 
Dugan's Luck

By Howard Freedman

Copyright 2013 Howard Freedman

Smashwords Edition

*****

Cover art created by Howard Freedman

License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are manifestations of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

The author would like to express is gratitude to his wife Tracy as well as Jean, Alicia and Roger for their dedication and support through the editing process.

*****

Chapter 1

On this particular night, the air was moderately cool. Not so cold you could see your breath, yet not so warm that the camouflage jacket the man wore would seem out of place. Although, he didn't plan on being seen from behind where he was sitting. The camouflage element served no purpose other than, perhaps, to add definition to the soul that wore it. He wasn't a soldier, or even really a hunter, unless you count the quest for a quench of desire. A desire that he possessed no ability to approach head on. It was Angel that fueled that desire more than any other person, real or imaginary. Plain and simple, what he had become was a stalker. However tonight, it would become a little more than that. Not that he had ever thought in a million years to do such a thing. But by then, she'd already be dead anyway.

This was a college town, and with that, all walks of life converged upon one another. The freaks, the geeks, the Greeks, and of course the locals with their own brands of diversity. The Temptation Hotel, even in its relative proximity to the darker side of the city, seemed to draw out elements from a number of the aforementioned groups.

At three in the morning, there would hardly be anyone out on the streets, even in this neighborhood. However one girl was expected. It was her ritual to come out the front door of the Temptation Hotel and linger in the quiet glow of after hours. It would be just as it was on most nights when her business was concluded and clients went back home.

Across the street stood a desolate two story building. Seemingly permanently affixed to its front was a well-weathered section of plywood. Painted across the surface were the words 'For Sale' and a phone number which struggled to remain. The sign was weathered and dilapidated from neglect like the building to which it was affixed. Along side the building ran a patch of pavement, broken into a myriad of broken segments by cracks and crevices of various width and depth. Once having served the patrons of the adjacent building, it now only led the adventurous to the back alley. It also marked one end of a block long micro-park, populated with a number of twenty year old trees, as well as a few wooden benches that had long since been claimed by numerous sets of initials and profane commentary carved into their deteriorated surfaces. What was once an attempt at urban renewal, an attempt to mask its blight with a setting of serenity that an environment of nature should elicit, had slowly been reclaimed by the local beasts of the city jungle whose evolution had proved to take a considerably stronger hold.

The alley at the back end of the park bore no illumination, and at the moment, its only inhabitants were of the rodent variety that fed off the dumpster behind the building. The little patch of nature's far side met with the end of the block. If one were to look, he might notice where a van was parked. It was just far enough back from the corner that anyone near the Temptation would find it partially obscured by the trees. They probably wouldn't notice the signage on the side of the van that read 'City Morgue', or its occupant that had put up one of those silver windshield reflectors meant to block out the sun's rays in warmer weather. Only tonight, as on the many other nights when he came for the one-sided rendezvous, the reflector was only more camouflage. He sat behind it with his binoculars poised through an uncovered spot near the end of the windshield. The camouflage jacket kept him warm in the early morning cool as he waited.

Shortly after three, his wait ended.

Angel appeared from the darkened doorway. A light fixture consisting of a single bare bulb protruded from the building above the door and subtly bathed her pale and seemingly innocent features as she walked out into the night. She already had a cigarette in one hand, a lighter in the other, when she stopped a few feet from the doorway to indulge in the nightly ritual. A moment in the absence of all others where there were no demands, nothing to fear and everything that was missing in her life at least felt possible, if only for a moment.

It was in that moment, just like all the others on previous nights, that the man in the van felt the same way. Anything was possible, if only the strength would somehow manifest itself beyond his fantasies. It was in these moments that her name could be no other for she truly appeared as much an angel as mortal man could fathom. The girl stood off to the side of the doorway and leaned against the wall. Here, a glow from a neon sign just a few feet above fell softly upon her. There was a cadence to the throb of colors that added to the mysterious allure for the stalker as he peered through the binoculars.

Suddenly, the girl reacted with an abrupt shift of her head as she looked down the street. It was a stare layered in disgust as well as concern for mortification yet to come. A four door sedan approached the Temptation from the opposite direction from where the van was parked. The car was white and mostly nondescript. A spotlight mounted on the driver's side gave the only tell-tale clue as to whom the car most likely belonged. Across the street from where Angel stood, the car turned into the old decrepit drive separating the old building and the park. A sense of panic could be seen in her eyes as she took a deeper drag on the cigarette. It came with a repulsive thought of displeasure that usually flared in his company. In hopes of dissuading his repeated business, she had gone as far to tell him so. And yet here he came again. She thought about throwing the rest of her cigarette down and running inside, but she knew that would only stir more trouble than what she needed. Like disturbing the peace of the rest of the girls, and of Benny Dugan, who would merely see the advantage in keeping this particular customer satisfied.

The late patron took no time crossing the street. Maybe she just hadn't been direct enough. Maybe she could just get her point across with no uncertain terms right now, out here, without involving Dugan or anyone else.

"Evening, Angel."

"Brogan." She didn't try hide her disdain, but gave an effort to remain civil.

He put an arm up as he leaned into Angel, putting his hand on the wall behind her.

"You smell nice" he said putting his nose to her neck. The smell of him immediately triggered the emotional simmer that had been shoved past its boiling point.

"Listen, Brogan. I thought I told you to leave me alone" she responded with a decidedly sharp, aggressive tone. "Charlene is more your type anyway."

He grabbed her arm as she tried to move away. "You need to learn a little respect."

"You give me the creeps. Just go away."

Brogan glared at her like a mad man. His grip on her arm strengthened as it clamped down like a set of metal sharpened spikes, each point dugging into her skin. That, along with the look of evil in his eyes, frightened her beyond the ability to scream. His presence always made her stomach turn, but she'd never before sensed this much fear of him. Brogan had never looked at her like he did now. An evil look. Then he dragged her across the street and into the cloak of darkness within the trees.

In the van, the man in the camouflage jacket watched from behind the metallic curtain. A wave of shock went through him as he witnessed the object of his undisclosed affection being handled so violently.

One thing Angel and he had in common was their mutual hatred for her attacker. In a way, they both have had the misfortune to endure his presence through the course of their respective employment. Only in his case it usually was considerably less personal. But this was quite personal.

Through the trees, it was hard to judge just how much of a struggle she had in her. Angel didn't scream. He could not hear her voice at all, only that of the attacker who taunted her with vial obscenities in an evil tone. And even those words could only be heard faintly with the windows rolled up, but his tone told the story. Movement in the dark continued most ungracefully as the two of them stumbled closer to the ground. The attacker's hands had now exercised immense pressure upon the girl's throat. And then they moved closer and closer to the ground with each fleeting second that barely gave the man in the van time to react, if only the strength to do so was to suddenly fill him. But it didn't, and he just watched as two darkened figures stumbled to the ground until there seemed to no longer be any movement.

At first the stillness was broken only by a brief rustle of the remaining leaves, as if summoned to mark the end of the event. One figure then rose upright and the form could be seen swiftly walking back to the white car, his head searching for witnesses. But no one else appeared to be about. The doorway to the Temptation remained vacant, the light beckoning no one, the neon glow above only reinforcing the feel of isolation. Satisfied, he started the car, and with the lights off, slowly pulled away.

The door to the van gradually opened. The driver walked with trepidation to the scene of the crime. He stood beside where she lay. Her eyes were wide open, as was her mouth, frozen in an attempt to scream. He checked for a pulse, or for the slightest notion of a breath. As he gazed upon Angel, he dreamed of what could have been, if only for the nerve that had eluded him.

What was he to do? The desire that had burned inside him, what began as a simple flame of infatuation and became an unquenchable blaze, could not end like this. He still wanted her. He could just take her, right now. But how would he explain that? He wasn't supposed to be here. He couldn't take her to the morgue. Too risky even at this hour when few were around. If someone were to catch him, then she would be lost forever. He couldn't just take and hide her, not without a proper embalming anyway. Could he? No. It was just too much. Besides, she would be missed. There would be an inquiry. They would want to find her, or a body. He continued to look into her eyes, her face, the softness of her pale blemish-free skin. One way or another, he had to have her.

He looked to the door of the Temptation. Still no sign that the struggle had elicited the curiosity of anyone inside. He went back to the van and opened the rear door. A stretcher was locked into position along one side, assorted equipment lined the other with just enough room left over for someone to navigate the interior. That someone climbed in the van for just a few seconds, long enough to find what was required and then returned to the scene. One last look across the street. No one. No cars. The white sedan long gone and not expected to return.

He had never done this before, but having seen a few gruesome and apparently somewhat instructional movies, he proceeded as with the expertise of someone who had. The job was finished within seconds. He carried her off in the black bag and put her in the van. He knew he shouldn't, there was something morally wrong about it, but as he drove away, he couldn't help the freakish smile that crept along the edges of his mouth.

Benny Dugan entered the hospital downtown by the front door. Off to the right, a few people sat dispersed among the two rows of chairs meant to serve those who waited with, or for, their loved ones.

'Patient Admittance. Take A Number' were the words on the sign that hung above the windows to his left. Three stations awaited those in need. However the person Dugan had come to see had been admitted through an entirely different door.

He walked straight ahead to the information desk. Sitting behind it was an elderly lady wearing a pale blue smock with the hospital logo above one breast, her ID tag pinned below. Iris looked up, offered a rehearsed sympathetic smile having already read his somber expression. "May I help you?"

"Which way to the morgue?"

The elevator opened for its sole rider. The basement of City General Hospital immediately held the epitome of doom that accompanied the dark side of the medical arts. The lights shown just as bright in the hallway, yet the dull gray walls, unadorned by anything offering a feeling of hope, dulled the luminance. The engraved signage that greeted Dugan acknowledged that the morgue was down the hall to the right.

The double swinging doors at the end of the hall had a set of windows on the top half. Dugan stopped momentarily to glance inside before going through. There was only one person who would make this whole ordeal remotely tolerable, but the one he hoped to see was nowhere in sight. However, near the desk inside were two men. One sat on the edge of the desk, a toothpick in his mouth that amplified his cocky smirk as the thin piece of wood swirled from side to side. His partner stood with his hands in his pockets casually waiting as if the trip to the basement was none too foreign to either of them. The seated cop must have felt Dugan's stare start to burn from the other side of the glass. He looked over his shoulder. Having seen Dugan, Brogan turned back to his partner as he stood.

"You got this, Harriman? I'm going to head out." Brogan snickered at the expression, glancing back at his partner. "Head out. Haw-haw. Get it?"

Harriman didn't laugh. Brogan, given his personality, may actually have found it funny. Under different circumstances, where his involvement in the case was, shall we say, a little less entangled, he probably would have considered himself quite the comedian. But he was entangled, all the way up to his own neck. The attempt at humor served more as a defense mechanism in the company of a fellow cop, a way to disguise his guilty thoughts from rising to the surface of his gruff, ill-groomed face. Brogan had cause for concern, but he also was more than a little confused with the development.

Brogan pushed the door open. "Morning, Mr. Dugan".

Even though they were acquainted, there was no camaraderie between the two men. Not now, not ever. Benny Dugan was glad when the asshole kept walking. This would be hard enough without having to deal with Brogan's brand of vainglorious character. Reluctantly, he went through the door.

"Mr. Dugan, I presume?" the remaining detective inquired. While they had never officially met, the cop had already formed his opinion of the man. From his tone, it was obvious that regardless of the circumstances of their meeting, the likely association between the pimp and the deceased somehow diminished his empathy.

"Yes, I'm Benny Dugan," this said by a man who at the moment held no high regard for himself as well. This would be especially so if the woman under the sheet in the adjoining room proved to be one who counted on him for protection.

"I'm Detective Harriman." He wasted no time on pleasantries. Pointing the way, he said "They're waiting for us."

In the next room, three metal tables filled the middle, only one of which currently had a sheet draped over the top, the obvious contours of a human body underneath. A wall of cabinets made of aluminum with glass fronts lined the far side of the room. A desk facing the wall was in the middle, flanked by the cabinets containing tools of the trade.

Two men were at the desk. One sat in the chair in front of it, his face turned away from the new arrivals, but Benny recognized his brother. The other man, dark haired with a thin, finely trimmed mustache, casually sat on the corner of the desk. Even without the cap he wore with the three identifying initials across the front, Harriman immediately recognized him. Every cop knew Danny Simpson, CSI agent and world class jerk, surpassed perhaps only by the agent's good friend Brogan. Simpson looked up as the two men entered, giving them a nod with an open mouth grin as his jaws worked a stick of gum that seemed to be every bit as much a part of him as the fur he kept on his upper lip. No one found Simpson's habit more annoying than Marion Dugan. Just as irritating as Brogan's toothpick acrobatics.

"Well, my work here is done" Simpson said and stood from the corner of the desk. "I'll leave you gentlemen to it." He tipped his hat to Harriman and and the man called in to identify the body. "Evening,boys." And Simpson walked out of the room.

Marion was an assistant to the coroner. He usually worked the night shift and was due to get off after this business was concluded. His boss was not in yet, nor would it be necessary for him to be in order to determine the cause of death. The assistant responded to the arrival of the two men by slowly standing. When he cautiously turned towards them, the look Marion offered was the reminiscent meek expression his brother had tried to understand a thousand times. Maybe it was just this setting, the morbid circumstances, but this time there was something unsettling about it.

"Hello, Marion" Benny said.

"You two know each other?" the cop asked.

Benny looked solemnly at his brother. "Yeah, we're well acquainted." But he had to consider those words for the real truth of their meaning. Benny and Marion had been a part of each others lives, if even that closeness had eroded in recent years. As to how well Benny knew his brother was a matter beyond semantics.

"Uh huh" was all the detective could think to say. This family had made some odd choices for their professions, and how conveniently they had intersected today. "OK. Let's get this over with."

Marion remained at the desk while Harriman and Benny Dugan turned to stand next to the covered gurney. Harriman took the liberty of throwing back the sheet to expose the body.

Benny was dumbstruck, frozen in place by a mind that locked up with sensory overload. Hardly a muscle moved as his brain waited for a reboot. What he expected would have been gruesome enough for his taste. He'd had the misfortune of being in the company of the dead on only a few occasions. And those bodies were adorned with simple bullet holes strategically placed by other members of the DelGatti organization. When the detective asked him to see if he could identify the body that was found across the street from his house of ill-repute, he didn't count on the word body being quite so literal.

"What do you think, Dugan? Anything look familiar?"

In her early twenties, Angel had managed to keep her pure and innocent look, a hard thing to do in the business that sooner or later turned you toward the hardened approaches to life. But she hadn't reached that point where drugs and destitution morphed your body into something riddled with signs of abuse and neglect. No tattoos. No needle marks. No scars of a violent past. Except now there was one glaring abnormality which she had been given just hours ago.

"Dugan?" Harriman spoke forcefully to get his attention.

Benny turned to look at the detective. Then he looked to Marion. The younger brother leaned against the desk. He had his glazed eyes locked on the body, until he felt his brother's stare penetrate him. Marion looked up nervously to meet his brother's eyes, but only for only a second before turning away and downward to the floor. In that brief moment, Benny felt the wedge of understanding between them being driven deeper.

The situation was infinitely more odd than he had expected. He figured the morgue would be a morose place, but now that he stood within it, the darkened corners of the place offset by the stark sterile light over the steel table, an eerie sensation went through him. Did this place explain why Marion was the way he was?,Was this job responsible for deepening the crevice that led down to a world where his brother lived, somewhere in the dungeon of existence removed from the rest of us? At the moment, Benny's confusion was trying to stuff him in a crevice all his own.

"I..uh," Dugan stammered. "I'm not sure."

Marion wasn't confused, but for now, he wasn't saying anything.

Detective Brogan, a bit uncomfortable with a loose end, so to speak, had let his partner handle the viewing. He had missed the investigation in the park, but told Harriman maybe his fresh eyes should take a look for clues. Brogan wasn't confused about the body's identity. What he was confused about was why part of her had gone missing.

Chapter 2

A few weeks later:

Benny tried not to sweat. He hovered just under the line of his usual confident demeanor, just under a comfort zone that had begun to fray a bit at the edges. He had given his boss a hundred percent and the results were never questioned. But today, Benny came before him on slightly different business. His proposal was nothing short of bold, not only ballsy for him, but it would be for DelGatti as well. It would be a deal that could be worth up to a quarter of a million. The DelGatti organization normally would take a few months to generate that much dough. Benny saw a fair amount of money change hands at the Temptation, but that was just one facet of the DelGatti Empire. What he proposed concerned yet another element that of which he normally was not a part. And certainly not for any deal of this magnitude.

But Benny Dugan came dressed to impress his lifelong friend. At least that was the goal, and perhaps friend is an ancient term in this context. This was the same childhood chum that once upon a time had been equal partners in the fairly innocuous juvenile hijinks associated with the youth of a less than privileged upbringing. Well, relatively equal partners since Red DelGatti always considered himself the ringleader. At the time, Benny, or any of the other members of the gang, rarely argued the point. Every gang had a leader, right? And they all were having just as much fun.

