blank stares, and into the chopper. Barrone and Dirk were indeed inside, sitting on seats, heads in hands, motionless. Neither bothered to acknowledge the new passengers until Jason collapsed next to Dirk and let out an elongated, and loud, yawn.

"Welcome to the party," Dirk mumbled, glancing at Hump with a wrinkled, angry, face.

Barrone stirred to a sitting position and regarded Hump with a pouty lip. "Ah, the man of the hour," he greeted with disdain. "I was hoping they'd haul your carcass aboard in a couple of grocery bags."

"Gentlemen," Zaic tutted, "let's not be sour. You have a long night of travel to work on whatever grievances you care to air."

"Don't sit next to me," Barrone warned Hump. "I might-"

A loud exclamation from the cockpit interrupted the remainder of whatever threat Fozzy Barrone was about to announce. All heads turned in said direction to see a red-faced pilot, in full meltdown, emerge and chuck a giant binder to the cabin floor. The book detonated on impact, and pages scattered across the hold. For good measure, the pilot kicked the binder and it skidded to a stop next to Zaic's foot.

"Besser werden sie bequem," the airman said to Zaic. "Es könnte eine weile sein!"

"Was?" Zaic asked.

Gesturing at the cockpit, the pilot attempted to explain but decided to seek the solace of fresh air. He left the helicopter mumbling while Zaic stared at the mess.

"What's going on?" Jason asked.

"Um...I'm not sure," Zaic said, striding for the cabin door. "I bet it's nothing. Let me have a chat with him."

"The pilot said," Hump informed, after they were alone, "sumptin about getting comfy. It might be awhile. I think."

"You damn fool," Barrone castigated. "What the hell were you trying to pull?"

"I acted on a hunch," Hump said. "I came to see where Howie died and...I don't gotta explain anything to you, mister. Now's not the best time to get on my bad side." Then he turned his head and hawked a jet of brown juice onto the cabin floor.

"Where'd you get the chew?" Barrone asked with exasperation.

"You should've seen pops," Jason gushed. "Cool as ice, man. I was scared as hell, but I knew pops wouldn't shoot anyone."

"Do you know what kind of trouble we're in?" asked Barrone.

"Kind of a stupid thing to ask, doncha think?" Hump countered. "Considering they brought this bird in special with their soldiers lookin' like they're ready to raze."

"Those guys are SS," Barrone whispered.

"Whoop-de-doo," Hump said. "What'd you expect? Hitler Youth?"

"I expected you'd behave like you _promised_. Now...all our shit is at the lodge, old man. They aren't taking us back, you know. My computer, passport-"

"My cameras," Dirk complained.

"My edibles," Jason added in a woeful voice.

"We all lost something," Hump pronounced. "Be thankful you can still bitch and moan. I bet them dead people who were buried out there would love to trade places."

Barrone sighed and then said, "So, it was here, huh? You knew all along and you sent me to Grumeti."

"I didn't know squat, but I took a chance. I can't account for good luck, or whatever you want to call it, but..." Hump spat again and then said, "But, yeah, it was here. This crater."

"Did the Nazis kill 'em?"

"Darn tootin'," Hump said. "Go figure. The Krauts came right out and admitted they executed Howie and his group."

"Are you shitting me?" Barrone asked, wide eyed.

Hump chuckled and then said, "What do you think? The Kraut I spoke to claimed Howie and them others were victims of a robbery committed by Africans."

"Why do you insist on pulling my leg?" Barrone carped.

"Beats me," Hump said with a shrug. "By the by, there's also another grave full of...I can't remember what the name of 'em is, but they were blackies. Them Krauts burned 'em."

"Yeah, they're good at that kind of thing," Barrone said.

"I recorded it," Jason said.

Barrone cocked an ear and then asked, "Recorded what?"

"Our drive. Fucking _hours_ in the car. My ass is killing me. Dudes were following us, we went down this _bad ass_ hill, got stuck in quicksand and-"

"You recorded the whole trip?"

"Not the whole thing, man. Had to save my battery."

"Well, it's something," Dirk said, nudging Barrone with his right elbow.

"You wanna see it?" the kid asked.

"Not now," said Barrone. "Wait until we're somewhere over the Atlantic."

