

PORCHBALL

by

Michael Bronte

Copyright ©: Michael Bronte

All Rights Reserved

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

To Gail, who has always encouraged me.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1 Over The Mountain

CHAPTER 2 The Showboat

CHAPTER 3 Message Absorbed

CHAPTER 4 Friday, August 15th

CHAPTER 5 Enough

CHAPTER 6 The Crosstown

CHAPTER 7 Winding Down, Winding Up

CHAPTER 8 The Rules

CHAPTER 9 The Drive

CHAPTER 10 Maxine

CHAPTER 11 Setting Up

CHAPTER 12 One-thirty, One-forty

CHAPTER 13 Teddy K's

CHAPTER 14 Porchball

CHAPTER 15 A Rubber?

CHAPTER 16 Strange Bedfellows

CHAPTER 17 The Favor

CHAPTER 18 Going North

CHAPTER 19 Coming Together

CHAPTER 20 Clouds

CHAPTER 21 Getting Deeper and Deeper

CHAPTER 22 Playing For Keeps

CHAPTER 23 Good Little Boy

CHAPTER 24 Cat With Four Lives

CHAPTER 25 Homecoming

CHAPTER 26 What a Great Country

CHAPTER 27 Good Ones

CHAPTER 28 A Blanket of Ants

CHAPTER 29 Good Guys Finish Last

CHAPTER 30 Good Intentions

CHAPTER 31 The Long Black Caddy

CHAPTER 32 Loyalty

CHAPTER 33 Girls With Balls

CHAPTER 34 Letting the Blade Fall

CHAPTER 35 Northgate Mall

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 1 Over The Mountain

Brownie took in the new car smell and took a whiff of his pits as he waited for Badge to come back. It was hot, real hot for the Berkshires, and it wouldn't be good to smell bad where they were headed. Badge was back in a flash, yanking a couple of longnecks from the six-pack he'd just bought.

"There's a church key in the bag," said Badge.

Brownie popped the tops off two of the big brown beauties and took a long pull. "God that's good," he said as he wiped some frost off the bottle. "It's so cold it barely fizzes on the way down." The beer helped cool the heated excitement that still bubbled inside him from the day's events. They drank in silence for a few long minutes as they motored toward their destination.

"What did you think of that procession this morning?" Brownie asked when it seemed as if one of them should say something.

Badge chugged the rest of his beer and passed his empty bottle. "I thought it was weird."

Brownie traded the empty bottle for a full one. "Thirsty?"

"Don't want them to get warm."

"Don't forget you're driving."

"Relax, Mister Sensible. Who's gonna catch us? Those cows over there?"

Brownie sneered and leaned back, letting the air dry the sweat off his skin as it blew through the brand new 1969 Impala Badge's parents had bought a couple of weeks ago. The air was cooler over the mountain, thick with the smell of farmland. "Sure was a long procession," he said, getting back to the subject of Tommy Rudin's funeral. He pictured the string of shiny cars as they glided past the community center while he and the rest of the team waited for the team bus to arrive earlier that afternoon. Car after car passed, headlights on, their tires rolling quiet over the grainy asphalt; the loudest noise was the thunderous rustling of the trees. He could still see the fluttering American flags on the lead car as it rolled eerily past the nuns gathered under the huge maple in front of Mount Carmel Church. They were silent as well, their heads bowed as the car passed, heavy rosaries swaying in rhythm with the trees as if in song.

Wondering if the bus had shown up yet, "What's going on," some of the other players asked as they came out of the community center. The only answer was another gust of wind through the trees. It was as if God himself was protesting Tommy's death.

"Who was that woman?" Brownie asked, meaning the one they passed outside the cemetery gates when the bus rolled through town after the procession. The placard she carried had but a single word painted on it. "Why?" it questioned.

Badge said, "Beats me. Sure gave me the willies though."

Indeed, it was a cold awakening for a lot of the guys, and they talked about it all the way to Pittsfield instead of concentrating on the game they were about to play. None of them had known anyone who'd been killed in Vietnam before.

"It all seems so stupid," Brownie went on. "Even the guys at the lumberyard think so. Crazy Popsie must have asked me a dozen times yesterday, 'Why did Tommy get killed, Brownie? I don't understand why he had to go over there anyway. Why did Tommy get killed? Are you going to go to Vietnam and get killed, Brownie?'"

"What did you tell him?"

"I just told him to shut up and stack his bark slabs, but it's still bothering me. Why did Tommy get killed?"

"No deferment," Badge answered. "We won't have to worry about that. Guys who go to college get deferments; 2-Ss: no army, no war, no death."

Brownie said, "I heard an anti-tank shell exploded in the middle of Tommy's chest as he walked through the elephant grass."

Badge just looked through the windshield. "You're getting a 2-S. Don't worry about it."

To Brownie, the deferment meant more than simply being excused from the draft, however. He had it all mapped out. First he'd play ball at Alliance in the spring—he'd try out at third base maybe, but he might think about pitching if his fastball was good enough. After that, he'd try and play in the Cape League next summer. That's where the pro scouts went when the college seasons were over. With a good tryout and any luck... who knew? For a second, he even pictured himself in a Red Sox uniform.

There were other things, however, that he wasn't so clear on. One of them was the inexplicable guilt he felt for taking that 2-S college deferment. Maybe it was just him, but the thought crossed his mind more than once that maybe he was less of a man than the guys who didn't get deferments and had to go and do their duty, even if it involved going to Vietnam. Remembering the procession, he certainly didn't want to end up like Tommy Rudin, however, but not everyone who went to Vietnam got killed. On the other hand, it was an immoral war, wasn't it? There sure were a lot of people saying that. It all seemed so confusing.

"Did you hear that someone spray-painted the word PIGS on the wall outside the police station?"

"Some freaks did it," Badge said through a juicy belch.

"How do you know?"

"Trust me, I know."