That was then. Some twenty years later, the relationship between Benny and Red had evolved into anything but equal partners. It's not like DelGatti didn't treat him well and with at least a certain degree of respect. For many years the alliance worked well enough, that is until Benny Dugan's crest of contentment had been reached. For many years after that, Benny watched Red DelGatti grow fatter in girth as well as wealth and in no small part due to Dugan's own efforts. And for what? Never more than the status quo for Dugan.

Red DelGatti sat in his high back black leather chair framed with stout premium wood, richly stained and ornately carved. The desk in front was of matched eloquence, symbols of authority in the dark paneled office. He'd procured the furnishings back in the early days. Supposedly they mysteriously fell off the back of a truck only to be left in perfect condition and begging for the taking, which of course he did. It was a habit that had been hard to break ever since he learned that anything was there for the taking if only you had the iron will to do what it took to accomplish the feat.

Cigar in hand, and a squint in his eye, partially from the smoke, partially from considering the dubious nature of the proposal, Red DelGatti slowly leaned back, his stature somewhat dwarfed in the chair of mismatched proportions to his five foot six frame. Still, he commanded respect for the authority he exuded over those in his employ. He considered Benny's words while he gave the matter ample time to ferment in his thoughts. Joey and Sammy Hogan sat quietly on opposite ends of a sofa which lined one of the walls behind where Benny Dugan occupied the hot seat. The office was dimly lit by only a few strategically placed lamps which lent a somewhat ominous aura to the room, an intentional design to maintain a level of fear and awe in DelGatti's visitors.

Benny Dugan was the eldest of the two brothers by a mere three years. He always had his own set of friends; self-confident, assertive types. He loved his brother, although it probably wasn't always apparent. When his friends were around, the ones that were his age, and some, like Red DelGatti, a little older, it just wouldn't be cool to have your baby brother hanging around with you. No, the cool friends wouldn't let you live that down, nor would they tolerate it. They didn't have time to be babysitters. It just wouldn't look right. These were the strong who learned to prey on the weak, even before puberty kicked in and hair grew on their chests as assumed testimony to their superiority. While growing into men they were not afraid to take a few chances as a shortcut to power or wealth. Neither of those lasted in Benny Dugan's case. It was Red DelGatti who harnessed those attributes and never let go of the reins.

Now, as an adult, Benny had come to reevaluate his position in the social-economic power struggle that left DelGatti considerably closer to the top of the food chain while he, after twenty years of servitude to his childhood friend, remained a mere pawn of his divested interests.

Marion Dugan exhibited none of the stronger, self-assured qualities that formed his brother. While his older sibling hung out with his posse of friends, Marion's entourage was, for the most part, less of the flesh, consisting mainly of manifestations of his imagination. Although as he advanced past puberty, Marion's imagination dwelt more towards those matters of the flesh that he came to desire, yet was entirely too self-conscious to approach in the real world. At least not by conventional standards. Even his profession was chosen so as to eliminate the need to deal with people. Live ones anyway. For the most part, he managed to exist behind a wall of solitude that kept intimidating elements of society at bay.

Though they pursued different lives, Benny, out of some sense of responsibility to family, kept a love for his younger brother. Their parents had departed this world when the brothers were in their twenties, some fifteen years ago. Self-reliant at an early age, Benny persevered. In his own way, so did Marion, but in his own way. But Benny still blamed their parents for the thoughtlessness that played no small part in his younger brother's weaker development.

The elder was christened Benjamin, but everyone called him Benny. Manly. A "one of the boys" kind of name.

Marion was what it said on the younger brother's birth certificate, however all the other kids called him Mary. The name was something for which his older brother never forgave their parents. A rose may be a rose by any other name, but call your kid Marion and the odds don't stack in his favor. At least not in their old neighborhood. So Benny came to wish he had been a better, more protective brother.

Better late than never.

The night Angel was murdered was the tipping point. Benny thought that if he could turn his life around, maybe he could do the same for his brother. He decided to act on a plan to rid the confining circumstances that life had become and hopefully discover, with just enough money to start anew, he might be led into a life that had only been fantasized about. A life for himself, and maybe for his socially challenged younger brother.

Of course, it was just Dugan's luck that his simple plan became anything but a straight course to freedom and prosperity.

Benny Dugan fought the urge to squirm in his seat. It was a conscious effort to remain seated with a firm, confident demeanor, yet with just the right amount of casual air to filter out any fear that may come dripping through his pores. Still behind him sat the Hogan brothers, not of the old gang but relatively newer acquaintances of DelGatti, garnered for their physical attributes more than any semblance of mental prowess. In other words, they served as security and the strong-arm that was sometimes needed by a man of Red DelGatti's profession. Even though Benny Dugan had known them for some time now, their presence did little to alleviate the tension he tried to keep bottled inside.

"So, just how well do you know this kid?" DelGatti asked with still a bit of a squint to his eye."

"Thornton?" Dugan began, still struggling with the illusion of a cool poise. He then tried to remember the calculated inflections of his voice that he had practiced over and over so as to project confidence. "He's a good kid, just a little too horny is all. He's been visiting the Temptation since his freshman year at the university. He'll be graduating this year, along with his buddies, so it seemed like a good opportunity for one big score."

Dexter Thornton soon would turn twenty two. Benny had taken a liking to the boy from the beginning. He was a good looking, cleanly groomed kid who came from a bit of money, but always the affable personality towards Dugan and the girls. He never exhibited a sign of pretentiousness that usually came with other fraternity boys that frequented the establishment.

As management of the Temptation Hotel, certain deals regarding pot or white powder became part of the normal scheme of things. But it was a minor side note to the business at hand and never amounted to much, at least not by comparison to the grander drug trade DelGatti delegated to others. The deal Benny now proposed would make that operation considerably more lucrative with only one big score.

"You're talking a lot of money, Benny boy." DelGatti lowered the cigar as his weight shifted in the chair. He came forward a little too swiftly as his half reclining position shot forward toward the desk. His hardened facial features fell directly into the light. He tapped the cigar in the ashtray as he spoke again. "I appreciate you bringing me the opportunity for this business, but perhaps you ought to let my guys that normally conduct this end of the business handle it."

Benny expected as much from his boss, but there was entirely too much at stake to give up so easily. He already knew what he was going to say, and he had practiced it many times in hopes of eliminating a tremble in his voice.

"With all due respect, the kid knows me. I'm the one he trusts" Benny explained. "Everyone knows that this is a very big deal, and the frat boys in particular are aware of the amount of money involved, not to mention more than a little apprehensive of someone of your, shall we say, no nonsense reputation, Red." (He had hoped a little massaging of Red's ego might stack the cards in his favor.) "Besides a score on the drugs, they see this as a party, a going away party, graduation time. Dexter agreed to bring together a number of his frat boys for one big score. And it wouldn't be a party without some of the girls. But there are a few stipulations. One is that I handle the deal. And they want it at a neutral location. That's why they are renting a suite at the Ritz."

"The Ritz?" It wasn't your typical getaway type of place used by anyone in the DelGatti organization. It would be someplace outside of DelGatti's comfort zone.

Benny just smiled. "Frat boys, you know."

Red DelGatti didn't say anything for a moment. He considered Dugan's words. Especially the reputation part. It brought a warm feeling to know that his well earned respect still remained beyond those that are paid to kiss his ass.

As he looked intently at Dugan, he felt no absence of reverence either. Trying to peer past Dugan's exterior, DelGatti also could still see the sensitive side that had always been a part of his old acquaintance, something missing in no small part from DelGatti's soul. Nevertheless, he considered the unfortunate event of a few weeks ago.

"How are the girls taking the loss of their sister?" he asked.

"They're a little shaken. But that's another reason this opportunity works for all of us. It's the safety in numbers thing, not to mention a chance to spend time at a classy joint if only for one evening."

"Yes, I suppose this would be good for them, too." DelGatti's search for a reason to say no to the deal came up empty. But he wasn't about to trust a quarter of a million dollars of cocaine to one man, regardless of his years of loyalty.

"Alright, Dugan. Here it is. I'll let you run this deal, but Joey and Sammy are going with you just to make sure there's no trouble."

At the sound of their names, the springs of the sofa began to creak audibly as the Hogan brothers came to attention. Benny hadn't forgotten about them even though they sat quietly, half falling asleep. He counted on their names coming up in this conversation. DelGatti wasn't stupid. Neither was Benny. He had it all figured out.

As he grew what he hoped was a constrained smile Benny Dugan put his hands to the armrest of the hot seat and began to lift himself up. It appeared as though the business had concluded well.

"And Dugan," DelGatti added while his associate was in mid-ascent, "don't screw this up. Or a quarter mil is coming out of your hide."

OK, so now business was concluded. Nothing to worry about. Benny Dugan had it all figured out. He hoped. He'd heard how his boss plans for every contingency, how DelGatti operated in regards to those who failed to come through, intentionally or unintentionally. DelGatti wasn't stupid after all. Maybe Dugan wasn't as smart as his boss, but he had done a little contingency planning of his own. Yep, nothing to worry about. He had it all worked out.

Regardless of what he told DelGatti, it wasn't the kid who initiated this deal. It was all Benny's idea. It was true that Dexter Thornton had been a regular with the girls. His personality was more inept than his fraternity brothers when it came to approaching women, but not so shy as to take advantage of the seedier services available to those in need. He'd been coming around for a few years now. Even with a twenty year age gap, the two of them had become odd friends and Benny came to know a great deal about this young man.

Thornton was a film major. That in itself did not mean so much to him initially, but it came to Dugan one night, how someone of those talents could be the missing link to making his plan work. A plan that had been floating around in his daydreams since Angel was so brutally murdered that night just a few weeks ago. What began as merely a fantasy in his head, a grand illusion of how to break away from the confines of life controlled by DelGatti, reached a new level of inspiration when he quizzed his young friend on the feasibility of his plan's missing link. Dexter Thornton assured Dugan that his talents were more than capable of doing what he had in mind. As far as the party, well, that was all the incentive Dexter needed. Particularly since his share of the cocaine would be free.

The party, as the central part of the plan would now be referred, was to take place ten days after Dugan got the DelGatti go ahead. That would be a week from Friday. The time allowed for procurement of sufficient quantities of the white powder on one side. On the other side, it was time for the guests of the party to cash in a few stocks or bonds or whatever rich kids do to summon unquestionable amounts of money beyond their already bloated allowances.

And then there was one more side of pre-party planning to attend to.

Dexter showed up right on time the Friday before the big afternoon. He brought one friend with him, the chemistry major and special effects expert. The back of his car was filled with a fancy video camera, tripods, daylight balanced lighting equipment, light meters and other cinematography do-dads unfamiliar to Dugan. His friend came with a similar arsenal of fireworks.

They drove for an hour and a half out of town, following the TransContinental bus route that makes a stop at one of those scenic turnouts situated just off the road. This one was comprised of a small parking lot with only a dozen spaces for cars, and even fewer for RVs where the TransContinental would come to rest for fifteen minutes. This allowed its passengers a place to view the cornucopia of colors that the vista in the distance had to offer from mid-April to late September. Otherwise it was only a bathroom break.

Our trio reached this destination in early afternoon. Spring had only recently come to the vista. The parking lot was empty except for their car. By his watch, Benny figured the bus would be along in about ten minutes or so. It was the same bus he was supposed to be on next week. Dexter had been told the schedule. When Benny looked to his accomplice, tapping his watch, the film student nodded in acknowledgment and got to work setting up his equipment. Billy Dean, his friend and the other expert in tow, kept his equipment in the car and waited.

When the bus approached the scenic turnout, the noise of the diesel engine and powerful brakes could not only be heard but felt as the grandiose vehicle maneuvered into its resting place. On the opposite side of the parking lot, Dexter Thornton had set up the tripod and camera. The vantage point offered a clear side view of the bus with the vista behind it. After a few more readings off the light meter, the cameraman was ready.

Dugan went to the vista on the other side of the bus. Mingling with the passengers, he took in the expanse of colorful nature in the distance along with the rest of them. He liked nature as well as the next guy, he supposed, but the ten minutes left on the break seemed like it took an hour.

When the others started to file back on the bus, Dugan lingered near the railing, pretending to be caught up with the magnificent view beyond. The bus let out a whoosh of air as the brakes disengaged and the transmission went into gear. When the bus pulled away from the rest stop, Dugan remained standing all alone, his backpack facing the camera.

"Cut!" Just the sound of the word sent a wave of renewed confidence in this part of the plan. It felt so professional now, Benny thought, when the cue came from Dexter Thornton across the lot. The second part of their script had been shot.

Now it was time for the last part.

As Billy Dean unloaded the equipment, Benny Dugan removed two sets of signs, each comprised of a pair of four by six foot wooden boards hinged at the top. On those boards, it read - "Scenic Turnout Temporarily Closed For Repairs". He set in place one sign on either end of the circular drive. Dexter told him they would only need to keep unwanted eyes out for about a half hour.

Again, for Benny, the time seemed to drag on forever. He kept looking towards the entrance for someone who may decide to ignore his simple warning. But no one stopped. The two boys went to work, Thornton adjusting the exposure, Dean preparing the special effects. Dugan's tension lessened as he watched the two very proficiently construct the scene. When all was set, Dugan went back to stand on the X marked on the ground at the railing and acted his role. It all went down in one take.

"That's it?" Dugan asked when Dexter yelled "It's a wrap."

"That's all we need" he replied. "Everything else will be handled in post-production on the computer."

Dugan gave a look that delivered his dubious concerns. He counted on this part of the plan.

"Trust me, Benny" Dexter told him. "I'll have it finished in a few days and you can view it in plenty of time before we release it."

And so, the missing link of Benny Dugan's grand plan was in motion.

The morning of the party, Benny had not yet been to bed. It was business as usual last night and, as a general rule, business kept him up until the early morning hours. His apartment at the Temptation rarely offered a place for solace until after 3:00 AM or so. Then he would get some shut eye as the girls wrapped it up for the night. Normally, the rest of the day was his until late afternoon. That's when he would meet with DelGatti to transfer the previous evening's proceeds.

Today wouldn't be much different. However, even after the 3:00 AM hour morphed into four and then five in the morning, Benny Dugan continued to lay in the muted pulse of neon light. The dark, drab curtains of ancient vintage served mainly to subdue what continued to blaze out from across the street and intrude his inter-sanctum through the holes and cracks where the curtains no longer came to a close. Not that an array of color from those lights might embellish his equally mundane furnishings, laden with the effects of time and neglect, that had come to define his life. He looked up towards the ceiling, trying to count hundred dollar bills as inducement to fall sleep. He pictured them raining down upon him, as he hoped they soon would, but sleep never came. The bills seemed to keep coming, then heavier and heavier, until he was suffocating as if being buried alive. The cool early morning was no comfort, doing very little to counteract the beads of sweat that emanated from every pore. No, he wasn't sick. It was more like he was the star of a play and it was opening night. For over a week, he'd rehearsed it over and over in his head. He knew his lines, and only hoped the other players knew theirs. But the curtain was going to go up in a few more hours and stage fright began to rattle his confidence.

By eight in the morning, he gave up trying to sleep. Benny still didn't need to be at DelGatti's place for hours yet. Normally he wasn't expected until sometime a little before dinner, but tonight would be different. On this night, his rendezvous wasn't for another eleven or twelve hours. He would take a cold shower, eat a little breakfast and then head down to where two equally important pieces of the plan needed to be set up.

The thirty-year-old Lincoln Continental rolled to a stop at the end of the block. Dugan parked in the last space behind a line of cars that ended next to the first colonial pillar adorning a covered circle drive. Near the middle under the canopy was the revolving glass door of the Ambassador Arms. That hotel was two blocks from the Ritz. Its splendor was somewhat down the scale from the latter, yet compared to the Temptation, it was luxury personified.

Mostly it was a matter of logistics. Easy walking distance, or more probably sprinting distance, for the path he would take to a back entrance with relatively subdued illumination in later hours. The short journey would be all he needed to find safe refuge until business hours resumed.

But it was only mid-morning, and Benny Dugan put up a hand of dismissal as he walked passed the doorman and into the hotel through the revolving door.

"May I help you, sir?" offered the clerk behind the reception desk.

"I need a room, please" Benny responded. He said it quite nonchalantly as if it were merely an often exercised request in his worldly, respectable life.

The agent behind the counter considered the request with some skepticism as to its authenticity. The cut of Dugan's suit screamed closeout from a J.C Penney discount rack sometime back before the overstated lapels of yesteryear fell out of favor.

"No reservation?" the agent inquired, hardly attempting to mask his insolent manner.