"I don't think the Germans care," Jason said. "Peiper watched me and if he-"

"Apologies," Zaic called from the cabin door. "I spoke to the pilot. As you observed, he _was_ agitated. There's a tiny maintenance problem," the reporter said, holding the thumb and pointer finger of his right hand an inch apart. "It shouldn't be a hassle, but it requires a bit of um..."

The pilot pushed Zaic aside as he climbed into the helicopter and barked, "Fehlerbehebung!" before disappearing into the cockpit.

"Troubleshooting," Zaic finished. "It won't be long. There is some procedure to initiate for a...oh, goodness, I'm not an aviation authority. I'm told there will be an engine runup before we can depart. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

***

Any pilot who has flown for a commercial or military operation can testify to the nuisance of maintenance delays. And those occurring at an outstation bereft of mechanics are the most grating of all squawks. The corrective action in those instances are limited to either a remedy detailed in the MM1, the Deferred Maintenace Manual (a step-by-step procedure by which the pilot can defer the gripe under direction of Maintenace Control, placard the faulty equipment or instrument, pull and collar circuit breakers, and enter the appropriate information in the aircraft's logbook), or (in the case of "required equipment" not subject to deferral) a prolonged wait for a qualified grease monkey to arrive and fix the broken component.

The two pilots of the CH-53 were not SS but Luftwaffe officers assigned to Helicopter Wing 64, Number 2 Squadron, based at Laupheim Air Base. At present, they were serving a six-month rotation at the Safaripark. The forty-one-year-old pilot in command, the fella tossing the voluminous Quick Reference Handbook in anger, was a _Hauptman_. His copilot, aged twenty-four, carried the rank _Leutnant_. Both men had no idea what transpired at Ngorongoro, nor the reason the SS was aboard their ship. Neither man cared about the four Americans they were instructed to deliver to the Dodoma Flughafen. The pilots were tasked with orders, and they intended to follow them without question. The dispatch release stipulated this transport was " _Höchste Priorität_ ", highest priority, and this meant dragging feet was a no-no. The presence of the SS added not so subtle supplementary punctuation, in the form of exclamation points, to the _Höchste Priorität_ directive. The pilots wanted nothing more than to complete the mission, return to the Safaripark, and then have a couple cold ones.

This kind of thinking is known in the aviation biz as _get there itis_. Pilots are, by nature, task oriented, Type A personalities. There is a defined beginning and end to every trip, and failing to meet expectations is not something any airman enjoys shouldering. So, when an aircraft descends below decision height on a precision approach, or flies through a microburst, or drops below the PAPI on a visual, and then slams into the ground, you can blame _get there itis_ as much as Mother Nature or shoddy airmanship for the crummy outcome.

Mechanical glitches, another barrier hindering success, are sometimes handled with nimble fingers...and sometimes not. Case in point: seconds before touchdown at Ngorongoro Crater, a display on the instrument console of the helicopter, known as the _BIM Indicator_ , triggered a caution light. The rotor blades of the CH-53 are metal and prone to cracks caused by fatigue. In earlier variants of the CH-53, rotor fatigue contributed to a dozen accidents worldwide. Thus, the fix on the "D" model involved pressurizing the hollow of the blades with nitrogen. If a crack forms, nitrogen is lost through seepage, a sensor is tripped, and a warning is sent to the cockpit.

The pilot's Quick Reference Handbook, a guide to dealing with master warnings and cautions, was a limited help to the crew. Under the heading "BIM CAUTION LIGHT" was this wordy missive:

_If BIM caution light_ → _have crewmember check BIM circuit breaker integrity (right cabin circuit breaker panel). Due to the sensitivity of system, the caution light may go on due to EMI giving the pilot a false indication of impending spar failure. If the caution light remains on with the circuit breaker in, and EMI is not verified then:_

In Flight

*1. Airspeed—80 KIAS, minimize maneuvering.

*2. Altitude—Minimum safe.

3. Primary AC BIM circuit breaker—Check in.

4. Land as soon as practical. Do not exceed 1.5 flight hours unless necessary to reach a safe landing site.

a. If flying with an external load that cannot be safely transported at 80 KIAS, consideration should be given to load jettison. Hover flight should be minimized.

WARNING!