Brownie believed him. He'd seen Badge hanging out with a few longhaired hippie types recently. "Hey Badge, have you ever smoked any grass?"

"Sure. Who hasn't?"

"Aren't you worried about getting caught?"

Pulling back on his windblown hair, Badge said, "Who gives a shit? Let's talk about something else."

That was Badge's answer to a lot of things lately, especially since he'd grown his hair longer. Badge's recently acquired hippie-ish look didn't suit him, Brownie thought. Most of those hippie guys were real scrawny-looking. Badge wasn't.

"Did Marcia say anything to you today after the game?"

Badge passed his second empty bottle. "About what?"

"About her graduation party."

"I don't give a shit about her party. Hand me another beer."

"We'll be at the Showboat in another fifteen minutes."

"Just gimme the fucking beer if you're not gonna drink it."

Badge could be a real jerk sometimes. Marcia Adams was Badge's on again-off again girlfriend—when he wasn't pissing her off. She was a cheerleader and probably the smartest girl in school. Brownie pictured her in her cheerleader's sweater with the big, bouncing Mawconak High School M on it. He would have given anything to get a peek at what was underneath that sweater.

"How's your arm?" Badge asked, changing the subject again. "Sore."

"Have another beer. It may not make it feel better, but after another one or two of those, you won't care."

Badge had a point, and Brownie cracked open another longneck. He guzzled it quickly as they churned along Route 20 from the Massachusetts side toward the Showboat in New Lebanon, which was on the New York side. It was in January of that year that New York lowered its drinking age, and with Fallston only eighteen miles from the New York State line, it was as if God said, "Go forth, and be shitfaced." The trip to legalized sauce was called the trip over the mountain.

Badge said they were going over the mountain to drown their sorrows. They'd lost the county championship to Pittsfield that afternoon when Mousy Pellegrino launched a three-run shot in the tenth inning. Brownie figured surely that ball was still orbiting the globe. He'd pitched his heart out the whole game, and the only mistake he'd made was throwing Mousy that fastball. He should have listened to Badge. He'd shaken off the curve twice when Badge came out to the mound, pulled off his catcher's mask, and asked him if he'd caught any good beaver shots in the stands.

Brownie grinned widely. "Beaver shots?" Mousy must have thought they were laughing at him when they started chuckling, but it was just Badge's way of getting Brownie to relax.

"Just wanted to make sure you were loose," Badge said as he hawked a big spit wad into the dirt at Brownie's feet. "Throwing Mousy a fastball might be a mistake. You really think you can throw it by him?"

"I think he might be sitting on another curve," Brownie replied, really having no idea.

Badge spat into the dirt again. "Well, no balls, no glory. Let it fly, hotshot."

Brownie let go with everything he had, but Badge was right. He could still hear the hiss as the ball tunneled through the atmosphere into Mousy's kitchen. Brownie didn't even turn around when he heard the incredibly loud sound of Mousy's bat striking the ball, knowing instantly that if the ball didn't go over the fence, it would go through it.

They rolled into the Showboat parking lot—just a big field, really—just as they finished the six-pack. Badge drank four, Brownie two, and he was already buzzed. "I gotta pee," Brownie said, turning toward tree line at the edge of the field where he could relieve himself. The sun was down, and a cool dew had already formed on the ankle-high grass. Even though it wasn't his car, he took a long look at the brand-new Impala as he walked around it, praying that nothing happen to it as car after car rumbled past him into the field. Having to explain away a dent or a scratch to Badge's parents was a totally unappetizing scenario. He'd rather take his chances in the elephant grass half a world away.

CHAPTER 2 The Showboat

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida blasted from the Showboat, echoing off the trees at the edge of the field. On his way back to the car, Brownie saw someone leaning against the Impala with Badge.

Badge gave his newfound friend a hug and said, "I'll see you inside."

"Who the hell was that?" Brownie asked.

"My cousin."

"Yeah, right."

"No really. I'll introduce you when we get inside."

"Hey Badge," someone yelled. Brownie turned to see Mousy Pellegrino walking toward them. "Good game today. You guys want a beer?"

"Sure," said Badge.

Looking at Brownie, Mousy added with a cocky grin, "Sorry I had to ruin your day, sport."

Brownie didn't know Mousy very well, but he knew Mousy and Badge had become acquainted over the last couple of years. They were both all-county athletes, and Brownie wasn't part of their mutual admiration club. They followed Mousy back to his black GTO, where two of Mousy's friends pulled some beers out of a cooler. Badge chugged an entire beer in one pass, tossing the empty can into the trunk. Not to be outdone, Mousy's can was close behind. Brownie downed half his can, knowing he was already approaching his limit and wondering how those guys could chug like that.

"Wanna go inside?" Mousy asked.

Badge said, "Sure," and they hauled off toward the Showboat.

Brownie downed the rest of his beer and ran to catch up, struggling to hear the conversation as the music got louder and louder. Mousy commented on Badge's choice of schools.

"You got into Alliance? That sounds more like Brownie's kind of school."

Screw you, thought Brownie, rankled at the implication that somehow getting good grades meant he was less of a ballplayer. He was as good as Mousy, maybe even as good as Badge.

"Did you apply to UMass?" Mousy asked Badge, acting as if Brownie wasn't even there.

"Yeah, but my old man is pushing me toward Alliance. I'm not sure I want any part of it. I think I'd rather just get a job and make some money."

Mousy shook his head. "Yeah, but you'd probably get drafted and end up in 'Nam. Ya gotta either get a 2-S, or knock up a chick, or ka-pow." Mousy made a gun with his thumb and forefinger.

It had been a big day in the Brown household when Brownie got his acceptance letter. Badge, on the other hand, almost seemed let down.