In another setting, Dugan may have tried to redirect the man's nature with a helping strong fist about the smug bastard's fashion conscious lapels. But Benny constrained this tendency knowing that, at least in this instance, the importance of logistics still weighed heavier than resolution to a minor breach of dignity.

The agent read the look on Dugan's face. "For how long, sir?"

"Just for tonight."

Turning to the computer and entering just a few well rehearsed keystrokes, the man said "As luck would have it, there is one room available on the second floor. Double bed". He looked at the prospective quest with a hint of scrutiny before adding "Non-smoking."

"I'll take it."

"For one evening, the rate will be $265."

Benny flinched ever so slightly, but not so discreet as to have been missed by the man behind the counter whose facial muscles let slip an ever so slight smirk. Benny's facial inflection was nothing more than an unconscious reflex of a man of modest means. However, he did come prepared. He opened his wallet and tossed three one hundred dollar bills to the hotel agent.

A signature here, a few initials here and here, and he had the key in hand.

"Will you be needing help with your luggage, sir?"

"No, thank you." The eyes of the man behind the counter followed Dugan as he turned and walked away, not toward the elevators, but back out the front door.

Benny sauntered down the circle drive and back to the street. Out in the open, he squinted from the abrupt exposure to the sunlight saturating a clear sky and reflecting off the surfaces of shiny automobiles parked along the curb. Not the old Lincoln Continental, of course. It appeared to not have had a coat of wax since being driven out of the assembly plant. Benny didn't even notice the distinction as he walked past the line of cars for two more blocks. Down the street another tall building occupied a corner. Above the facade of metal and glass were the words 'First National Trust'. Just above those words were shown the time and temperature. Currently 52 degrees, 9:30 in the morning.

Inside, Benny approached the reception desk near the front but located off to one side. A few small adjoining offices separated by glass panels filled the wall behind where the woman sat. Had he gone straight back through the lobby, Dugan would have been in front of the row of tellers, two of whom stood waiting to help with your cash handling needs.

But Benny had given the matter a great deal of thought. A bank account might draw too many questions, at least one opened with a bag full of bills that should total in the neighborhood of $250,000. And besides, it was only to be temporary, only until the heat was extinguished with release of the news report.

"Excuse me, miss" Dugan said to the woman behind the desk. "Who do I see about renting a safe deposit box?"

"That would be Mr. Stevens" she said while picking up the phone. It apparently rang as a man in one of the small offices behind her answered, then looked in their direction. The man gave a wave to Dugan and hung up. Turning just enough to point behind her, she told their new client "He will see you now."

"Please have a seat. I'm Bill Stevens. I understand you wish to rent a safe deposit box."

"That's right. Probably for only a few months, if that is acceptable."

"Well, we have a variety of sizes to choose from. From ten dollars a month to thirty-five, depending on your needs, but they all require a six month minimum rental agreement, payable in advance.

"That will be fine" Benny told him. What was an extra few bucks considering the quantity of cash he needed to secure.

Stevens handed him a brochure and went over the various options available. The ten dollar variety may have suited those who wished to keep small amounts of jewelry or important papers in a safe place, but was hardly adequate for the amount of paper their new client had to stash. The thirty-five dollar variety seemed twice as large as would be necessary, particularly for such short term needs. After careful consideration, he choose the twenty five dollar style, basically a large drawer that would accommodate not only the cash but the briefcase he intended to deliver it in.

Once business at the bank was concluded, Benny ventured back toward the Lincoln Continental. But before stepping off that first block, he turned back to look at the clock perched upon the bank. 10:05 AM. In twenty-four hours, he would be leaving this same spot again. And in a few hours after that, he would be dead. Sort of.

At promptly 8:30 PM, a black Suburban SUV belonging to Red DelGatti pulled up to the Temptation Hotel. Mr. DelGatti was not on board. The man never transacted business directly, at least not for quite a few years. His associates took care of the details while he commanded the helm of his little empire from behind the iron gate that secured his estate.

The passenger door opened and Sammy Hogan methodically unfolded his six foot five frame as he attempted a graceful exit from the car. Joey Hogan remained at the wheel, the package to be delivered resting on the front seat next to him. The motor was left running while his brother went inside.

The lobby was quiet. Of the eighteen girls who called the place home, all but seven were out drumming up business. Of the seven, six were on reserve. Only one currently was engaged in the art of sensual theatrics upstairs. But it was still relatively early in the evening for those seeking respite from the cruelties of a non-affectionate world. Sammy continued down to the end of the hall and knocked on the apartment door.

Dugan stepped to the door and took a deep breath while glancing back over his shoulder. The six girls sat on the divan, all dolled up and ready to party. They liked the frat boys. They tended to be considerably more physically desirable than those at the older and more common end of the client spectrum. They were also more considerate, and perhaps most important, much quicker when it came to consummating business.

Tonight however, Benny Dugan, who also had treated his girls with respect and consideration, asked for just a little more effort in keeping the customers satisfied, and for reasons unbeknownst to them, that included Joey and Sammy Hogan, DelGatti's goons. They weren't going to argue or question the ambiguities of the request. Primarily, they were asked to provide the entertainment as exotic dancers tonight. Their other talents were reserved for those willing to pay the special premium rate of the evening. They sat there all in a row, buzzing and giggling like the cats that just snorted the last of the white canary powder.

The door opened. Over Dugan's shoulder, Sammy caught sight of the six on the divan. They acted like giddy teenagers, which of course most of them were just a few years ago, and waved in their professionally friendly manner. Their pheromones drifted to the doorway and Sammy reacted with a rise in blood pressure and an instinctive tug at the knot of his tie.

"Ready to go, Sammy?" Dugan's confidence was building. This would be like taking candy from a baby. But to do so, this would also need to be like giving candy to two babies. And he instructed his girls to give Sammy and his brother all they wanted.

The shiny black SUV pulled into the lot of the Ritz just before 9:00 PM. The vehicle itself drew little attention. In the movies, its arrival may have foreshadowed a pending invasion of G-men or perhaps a contingent of well funded individuals who wore all black and never left home without being properly accessorized with the latest in assault weaponry. But tonight its passengers were here to make love, not war. Not to mention a great deal of money. As long as everyone respected the rules of the game, the Uzis would remain under the front seat.

Part of the rules in this type of game is to exercise discretion, especially in unfamiliar territory. Consequently, Joey Hogan bypassed the valet and entered the parking garage. On the third level, they found an empty spot near the door to the elevator. Everyone exited the SUV. Within seconds the relative serenity of the garage, that had up until that point only been broken by the hum of row after row of fluorescent lighting, was transformed by the arrival of two large burly brothers in loud pin-striped suits and white ties, six young woman adorned in evening apparel offering the classic diminutive statement of their profession, and one more sensibly dressed orchestrator of tonight's festivities who held the duffel bag in one hand and the thus far empty briefcase in the other.

A moment after pressing the button, causing the arrow indicating up to glow, the elevator door opened. An couple in their late sixties stood in the middle of the car. At the sight of the nine persons wishing to join them, the two stiffened as they cautiously moved to the back corner, eyes wide and filled with apprehension. The doors closed and the elevator began its ascent. The sensation of speed swiftly building initiated another wave of giddy response from the girls. Then the car just as quickly slowed to a stop and the doors opened once again. The party of nine exited the elevator leaving the gray haired couple in the back. As the doors closed, the gentleman wore a devilish grin and a set of attentive eyes that were glued along the line of sight of six receding and skimpily adorned rear ends. His wife wore an expression which only ratified her opinion, not only of the departing circus, but of the old fool still beside her.

The twelfth floor held just two suites, one on either side of the hallway. At the moment, one side reflected the tranquil, eloquent serenity associated with the Ritz for those who afforded such luxurious accommodations. From the other, a rhythmic rumbling of bass and percussion could be faintly heard emanating from behind the wall. The group approached the near door of the suite in mass like a school of fish following each move of its leader.

Benny Dugan knocked on the door. Voices bellowed from within blending with the music that was now almost discernible. But no one answered the door. Another knock, this time considerably more pronounced, resulted in a nearby voice calling for Dexter.

When the door finally opened, it was as if a portal to a parallel universe suddenly opened up in the middle of the void of space. Where in one moment there was a comparable vacuum, life burst through the hallway atmosphere in a myriad of motion, light and sound. Front and center was Dexter Thornton, Benny's co-pilot in tonight's grand plan. He held a beer in one hand. A quick survey of the expected arrivals conjured an expression of shear exuberance. He eyed the bag that Benny carried. And the six seductively adorned ladies. The two brothers who stood behind them at first offered no such smile as they glared into the room. Their assessment however seemed to find the young drunken men on the other side of the door acceptably subdued, their level of alert placed at a comfortable yellow. The two broke with a smile as Dexter warmly waved them in.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen" Dexter shouted over the music. "The bar is over there" he added pointing to the back wall of the main room that divided the bulk of the party from those in the kitchenette. The suite they had rented for the night was also comprised of two bedrooms, one on either end of the suite. "Ladies, please make yourselves at home."

One by one, the frat boys took courage from the elixirs they had been consuming for already an hour as the girls mingled among them.

"Gentlemen," Dexter said to the two in pin-stripe and ties, "please accept our hospitality." Joey and Sammy Hogan accepted the freshly opened bottles of beer. Good beer. Imported, near as they could tell. Certainly a cut above their usual brand. To the brothers, it looked like a good start to a successful evening.

To Dugan, Dexter said "so, I thought we'd set you up in the bedroom back there." He pointed to a door at the far end of the suite. The plan was to do the individual deals from the separate room away from the watchful eyes of the revelers in mass. For security sake. There was a lot of blow, and there would be a lot of dough. And most importantly, Dugan counted on a little out of sight, out of mind for the Hogans as the party favors worked their distraction.

Benny pointed behind the Hogans. "You boys make yourself comfortable" he told them. "Keep an eye on things out here for us." A divan on the wall that separated the main room from the other bedroom awaited them. It appeared to be an appropriate vantage point and the brothers easily acquiesced. Benny and Dexter walked across the room toward the other side. Along the way, Dugan gave a nod to one of the girls, who responded in turn with acknowledgment.

"So, how's it going, Dex?" Behind closed doors, Benny gave his young friend a firm, friendly embrace on the shoulder.

"Looks like we're all set. Fifty guys waiting for you. Although with the girls out there, they probably won't be fighting over each other for their turn in here."

"And the other thing? It's ready to go?"

"Yeah, and if I do say so myself, it looks perfect" Dexter boasted. "Once it's on the air, no one will question its authenticity."

"I hope you're right and my word will be as good as gold. Five grand worth."

"Not to worry, Benny. The piece is solid and the station will jump at the chance for the exclusive."

By midnight, fifty fraternity brothers had taken a turn at relieving themselves of no small part of their recently liberated trusts, bonds, or credit card cash advances. An average of five thousand dollars each. A mere pittance for the pleasures of the evening and the score that would fuel each man's euphoric desires for some time. The party droned on, yet the roar of voices subsided into the current hazy atmosphere that had transformed the group into a considerably more sedate gathering.

Joey and Sammy Hogan had not budged from their seats. The bedroom behind them had seen a rhythmic flow of patrons of the erotic arts, just as the room on the opposite end of the suite had for its business. The Hogans had watched the comings and goings from those inter-sanctums most of the evening while one of the girls kept them from feeling left out. They fed the two goons' egos with erotic attention while keeping them in well spiked libations.

By now, the six girls were in various states of undress, sprawled across the room, and intertwined with the rest of the subdued fraternity brothers. Not to mention Joey and Sammy. Unusual for the two, they had met their match when it came to holding liquor. Of course the liquor had a bit of help, a little something extra that had been added just for them. The Hogan brothers' snores were drowned out by the music which played on, although no sound seemed to register with the guests in various states of consciousness.

Benny Dugan, with business concluded, had taken one last long look at the rows of beautifully stacked hundred dollar bills in the briefcase. The empty duffel bag lay like a deflated beach toy at the edge of the bed. Benny left it behind as he emerged into the hallway of the twelfth floor. He left through the back door to the suite, conveniently located in the bedroom where he spent the last three hours, a doorway totally unbeknownst to Benny's two chaperones.

Soon, Dugan exited the elevator that opened onto the basement parking garage. It appeared relatively deserted except for a young couple that was walking towards him from a few rows back. Although walking would be a much more elegant description for how the two navigated the concrete structure that echoed the sounds of their adolescent inebriation. They sauntered most ungracefully, arms groping around one another as much out of necessity to hold each other upright as to the desires that would ultimately lead them to their room.

Dugan never saw either of the Hogan brothers standing since early in the evening and only hoped that their inebriation mirrored that of the pair about to ascend the elevator. Even if those parties should meet along the way, he doubted the young couple's ability to offer any information as to his whereabouts. Besides, Dugan would only need a few minutes. His hotel waited merely a few blocks away.

Chapter 3

The clock on the night stand had given off an eerie green glow. It seemed to intensify each time Benny stole another glance at it. And the glances were many, repeated with nervous regularity since he entered the room, latched the lock of the door and tugged the curtains tightly closed. He had lain in bed, fully dressed, the briefcase close at hand, but sleep would not come. Throughout the rest of the night he remained stiff as a board, intently listening for any suspicious noise that might alert him to having been found. The quiet did little to settle his nerves as he waited for morning and the next short walk he would have to make on an open street.

Early morning light seemed to take forever but its arrival was announced as it crept through the narrow crevice where the curtains fought to remain sealed. Still, Benny Dugan remained on the bed until the green numerical glow gave him permission to get up and prepare to leave.

The bank would open in a half hour. He brought no change of clothes. That would have been far to hard to explain to his companions the night before. But he would take care of that after the money was secured. Only then could he breathe a little easier. However, there would still be much to do before it was safe to retrieve the money.

He went to the bathroom and switched on the light. The brightness was initially overwhelming after seven hours in a darkness only invaded by the fluorescence of the slowly changing display of time. He squinted at his reflection in the mirror. Lack of sleep had taken its toll, his eyes a bit dark and puffy. Turning on the cold water, he cupped his hands under the steady flow of clean water and repeatedly raised a deluge to his face. The water drenched his face breaking the groggy trance from lack of sleep.

He relieved himself. He checked his pocket for the set of keys the bank had issued him. Still there. He unlatched the briefcase for a quick look. The rows of stacked hundred dollar bills were just as they had been the last twenty times he checked. One last look at the clock said it was time to go. Stopping at the door, Dugan put his ear to it. The clatter of room service delivering breakfast to those who would have a considerably less structured day could be heard, but no voices of Hogans. Or DelGatti.

The cab driver glanced back to his fare through the rear view mirror. This wasn't the first time that he had picked someone up who looked as though he had slept in his clothes. Only usually, it was in neighborhoods a little less accommodating than this one which included four star hotels. Usually it was in front of an all night bar or casino or some such place that left certain patrons with little options at the end of the evening. And certainly never, to his recollection, had he picked up anyone dressed in such disarray in front of a bank. Apparently, in this case, monetary shortfalls did not seem to be the case. The cabbie made this conclusion as his eyes abandoned the rear view mirror, turned to look directly behind him and came face to presidential face on the hundred dollar bill his fare was giving him in advance. It was just a small part of the five thousand dollars Benny had taken from the briefcase that now waited in the safe deposit box at the bank. Just walking around money until DelGatti figured Dugan no longer walked the earth.

Soon, they came to the house where Benny Dugan had directed the cabbie. His brother's car wasn't in the drive. Just as well. Maybe it would be easier that way. He'd hide the key and leave a note where it would be safe.

"Keep the motor running" Benny told the cabbie. "I'll only be about ten minutes."

"Sure thing, buddy." The feel of the hundred dollar bill had not receded from memory. Perhaps there would be more.

Benny removed his brother's extra key from under the rock by the front steps. Just like in the movies, but hardly a safe practice in real life. Marion Dugan had lived at this house for at least five years and as far as he knew, no one had taken liberties with the key, except him. Perhaps if anyone did know it was there, the incentive to break into a house belonging to a guy who worked at a morgue held no substantial promise of reward.

"What do you mean, 'he must of left'?" Red DelGatti's sudden rise in blood pressure could be measured through the wireless connection just by the the crescendo in his voice with each subsequent syllable. It was morning and he had been expecting the call hours ago, one that would alert him that the deal had been done. Between Joey and Sammy Hogan, it was Joey who drew the short straw and was put in the dreaded position of making the call.

"Sorry, boss" The big man knew they had screwed up. Benny Dugan was nowhere in sight. They just didn't know how, exactly. A couple of drinks was usually hardly worth the bother for men of their size and still relatively young metabolism, but somehow, they had fallen under the influence of their specially concocted drinks and the girls who sat in their laps. When the fog lifted, only a handful of the fraternity brats remained, mostly because so did the girls. However, Dexter Thornton figured the safest bet was to split, which he did as soon as he was satisfied that DelGatti's two chaperones wouldn't be going anywhere for at least a few hours. At least no where beyond where their dreams carried them.