Flight operations outside a level cruise flight regime of 80 +/-5 KIAS and operations in a hover produce blade flight loads that will increase potential crack stresses and accelerate crack propagation rates. Continuous flight outside this recommend flight profile will compromise the safety margin incorporated into the maximum prescribed flight duration and lower the allotted 1.5 hour Interval.

Aircrew (at pilot's discretion):

1. Pull and reset circuit breaker.

2. Perform IBIS BIT check.

On the Ground

_If_ _all_ _spar indicators are white, but the BIM caution light remains on or the IBIS BIT is unsatisfactory, a malfunction in the radiation detector or signal processor is indicated. The helicopter may be flown for 1.5 hours at 80 KIAS at minimum safe altitude (minimizing maneuvering). The helicopter must then be landed and reinspected before continuing on additional 1.5 hour legs. If a spar indicator shows black at any time, further flight shall not be attempted until qualified maintenance personnel check the integrity of the spar._

As directed, the crew checked circuit breakers and found none tripped. However, spar pressure was degraded and this, according to the checklist, required "qualified maintenance personnel" to conduct a "physical inspection of said spar". While the SS established their perimeter, the Hauptman used SATCOM to reach the on-call mechanic at the Safaripark. The tech in Africa patched the Hauptman to the Maintenace Squadron headquarters of the 64th Wing in Germany. The enlisted specialist at Laupheim consulted a convoluted schematic of the CH-53's powerplant, scratched his head, and then hemmed and hawed until a supervisor could be contacted. According to the book, this gripe couldn't be cleared until a further inspection of the defective blade and spar was conducted. Delivering mechanics from the Safaripark to the grounded helicopter would require a road trip. In other words, a lengthy delay. And this flight, according to paperwork and the agitated Hauptman, was _Höchste Priorität_.

As Hump slapped snuff into his mouth, the maintenance supervisor in Laupheim (a non-com with the rank of _Oberfeldwebel)_ recommended the crew do a static runup to ascertain if the BIM indication remained. There were instances when sensors malfunctioned, the Oberfeldwebel explained. This could be one.

The Hauptman was skeptical and the conversation escalated up the chain of command until no less than the Reichsmarschall of the Luftwaffe, Uwe Jeschonnek, concurred _a static runup to troubleshoot the problem is apt_. Of course, as the pilot in command, the Hauptman could refuse. But the implied _or else_ hung in the ether and the Hauptman could hear the words echoing in his head.

This, then, was the penultimate moment all PIC's detest. The decision to acquiesce to operational demands or follow proper guidelines has ended careers or lives...and, in most cases, both. The Hauptman knew this, just as he knew the manuals he was _supposed to follow_ were written in the blood of those who screwed the pooch.

Thus, throwing the QRH can be understood in context. This tantrum was a product of stress, and the unsettled feeling in the Hauptman's stomach was smothered by angry posturing. After sulking around the helicopter and trying to spy the fractured blade in question, he instructed the SS stormtroopers to move far from the ship and told the pansy reporter to sit tight. Then he returned to the cockpit, scrambled into the left seat, and cracked knuckles.

"Regardless of what this runup accomplishes," the Hauptman confided to the copilot as he poked buttons on the overhead panel, "I'd rather die proving these idiots wrong than refuse and prove these idiots right."

The Leutnant found this logic convoluted but held his tongue. He deferred to the superior officer out of decorum...and also out of the understanding if the shit hit the fan, the Leutnant wouldn't be the one doing a carpet dance. Besides, following orders was the duty of military men and woman. Still...

"What about those foreigners?" the Leutnant asked.

"They're fine," the Hauptman answered.

"I mean, if we should injure them..."

"Nobody's getting hurt. I did a walkaround and couldn't see a crack anywhere. The lad in Laupheim is _probably_ correct. The sensor is kaput. We'll run her up, and then hustle to Dodoma. It's less than an hour and if she gives us trouble, we'll follow the guidelines and keep this piece of shit under eighty knots. The book says we can fly one and a half hours if necessary. I'd say this is necessary. Worse comes to worse, we'll spend the night in Dodoma."

"Well, to be precise, the checklist says-"

"I _know_ what the checklist says," the Hauptman growled. "Now, enough yapping. How about a Before Start Checklist, junior, and let's be prompt. We're behind schedule."

Of course, and despite the fact the BMI light _did not_ extinguish, the runup was deemed successful. The Hauptman cleared the squawk by penning, _"Per MX Control, conducted satisfactory systems check. No further action required_ ", in the corrective action box.