Inside, they fought their way through the tight crowd. Just like the name indicated, the place was shaped like a huge boat, with a horseshoe bar at the bow, and a stage at the stern, where a band played above the jammed dance floor. The lead guitarist's giant Afro made it look like he was peeking through a hedge, and the female singer's breasts wobbled underneath a purple tie-dyed t-shirt as she belted out a Janis Joplin song. Brownie felt the notes from the bass guitar thud against his chest.

Badge headed straight for the bar and got three more beers. Not interested in further ego-matching, Brownie took his beer and decided to move off and check things out. There were girls with headbands there, he noticed. Badge said girls who wore headbands screwed, and girls who wore headbands and knee socks would screw them both. He wondered how Badge knew about such things. He recognized some of the faces as he cruised around, and was surprised when someone yelled, "Great game today Brownie." He didn't know who said it specifically, but it made him feel good to know that someone recognized the effort. He turned to say thanks, bumping straight into someone whose drink splashed all over his shirt.

"Hey, no turn signal," she said, brushing the drink off his chest. "I guess you'll have to buy me another one."

Was she serious? thought Brownie.

"That was some game you played out there. Too bad you threw that fastball. Mousy couldn't hit a curve to save his life."

"It sounds like you know something about baseball," Brownie stammered. Inside, his mind raced. She was acting like she knew him, and he really liked the way she touched his chest. She wasn't wearing a headband.

"I should. When I was little, my dad thought I would change into a boy if he played ball with me often enough. Our whole family is full of great ballplayers. Mark is one of them."

"Mark? Are you Badge's cousin? He said he was going to introduce me, uh... us." Brownie thought: what a line that was, but she was smiling. It was hard to tell if she was smiling at him, exactly, but what the hell: smiling was good. He also noticed she was wearing an expensive-looking, red, V-neck sweater, with a single gold chain dangling teasingly into the swell underneath the V. Her skirt didn't hide much of her deeply tanned legs either. He was a very observant person.

"Actually, we've met before. Do you remember the 4th of July at Mark's house a couple of summers ago, when that huge storm came up out of nowhere and broke up the softball game?"

"Yeah, the big maple tree got hit by lightning."

"That's right. I was there, but you probably don't remember. I had the ugliest braces. It looked like I was trying to swallow a TV antenna." She smiled coyly. "I thought you looked cute trying to throw the ball harder than Mark."

Cute? Cute wasn't bad, thought Brownie. And he wasn't nervous at all—not the way he usually was around girls, but usually he wasn't three-quarters bombed either.

"Are you here alone?" he asked boldly, hoping he didn't sound like a total dink.

"Just with some kids from school," she said. "I've never been over the mountain before. This place is great." The band struck up a tune by Three Dog Night. "Oh, I love this song. C'mon, let's dance." He dropped his beer on the nearest table as she pulled him through the crowd.

She looked great on the dance floor, he observed lustfully, noting that she didn't have a straight line on her entire body. The band went into another song, and they both continued without stopping. Brownie thought himself to be decent on the dance floor, certainly capable of getting through a couple of songs without looking like a total spaz. The lead guitarist went into a solo, and Brownie rocked to the steamy notes as if he was the only one out there. Slowly, the bass drum took over and the bass guitar joined in, the beginning of a sweaty, ten-minute musical assault. Steady, rhythmic, constant, it went on and on until the keyboards brought back the original melody, beaming the searing notes into the crowd. The female vocalist pumped the crescendo to its peak before the song slammed to a halt, leaving everyone on the dance floor sweaty and cheering at the masterful performance. The Showboat was on fire.

"That was great!" she said, fanning herself with both hands.

"Sure was," said Brownie, feeling his shirt clinging to his back as he looked for the bottle he'd set down earlier. "Would you like a drink?" he asked, not finding it. He needed another beer like he needed another foot.

"I told you earlier: you owe me one."

She took his arm as they made their way to the horseshoe bar, and he liked it. He ordered two Schlitzes, handing her one. They clinked bottles.

"To college," she toasted.

"To college," he toasted back, downing a third of his beer in one pull. "Where are you off to?"

"Vandermont, in Saratoga. It's an all-girls school."

"I know the school," Brownie said, thinking he'd heard of it somewhere. "Good school."

"You know, you won't be too far away at Alliance."

"How did you know I was going to Alliance?"

"Mark told me. One of the main reasons he's going there is because of you. I don't think he's too crazy about going to college. He thinks his parents are forcing him into it."

"He told you that?"

"In so many words."

Brownie nodded politely, but he really didn't want to talk about Badge. Trying to steer the conversation, "I guess you were at the game today. Do you go to Pittsfield High?"

"Yeah, but I can't wait to graduate."

"Why's that?"

"For the independence, I guess. I'm tired of playing twenty questions with my parents every night. You know how it is. If you get in ten minutes past curfew it's, 'Where have you been? Who did you go with?' You'd think I was a little kid."

She was no little kid, thought Brownie. "Do your parents know you're here?"

"Are you kidding? My dad would kill me, especially if he knew I was drinking beer." She took tiny sip. "Maybe he'll be asleep when I get in."

"Geez, I didn't mean to get you into trouble. I mean, I could get you a Coke or something. I mean, I didn't mean to force you to...." Brownie thought he sounded drunk.

"Relax, Wallace Brown. You didn't force me to do anything. I'm here because I want to be here."

Wallace? Nobody called him Wallace, except his mother, especially when she was really mad at him. It sounded different coming from someone else—better somehow; at least it did just then.

He finished his drink in no time. She handed him hers and said, "Here, I can't drink all this."

He took it, but he couldn't even taste them anymore. The band came back and broke into a slow song by The Righteous Brothers. Brownie stood there for a few awkward seconds before the little voice inside him said: Ask her to dance, stupid!

"I'd love to," she said, all twinkly-eyed. She led the way.

Brownie weaved out to the dance floor behind her, observing her carefully the entire way. He was a very observant person. She got into position, and the red V-neck sweater crushed into his chest. Her breasts were full and soft, and she laid her head against his cheek. Slowly, he rocked back and forth, oblivious to the rest of the people around them. Even her hair smelled good.