"Listen, you morons. Get over to the Temptation right now." DelGatti paused a second, then asked "Are you moving? Get over there and for your sake, Dugan better be having his morning coffee waiting for you two idiots to pick up the money."

"Yes, boss" Joey said, the shade of concern he felt before the call escalating to a full blown panic. "Right away boss. We'll go get the money."

"Yes, you will" DelGatti assured them. "Because if you don't, the dynamics of our relationship will have a profound change. Understand me?"

The silence that followed gave every indication that the underlying message was more than likely received, however the choice of words left the Hogan brothers in a state of confusion.

"Just do it, morons!"

Twenty minutes later, they were standing at the door to Benny Dugan's apartment in the rear of the Temptation. Joey knocked with a pounding force upon the door. "Dugan. Open up." No sound could be heard from the other side of the door. Again he tried. "Dugan, open the door or I'll knock it down." The door didn't open. Neither did anyone else bother to investigate what the ruckus was about. No one usually stirred before noon. The two goons stood in a vacuum of sound other than that of their own voices. That void persisted behind the door to Benny Dugan's apartment, but it was about to be broken. Sammy offered his services and put every ounce of his weight into a plunge at the door. They heard the sound of a crack as the wood splintered the jamb. One more thrust of his body against the door and he stumbled in past the now open doorway.

The apartment was pitch black until the light from the hallway followed them. The curtains remained closed as they usually were, the view out the window hardly worth the effort of ever opening them. Making it into the bedroom, the bed stood in its usual state as well, unmade so as to make it hard to tell if Dugan had decided to come back to sleep last night. There were no signs that he had. They began to sweat under the pressure of their predicament. They threw the mattress up and over, half expecting a briefcase full of money to suddenly appear. When that failed to happen, they experimented with the tactic again by uncovering anything and everything where one might hide the money; the closet, the cushions of the sofa in the living room, all the kitchen cabinets, as well as the oven and refrigerator. Even if Benny wasn't there, on the desk in the corner sat his computer that did slumber. Hitting a few keys on the keyboard woke it up to present the password screen. That got Joey and Sammy nowhere. And then they checked the trash can beside the desk. On top was a printout of a receipt for TransContinental Bus Lines. Someone had made a reservation and that bus was scheduled to leave in two hours.

Inside, Benny went to his brother's bedroom and opened the closet. A lone suitcase, something resembling a classic find at a downtown pawn shop, rested on the floor in the far corner. He took the suitcase and placed it on the bed. Once open, the smell of musk or mildew, or who knows what from years of non-use drifted through the air. There was no time to worry about what he considered a minor triviality.

Marion may not have been built quite the same as his brother, the younger a little less toned in the torso, but his clothes would fit the elder close enough without looking like the selection was made by accident. Benny picked out a half dozen shirts from the closet as well as a change of pants. In a nearby dresser, he grabbed a handful of dark socks. He had to dig into the bottom of the drawer where they had been buried by his brother's usual selection of white crew socks. The underwear drawer gave him pause. He didn't know how he felt about wearing another man's briefs. Sensing no foul odor to complement that which the suitcase already offered, he took a handful without another thought. Benny haphazardly arranged everything he borrowed from his brother in the likewise appropriated suitcase. He would pick up toiletries later.

In the kitchen, a pad of paper rested on top of the counter near the phone. Benny inked out a short note:

'In case you find this before I call to explain, make sure to keep the key in a safe place. I will let you know when it is safe and what to do with it. Careful. Lots of money at stake.'

Benny returned to the bedroom and the open closet. In a corner on the top shelf was a stack of magazines. He knew what they were without looking and figured it would be a sure place where his brother would find the note and key sooner or later. Probably sooner. So he lifted up the stack of girlie magazines to slip the items underneath. That was it. He was done. Benny could hear the cabbie revving his engine, getting a little antsy. He turned away from the closet and faced the bed. As he grabbed the suitcase, he heard something drop.

A hat box that had been sitting on top of the stack of magazines had fallen to the floor. It landed upside down, its lid now resting askew below the box. Benny's first thoughts went to letting his imagination try to fathom what other items of perversion his brother kept in there. Carefully, he lifted the box. The lid remained on the floor. The contents separated from its container as the box was lifted away.

Benny's balance immediately succumbed to the sight. He abruptly fell on his ass, his arms bent at the elbows barely catching himself from falling all the way over. Resting on his forearms, the sight caused an involuntary attempt to crawl backwards and away from what lay between his legs. Having rolled into position, appearing as if she looked right at him, was the missing part of Angel.

The terminal for TransContinental Bus Lines was in an old one story building on the edge of downtown. It resided on a corner lot in what was in a bygone era a fashionable bank. Today, its high ceiling and ornate columns exuded nothing more than elegance eroded. Although still functional for its current purpose, its state of condition was supported by only adequate maintenance deserving of the patrons relying on the bus terminal in an era of modern transportation.

The Hogan brothers had selected one of the wooden benches along the back wall, strategically placed next to an open top trash receptacle. From there they were afforded the opportunity to watch those arriving and departing the old building. They had been waiting for an hour while trying to blend into their surroundings along with those who waited on nearby benches for the announcement that it was their time to board. Some read. Some slept. Some lounged under a canopy of newspapers that served as a barrier for the bums that lurked beneath. The Hogans utilized their newspapers in a more traditional way, pretending to read as they held it up in front of them, an attempt to obscure themselves from view, hidden from the one who may recognize them before they caught sight of their prey. The seat was hardly comfortable, nothing like the soft sofa in DelGatti's office where they spent a good share of their leisurely time.

"I'm going for a smoke" announced Sammy Hogan.

"Can't you wait?" Joey countered with a touch of disdain toward his brother. "If Dugan's still coming, he'll be here soon." He afforded a pause to lean over for a spit.

"No, I can't wait." Not that his brother had any right to condemn his habit. Sammy liked to smoke, but found Joey's chewing tobacco habit repulsive.

As Sammy stood to go, Joey cautioned his brother. "Stay out of sight. Don't let him see you first."

"Yeah, yeah."

Outside, the parking lot contained a few rows of cars, but was largely empty. At the back of the building was a three-sided wood structure with an open front made from fence pickets. It served to corral a couple of trash dumpsters. On either side of the corral, an array of cardboard boxes and discarded blankets marked the homes for a few of the city's homeless. Between the corral and the main entrance was a recessed area within the side of the building furnished with vending machines and a picnic bench. A few others huddled around the bench, a can in one hand, a cigarette in the other, casually passing the time. Sammy Hogan went to join them.

By the fifth drag of his smoke, a taxi cab pulled into the lot. The passenger in back bent forward to pay his fare, then opened the door. He backed out of the cab while gathering his belongings. A suitcase and a hat box.

Benny Dugan turned around and looked frantic as he surveyed the area. No one seemed to be paying him any mind. He looked toward the dumpsters and stared. Was he doing the right thing? What if he had left the box and his careless brother's secret was discovered by someone else? There was too much at stake. It was more than just brotherly love that motivated him to eliminate the evidence. If found, his brother would have little defense. Besides, Benny Dugan was not about to let anything foil his plans for the two of them. But since making his exit out the back door last night, Benny had began to question the validity of his thinking and the grand plan he had concocted.

By Sammy's estimation, a count of three went by as Benny held his gaze across the parking lot. He couldn't tell what he was thinking or what specifically had caught his attention. But all that mattered was that Dugan appeared not to have spotted him. Sammy should have the jump on Dugan. But then Dugan began to walk quickly toward the dumpsters.

Benny's stride changed to an accelerated cadence, one he hoped would not make him appear as someone with something to hide. Nevertheless, he felt quite vulnerable as he juggled the hat box under his arm. It seemed to keep sliding erratically between his arm and torso as he hastened. Dugan must not let the box fall from his grip, or heaven forbid, roll open to expose the contents before he could deposit it and break from its company.

Sammy was about to follow his prey but after a few steps it became obvious just where Dugan was headed. Sammy remained under his own cover in the alcove watching Dugan's strange behavior. Whatever he was about to throw away must be of interest and maybe he could get it without a struggle or a scene.

At the dumpster, Dugan made a few more awkward glances around him to see if anyone was watching him.

Sammy Hogan stood behind the others still smoking and drinking within the alcove, and none of them seemed to pay attention to anything but their own conversations.

Dugan set down his baggage and cautiously lifted the lid of the dumpster. He somewhat methodically shuffled the contents aside trying to access an abyss in the depth of the container. He retrieved the hat box at his feet and set it in the spot cleared about half way down. He then haphazardly rearranged the contents over the box, grabbed the suitcase and resumed the suspicious movements as he hastened toward the door to the bus terminal.

Behind the veil of the other smokers, Sammy Hogan waited until Dugan crossed the parking lot, passed the alcove and went inside. Hogan would let his brother Joey intercept him. Something was fishy the way Dugan acted while getting rid of the box. Surely he wouldn't stash the money in the dumpster, but whatever it was, it was worth checking out.

Stepping out from his point of observation Sammy quickly realized he would have to hurry before someone beat him to it. Up until this point, he didn't pay much attention to the large cardboard boxes that rested within the parameter of the dumpster enclosure. Apparently neither did Dugan. As soon as the deposit had been made, a blanket covering the front of one of the boxes had begun to flutter. Peeking from behind the door to his domicile, the homeless man had watched Dugan hasten away. It was then time to investigate what new treasures awaited.

Simon Abernathy had been living in his box for a few months, ever since the day his world vanished in a flash. Before that, a high-rise apartment was home. The stockbroker's identity was stolen and his account hacked. Drained dry, he found himself destitute. And desperate. He just needed to hang on until he could get a break.

Abernathy had the lid of the dumpster peeled back. There was nothing of interest on top. There rarely is, at least not for very long. It's first come, first served, finders keepers in this world. However, a red square box with gold trim, barely visible down a layer, showed through the garbage. He brushed the top trash aside and lifted the box with both hands.

He didn't even get it all the way out of the dumpster before a second pair of hands, which seemed to come out of nowhere, had grabbed ahold of the box. A stranger, apparently unaware of the unwritten rule that was honor among bums. The rule of first at two-handed possession. But Simon Abernathy wasn't about to relinquish his find without a fight. Sammy and Simon played tug-o-war for a few seconds before the thug came out victorious. But not before the top of the box went askew and the contents became visible.

The sight affected the two men instantly, and simultaneously as if an unseen power had flipped a switch controlling all movement. Each of them tried to process what their eyes saw but brains either could not, or did not want to acknowledge. Simon Abernathy, once a man of means, was less accustomed to staring death in the face. But that was precisely what some cruel fate had trust upon him. At least he thought it was death. Although the face looked very much alive. Her eyes retained a bit of sparkle, were wide open and returned his stare with a look that seemed just as confused as he was.

The spell was broken when the other pair of hands clamped down to claim the box and its contents. As Sammy Hogan spun around, he knocked his adversary to the ground, not intentionally, but with a shear rush of adrenaline that fueled the involuntary motion of sending an elbow out as he clutched the box and rotated away from the scene. Now, for the second time in but a few minutes, someone sauntered suspiciously from the dumpster enclosure while no one else took notice of the red box being carried back and forth across the lot.

The first thing Benny Dugan did upon entering the TransContinental Bus Lines was look up at the clock that was built into the opposite wall. He still had twenty minutes before needing to board. It took a count of two for the implications of the time to run through the proper channels in his mind. His thoughts were sluggish as the vision of Angel's eyes staring back at him continued to haunt him. By the count of three, he resumed the quick paced walk to the door of the restroom beneath the clock.

It was Benny's own countenance that haunted him now. He dropped the suitcase to the floor and stared at his reflection in the mirror. A man ravaged by a shaken confidence stared back. The long night, lying on the bed wide awake, not being able to sleep, was only the beginning. He had had far too much time to contemplate all the things that could yet go wrong with his convoluted plan. That plan now felt far removed from his original vision of grandeur.

Of all the things Benny considered that could have gone wrong, Angel's demise never entered into the equation. That episode had a somewhat opposite effect. Her murder had been like the straw that broke the camel's back, the event that set Benny on a quest to break out of a life that had soured over the last few years. It had been a life that turned too many wrong corners, or more probably, it hadn't turned at all. Either way, he came to see nothing in front of him but dead end, until coming up with the idea for the way out.

So why did her reappearance put everything in jeopardy? It wasn't just fear for his brother and his welfare that had been in his thoughts, even before finding the box. But now, in his mind, Angel's eyes surely were an omen of pestilence yet to come because of faith in an ill conceived plan.

He didn't even hear the restroom door swing open. As he gazed blindly into the mirror, conscious thought hovered somewhere beneath where the clatter of heavy footsteps could be heard racing in his direction. It wasn't until a second before the man jabbed Benny from behind that he recognized the new face in the mirror.

"Taking a little trip, scumbag?" Joey Hogan pressed his face right next to Dugan's. The smell of the thug's rich tobacco breath escaped his gritted teeth. The pressure from the gun barrel shoved into Dugan's back caused him to grimace. "Where's the money?"

"I don't have it, Joey" Dugan defiantly told him. They'd known each other for years, even though none too intimately. Still, he didn't think Hogan would shoot him. Especially here anyway. The gunshot would reverberate throughout the whole building.

Hogan looked down at the suitcase. He pushed Dugan aside toward the sink where he collided with the counter. Hogan kept the gun trained on him while opening the latch to the luggage. That's when Benny first saw the silencer on the end of the gun barrel. The relationship with his fellow DelGatti employee suddenly became more suspect.

Hogan flipped open the suitcase and much to his dismay looked down into nothing but a pile of clothes. He grabbed at the top layer and threw a few shirts out to the floor. The money didn't appear. His free hand rifled through the remainder of the contents. Nothing.

Standing up, Joey Hogan lunged at Dugan again. Only this time Benny saw it coming. "Where is it, Dugan?" They grabbed ahold of one another and matched strength in an awkward tussle for supremacy. Dugan didn't seem to be aware of the returned pressure near his side. Nor did Hogan feel his finger stiffen in the struggle as it inadvertently squeezed the trigger.

The silencer did its job. The retort was barely audible, although the two men immediately knew what had happened, Hogan for the sudden dead weight in his arms, Dugan for the sensation of pain so intensely defined that he lost all vertical stability. His body collapsed to the floor. At the sight of the red splatter, his eyes closed and all movement came to an end.

Hogan couldn't believe what just happened. He didn't mean to kill him. He just wanted to scare him into handing over the cash. Without it, DelGatti would not be happy. He stuffed the gun back in the holster under his jacket and stepped over the body lying among the scattered articles of clothing. He needed to escape before being found out. It was a desperate attempt to buy time, but on impulse, he repositioned some of the loose clothes on top of the body, then exited the restroom before he would have to kill someone else.

Joey Hogan hurried through the bus terminal lobby trying to look innocent, a hard thing to do while turning his head from side to side checking to see if anyone watched him leave. Luckily the woman at the ticket counter was currently playing kissy-face with some jerk. Only one person paid any attention and only because Hogan, looking everywhere but straight ahead, brushed against the guy as he passed. Joey Hogan stopped only long enough for a quick glance. Surely the bum was of no consequence and he hurried out the front door. Simon Abernathy watched the man leave, staring at his back, but still thinking of the man's face that was eerily reminiscent of the last person he had bumped into.

Sammy intercepted his brother in the parking lot as he walked back toward the building after securing the box in their car.

"Where's Dugan?" Sammy asked.

"Let's go" came Joey's nervously delivered words as he huffed by.

"But what about..?"

"Now, Sammy. Let's go."

Abernathy stopped dead in his tracks just a few feet after passing through the restroom door. He couldn't believe his eyes. Or his luck. Lying in a jumble on the floor was a multicolored answer to his most immediate wants. The rainbow of fabric blinded him, his focus momentarily unable to fan out beyond what lay on the surface. The clothes on his back were long overdue for a change. His nerves fired erratic impulses of joy inside him.

It was only when Abernathy managed to regain mobility, walking toward the pile of garments that he noticed the splatter of red moisture that seemed to leak from underneath. He reached for the sleeve of a vaguely familiar shirt that angled out near the bottom and gave it a tug. His nerves fired again. This time a wave of shock went through Abernatyhy causing him to jerk back, lose his balance and fall hard on his ass. It was then he realized that the sleeve was still occupied, and the occupant wasn't moving.

Abernathy stood. He pulled back the clothing on top to reveal the lifeless form of a man. His eyes zeroed in on the point of origin where the blood had oozed out. He was no doctor, but it didn't look good. How do you check for a pulse anyway? What he really wanted to know was how could he go his whole life without ever experiencing the sight of a dead stranger, the up close and personal type of experience that would constitute a tall story he could tell for years to come, and then today have that experience twice in the span of but a few minutes? At least this one still had his body attached, so maybe there was a chance for him.