***

"The pilot is content," Zaic reported after talking with the Hauptman. "The engine test was a precautionary action, and everything is in working order. We'll be underway in minutes."

Barrone cleared his ears with a yawn and then asked, "What was the problem?"

"A nuisance light in the cockpit. Please, don't worry yourself. This happens all the time. The joys of flying, yes?"

"If you say so."

Zaic smiled and then turned and disappeared out the cabin door. Moments later, the SS soldiers filed in and began taking seats.

"I was hoping they were staying," Barrone whispered to Hump.

"Did you happen to see a musician after you returned today?" Hump whispered to the editor.

"You mean the guy in the lounge? Liberloaf?"

"Liver...what did you say?"

"Forget it. What about him?"

"What about him?" Hump cried. "It's Jerry Lee, pardner. The Killer."

"The Killer? He goes by _the Killer_?"

"Yea, the Killer. You ain't heard of the Killer?"

"Can't say I've had the pleasure."

"Your loss, sport. You know, we spent some time chattin' while you were at Grumeti."

Barrone giggled and then said, "Wow. I would've paid to see such a summit.

"I was hopin' he'd try to find you. Cat has an interesting story."

"He sure _looks_ interesting. Can't sing. Can't dress. The band he was with...good God. And the music? Awful."

"Jeez O'Pete, it ain't awful. I listen to his tunes damn near every day."

"Get the fuck outta here!" Barrone exclaimed, drawing the eyes of the SS. "Eh...sorry, I can't picture it," the editor said, lowering his voice. "From what I heard, they sucked. Not regular suckage, either. This was suckage on an obscene level."

"Maybe Jerry Lee was havin' an off night. Even the kid liked his music."

"No offense, but I wouldn't trust his tastes any more than yours, Hump. They were playing crap, they sounded like crap, and this Killer dude was...I guess the best word is hackneyed."

"The Killer didn't sing 'Great Balls Of Fire?'"

Barrone giggled again and shook his head. "Great Balls Of Fire?" he asked, at last, with a snort. "No fucking way. For as bad as they were, though, the people were eating it up. Dancing, drinking, having a blast. And, to be fair, I was in a sour mood."

"You're better now, huh?"

"I'm, ahem... _less_ chagrined. At least...at least I don't think I'm going to be fired tomorrow. I might end up in jail because of you, but it'd make a doozy of a story."

"Jerry Lee has a helluva story," Hump claimed. "Too bad you didn't talk to him."

" _You_ have a helluva story," Barrone said, jabbing Hump in the thigh with a finger.

"Maybe, but I did what I came to do. I didn't care about a story."

The cabin door slid to a close with a thump, was secured by the crew chief, and the whine of the main rotor spooling to life filled the cabin.

"This fucker is loud as hell," Barrone warned. "Did you get earplugs?"

"Earplugs?" Hump asked as the tail rotor activated. The helicopter shook, buffeted by rotor wash, and the din rose in exponential increments until Hump could _feel_ the racket in his bones.

"Take mine!" Barrone shouted.

"Forget it!" Hump said. "You got more years left with your lugs than I have with mine!"

"What?"

"I don't want 'em!"

"Suit yourself!"

Hump closed eyes, savored what was left of the soggy long cut, and imagined standing on the pitching mound of Yankee Stadium:

a warm, muggy, July evening, daylight fading, stadium lights bright,

the orange sunset would caress clear sky and cuddle with oncoming night.

seats filled, the catcher awaiting Hump's offering,

a deep breath from the ole man and then a peek to his left and right.

standing on the shorn infield grass, antique teammates from a squad once full of life,

they'd be joined by ghosts: Billy, the Professor, Mantle, Howie and Hump's wife.

Hump would see them all; he'd rear back with intensity,

and then fire a laser beam down the heart of the plate for a perfect strike!

# 20. Humpty Dumpty

"Did you hear what happened in Africa on Saturday?" Geneva Shower asks.

"What happened in Africa?" Raul Leonard responds, crafting a puzzled look upon his creaseless, leathery face.

Geneva places a dainty, manicured hand on Raul's left knee and states, "The news about Humphrey Hammerbacher."