Finding an empty table when the song ended, Brownie said, "I'll be right back." His molars were floating. It seemed like it took forever, but she was smiling when he returned.

"I thought you'd deserted me," she teased.

Not tonight, he was about to say when the slob staggered over.

"You wanna dance?" the slob spat out. "C'mon, let's d-do it."

Brownie looked at him sternly, but the slob was too busy leering to notice him. The slob reached.

"I'm sorry, I'm with him," she said.

"Aw, c'mon," the slob begged. "Just one dance."

Brownie stood. The slob met Brownie's stare and pushed him back into the chair. Brownie fell back, tripping awkwardly and stumbling to the floor. He froze, not knowing whether to get up and make something out of the situation, or whether to just sit there and hope the slob would vanish. The slob reached again.

"I'm with him," she repeated, slamming a hand into his chest. Her voice was steely now, no longer sweet. She stooped and helped Brownie off the floor.

The slob turned away and looked for another victim.

"Boy, was he cute," she sneered.

Brownie didn't laugh. He should have stood up to the jerk instead of acting like a wimp.

Thankfully, she changed the subject. "Listen, I've had a great time, but I have to go." She nodded toward a table full of giggling girls, all of whom were pointing at their watches.

Great. They'd probably seen the whole thing.

"If I'm not home by midnight my dad will hang me up by my thumbs. Take care of Mark for me." She moved toward him. Their lips met. "Will we see each other again this summer?"

"I... I don't even know your name," Brownie stammered.

"I know." She smiled and slipped a piece of paper into his hand: Jessica Badger—684-0159.

CHAPTER 3 Message Absorbed

William "Billy" Badger loved John Wayne movies, and he was glad one of his favorites was on since he was going to be up until at least midnight. He saw headlights flash through the window and decided to pretend to be asleep.

He detected the smell of beer and cigarettes on his daughter's clothing as she brushed by, and he knew instantly she hadn't gone to a bake sale. Thankful that she'd made it home safely, he decided not to give her the third degree. He was proud of his daughter. She was smart, just like her mom, but she was young and inexperienced, and he prayed that she had enough sense to not go and get herself into trouble. With the moral climate the way it was these days, Billy Badger was sure there were plenty of eighteen-year-old girls who were screwing a different boy every week, and he was sure there were plenty of boys who'd like to do it to his daughter, too. At eighteen, boys did their thinking with their peckers, and she was becoming a lot to think about. He scolded himself for thinking about his own daughter that way, but it was true. She tried to ease up the stairway, stumbling as she tried to get over the creaky first step. "Shit!" she whispered coarsely. He chuckled, hoping it sounded like a snore. He let her get away, then got up and went to bed.

* * * * *

Thank God her father had nodded off in front of the TV and she wouldn't have to play twenty questions until tomorrow. Taking off her sweater and her black miniskirt, she folded them neatly on the back of the simple wooden chair in her room. It was her favorite outfit. Boys seemed to pay a little more attention to her when she wore that outfit, or so it seemed for the last few months. It was kind of like dogs panting, she noted with a sly grin. She unhooked her brassiere and looked at her body in the mirror. "Not bad," she whispered to herself. She felt her breasts and they filled her hands completely. They seemed to be growing by the day. Quickly she brushed her teeth and slid under the covers. She thought about Wallace Brown before finally falling off to sleep, wondering if he'd call anytime soon.

* * * * *

"Get up goddamnit, or you can kiss your ass goodbye!"

His father's hand clamped on his arm and hoisted him up like forklift. The voice was a saw blade, and Brownie wondered it if was going to cut right through his head. He managed to stand, realizing immediately that his stomach was trying to come up through his neck.

"Feeling a little queasy, are we?"

His father's foot landed squarely on his ass, propelling him into the desk across the room. Brownie almost heaved into the wastepaper basket, thinking his entire body was trying to turn itself inside out. He looked at the clock: 3:32 a.m.

"You'd better start talking if you want to make it to morning."

It didn't take long to decide whether or not the truth was in order. "Badge and I went over the mountain," Brownie coughed out. "We went to the Showboat."

"Well, you must have had a hell of a time. I just got a call from Mrs. Badger. She found Mark passed out in their basement. Seems that he threw up all over their pool table."

Despite his discomfort, Brownie couldn't help but laugh.

"It's not funny!" his father stormed, but Brownie couldn't help it. Looking up, he thought he saw the tiniest trace of a smile curl across his father's face. Maybe not.

"Let's hear it," his father demanded.

Brownie told the whole story: the beers in the car, Mousy, everything, except the part about Jessica Badger, minimizing it all, of course.

The phone rang, and Brownie heard his mother calling for his father to come downstairs.

Brownie's sixteen-year-old sister Janet came into his room, rubbing her eyes. "What's with all the noise?" she asked sleepily.

"This is not a good time," Brownie warned.

She took one look at Brownie and said, "Oh, oh," before heading back to her room.

Sitting there, Brownie reflected back to the moment when Jessica had left the Showboat with her friends. He realized he hadn't seen Badge for a couple of hours. He found him eventually, still hanging with Mousy and three new strangers who all looked like Hell's Angels. There were several empty shot glasses on a table in front of them.

"Eh bigg gguy, where'd dya been?" Badge was almost incoherent. "Llet's do a coupla shhotts 'a tequila." He tried to get up and fell back into his chair.

Brownie looked at his watch. It was almost midnight, which was the time he was supposed to have been home. He thought about his own alcohol haze. "Where are your keys?" he asked, trying to help Badge from his chair.

"I g-gotm. Le'ss go, I'm drivn."

If Badge drove, they were dead.

Brownie looked at Mousy. "Gimme a hand here, will ya? I don't think he can make it."