Luckily for Benny Dugan, Abernathy wasn't that far removed from the civilized world. He would have the police alerted. They would call an ambulance. But first, since the man, dead or alive, had more serious issues, Simon doubted that the one on the floor would begrudge him for taking advantage of a little of his charity. Just in case the man should wake up at any minute, Abernathy quickly scooped up most of the clothes and put them back in the suitcase. One red and white striped shirt remained on the floor away from the body and just out of range from the splatter of blood. He removed his tattered, well-worn and considerably fragrant shirt and put on the clean striped one. He grabbed the suitcase and took one quick approving look in the mirror before exiting the restroom.

Chapter 4

The woman behind the TransContinental ticket counter was preoccupied with filing her long fingernails. When the cop approached, she took but a cursory glance at the badge held before her.

Amanda Biggs pushed forty-five and had lived a less than luxurious life. Regardless, in her social circles, she still was considered an alluringly attractive woman having managed to manipulate the effects of her advancing age. Long, rich black hair, a color bought at the beauty counter along with the other adornments for her noticeably highlighted facial features, was tied in a ponytail behind her back. She had to deal with all kinds on her job and the cop was full of swagger that only served to put up her defenses. The toothpick bobbing in his mouth accentuated his conceited demeanor. Still, she wanted to cooperate and put this nastiness behind her. Violence in the work place didn't make anyone feel secure.

"How can I help, detective?"

"Let's start from the beginning. Tell me what you know about the incident."

"It was around ten, I think. There's this bum. He lives around back. In a box."

"How cliché." Brogan delivered the remark in his usual lack of empathy for the lower echelons of man.

"Yeah, well, he's harmless enough. Usually."

"Usually?" Brogan piped in, as if the case might be already solved.

"That is he's never caused any real trouble to my knowledge. We don't encourage the members of the little cardboard commune out back, but if they don't loiter inside, there's a policy of moderate tolerance. So it wasn't unusual that 'the Wiz' was seen coming out of the bathroom. But the look on his face certainly was."

"The Wiz?"

A sort of half chuckle slipped out of her, the irony not lost on the nickname that had been given to the commune's resident Simon Abernathy. "Yeah. They say the guy used to be a stock broker wizard. Made a fortune once upon a time, then lost it all somehow." She let loose another little laugh. "I imagine the look on his face when he came out of the restroom was not unlike that on the day he lost it all."

"So you saw him come out of the john?"

"No, not really. But when I looked up and saw him coming right towards me, he was coming from that direction. And of course, he came with the news of the man on the floor."

"You didn't see anyone else acting peculiar this morning?"

"No, but its not my nature to spy on others. At least no one else came running out of the restroom that I saw." It had been a relatively slow morning. Then again, she may not have seen much at the crucial moment except for her boyfriend's face hovering close as they flirted with each other.

"OK, miss. Anything else I should know before I go?"

Amanda gave it a hard thought, sensing maybe there was something. Then she remembered one other thing different about the Wiz today. "He was carrying a suitcase. I never really gave it much thought before, but now that I think about it, I'd never seen him with one before. His wardrobe was pretty limited, always wearing the same thing, like the rest of his pals. Come to think of it, the shirt he was wearing may have been new."

Detective Brogan gave the woman a big smile. "Thank you, miss. You've been very helpful."

The Wiz had retreated back to his domicile feeling pretty damn good about his luck. At least how he perceived that luck considering the overall outcome. After all, there were a few bumps along the way. Good and bad.

The bad:

Wrestling with a thug for a box that should have been rightfully his if his nemesis had played by the code of law of their little community.

The good:

As it turned out, he certainly didn't want what was found in the box anyway. Obviously, neither did the guy that threw it away. The question was why would anyone want it? Simon 'The Wiz' Abernathy really didn't want to know. So that was one scavenger hunt he was glad to loose.

However, what came next, ended on a much higher note.

But first, the bad:

Trauma of encountering the prostrate body of a blood soaked man.

Then the good:

One heck of a find in a new wardrobe. The shirt he wore, while only a cotton and polyester blend, and maybe a little loud for his taste, the first clean shirt he'd had in months, felt like pure cashmere upon his skin. And the shoes he liberated from the man's feet were obviously of fine leather, however one of them felt a little uncomfortable. The right one had a spot where he suspected a foreign object had somehow come between the shoe's inner sole and his foot. When he went to take the shoe off to investigate, his foot slid just beyond the blanket serving as the door to his cube. Rudely, someone grabbed him by the ankle and, with an aggressive force, pulled him out.

"The Wiz, I presume?" Brogan inquired.

"Who wants to know?" Abernathy may be destitute and therefore subject to the vulnerabilities of an uncaring world, but he fought to maintain his dignity, especially in the clutches of an assailant. He'd lost one tug-o-war already and he'd be damned if he'd give up ground without a fight.

Brogan flashed his badge. A toothpick still performed acrobatics in his mouth along with the smug jeer that seemed to be a permanent part of his face. "You're the one that found Dugan?"

"Who's Dugan?"

"Sorry, I guess you two weren't introduced" the cop said quite snidely. "The guy from the john. Who do you think, bozo? How many people have you found today?"

Abernathy didn't respond right away. He considered his answer. Yeah, he had found the guy on the floor in the restroom, but if you wanted to get technical about it, there was sufficient argument for having found at least one other person today.

"I haven't got all day, Mr. Wiz."

"Yeah, I found him. That a crime, officer?"

"It's detective, and no, finding's not a crime. But assault with a firearm is. And nobody but you was seen leaving that restroom."

"Hey, man. I did the right thing here, trying to be a good citizen and all. Would I have reported it if I had anything to do with it?"

"OK, then. Did you see anyone suspicious?"

Talk about suspicious. Seems like everyone he came in contact with the last couple of hours fit that category. And then he flashed on a little detail that failed to register before. The shirt worn by the bloodied man. He'd seen it before, just a short while before.

"Yeah. Nothing but suspicious." The sudden apprehension struck a pose across Abernathy's face, a look that wasn't missed on Brogan.

"What is it?"

Abernathy figured he better start with suspicious person number one, who also happened to be the victim. "I think I saw the victim out here first. I was in my cube, but when I heard someone deposit something in the dumpster I looked out. It was just as he was leaving, but I'm pretty sure I recognized the shirt he was wearing."

"That's a pretty nice shirt you're wearing too, Wiz. Did you attack the man for it?"

"No, no. It was nothing like that" pleaded the Wiz. "After the guy walked away from here, I went to see what he left in the dumpster. He must have made a hasty attempt to cover it up, but I saw the red box poking out under some trash on top. When I went to pull it out, someone else tried to grab it from me. The box fell open and that's when we both saw it." Abernathy paused as the vision came back to him in living, no, make that un-living color.

"Come on, man" Brogan barked. "Saw what?"

Abernathy looked into the man's eyes, his own face still stiff with disgust. "A head. A real girl's head, like it had been sewn up and preserved or something."

The color in Brogan's face went pale. It was no small wonder that the toothpick fell from his gaping mouth instead of going down his throat. By the time he had gone back to the park in order to search the dumpster there for the rest of Angel, it had already been emptied. What in the hell was Dugan doing with her head? He certainly didn't seem like the type to have the stomach for such a gruesome act like chopping it from the girl's body. And if not, why didn't he turn it over to the police? Who had he shown it to and why had he decided to get rid of the evidence?

"Where is it now?" Brogan asked while trying the veil his panic, but the tone of his voice betrayed him.

"The goon took it. He was too strong for me. He ran off into the parking lot. That's when I went inside. I needed to get a drink and settle my stomach."

"You see this _goon_ leave? What car he was driving?"

"No, I didn't see. But now that I think about it, someone bumped into me as I headed for the restroom. And he looked kind of like the one that took the box."

Brogan demanded descriptions of the two men as he took out his pad and pen. He wouldn't end up needing them though. The noses, the eyes, the girth of each man, the scar worn by the one encountered at the dumpster. He only knew of two men that fit those descriptions. DelGatti's goons, the Hogan brothers. This could be very troubling for him. Very, very troubling.

Brogan's character came shining through with everyone he tried to intimidate. He was a cop, but he was a dirty cop who pressured DelGatti to buy his silence and protection. So he wasn't comfortable with a piece of evidence in this particular crime in DelGatti's possession. Even though he had nothing to do with its removal, he didn't like the idea of a loose end. So to speak.

"Don't leave town, Wiz" Brogan said. "I'll be in touch."

The cop left leaving the Wiz a little shaken, although with a new suitcase safely stored in his cardboard box, a new shirt on his back, and a pair of fine leather shoes on his feet. Even though one still didn't feel quite right.

A few hours later, Benny came to. The room was white and evenly lit. This was in direct contrast to his apartment where he was accustomed to waking. What hit him first was the lack of dull shades of peeling brown walls. His dark bedroom remained in a state of relative obscurity, thanks to the dim illumination that only spilled in from holes in his seldom open curtains. The odor now was definitely different too, but it was a familiar antiseptic smell. As he breathed in the medicinal bouquet, combined with the sight of the railing up on the side of the bed in which he currently lay, not to mention the clear tube that ran from the hanging bag of pharmaceutical fluids down and into his arm, Benny Dugan had a pretty good idea where he was. And while the shock of waking in a strange environment temporarily clouded his train of thought, his memory was quickly coming back.

Benny moved by putting a little weight on his elbows in an attempt to sit up. A pain in his side suddenly became quite sharp, an acute reminder of why he was wherever he was.

Someone else had been sitting across from the bed watching the TV mounted in the corner, the sound barely audible for the sake of the formally sleeping patient. Marion didn't seem to mind. The news was on but at the moment it was nothing but the usual fluff that the local channels all seemed to accept as requirement for appeasing the masses. Or perhaps it was just to dull the viewer's senses in preparation for when it was time to report the real tragic stuff. He held the remote in his hand as he watched. If they reported Benny's story, he'd be ready to turn it up.

The patient's movement, particularly Benny's grunt of pain, turned his brother's attention bedside.

Marion got up, walked to the side of the bed and put his hands on the railing. He stood there and just stared at his brother, apparently at a loss for words.

"How'd you get here?" It was Benny who asked the question.

"Cops called me" Marion told him. "Apparently I'm merely listed as 'Brother' in your cellphone's contacts." Surveying his pale brother, he added "I think I should be asking the 'How'd you get here question?'"

"Long story short, one of DelGatti's men shot me."

"Huh. Good reason, I presume?"

"Another long story" Benny said. Then remembering earlier that morning, he asked "Did you get my note?"

"What note?"

"Uh, oh." That response wasn't only about Marion's reply. It was Benny's turn at watching the TV. Just as he bothered to look past where his brother hovered over him, he caught the newscast. A picture of the TransContinental Bus building filled the screen behind the anchorman.

"Turn that up!" Benny said pointing to the television.

"And on a more serious note, this morning a man was found shot today as he lay on the floor of the restroom at the bus station...."

The picture changed to footage of the man in question being brought out on a stretcher. From the view, the man's face wasn't visible, only a body being carried away.

"It is unknown at this point who the perpetrator is. Also, we are told that the victim has ties to a local crime syndicate. They are not releasing the identity of the victim at this time while the police continue their investigation into the case."

Benny looked to his brother. "I guess I better fill you in."

Marion pulled into the lot, parking near the edge closest to the back end of the building. Where he was told to go was not hard to find. Just as it was described, the three-sided weathered wooden fence was clearly visible from the confines of the van. From where he sat, the west side blocked his view of what lurked behind.

A sweeping look around the lot produced no sign of Brogan, DelGatti or any of his goons. Likewise, after a cautionary gaze into the gathering near the alcove, where those seemingly non-aware of anything or anybody beyond the borders where their smoking brethren gathered, no bells of alarm had been set off. Still, quite reluctantly, Marion took a deep breath and opened the door to the van. Out of the back seat, he grabbed the wooden oar, a memento to a long since abandoned canoe that represented happier days of childhood. Armed for the task, he began what felt like a long, solitary journey into an underworld abyss as he approached the enclosure.

The back side, as well as defining the length of the stockade, marked the line of cardboard dwellings of a few unfortunate citizens of the city that had homesteaded behind the dumpster. This part was not as described, for his brother Benny, preoccupied with the package in hand and whose only focus within the perimeter was that of the dumpster itself, had not noticed the nature of the surrounding space.

A few homeless individuals huddled together in the far back corner. One man seemed to be the focus of the discussion. It was the one in the back of the pack who led what was no doubt a dire conversation based on the somber look of their faces. Or perhaps it was just the status quo for those who lived in a box, taking turns reflecting on the travesties life had bestowed upon them. To Marion Dugan, life resided in his own set of somber dalliances of daily life, but whatever the distraction the group had concentrated on, he was most grateful for it. He would make his attempt, vain as it probably was, but one comprised of a necessary evil that his brother had placed upon him. Not that his brother would even approve, but it wasn't even any of his business. And she wasn't his to take from him.

The lid to the dumpster, held on by the hinge, leaned against the back side leaving the container open-faced. Having placed the oar into the contents, Marion commenced a methodical sweep across the upper layer of refuse consisting of mankind's relics in assorted states of decay.

As he dug deeper into the abominable abyss, the sound of shifting garbage increased in volume along with the effort used to continue the search for a very specific buried treasure. The sound equated to nothing short of an alarm among those previously engrossed in conversation near the back of the enclosure.

"Hey!" one cried. "What are you doing?"

It wasn't Simon "the Wiz" Abernathy who did the yelling. His boldness had been placed on temporary hold. He already had a number of encounters today with strangers within their tiny cube of a world. But he looked on at the man who had already overstayed his welcome. As he did, feelings of panic turned to bewilderment because he didn't believe in coincidences. This was no ordinary dumpster diver, and he certainly didn't belong to their clan. Abernathy already knew, he could feel it even before Marion Dugan's eyes latched onto him wearing what soon would appear to be a very familiar shirt, that it was the hat box, or more probably its contents, that had summoned him.

It didn't register at first when Marion caught sight of the one bum. He was mostly obscured while being surrounded by his buddies. Besides, Marion had been too self-absorbed in his quest to recognize any overt peculiarities. However, when one of the more bold members of the group yelled at him, he immediately stopped stirring the proverbial pot of mystery. The first reaction was a tinge of fear aroused by the tone of the voice. Frozen in place, he looked to the men for the first sign that his feet had better start running. The situation was quickly turning from just an undesirable necessity to one where consequences might alter the balance of priorities.

No one moved. The others gave the bold one of their group the evil eye for tempting fate. At this juncture, Abernathy and the rest of his cardboard commune neighbors considered any confrontation with curious strangers a risk not to be taken lightly, especially considering the disappearance of one of their own. Nate "Scruffy" Mason may not have been all together there, more than a little forgetful once he took to bottle in a paper bag, but his friends still suspected foul play when he wandered off a few days ago and never returned.

The standoff remained silent since the impetuous one had been subdued. It was now the homeless who searched their adversary's eyes for any intent on harm. They apparently saw none. Marion sensed the situation defusing as the group's posture lightened. The men broke from a tight group and began returning to their individual habitats. The last man, the one who had been huddled around by the rest, was left alone. He and Marion considered each other. Marion's expression changed with a revelation. The bum's shirt. It was his. How did he know? Because he had just bought it last week. Years of wear had not yet taken a toll on its brilliant red and white stripes, quite unlike the dirty and somewhat tattered apparel that comprised the remaining items of Abernathy's wardrobe. Marion didn't believe in coincidences either, at least not on a day where that shirt seemed to travel from his closet, to a suitcase and down to the bus station mere yards away from where they stood.

It was at this moment that something deep inside him began to boil, something that had been quietly waiting since childhood for just the right impetus to break out from under the layers of repression he had been buried in. He had kept his distance from the world, but now the world was invading his private life and leaving a wake of destruction in its path.

"Where did you get that shirt?" Marion, now the bold one, demanded. He wanted answers. First Angel. His Angel. Now the shirt. Why was everyone screwing with his stuff? He began walking toward Abernathy who was left with nowhere to go, his back against the wall in the far corner of the enclosure.

"I believe that's my shirt" Marion told him. "Take it off."

"What makes you think it's yours?"

Marion relayed to the bum how his brother had taken his shirt and other clothes for a trip and now his brother was in the hospital.

"Hey, man. I didn't touch your brother. He was already unconscious when I got there. Under the circumstances, I thought a little charity on his part was a small price to pay for alerting the cops."

"It was you who found him? Did you see who did it? Could you identify him?" Benny already told his brother who shot him, but an eye witness would prove helpful.

"I saw someone leaving the building as I was coming in. He appeared to be in a hurry, and he looked like...." Abernathy stopped abruptly as a calculation in his head put two and two together. "So, just what were you looking for, mister?" was his question as he pointed to the dumpster.

"Something of mine got inadvertently thrown away today. I was hoping it was still there."

"Let me guess" Abernathy said, his calculations now complete. "A red hat box?"

"You know about the box?"

"Yeah, and what's in it."