Raul looks into the nearest camera and says, in monotone deadpan, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The audience giggles and Geneva waits for the laughter to subside. "Humphrey Hammerbacher," she continues during a sedate pause. "I guess he was a baseball player. Am I at least in the right solar system, Goldman?"

Off camera, Goldman says, "You're warm. Hump Hammerbacher was a player _and_ manager for the New York Yankees."

"I don't know a thing about baseball," Geneva confesses to the audience. "I'm not a sports _kind-of-sewer_. I'll have to take your word for it, Goldman."

Meantime, Raul wrinkles his brow until it looks like an accordion. It was his sad, concerned look, a specialty expression chiseled into his gallery of faces. Years of working reality television necessitated a variety of appearances. _Thrilled, mellow, disgusted, disturbed_...there was a time and place for all of them. Raul had become adept at selecting the precise appearance to fit the mood. Or, if you please, Raul Leonard was _the man with the plastic face! Ta-da!_

"It's _such_ a heartbreaking story," Geneva continues. "German authorities report Mister Hammerbacher and eleven others were killed over the weekend in Tanganyika. Preliminary accounts indicate the helicopter they were travelling in crashed southeast of the Adolf Hitler Reich Safaripark. The Reich Air Ministry is citing pilot error as the cause."

"Heartbreaking," Raul echoes.

"Our thoughts and prayers to the families of those lost," Geneva says.

"Ugh, such a bummer," Raul laments.

"Two members of a New York based internet magazine were among those killed in the crash. On the phone we have their boss, Chadwick Carlton, to talk about this tragedy and its effects on the close-knit Devious Media family. Chadwick? Hello? It's Geneva Shower from-"

Chadwick's voice, amplified over studio speakers, interrupts with a somber, "It's a sad day for all of us at Devious, Geneva."

"I can't imagine. You're on the air with the nation, Chadwick. Can you tell us anything you have heard?"

"Um...I learned Sunday afternoon of the deaths of Alphonso Barrone, our lead sports editor, and Dick...excuse me... _Dirk_ Lombardozzi, a photographer and blogger. Both men were exemplary, intrepid employees and will be impossible to replace."

"Hi, Mister Carlton, this is Raul Leonard."

"Hello, Raul."

"Can you tell our audience what they were doing at the Safaripark?"

"Fozzy...Alphonso, and Dirk were on assignment, working on a piece about Humphrey Hammerbacher. Mister Hammerbacher was attempting to gain information about the death of his son, Howard, who went missing in Africa about 1990. As I understand, Howard Hammerbacher's body was discovered in Tanganyika last month."

"Oh my," Geneva says, shaking her head.

Some in the audience gasp.

Raul raises his right hand, frowns, and then asks, "Do _you_ think pilot error is to blame?" The question was a landmine, perhaps the hardest hitting query ever presented on _Live! This Morning!_ , and Raul's grave expression underlines the importance. One could hear a pin drop in the studio.

"I'm not an aviation expert," Carlton says after a pause. "I suppose the internet will be full of rumors but...accidents happen all the time. On the other hand..."

"Yes?" Raul presses, leaning forward in his chair.

"I'm a _touch_ suspicious," admits Carlton.

"Aye yai yai," Geneva mutters. "I'm not going there. I have enough drama at home. Thank you for taking a moment of your hectic morning to talk with us, Chadwick."

"My pleasure, Geneva. I'd like to add, our site _Sports On The Pot_ is composing a tribute to Humphrey Hammerbacher and our deceased colleagues. It should be up before lunch at Sportsonthepot dot com."

"Thanks, Chad," Raul says.

"Okay-" Chadwick says, but his voice is silenced when the line is disconnected.

"They always go in three," Geneva says, staring into the nearest camera. " _Always_."

"A shame," Raul concludes. Then he alters his expression, presents a smile and proposes, "Hey, Geneva, do you know what isn't a shame?"

"Disposable diapers. They are a godsend, let me tell you."

"Geneva," Raul scolds, "can we _please_ stick to the script for once."

"Alright, mister, why don't you tell me what's more impressive than disposable diapers."

"I don't know anything about diapers, but I do know our next guest has lit television on fire. Star of the hilarious _Sleepwalking Thru The City_ , seen every Thursday night at eight thirty on NBC, the vivacious and gorgous Kitty Van Arsdale."