Mousy said, "Aw, he'll be awright. He didn't even win the bet. He only had six shots. Fuckin' pussy." Everyone at the table roared with drunken laughter.

Brownie walked over and shot a finger into Mousy's chest. "Take his other arm, you jerk, or I swear to Christ you won't make it out of here on your own either." The humiliation with Jessica had been enough.

Sitting there on the bed, Brownie couldn't believe he'd actually said that to Mousy.

They finally got Badge into the car. Brownie snagged the keys and fired up the Impala's V-8. He heard bottles rolling around and figured he'd better gather them up or there would be hell to pay if Badge's parents found them.

Mousy came over and stood by the open window. "Hey Brown," he snickered. "How'd it go with that Jessica babe? Nice piece of ass."

Brownie tossed the bag full of bottles at Mousy's feet and gunned the engine, spraying gravel back at him and his crew. In the rearview mirror he saw Mousy fling one of the bottles at the car just as the tires squealed onto Route 20 back toward the mountain. She was a nice piece of ass, Brownie thought in retrospect. Everything about her was nice.

His father came back in, his face as sour as before. "That was Mrs. Badger again. You're going to have to go over there tomorrow and face the music." Turning away, his father added, "I'm starting to think that letting you go to the Cape this summer isn't such a good idea."

That hurt. Getting up, Brownie swore he'd never drink again for the rest of his life. Surely his father didn't mean what he'd just said... for one drunken mistake? Damn that Badge.

The next morning Margaret and Arthur Badger sat them both down, with Arthur sitting behind Margaret as it was obvious who was going to do the talking.

"I thought you were a good boy, Wallace. It's not like you, acting like some kind of delinquent. I think you owe Mark, and us, an apology." Mrs. Badger crossed her arms and waited.

An apology? Brownie thought: I saved his sorry ass last night, and you want me to apologize to him! Badge sat there like a statue. His teeth grinding, Brownie couldn't believe the words actually came out of his own mouth. "I'm really sorry Mrs. Badger. It won't happen again."

"I'm not sure I want you back in this house, Wallace. Mister Badger has something to show you." Mister Badger took them out to the driveway. There, scratched out in the brand new paint of the Impala, were the words FUCK MAWCONAK.

After listening to how they were going to pay for the repair, Brownie just looked at Badge, who sat there like a block of ice. Wondering if he should do something about what had just happened, he knew Badge was playing him, yet he found his anger melting away as the minutes ticked by. What the hell, he thought, high school graduation was in two weeks; everyone will have forgotten about all this by then. They'd gotten away relatively unscathed, why make a bigger fuss over it? Damn that Badge! He looked at Badge and grinned. "Puked on the pool table?"

* * * * *

Why couldn't they just have given him the diploma with his report card on the last day of school? All this crap with the goofy gowns and tassels was bullshit, in Brownie's opinion, but sitting there in the Yellow Aster restaurant in Lenox, he admitted that he appreciated the applause when he was identified as one of the top ten academic students in the school. He was actually embarrassed when his parents told him how proud they were, thinking what a switch it was from a couple of weeks earlier when it looked like his father was going cut his ears off with a letter opener, and his mother thought he was a developing psychopath. One of his graduation gifts was a little pocket calendar. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he asked.

His mother replied, "Today was the biggest step toward adulthood you've ever made, Brownie. We want you to fill that calendar with things you plan to do in your future, because the more things that are in that calendar, the more places you'll be going, the more things you'll learn, and the more you'll achieve. You're lucky son, luckier than that poor boy who died in Vietnam, luckier than the kids who are not going on to college, and luckier than either your father or myself ever were. It's not important that you become a millionaire to be successful, but it is important that you stand for something. These hippie kids that you see nowadays don't stand for anything. They just want to smoke pot, and listen to loud music, and fool around with each other. They don't really have any convictions about anything. They protest the war and all, but no war is worth fighting, in my book. Use that calendar to plan your life, son. Fill it up with things you want to do, and when you want to get them done. It's up to you what you choose to stand for, but stand for something. That's what being a man is all about."

His mother had tears in her eyes by the time she finished, and Brownie looked up to see his father also wiping his eyes. Message absorbed, Brownie thought, admitting it wasn't such a bad day after all. His sister Janet was fidgeting, and his father used it as an excuse to break the moment.

"C'mon Evelyn," Phil Brown said, "I'm sure our graduate son would rather spend the rest of his day celebrating with his friends. Here Brownie, get us home." He tossed Brownie the car keys, and put his arm around his wife. "One last piece of advice," Phil Brown offered as they walked to the car, "When you find the girl that's right for you—and you will—make sure she's someone who can be your best friend. Only your best friend will do right by you every time."

Message absorbed, Brownie thought again.

CHAPTER 4 Friday, August 15th

He hadn't called all summer, and she didn't know what to make of it. She'd seen him on the ball field at Clapp Park a couple of weeks earlier, pitching for the Post 155 American Legion team, so she knew he was around. He'd won that game, and she saw how happy it made him, but she celebrated with him from a distance, not having the nerve to walk up to him and ask, "Where have you been, stupid? Don't you know I've been waiting for you to call?" He looked great. She wondered if she'd made a fool of herself that night at the Showboat, bumping into him and pretending it was an accident. Maybe he'd lost her number. Maybe he had a girlfriend. Maybe she was a total dope. Whatever. Her mother always said there were plenty of fish in the sea, except that the other fish she'd dated that summer seemed to have six hands.

That wasn't always a bad thing, however. Sometimes she got excited when those boys touched her, but she didn't let them put their hands inside—yet. She recalled how one of them pulled her hand down between his legs, and now she knew what boys meant by the word boner. It felt like a big hard banana, and she wondered afterward what it looked like unconfined by Levis. She had the feeling she'd be finding out soon. After all, everyone was doing it. Why not her?