This wasn't good, Marion thought. Not good at all. He had to know. "Where is it now?"

The hat box sat on the top of the desk, right in the middle above the blotter. The majority of the dark paneled room remained in its usual dim, ominous state. The lamp on the desk, just off to one side, was aimed downward at the center. The red box seemed to soak up the rays of light only to spew them back out with an accumulative intensity. It seemed as if the heat generated would cause the box to be set ablaze at any moment. The Hogan brothers sat quietly at their usual spots on the sofa near the door. They watched their boss pace the room.

DelGatti couldn't believe it. He had known Benny Dugan practically all of his life. Once childhood friends, brothers in relatively minor illegal endeavors. Even as adults, Benny never gave him cause to doubt Dugan's loyalty as DelGatti rose to be the one ruthless enough to claim his spot at the top of the food chain. And now? It was like he hadn't known the man at all. Not only did it look like Dugan was double crossing him, could he really have been capable of murder, a gruesome one at that?

DelGatti was a cautious man, had to be to get to where he was. That's why he sent the boys along to keep an eye on things during Dugan's deal. That was just good business. But deep down, DelGatti never dwelt on any real possibility that Dugan would try to hustle him out of that kind of money.

But that wasn't bad enough. Joey, usually the more capable of the two Hogans, the one he counted on to execute a chore with discretion, had failed to do so. But it appeared that the only thing executed was Benny Dugan, and without retrieving the money. This DelGatti contemplated as he paced up and down in front of his big ornate desk, the box on top only having added another layer of mystery of the man he thought he knew.

Something mimicking a doorbell emanated from the computer. Previously the sound in the room was an empty void except for the scrapping of DelGatti's shoes as he moved about. He made his way to the table behind the desk and pressed a key. That brought up on screen the image being transmitted from the main gate of the DelGatti estate. There in a somewhat hazy black and white representation stood the likeness of Detective Brogan.

It wasn't the first of the month. Pay-off day. Usually that was the only time he had to deal with this slime of the police department. A necessary evil, an unwritten rule of doing business in this town, his kind of business. But Brogan's timing today felt troubling, as if he needed any more trouble. He just wanted his money, and without any grief from Brogan. So, DelGatti speculated, why was he here? Did someone finger his bumbling errand boy at the scene of the crime? Was someone else in the restroom when Joey Hogan accidentally wasted Dugan? Does he think he's going to try extort more money out of him?

But then it occurred to him that maybe the box, or more specifically what was in it, might buy him a little leverage.

"Joey. Go let the scumbag pig in."

Simon "the Wiz" Abernathy grimaced. He was bending over, sticking a finger into the right shoe, pushing it around across the insole. Something was lodged in there, but he couldn't find it. Marion Dugan grimaced too, but his trouble stemmed from the knowledge Abernathy had just given him. The description of the bum's assailant could be anyone, but Marion had a good idea who the likely suspect was considering he knew it was one of the Hogan brothers who had attacked his brother just inside.

But why would they want her? Unless of course, they wanted to hold it over his brother. As far as they knew, it was Benny who had something to hide. He would have to either give them DelGatti's money, or they'd go to the cops.

The Wiz was bouncing on one foot, his hand still lodged in the other shoe. He tried quite ungracefully to keep that other foot in the air while probing the inner surface of the shoe for the protrusion. That battle was lost when his balance broke and he fell on his ass.

"What are you doing?" Marion asked incredulously. It wasn't until then that he noticed the monogram on the now worn, but once expensive, Italian leather shoes. Two initials. BD.

Abernathy took off the shoe. The insole easily lifted up. He jerked it all the way out.

"Well, what do we have here?" the bum said, his eyes suddenly enlarged from the excavated treasure.

He took the gold key in his hand and held it up for a closer look. He knew from experience, back when his not so distant former life included such things, that this was no ordinary key. Marion tried to grab it from him, but Abernathy proved to be too quick.

Marion couldn't help but state the obvious. "That doesn't belong to you." But what was obvious to him held a different version for Abernathy.

"Finder's keepers."

"You're just a thief" Marion said scornfully. Keep the damn shoes you stole from my brother. Give me the key."

"What's it worth to you?"

The next few seconds of silence were all Abernathy needed to read Marion Dugan's eyes, a telltale sign of a calculation going on in his head. Or at least a number, a likely large number, being reaffirmed front and center into consciousness. A number he wasn't about to divulge so easily. Abernathy began putting a few things together.

One. A man throws away a hat box with a severed head.

Two. A goon comes to retrieve said box.

Three. He finds the first man lying unconscious on the restroom floor after almost being run down by another.

Four. Anyone who hides a safe deposit box key in their shoe surely has something to hide. If the two goons weren't looking for the key, they were surely looking for whatever the key reveals.

"I know what this key is" Abernathy told the younger Dugan. "A safe deposit box key."

"Yeah? How do you know that?"

Letting out a heavy sigh, the Wiz explained. "I once was successful. Had lots of money. A stock broker by trade. Then my account got hacked, and..." He waved his hand around him. "The rest is history."

"Sorry to hear about your falling on hard times, but the key belongs to my brother."

"What's in the safe deposit box?" Abernathy asked confidently, thinking he was the one who held the cards now. At least the one clutched tightly in his fingers. The King of Keys. "Considering the company your brother keeps, my guess is it's a lot of money. Money that doesn't belong to him. Maybe he's the thief." Abernathy's eyes lit up with one more card he held. "And maybe he's a murderer, too. Huh?"

Marion Dugan debated his options. His whole world had gone to hell. "What do you want?"

"I'm a reasonable man" the former financial wizard told him, smiling at the key. "All I need is a break to get back on top. I know of an investment deal, a real honest to goodness deal of a lifetime according to a reliable source. It will all happen in the next few days. All I need is someone to front some money and I'll triple it. You help me with that obstacle, and I'll just forget about your brother and the hat box."

His brother and the hat box? Screw that. He just wanted back what was his. When Marion stared hard at the bum, trying to read just how much of what he said was pure bull, he suddenly caught the resemblance. The nose was the same, the eyes, similar enough, although his were filled with a smattering of sincerity absent from one who could pass for his twin, that is if this Wiz character were to sport the same sleazy thin mustache.

"I'll tell you what. We'll go see my brother. But I want you to help me do one more thing. But let's not tell my brother about it."

Joey led Detective Brogan down the hall and opened the door to the office where DelGatti held court. Sammy Hogan, sitting on the sofa just inside, glanced up offering the dirty cop a smirk in recognition. DelGatti had already returned to sit behind his desk of authoritative bulk, the red box moved to a less conspicuous spot on the table behind him. When the two men made eye contact, he presented a polite smile to the visitor. He needed to maintain a degree of civility, at least until the nature of his visit had been made clear.

"What a pleasant surprise, Brogan. What brings you here today?"

"Rumor has it, you are in possession of something I want."

"Me? What might that be?" DelGatti asked in what he hoped hadn't sounded overly insincere, at least not what was beyond the usual repartee between the two men. It hadn't occurred to DelGatti until that moment that someone may also have observed his equally, if not more so, inept goon liberate the box that now sat on the table. The real question was just how many people know of the actual contents.

Brogan's eyes drifted to the table behind DelGatti. The red box rested among assorted piles of papers near the computer monitor. If he hadn't already known better, the contents could have been nothing more than documents that underworld characters accumulated in the course of their daily business. Ledgers and whatnot. But he did know better thanks to the bum Simon "the Wiz" Abernathy.

"I think you know, DelGatti."

"Oh? Enlighten me?"

"Don't play me for a fool. Our little arrangement can always be altered if you push me hard enough." Brogan bellowed. His balls, usually tucked safely further up during his visits, were now swinging free, with a significantly diminished sense of intimidation in a man with more at stake. "I know what's in that red box behind you."

DelGatti turned to it. He thought about continuing the charade, but what was the point. Brogan must know, but what did he know of Benny Dugan?

"You on an investigation, Brogan?"

"I know the girl in the box belongs to a body lying in the morgue. I know she used to be part of your Temptation Hotel operation. I know Dugan was seen depositing the box in a dumpster before your goon over here decided to take the evidence. Coincidentally, it was about the time someone sounding a lot like your other pal here was seen leaving the bus terminal, also coincidentally at the approximate time Dugan was left bleeding in the john."

So, DelGatti had his answer. He knows. But he didn't say dead. The words were 'left bleeding'.

"Give me the box and I'll forget about your associates' little altercation with Dugan. I just want to put a feather in my cap. You know, solve a pending murder case. Put a bad guy in prison." Now, Brogan was the one acting, hiding his true motive - concealing evidence that could possibly lead to a conviction, his own. Just how he wasn't sure, but why take chances. Better to pin it on Dugan while he still could.

DelGatti had to ask "Do you know where Dugan is now?"

"He's in the hospital, recovering from the gunshot wound. But don't worry, he'll live."

Benny Dugan's not dead? DelGatti all at once felt a small wave of relief pass through him now that he knew what Brogan was doing there. But another wave consisting of the antithesis of relief overtook the first. If Dugan was alive, it changed things. He still needed to recoup his money one way or another.

"Hey boss!" Joey piped up from where he sat next to his brother in the back of the room. They were watching the TV mounted on the wall with the sound off. "Look at this?" he said pointing to the screen. The likeness of Benny Dugan appeared in an inset next to the news reporter.

"Turn it up."

With his hospital gown pulled all the way up, nearly to his arm pit, Benny Dugan tried to lay still while rolled over on his side. Dr. Abram wore blue latex gloves. With each prodding by his nimble fingers, the touch felt warm, yet none too soothing, the friction of the gloves intensifying the heat. Dugan tried not to let the pain show through his voice, but he still found it difficult not to grimace when the doctor's attempt at what he called a delicate touch slipped beyond a reasonable definition of the term. He stole a glance here and there at the relatively small hole that had been stitched together. There was hardly any more bleeding. The lightheadedness Benny felt when he first awoke had subsided. He felt more sore than weak.

The patient finally made a little noise as the doctor removed his prodding hand. The sound was a sigh of relief, the torture over. Whatever kind of pain relief they had administered was obviously enough to dull the sensation only as long as exploratory pressure wasn't applied.

"You're lucky, Mr. Dugan. The bullet didn't hit any organs or major arteries. The blood you lost wasn't enough to put you in any real danger. My guess is you felt pain and fainted from the shock of being shot. You'll be just fine in a few weeks." The doctor opened a new gauze pad, applied a thin layer of ointment and re-bandaged the wound. Benny was positioned again on his back and Abrams took out the needle from his arm ending the flow of medicinal fluids. With a reassuring pat to the patient's shoulder, the doctor said "I'll write a prescription for an antibiotic and one to help with the pain. The nurse will come in shortly to process you for release. You can get dressed now."

The doctor passed the threshold of the door and proceeded on his way down the hall to the nurse's station. Within seconds, at the opposite end of the hall, the elevator quietly announced its arrival with a subdued ding. When the door opened Marion and Abernathy exited and began to walk around the perimeter of the floor which was divided into a ring of rooms filled with patients. The air smelled slightly antiseptic, a familiar odor to Marion Dugan. Still, he found the openly lit environment anything but comfortable. Except for a number of aluminum carts being pushed busily up and down the corridor, everything else was in a wash of white. Something about the hospital, similar to the morgue yet in other ways quite diverse, put him at unease. It was the illumination more than anything else. Here, everything was so bright, a stark contrast to the dim gloom of the morgue he found considerably more tranquil.

Benny Dugan had managed to make it to the edge of the bed when Marion and his new friend appeared at the doorway. They stopped just short of crossing through, as if checking for doctors, nurses and other demons that may impede their mission.

"Well, you're back" Benny said as his brother decided to enter the room. Abernathy trailed behind, at first unnoticed by the elder brother until both visitors came to stand side by side. They remained closer to the door than to the bed where Benny was trying to get up, still in the white hospital gown, the back of which could be viewed by the visitors in its awkward open state. "Who's your sidekick?"

Benny obviously didn't recognize Abernathy from when he first arrived at the bus station. The man known as the Wiz had been watching him from the safety of his cardboard home, waiting for his opportunity to see what was being added to the treasure trove in such a nice red box. Not that Benny would have paid him much notice since at the time his thoughts were transfixed directly inward. At that time all he considered were the implications of what he had found and the rationale of its disposal.

"I'm Simon Abernathy" he said boldly. "We haven't officially met."

"Officially?"

"No. Just in passing, as it were." Abernathy grinned at the pun. "The hat box passing from you to the dumpster, and then, ever so briefly to me."

Benny Dugan's eyes grew into a hard stare, a wave of panic illuminating them. With all else to deal with, now extortion?

"Marion, what did you do? Why did you bring him here?"

"It's OK" Marion tried to assure him. "He's on our side. He's also the one who found you unconscious in the bus station."

"Our side? Just what is our side, anyway? I was only trying to protect you." And then he heard all of what Abernathy just told him. All except for some missing detail the man skipped right over. He looked at Abernathy. "What do mean 'ever so briefly'?"

"It seems DelGatti's goons took her" Marion explained.

Benny Dugan's expression was now one of pure disbelief. Of all the sorry excuses for luck, how could things get any worse?

"Don't worry, brother. We have a plan."

Those words did little to offer any degree of comfort. As if on cue, like when tension builds to a crescendo in a thriller movie, Benny's cellphone came to life, its chilling ringtone piercing the air. It was actually the theme song from Marion's favorite movie, Psycho, but the haunting sound attracted him. He set it up as kind of a joke one day when every time the phone rang it was one distressing problem after another. Now it seemed that none of those problems measured up to what had transpired since conceiving his deal to screw over DelGatti.

The theme song continued to play. Benny pushed himself off the edge of the bed and reached for the phone lying on top of his clothes on the nearby chair. The display read 'Thornton'. "Hello, Dexter. Not really a good time."

"Oh? Sorry. I just wanted to let you know that our little film is about to be played. I thought you might want to see it live on TV. Channel five."

The film. "Oh, crap." He almost forgot. Without another word, Dugan hung up. The TV was already on, the volume muted while some daytime soap opera filled the screen. He took the remote off the table next to the bed, changed the channel and brought up the volume. A handsome news anchor was delivering the end of another story. The camera angle then changed as the newsman looked into the camera with a face that exuded a direness true to the tragedy he was about to relate.

"A shocking event happened earlier today when a man carrying a backpack stepped off a TransContinental Bus during a routine rest stop. The following film clip was made by a bystander who happened to be at the scene while intending to shoot video of the usually more serene and scenic vista."

Then the film that Dexter and his buddy helped produce came on screen. After a bus pulled away, it looked as though Dugan was left standing by the railing where no one else remained. An explosion filled the spot where he seemingly had been standing a second ago. But when the smoke settled, no one could be seen.

"Reports have it that due to the extreme nature of the explosion, only small fragments of the body could be found. However through DNA testing, the victim has been identified as one Benny Dugan" the reporter said as the scene played out. "The exact cause of the explosion is not currently known." The camera angle changed again. The reporter's face went from somber to sporting a huge smile when he continued with "On a lighter note, Fluffy the polar bear gave birth to a new cub today at the city zoo..."

That was all they heard. Benny aimed the remote at the TV, turned it off and hobbled over to the chair. "Help me. I've got to get out of here."

Which they all three did, the white hospital gown hanging down, Benny having taken time only to pull on his pants, unbuckled and unzipped, as he held on to them with one hand, his jacket in the other. They tried to walk nonchalantly, yet swiftly in unison to the stairwell at the end of the hall.

By the time the door closed behind them, a nurse ambled over towards the vacated room with prescriptions and release papers in hand. Upon reaching the room, and not finding any patient, she let out her own shrug of exasperation. To herself, she mumbled "Looks like somebody around here screwed up again." Back at her desk, she threw the paperwork in the trashcan and went about her business.

"What the hell, Brogan?" DelGatti turned to the cop. "I thought you said Dugan was in the hospital."

Brogan stared at the TV, or at least in its direction. It didn't matter where his eyes were pointing. They were on hold, no longer processing. It was some layer of his subconscious that had taken over. At the moment, he only saw visions from within his head that tried to make sense out of the information. But something wasn't right. There had to be some sort of mistake.

Only he hoped that there wasn't. Brogan didn't know just what Dugan knew or what he may have seen that night. Why in hell would he cut off her head, keep it these past few weeks, then suddenly try to dispose of it before getting on a bus? If Dugan was really dead, who would be left that knew anything? None of these answers came to him, and that made him very, very nervous.

"Brogan?" DelGatti didn't get an answer. He then looked to his two bumbling goons who sat on the sofa. The news clip left them with expressions that also carried a weight of confusion. However to them it seemed more like a riddle and they were still waiting for the punch line, the bigger picture still covered with a blank slate.

"Joey" DelGatti demanded "Did you or did you not shoot Dugan at the bus terminal?"

"Yeah, boss."

"No mistake. You're sure it was him?"

"Yeah, boss."