* * * * *

Dandy Don smashed the bottle in anger. "There's no fuckin' way I'm payin' that, you prick. Last time it was half that much."

Paulo Salinas picked up the broken bottle and waved it threateningly an inch from Dandy Don's eyes. "Jyou kno', suntime jyou jus' say the wron' thin' at the wron' time."

Dandy Don watched the bottle carefully. Salinas was nobody to fuck with. "You're fuckin' me over, Paulo. Forty grand is fuckin' highway robbery."

"Market rates, my fat friend. Das goin' to be a big rock concert or sonthin' next week an' all the supply is dry up. Do jyou want the grass, or not? I ain' got no time to fuck wid jyou."

Dandy Don considered the offer. If what he'd heard was true, he could sell every twig of the high-grade Colombian at any price. He wouldn't even have to clean it. Thousands of cars were already streaming into some shithole town downstate, and moving sixteen hundred bags, even at fifty an ounce, would be no problem, but he had to get moving. He needed to be there by Thursday, and three days wasn't much time. "Thirty thousand, and not a fuckin' penny more."

"Listen jyou asshol'. I jus' tol' jyou I ain' fuckin' wid jyou. Forty thousan' now, or I goes an' sell it to your mother." Paulo motioned to his driver as he got ready to leave.

Dandy Don was more than aware that his boss, a man they called Eddie The Barrel Bartolo, would cut his nuts off if he blew this deal. "Okay, forty thousand. You're a fuckin' thief, you know that?"

"Jus' make sure de money 'is in small bills dis time, okay?" Salinas swaggered from the room with about as much regard for Dandy Don as something stuck to his shoe.

* * * * *

The horn honked repeatedly. "Jesus, Badge, it's only eight o'clock in the morning." Brownie opened his bedroom window and waved for Badge to come in. The August sun was bright and the cicadas were already buzzing.

Brownie said, "My dad wants us to take the old station wagon. You know, especially after what happened over the mountain."

"That bucket of bolts? You think it will make it?"

"It'll make it," Brownie said bravely, covering the doubt in his voice.

"As long as we get there," Badge said. "Let's haul."

They loaded Badge's stuff from the Impala into the Browns' old 1962 Pontiac Safari station wagon, along with their old camping cooler and two huge bags of food that Brownie's mom had packed. As they pulled onto Coltsville Road, Badge yelled, "Road trip!" and held up two tickets he'd purchased a month earlier.

Thinking Badge's smile looked a little ominous, Brownie said, "Let's not get into trouble on this one. My dad told me I can kiss off playing ball at Alliance if anything happens." Badge ignored him completely.

They motored along Route 20, bathing in the warmth of New England summer. They cleared the Massachusetts border and passed the Showboat in no time, and Brownie thought the place actually looked a little dumpy in the daytime.

"You hungry?" Badge asked about an hour later.

"I could eat a horse," Brownie replied. He pulled off the New York Thruway onto Route 9 in Hudson, New York.

"There," Badge said, pointing to what looked like a stainless steel railroad car, only dented. "Next to the liquor store—the Tastee Diner."

"I've never seen so many cars," Brownie complained. They parked about a hundred yards down the road and walked back, both of them catching the distinct aroma that caught the breeze. Badge zeroed in on the source right away, a caravan of vans parked in front of an Esso gas station. Several occupants were outside, casually milling about while waiting for another van to finish gassing up. No one seemed to be cognizant of the piercing stare from the gas station owner, or at all concerned about the fact that they were breaking the law. They could have been smoking Marlboros.

Thirty exasperating minutes later, they each took a seat at the counter next to some kids whose eyes were just puffy slits. A frazzled waitress tried to put on a smile. "What'll ya have boys? I hope ya don't want breakfast. We just ran outta eggs." She looked at a couple of disheveled longhairs a couple of seats away. "We weren't ready for this."

Brownie settled for two cheeseburgers, a double order of fries, and a chocolate shake.

"Same for me," Badge echoed.

"Where the hell we gonna stay?" Brownie asked for the third time that morning.

"Let's just get there. We'll worry about that later. We oughta pick up some beer."

Two six-packs of Schaefer and a bag of ice later, they were back in the station wagon. His enthusiasm strengthened by his full stomach and the beer, Badge said, "Let's haul ass." Brownie gunned the engine and the Pontiac bore through the thick August haze like a battleship on the high seas.

At the entrance to the Thruway, they spotted a girl hitchhiking. "Pick her up!" Badge said. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

"Yeah, right," Brownie chuckled, wondering if such a thing were possible. She looked to be about their age, skinny, and wore some standard issue bellbottomed hippie jeans and a cotton shirt. Her fuzzy Janis Joplin-styled hair came through the door first. She wore no makeup of any kind and her skin looked kind of ruddy. She seemed to have mastered the look.

"Thanks a lot, man. You guys headed for Woodstock?"

Badge eyed her thoroughly. "Yeah. You?"

"Yeah. That's great, man. Hope you drive better than the my last ride. I think the dude did some bad acid. Drove like a maniac."

Trying to make polite conversation, Brownie asked, "Why'd you ride with him?"

She shrugged nonchalantly. "No big deal. It wasn't dangerous or nothin', and there was other people there."

Brownie looked into the rearview mirror. "Why didn't someone else drive if he was messed up?"

"'Cause the other dude and his old lady were busy ballin' in the back like a couple of rabbits, that's why." Again, she shrugged nonchalantly. "No big deal."

No big deal, Brownie thought to himself.

Badge pointed to the cooler. "You up for a beer?"

"Yeah, thanks. Where you guys from?"

"Fallston... Massachusetts." Badge cracked one open for her.

"How 'bout you?" Brownie asked, still thinking about the balling like a couple of rabbits comment.

"Glens Falls, but I ain't been there in a couple of years." She volunteered the information as if it were a required part of the response. "Me and my folks just can't communicate, man. You know how it is, rules all over the place, official this, official that. It's just bullshit, man. All my parents want to do is be in charge. That, and they're capitalist pigs. I can't take that, man."

Brownie wondered where she could have gone for two years, imagining it was the kind of life a stray dog would lead. Hardly anyone ever wanted a stray dog. Stray dogs always ran away, or got killed.

"You guys wanna get stoned?" the girl asked. She pulled a fat, wrinkled joint from her shirt pocket.

"Sure," Badge said readily. "Here, I'll use the lighter."

Brownie watched as Badge sucked on the joint, holding in the smoke as he passed it. Brownie looked straight ahead. He'd never smoked any marijuana, and was amazed that Badge took it so easily. Where the hell had Badge learned about the stuff? The girl passed the joint back and Badge let the smoke out with a long push. "Good shit," he coughed out.

Badge held the joint up near Brownie's face. "Here ya go Brownie. I'll hold it for you."

"No thanks," Brownie said, shaking his head harder than he'd intended.

The girl said, "It'll mellow you out, man."

His father's warning still fresh in his ears, Brownie reiterated, "No thanks, you guys go ahead."

Badge and the girl traded hits. "You outta see what happens when you put this stuff in a bong," the girl said. "It's like the top of your head comes off."

"What's a bong?" Brownie asked innocently.

Badge and the girl both laughed.

What's so funny? Brownie thought.

Changing the subject, the girl said, "My name is Penny."

Brownie didn't respond, deciding to concentrate on the driving. The traffic was unbelievable.

* * * * *

It was a wonder anyone found this fucked up place in all the confusion. "You mean the Woodstock Music and Art Fair isn't in Woodstock?"

"No sir," the shopkeeper said. "I hear it's over in Bethel."

"Well where the fuck is Bethel?"

"Easy now, son. Bethel is still down the road a piece. Keep going on 17B and you'll find it."

Dandy Don could have kicked the old man in the nuts and not have given it a second thought. Time was money, damn it! His runners had to get into the crowd and do their setup.

"Hey man, wanna party?" they'd ask, and they'd break out a couple of joints. When the hippie assholes got good and buzzed, the runners would ask if they wanted some of the shit for themselves. All they had to do was sit back and wait. The word would spread like wildfire among these fucking freaks.

Dandy Don reviewed the numbers in his head. Each of his ten runners had to unload an average of forty bags a day. Even with multiple scores it was hard work, but they'd make sixteen hundred bucks for themselves in four days, and that made it worthwhile. He was already counting the ten grand he'd make for himself. Coming out of the tiny grocery store with half a dozen peaches and a cantaloupe, he passed a psychedelic van that had pulled up to one of the gas pumps from the never-ending stream of vehicles that bumped along Route 17B. One of the longhaired dudes outside the van was clearly high, and Dandy Don's practiced eye picked up on the silver roach clip chained around the maggot's neck.

"Hey, Pinto," Dandy Don called to one of his runners as he got within earshot of his crew. "Run on over there with a couple of bags and see what you can do."

* * * * *

Bernard Phelan scraped the burnt pipe tobacco into the ashtray on his desk, reflecting on the fact that this was his sixth summer at Alliance and he'd be up for tenure in another year. It would be no problem. After all, he was married to the former Deborah J. Stallings, daughter of Millard F. Stallings, President of Alliance College. No review board would risk the embarrassment of denying tenure to the son-in-law of President Stallings, whose reputation for dismantling the biggest egos, belittling the noblest intentions, or crumbling the strongest of spirits preceded him. He did it to everyone, including his own daughter.

Seven years he'd been married to that witch, Phelan reflected. Applying for the assistant professorship at Alliance had been her idea. He recalled how he'd swallowed his pride and accepted the offer, despite the fact that he knew Stallings had arranged it. Still, he'd done well at Alliance, and was popular with the students. They even invited him to their parties. He especially liked the frat parties, particularly the ones that got a little wild. Deborah never went. She was above it all. She wouldn't be caught dead holding a beer in a plastic cup—which was certainly hypocritical considering there wasn't a day that went by without her martinis. She reminded him constantly that she was responsible for his success. She belonged to the family that opened doors for them no matter where they went. She was the one whose inheritance would make them millionaires.

"In the meantime, Bernie dear, just do your professor thing and don't cause too many waves. Daddy will see to your tenure." The cunt.

Phelan liked the young women at those parties. He liked their freedom, and their forthrightness. He loved their filthy language because it made his cock hard. He loved the way they were impressed when a professor would let them suck on it. God, he liked it. It was easier with the young ones. They weren't as skilled in avoidance and raining humiliation. He didn't need any more humiliation. He needed understanding, and respect, and the young ones gave it to him. Sometimes he even got lucky with the local high school girls, the townies that crashed the parties. They were easy to get drunk, and they got high after only one or two tokes from the marijuana. It didn't take much to guide the conversations toward the subject of sex. He asked if they liked sex, and they would get all nervous and giggly. After a while, when the beer and the marijuana kicked in, he could see their girlish giggles give way to womanly interest. Soon he introduced dirty words into the conversation and they pretended that they'd heard it all before. He would ask if they'd ever had a man's dick in their mouth. A man's dick was not like a boy's dick. A man's dick stayed hard much longer. And it was bigger, much bigger than a boy's dick. It would make them feel good, so good that they wouldn't be able to stop cumming for hours.

"Oh, you don't know what cumming is," he would feign. "You've never had an orgasm? Why, you don't know what you're missing. It's the most heavenly sensation you could possibly imagine. Would you like to cum? Have you ever had anyone lick your, you know, lick your clitoris? Oooh, I know you'll like it. Cum," he would coo in his low murmuring voice. He would find an unoccupied room and tie the customary piece of ribbon, or a necktie, or shoelace to the outside doorknob and lock it behind them. It was the universal Do-Not-Disturb sign that every fraternity brother knew.