"And Sammy," as if talking to a child, DelGatti asked, "Are you sure it was Dugan who dumped....the package?"

"Yeah, boss."

"Brogan? Are you listening to me?"

The cop finally turned in DelGatti's direction. "Yeah, yeah. I'm listening."

"So did you see Dugan at the hospital, or not?"

"No, I didn't see him there. After investigating the shooting at the bus terminal, I came here."

"Brogan, you want the box? You go find out what's going on. If Dugan is dead, you make sure he stays dead. And come back with proof. Then I'll give you the box. And what's in it."

How much did DelGatti know? Had Dugan told him anything? Why did DelGatti want Dugan dead anyway? In lieu of answers to all these riddles, one thing became crystal clear. Whether Dugan was dead or alive, he needed to dispose of what was in the red box.

After the cop left, DelGatti told the Hogan brothers to check out the hospital. If Dugan is alive, he still wanted his money. Of course, if he isn't, all wasn't lost. He would just need proof to give the insurance company. How convenient would it be that he wouldn't have to be the one to provide Dugan's demise. An accidental death, just like the policy covered.

Chapter 5

The elder Dugan intermittently let out an erratic series of grunts, an acknowledgment that the stitches in his side were still fresh. Driblets of blood made their way past the bandage and added to the stain on the otherwise white hospital gown. As the three of them continued down the gray stairwell of concrete and metal railing, their hastened footsteps echoing off the walls, Benny struggled to fasten the top of his pants on the run. Once accomplished, with his brother's help he managed to get the jacket on just as they reached the main floor. With a push on the door, it opened into an empty hallway.

The light of day came through the glass door just a few yards away. The lettering under the metal bar at its center said something to the effect that the door is alarmed and could only be used in an emergency. Naturally, no member of the trio took notice of this detail. Even if someone had taken the time to read the warning, the momentum of the moment left little room for a change of consensus.

Abernathy went first, followed by Benny's younger brother. The sound of the alarm did freeze the elder Dugan for a just second, as if reminded of consequences for some past transgression come back to haunt him.

The rest of the party had reached the far end of the building when a lack of footsteps caused Marion to turn back. They were near the service entrance, his brother grimacing five yards back as he tried to catch up. An alcove within the wall caught Abernathy's eye. He went to peer inside the opening. When he turned back, Benny had caught up with them. Abernathy smiled at the two of them. Marion caught the message before Benny.

"Wait in here while I get the van." Marion ran off while leaving Abernathy to escort his brother into the closed off area at the rear of the building.

Benny wrinkled his nose as he sniffed the air. The aroma of the dumpster held none of the antiseptic qualities that the building's interior possessed. Abernathy just shrugged and said "You get used to it after a while."

There was something strikingly therapeutic about riding away in the van, even if it did clearly state 'City Morgue' in big black letters on each side. Somehow, Benny thought it would smell of death, but no odors lingered from past occupants. Thankfully, there also wasn't the smell of alcohol or antiseptics or any of the other odors associated with the medical arts. Perhaps that's why it smelled of freedom. Hospitals, even doctor offices, gave Benny the creeps. Their tell-tale smells were only to veil the underlying lurid things that took place behind closed doors. And today, all he remembered was collapsing in the bus terminal restroom only to wake up in a strange white room. He had been naked except for a hospital gown and a tube falling from a hanging bag as a mysterious potion was being injected into the vein of his arm. Perhaps those circumstances were a far cry better than dead, but still waking up in those surroundings was unsettling to say the least. But now in the van, with at least his own pants back on, he smelled no discerning odors and there was something reassuring about that.

Benny sat up front in the passenger seat while Simon Abernathy rested comfortably in the back. Unlike Benny, Abernathy, riding on top of the gurney, seemed to find an elevated sense of comfort, spiritually speaking. The smile on his face gave clear indication that he also took solace in the comforts not afforded to him these last few months back in his cardboard box.

For Benny Dugan, the day's events had begun at warp speed, right up until falling into the rabbit hole that altered the exit out of his dead-end life and into something more like the twilight zone. Suddenly it was late Saturday afternoon. The bank had closed for the weekend. Even in his original plan, Benny hadn't counted on leaving the city with the cash anyway. If anything went wrong, he wanted the money safely tucked away. Of course, he hadn't planned on leaving with his current entourage either.

The original plan was simple enough. Get on the bus. Take it to the rest stop. Disappear in the blaze of an explosion. Then hike to the next town. There he would take a cab and disappear from the DelGatti radar. Or at least fly underneath it making it back to the hotel by the bank and wait while his faked death made the news. On Monday morning, he'd call Marion, have him meet him, and together they would ride off into the sunset.

That was the plan before embarking on an alternate fate starting with discovering Marion's shocking secret. Now, Benny's confidence was a little shaky, but his entourage saw a silver lining to his unraveling scheme.

Abernathy had turned over the key once they had a deal. He would triple their money. Guaranteed. It was nothing short of fate as the opportunity of a lifetime waited for him by the end of trading on Monday. Here was a sure sign from the gods of coincidence and destiny. They had delivered unto him a key hidden in a shoe as the answer to his prayers. And if those same gods instead delivered him unto yet another cruel punchline in the game of life, then at least it wasn't his money to begin with. But he wasn't a cheat.

The Dugans accepted the gamble for their own reasons. Benny wanted Marion's dark secret kept buried, especially since DelGatti now had all the leverage he needed to hinder Dugan's plan of making off with his money. Simple blackmail involving implications in a gruesome murder. That surely was what he must be planning.

Without going into details, Marion pleaded with his brother that he was no murderer but he knew who was. He told Benny not to worry. He would fix it. But why trust the gods of fate to act on their behalf when all they needed was for Abernathy to kept his mouth shut? Then no one could prove that either Dugan ever had the contents of the red hat box in their possession. Marion, on the other hand, wanted something else from Abernathy.

Come Monday, they would all go to the bank. The Wiz would set up the buy when the market opened. By lunch, there would be enough money for all of them. Until then, it was back to the hotel down the street from the bank, and quietly wait.

The clerk behind the counter looked puzzled for a moment. Dugan's face was all too familiar from their last encounter, but something else nagged at him. It was like the man experienced a deja vu of some sort and he was trying to process it, but couldn't for the life of him figure out the connection. Didn't he hear the name in some other context today? Something he heard on TV? It just wasn't registering. The TV is always on in the back room. Probably just his mind playing tricks on him. Regardless, there was something odd about this particular guest's return.

"Back so soon, Mr. Dugan?" The clerk tried to keep up appearances that he actually was glad to have him back. Besides, he did pay in advance and with cash. Not a bad tipper either. However since his last stay, which strange in itself had only ended a few hours ago, Benny's appearance had become slightly less noble. More than slightly perhaps. One had to wonder how a man goes from properly dressed, albeit in a less refined set of threads, to sporting an outfit of an open back white gown, complete with suspicious red stains, haphazardly stuffed into his trousers. The clerk also kept a wary eye on Benny's two companions as he completed the process of issuing a room, as if waiting for the pilfering to begin even before granting access to unlimited towels and little bars of soap.

Benny just tried smiling at the man, even if that smile was only something that hovered on top of an underlying grimace. He fought back the pain where the hole in his side had been the intended recipient of the medication which no longer flowed into his arm. In hindsight, leaving the drugs behind during their escape was something he wished he had thought through. The doctor said the wound wasn't as serious as it could have been. He'd definitely survive. He just needed rest. That's what he wanted now. Painless rest.

Marion read through his brother's expressions when he struggled to remove his pants and lie down on one of the two double beds the room offered.

"Simon, I noticed a liquor store around the corner." Marion pulled out his wallet and handed him a twenty. Turning to his brother Marion asked "What kind of booze do you like these days, Benny?"

The look he gave in return said pretty much everything that needed to be said, but he mustered enough strength to tell him "Whatever's the strongest."

"You heard the man, Simon. Go get something for him, please."

Abernathy held the twenty dollar bill in his hands. He didn't react much at first, except to look down at the currency. It had been a while since he held a bill greater than a one or the occasional five that the rare person would offer to him, most likely more for their own spiritual salvation than for any intended benevolence to the recipient. Perhaps it was a weakened self-esteem that fueled a heat he felt across his backside, the source of which surely must be two sets of eyes staring at him in judgment to the wisdom of placing such trust. When he looked up from his hands and into those eyes, all they seemed to say was 'Well, what are you waiting for?'

"Maybe pickup a few fresh bandages as well" added Marion as he handed Abernathy a second twenty. Whispering now, he said "Just help him with whatever he needs, then let him rest. But keep an eye on him. I need to go out for a while. If there's any trouble, call me."

"So, where are you going?" Abernathy wanted to know. "And when will you be back?" There was a lot more at stake than forty dollars and the last thing he wanted was Benny dying on his shift.

"I've got to go in to work" Marion told him. "Clean up a few details."

Then, as if suddenly reminded of a nearly overlooked detail, Marion pulled a small package from out of his pocket. He tore it open and told Abernathy to hold still. Something resembling a hairy worm was in Marion's fingers as he reached for his unwitting accomplice's face. Abernathy pulled back.

"Trust me" Marion calmly said and held the item, and its identifying package, out for inspection.

"What's this for?" Abernathy demanded.

"Just humor me a second." Marion applied the fake mustache, then pulled out his camera. He snapped off a few head shots and re-pocketed the camera. "I'll explain later, but when I get back, I have a little favor I'll need you to do for me."

Around six in the evening was the time when the daily clatter and shuffling of feet, gurneys and file cabinets slowed to a din. Most other remaining activities by those who continued to occupy the morgue's labyrinth of corridors were virtually benign. This was no less true on a weekend night, although as the hours wore on into the evening, on occasion the serenity would become interrupted by what lurked in the darker side of life, and the death it brought through those doors.

Six o'clock was also the time that Marion normally began his shift. It looked like this would be his last. The dark halls and quiet of the night, his companions for the evening tucked away in their refrigerated beds, offered all he needed to balance the otherwise life of solitude he came to prefer. Something in the realm of the macabre for anyone else had seemed like his heaven more than a hell. But beginning with that fateful night a few weeks ago, an inner turmoil of confusion stirred, leaving Marion a little unsettled. The loner wondered if he had allowed his psyche to be clouded by his own dark side that twisted the line between good and bad, right and wrong, not to mention morality versus whatever might be construed as otherwise.

The night in the park across from the Temptation began as any other normal night, at least as normal for anyone who hides in a morgue van to spy on a prostitute, a fantasy love affair that existed only by the bounds of distance. What came next was the equivalent of his bubble of a world having been grabbed and shaken by the violent arm of life he had so intently avoided. When the dust settled, what was up became down and all rules of civilization collided with a sudden burst of passion that cared not of logic. She was gone. But did she have to be? No, came the answer. No, not for him. And after all, he didn't kill her. That was when he ran back to the van only to return a moment later with everything he needed to save Angel from disappearing out of his world. He would never have to be deprived of gazing upon the face of the one he loved. Better yet, he would be able to stare into her mesmerizing eyes without the aid of binoculars The body, on the other hand, would've been just too much to hide.

What he didn't count on was how hard it would be to deal with the internal struggle that came the next day, knowing full well her killer was right there in the next room with the other cop while they all anticipated the arrival of his brother Benny. He had already taken DNA samples, processed them and the results waited in the official file. But until they had a suspect to compare against, the results pointed to no one. He should have done the right thing that morning, but the associated guilt of what he had done kept him silent.

That was then. Now Angel was being taken from him again. Damn the morality. He was nothing short of steaming mad. Tonight, a wrong would be righted. Make that two wrongs.

"Yo, Dugan" came a familiar voice.

"Hello, Franklin. Isn't it time for you to go home?"

Joe Franklin worked in the office. He normally left before six, but tonight he had been delayed while searching the daily records.

"I'm on my way out," Franklin said, "but I'm glad you're here." He gave a hard look of concern when he explained. "Look, Marion. I received a phone call from a Red DelGatti a little earlier. He was requesting a death certificate for a Benny Dugan. Is that a relative of yours?"

"Yeah" Marion said as calmly as he could. Cool as a cucumber as if brothers die every day. "My long lost brother."

Franklin didn't understand how a brother could be so unfeeling, but then again he already knew Marion Dugan for the odd duck that he was. "Oh. I didn't know you had a brother."

Marion just smiled, hoping the man would just go away, but then Franklin told him the rest.

"The thing is, the story this DelGatti gave about an explosion and DNA identifying the body doesn't seem to be in our records. What do you know about it?"

"Yeah, I know about it" Marion was quick to admit, and the rest just came easy. "As soon as I found out, I told them I wanted to handle it. I have the tests results and plan to finish the paperwork tonight."

"Oh. OK then." Franklin stared in awe at the numbness which Marion exhibited while divulging his knowledge. To Marion, the words sounded like a plausible explanation, however strange the circumstances of a sibling's death may have appeared to his co-worker. Shaking his head, Franklin turned and pushed the door open. "See ya, Dugan."

With Franklin gone, Marion let his brain go over this new lot of information. It came together quickly. Yes. This could work to his advantage. Originally, he had concocted a role for his new friend Abernathy to play. He needed the picture to create the fake ID. Name: Danny Simpson. CSI and Morgue Special Agent, Disease Control Division. 'Sorry, Mr. DelGatti, but we have information that in your possession is a certain body part we desperately need back. It carries a highly contagious and deadly disease.' Or something like that. He had been still working on the details. But now, the details of his little scam were quite clear.

First, he would create the file, including copies of his dear departed brother's death certificate. Second, there was the matter of another file, the one of an open murder investigation. It already contained the DNA test already having been run with a sample from the corpse's body. They just needed a suspect and his DNA to be proven a match. Marion also ran a second test with a discarded item of Brogan's. He would write an anonymous letter, one instructing just from whom to collect a DNA sample, one that was guaranteed to be a perfect match, then make sure the document fell into the right hands come morning. Brogan would be defenseless by his own costly mistake. Even though he was assigned to the case, he had let his partner Harriman investigate the crime scene. Brogan wouldn't be able to add speculation that he contaminated the crime scene if he hadn't been there. At least not after the fact.

And then there was the last order of business to conduct, one which utilized Marion's computer talents which he had parlayed into a little hobby exercised from time to time, just for fun. However tonight, they served a higher purpose : create Abernathy's fake badge and Benny's new identity. Nate Mason, formally known as Nate "Scruffy" Mason wouldn't be needing it anymore.

Nurse Megan Callahan was a woman who had been at her job at City General Hospital for twenty years. She, along with most of the others assigned to the ward, had grown comfortable in the mundane rigors of her duties that moved at a pace commensurate with the non-life threatening wounds she attended. With as much grace as could be accomplished under the pressure put upon her, her fingers ran across the keyboard moving from one screen to the next in a frantic search for information, any information that she could use to defuse the detective's near abusive demands for an answer. "There doesn't seem to be any record of his release" she finally had to admit to Brogan.

"How can this be? How easy is it for a patient to just walk out of here without anyone noticing?"

Brogan towered over her as Nurse Callahan, all of five foot two with a disproportionate girth, cowered behind the computer monitor, hunched down in her chair, as if the added distance such a posture afforded would help protect her. There wasn't much else to say. She looked up to him and admitted sheepishly, "It happens."

Unbelievable, that's what Brogan thought. The scene proved to be only the first in a series of stops that day to mount his frustration to increasingly greater heights.

The next stop was back to the bus terminal. The woman behind the counter, with no less ability to navigate the system than the nurse back at the hospital, but with a demeanor considerably more attuned to dealing with the likes of Brogan, informed the detective that, yes, a Benny Dugan did have a reservation on route 1202 that morning. And yes, it was scheduled to stop at the scenic turnout. "That was pretty awful wasn't it detective? At least the bus had pulled away before Dugan got blown to bits." She just shook her head, relaying her dismay at the details of just another tragic story that had made it on the news, as if it didn't mean anything more to her than any story of a massive bus accident in the rural mountains of Peru.

"But was he on the bus?" That's what Brogan wanted to know.

"I guess so. They were able to identify him weren't they?"

"That's the story, but don't you people account for your passengers, some check in procedure, ticket collection or something?"

"Yeah, I would think so." she said. The look on her face said she was a little unsure as if the question ever arose before. After punching the keyboard again, she added "Huh. I guess they don't computerize those records. After all, no one has ever hijacked one of our buses before. She checked the system one more time. "Nope, no record of that either."

Unbelievable. He was getting nowhere. Maybe he should have another chat with the bum, he thought. Maybe Abernathy saw or heard something else during his encounters with Dugan.

When he reached the now abandoned habitat, formerly the home of Simon "the Wiz" Abernathy, his neighbors, having already claimed the salvageable items left behind, informed the cop that their friend had apparently, with all the strange goings on as of late, moved on to greener pastures. Considering the state of the neighborhood, he didn't question the logic of a move of venue.

Brogan was now desperate. He drove to the Temptation Hotel knowing full well Dugan wouldn't be there, but maybe, just maybe somebody knew something. Only what he found when he got there was not the same brothel he was used to. Usually a place with an upbeat attitude, even if acted out for its patrons, on this day a dark and somber atmosphere pervaded as the girls grieved at the news of their pimp's demise. No one had seen him since leaving for the special party the night before. The girls that had accompanied him last night told Brogan they had returned only after the Hogan brothers realized Dugan was missing. This was one little detail that DelGatti had failed to mention. Why was Dugan on the run from DelGatti? It wasn't about Angel. It was something else. Too many unanswered questions kept clouding his head.

"So, where have you been?"

Benny ended up lying down on a sofa in the front room of their two room hotel suite. The light was off while he attempted to get some undisturbed rest. A bed in the next room held a sprawling Simon Abernathy.

The man who still liked to be called the Wiz had made himself comfortable by lying next to the one he was charged with looking after while Marion took care of business. The Wiz had commandeered the TV and settled on a Saturday evening low budget B-movie. After an hour, his composed posture crept steadily into a free-form stretch of arms and legs until he came to resemble some abstract live performance art, complete with musical score emanating from deep within his throat and nasal passages as he slept.

Benny couldn't take Abernathy anymore. Luckily the little hole in his side steadily continued to heal and movement became less painful. He had made his way into the front room where he must have managed to fall asleep on the sofa even without straining to pull out the hide-a-bed. When Marion returned around ten o'clock, the light that abruptly rushed into the room from the hotel hallway, along with his brother's unveiled footsteps, broke the dream where Benny stood on top of a dumpster, a huddle of hobos surrounding the perimeter. Had the dream reached its conclusion, he would have suddenly remembered the backpack just before disappearing in an explosion.

"I had to take care of a few things before morning" Marion replied to his brother's inquiry as to his disappearance over the last few hours.

"You went to work?"

"Yes" he said matter-of-factly. "And no."

Benny gave his brother the same look that he had offered a number of times through the years, the look that comes with the lack of understanding of his brother's mysterious ways.

"Here" Marion said as he handed his brother a manilla envelope.

"What's this?"

"It's the new you."

Benny removed the contents by allowing them to spread across the vacant half of the sofa. As he spread out the pile, his new persona came into view. A driver's license, Social Security card, and other forms of ID. Benny's picture appeared in all the appropriate places but the name on all the documents was not his own. At least, it hadn't been until now.

Abernathy woke from his slumber, no doubt filled with his own set of dreams. However his, unlike Benny's which were filled with metaphor of anxiety and fear, most likely placed him in a world of long neglected bliss. The third member of their newly formed gang appeared in the doorway.

"Just what is all this?" Benny still wanted to know.

"You're dead, remember" his brother reminded him. "This is the new you."

"What's going on?" Abernathy piped in, still groggy from sleep.

"Here, Simon." Marion tossed him another envelope. "I have something for you too."

Benny held the driver's license in his hand and examined the information. "Nathaniel Mason" he read aloud, although quietly and mostly to himself.

Abernathy took out an ID card with his picture that Marion had taken earlier. The card identified him as Danny Simpson, CSI Agent. The fake ID was confusing to him. What did Marion have up his sleeve?

Abernathy's attention abruptly shifted back across the room. The question took a backseat to another when after a momentary delay, the name, uttered under Benny Dugan's breath as he held the new driver's license, made the final journey from Abernathy's ears to his brain.

"Nathaniel Mason?" There was a sense of shock as well as concern in his voice. "Nate Mason, as in Nate "Scruffy" Mason?"

"Why?" Marion calmly asked, but maybe a little worried now that he picked the wrong guy. "Do you know him?"

"Yeah. He lived at the bus station, that is until a few days ago when he wandered off and never came back."

"I'm afraid your friend was found this afternoon. Looks like a heart attack. They did a search on Mason based on the ID he had on him, but there was no known address. The morgue figured he was homeless from his appearance. I took the liberty of expediting the matter. I faked a signature of a relative and filled out a release for the disposal of the body. As far as his identity, I didn't think he would be needing it anymore."

Abernathy, resigned that Marion's actions were of no consequence considering what he knew of Scruffy, turned back to the ID in his hand. "And what's with this?"

"That concerns the little favor I said I would need you to do for me as part of our deal."

"So, you had a busy evening, I see?" Benny said.

"Yeah. I also took care of Angel's murder investigation. It won't be unsolved very much longer. I never told you, but I was there that night. I saw Detective Brogan kill her."

"Brogan? But I thought... that is you had her, uh, you know, head."

"Yeah. That's a little longer story, but not to worry. Brogan's DNA was on her body, and come morning, that bit of information will be in the right hands."

"Well, that will make DelGatti happy. Brogan has been extorting money from him for years."

Interesting, Marion thought. Every little bit helps.

Brogan awoke Sunday morning to a slight headache. He climbed out of bed feeling like one of the walking dead. The portrait in the mirror did nothing to alter how he felt. The view served only to confirm it. Sleep had not come without its perils. His mind had not been able to close the door on the world that seemed to spin out of his control, a strange feeling for a man who thought he held the world, at least his corner of it, firmly by the balls. Now it seems that DelGatti was the one putting on the squeeze. That was bad enough, but morning had not managed to clear his head of the nagging questions that came with DelGatti's demands.

At this point he felt nothing would be better than to find Dugan lying dead somewhere. That would at least tie his problems up in a neat package that he could deliver. Then he could collect another package with the sole intent of making it disappear. Feeling the pressure, a sense that fate would somehow play in his favor didn't offer a promising vibe. Maybe that was why the obvious alluded him until now.

The news said the authorities had DNA evidence from the explosion. When he remembered this little nugget of information, he called the morgue. After a few minutes on hold, the person on the phone told him that the evidence had been processed and he should come down to the morgue. His partner Harriman was already on the way.

Leave it to Harriman. Too good of a cop for his own good. Now he needed to hurry downtown. Brogan cupped his hands together and splashed cold water on his face. The griminess was still there, only now, having washed away the film over his eyes that the devils of night leave behind, the shadow of death within those eyes showed through ever brighter.

The van came to a stop just down from the gate to the DelGatti compound. The street saw little traffic except for those who lived in the nearby lofty residences adjoining the gangster's property. It was a neighborhood where everyone learned to mind their own business, even when a white van with 'City Morgue' in big black letters painted on the side pulled up and parked in their midst. The driver crouched down low and stayed behind the wheel. The passenger side door opened, and a man in a cap got out carrying a legal sized envelope. He ran his finger across his lips, feeling the unaccustomed fur for one last check that it was firmly in place. Then he walked over to the gate and pressed the button on the call box. There was only a brief delay before his presence was acknowledged.

"Yeah. Who is it?"

"Danny Simpson. I'm with CSI and have what you requested from the morgue. Benny Dugan's death certificate."

Well, that's some kind of service, DelGatti thought, though the strangeness of such an accommodation from a government service did not go unquestioned. Still, he pushed the button on his computer and the gate buzzed open.

Sammy Hogan escorted the visitor towards Red DelGatti's office. Abernathy was playing his part pretty well, even as nervous as he was. The thug however was the one man he hoped would be conveniently absent. There would be too much explaining if DelGatti's goon recognized him. So he walked confidently, just thinking of Superman. He tried to look calm and smiled as Hogan turned to gaze over his shoulder a few times while leading the visitor down the hall. Sammy Hogan looked quizzically at him, then finally asked "Have we met?"

Uh, oh. Did he recognize him? Stay cool, Abernathy told himself. "Maybe. You ever been to the morgue?"

"Yeah. A few times."

"That's probably it then."

Hogan seemed satisfied. Abernathy felt relief and no small amount of awe in the effectiveness of such a little disguise. A fake mustache and a cap. Hell, why not. Superman did it with only a pair of glasses.

"Does every request for a death certificate come with delivery service?" DelGatti asked after checking the man's credentials. "Besides, it seems like an odd job for a Crime Scene Investigator to carry out."

"I'm here as a favor for the morgue boys. They asked me to drop it off since I was coming anyway."

"Oh? For what other purpose could you possibly need to see me?"

"It's come to our attention that you have a missing piece, as it were, of evidence we need to convict a Detective Brogan on murder charges."

"Yeah?" DelGatti gave a disdainful look to Sammy Hogan, the one who had, obviously none too discreetly, brought the box to him in the first place. "How do you know this?"

"We've had surveillance on Brogan. We know he is a dirty cop and has been extorting you. If you could give us the box, we can promise Brogan won't be bothering you again."

DelGatti thought it over. If Dugan was dead, he didn't want the damn box anyway, or more specifically, what was inside. Getting Brogan off his back would be an unexpected benefit.

Five minutes later, Simon Abernathy was back in the van. He removed the itchy disguise along with all the tension his body kept pent up while he gave the performance of his life.

" I think maybe I've been missing my true calling." Abernathy said while Marion Dugan looked questionably at his sidekick. "Pacino doesn't have anything on me."

As they drove away, Marion's face betrayed him as he let seep out a wave of emotion rarely offered in public. He was a happy man. A happy, happy derelict of a man. And it had nothing to do with the thespian arts.

About the same time:

Brogan met up with a waiting Harriman in the outer office of the morgue, just inside the double swinging doors, the same place where the two of them had last waited for Benny Dugan to arrive and identify the body.

"So, what's the story, partner?"

Harriman didn't get up from where he sat on the far side of the desk. He didn't say a word. He took the report in the black folder that rested by his side and tossed it to the other end of the desk so as to lure the man closer. Brogan took the bait, picked up the folder and perused through the information neatly displayed within two sheets of paper. He went from one page to the next and back again. Brogan was stunned by what he saw, so much so that he didn't notice the glint of metal in one of Harriman's hands. Not until it was too late to react did he feel his wrist being firmly grabbed by his now ex-partner.

"Clarence Brogan, you are under arrest for the murder of Angel Donovan. You have the right to remain silent...."

"Hold it, Harriman. Where'd you get this?"

"The tests have been validated, Brogan. There is no doubt. The DNA from hair samples they took from the body at the scene match yours. And you, supposedly, weren't at the scene. At least not for the investigation."

"How do you know it's mine? I never submitted a sample." Brogan was flipping back and forth between the two pages, frantically searching for a loophole. When he looked back to what used to be his partner, he had his answer to the question. Harriman held up a small specimen bag, dated and identified with Brogan's name on it. Through the clear plastic, plainly seen was a lone toothpick, like many that Brogan had left behind in his wake.

Brogan's brain sped through a myriad of thoughts and decided what he had to do. What was once something he feared could come back to haunt him, now was his one card left to play. "There's something that you don't know. Benny Dugan was seen trying to dispose of the girl's head that has been missing. It was just yesterday at the dumpster behind the bus station. Then, the eye witness said, one of Red DelGatti's goons retrieved it from the dumpster."

"What eye witness? Why are you waiting until now to tell anyone, Brogan?"

"I just found out earlier today."

"OK. Let's go talk to your eye witness then."

"Yeah, well....small problem with that, Harriman. He seems to have disappeared."

"Uh huh. How convenient for you." Harriman pulled on Brogan's manacled hands and forcefully lead him toward the door.

"Let's go talk to DelGatti" pleaded Brogan. "He'll tell you."

Not breaking stride, Harriman said "OK, I'll do that. But in the meantime, you're going downtown for safe keeping.

"I guess I'm going to have to start keeping a supply of donuts around here" DelGatti told his guest. "You're the third cop here this weekend."

"Third time's a charm, isn't that right, DelGatti?" came Harriman's quick attempt at wit. He then proceeded to explain his reason for the visit, starting with what they had on Brogan as well as Brogan's accusations. How Benny Dugan was seen at the dumpster. How one of his men made off with what he threw away. "And now," Harriman said, "supposedly you have it."

Brogan's accusations were all true, but to wrap this whole fiasco up neatly with a bow, DelGatti decided a little tweaking in the story was in order, something to go along with the last cop's story.

"Well, Detective Harriman, it's true my boy did bring home a little gift from the trash, for whatever ungodly reason I have yet to figure out, but he said it was Brogan that threw the box away, not Dugan, may he rest in peace. Or should I say pieces." DelGatti broke into a snicker with a grin that did nothing to alter Harriman's stone cold sober and locked-in serious face. So he continued. "You just missed your CSI associate by a few hours. Simpson. A Danny Simpson beat you to it. He came and took the girl's head."

"Simpson, huh?" That's interesting." It was interesting that Brogan didn't share that information. After all, Brogan and Simpson were best buddies. Two proverbial peas in the pod." OK, Mr. DelGatti. Sorry to have disturbed you."

First thing Monday morning, the Dugan brothers and Abernathy went to the bank. They retrieved the money from the safe deposit box and wired it to an account under the name of Nate Mason. Abernathy placed the buy order. For the rest of the day, they would wait it out in the hotel. Benny, while still sore, was getting his strength back. He'd just have to take it easy for a while. The next six hours or so, time was spent keeping a close eye on the trading of stock for Zyman Innovations. For quite a while, only minor activity took place. The selling price went down as much as up. Through it all, Abernathy told the Dugans to kept the faith. His source said the announcement of their breakthrough would be sometime around noon today.

His source proved to be worth Abernathy's trust. By end of trading, the few hundred thousand dollars that Dugan stashed at the bank turned into nearly a million. Abernathy took his cut. One third of a million dollars. He was back in the game thanks to the two men who made it possible.

Meanwhile, Harriman had gone to talk to Simpson. The CSI man appeared to put on a good act. "I don't know what you're talking about" he had told Harriman. But there would be an investigation. Of course, the remnant of Angel wouldn't be found, but DelGatti said he would testify that it definitely was Simpson who came to his place that day. He said he would recognize that mustache anywhere. The prosecution would contend that Simpson committed obstruction of justice trying to cover up his buddy's tracks.

The Dugans closed the trading account that had been opened under Benny's new name. No sense pushing their luck. Two-thirds of a million would last them a long time. Why take the chance of losing any of it. They put most of the money in an interest bearing account and pocketed ten thousand or so for walking around money. And driving around money. They packed the car only with what they needed to get by, mostly what they bought that evening because going back to the Temptation Hotel, or chancing a stop at Marion's place, was a risk not worth taking. The brothers, after so many years, were bonding again. They decided on somewhere near the ocean as a mutually agreed upon place to start new lives.

Marion drove as they pulled away from the hotel. Feeling good, he let a hint of a smile lift the corners of his mouth as his brother sat quietly without outwardly emotion. But then there was a slight rattle coming from the trunk as the wheels bounced over a few bumps. Benny's expression quickly changed, gaving a look of concern. It would be just his luck to have car problems before even passing the city limits. More likely it could have been any number of loosely packed items, or specifically, something being jostled inside a box. "I'm sure it's nothing" Marion said and then turned up the radio before Benny, make that Nate Mason, could give it another thought.

A month later, the brothers were lying in their respective hammocks behind the beach house where they now lived. The gentle breezes blew the sweet smell of the ocean toward them as they sipped cocktails of rum and exotic blends of colorful fruit juice.

Two men pulled up to the front of the house. When they went to the door and rang the bell, no one came to answer. But these men were not the type to give up so easily. Walking around back, they found the two residents enjoying life as if they didn't have a care in the world. However, the sudden appearance of the strangers caused the brothers to abruptly sit up.

"Nate Mason?" one man asked.

Marion had to nudge his brother since he apparently had momentarily forgotten who he was.

"Uh, yes" Benny said. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm Agent Nix. This is Agent Burrows. We're from the Securities and Exchange Commission."

"Oh?"

"Mr. Mason, we'd like to talk to you about your recent good fortune."

Both brothers stood there with empty expressions on their faces, truly unaware of what was about to come.

Agent Nix tried reading the men before him. They acted cool as a cucumber, but he'd seen it all before. "I just hope I don't have to remind you of what a serious crime insider trading is."

"Oh?" The blank stares persisted for a moment. Insider trading? Until Abernathy came into their lives, trading stock was something only rich people did. But the term began to ring a bell. They had heard it many times in the news. And then the realization hit.

Oh, hell. Just Dugan's luck.

###

About the author:

Howard Freedman received the writing bug a little later in life. He has been writing fiction for about ten years, or for about a sixth of his life. (Do the math.) Earlier work is of the short story genre, but later stories became a little more long winded so novelette is probably a bit more of an appropriate designation. Prior to delving into creative writing, his artistic endeavors were focused more on creative photography, as evident of the cover images created for his publications. A good share of his work is somewhat sci-fi, often Twilight Zone-ish but written in a style that transcends the underlying genre attracting a wide audience. Howard lives in Lawrence, KS with his wife and two (currently) dogs.

Additional titles are available on his profile page at Smashwords.

Through his website, http://www.howardfreedman.com , there is a previous novella in ebook format, a collection of earlier short stories in paperback as well as digital, not to mention collections of his photo-art.