Once, he'd had two of them in the same bed. Two of them! He recalled lustily how one of them straddled his face while the other one licked and pumped the head of his cock until he spurted like a fire hose into her mouth, surprising her. She pulled away, grinning, and said, "Ooh, I like that!" and she went back for more. Not wanting to be outdone, the other girl said, "Let me have some of that," and she too tasted him, putting his mind into orbit. Later he'd made them both have orgasms with his tongue, after which they all fell asleep, but they didn't leave until he'd fucked them both again, one after the other.

Phelan shook himself from his own fantasy. He wondered if Deborah would be passed out when he got home. He hated it when he had to change her into her nightclothes. The smell of her drunken body made him sick.

* * * * *

"What time is it?" Brownie complained. His shirt was wet and stuck to the vinyl seat. "We've been sitting in the same spot for almost an hour." For as far as he could see in either direction, the two-lane road was a solid wall of iron and rubber four cars wide. All around kids were simply pulling up and parking their vehicles at the first available opportunity.

"It's almost three o'clock," Badge responded calmly. He called to the neighboring car with the North Carolina plates, "Hey, how far are we from this Yasgur's Farm place?" They held their hands skyward, indicating they had no idea. People walked past them, giggling, drinking, smoking, darting between the cars. "Let's get out and walk," Badge said. "These guys look like they know where they're going."

"Walk where?" Brownie protested. "I thought we were going to find a motel."

"We're not going anywhere," Badge shot back. "Everyone's ditching their cars." He leaned out the window and called to another passerby. "Hey! Where's the concert?"

"Right up the road, dude," the bearded longhair replied. "But you ain't gettin' there on wheels. Jammed up wall-to-wall all the way. You might was well get it on where you're at."

Penny got out of the car and slung her backpack over her shoulder. "Well guys, end of the line for me. I'm goin' with the flow."

"Wait up," Badge yelled. "Brownie, let's park, man."

"But where will we stay? What about the car?"

"Fuck it, man. Just park over there and we'll lock it up. You're starting to be a fucking bummer, man."

Every other word out of Badge's mouth was fuck. Brownie wondered why. He swung the station wagon into the hay field that just happened to be there.

Badge grabbed the remaining four beers from the cooler, tossing one each to Brownie and Penny. "Might as well take these." He yanked the pop-top tab on his can, adding it to his ever-growing pop-top necklace.

Okay, thought Brownie. It was time to go with the flow. He bumped along with Badge and Penny and the huge crowd, mingling in the sunshine with shirtless guys and girls that looked like gypsies with their brightly colored beads and bandana headbands. There were a number of little kids in the crowd, many riding on men's bare shoulders. No one was concerned about the drinking and smoking in front of the youngsters. It all seemed perfectly natural.

"Hey Brownie," Badge said after a few minutes. "Gimme the keys. We forgot the food."

Brownie tossed him the keys and he and Penny picked a spot in the bent hay and sat down. They watched a group of happy revelers playing Ring-Around-The-Rosie.

"Why are you so uptight?" Penny asked. "You make me nervous, man."

Brownie said, "Sorry. I'm just not used to all this pot smoking and stuff. It is illegal, you know."

"Like, what are they gonna do, arrest a hundred thousand people? Loosen up a little. Here, this will help." She handed him a joint.

"I don't know... I mean I don't even smoke cigarettes. How can I smoke—"

Penny lit the joint. "Mellow out, man. Just breathe steady through your lips and draw the smoke into your lungs." She moved the joint closer. "Easy at first," she encouraged.

Brownie smelled the pungent smoke as it wafted in the August heat. He took a short puff and felt the smoke carve its way into his lungs. He held it for a second, then coughed it out.

"That was too fast," she said. "Try it again, slower." Brownie tried again, holding his breath for as long as he could.

"Isn't that good shit?"

Not knowing good shit from bad shit, Brownie took another hit, finding the sting not as bad this time. They passed the joint back and forth until it was almost gone, and Penny put the stub into an envelope she pulled from her sack. "Got to save the roaches."

"Am I high yet?"

Penny laughed. "You'll know when you're high."

"How will I know?"

"Because you won't stop laughing, that's how."

Badge suddenly appeared from between the cars. "Got the grub," he declared. "Forward, ho."

Brownie expected the sensation to hit him like a thunderbolt, but it didn't, baffling him as to what the big deal was about this marijuana stuff. What he didn't realize was that he would talk nonstop for the next half hour. Finally, Penny looked at him and said, "You're buzzed."

Brownie grinned. "Yeah, I am. Everything is moving in slow motion." Then he started laughing. They all laughed together, and Brownie felt good.

A helicopter thundered by overhead as they walked seemingly forever among the cars and trucks and assorted flower-painted microbuses.

"How much further?" Brownie asked, sweating in the afternoon sun. Just then, a raucous cheer erupted from somewhere down the road in front of them. They sensed the heightening excitement as they cleared the crest of a long hill, catching sight first of towers and then a stage set down in a natural dish-shaped field. All around people claimed their little piece of real estate. Some set up tents, others spread blankets. The field was huge, a tract of farmland, literally the back forty perhaps, and Brownie thought there had to be at least a million people there. One of the hippies had already set up a makeshift studio, and half-dressed men and women waited to have their bodies painted.

"How's this for a place to crash?" Badge asked, laying claim to a patch of pasture land thick with the scent of livestock.

The opportunity to relax was intoxicating in itself, and the three of them sat cross-legged on the long, bent hay grass. The anticipation was palpable, and the huge throng of people was buzzing. Something was happening. Brownie looked on as Badge rolled two crooked joints from a bag of marijuana Penny had produced from her backpack, intrigued as before as to how and where Badge had learned to do that. He noticed some kids not far away passing some pills around, and, simultaneously, as if rehearsed, they put them on their tongues and swallowed. The joint Badge had just rolled came his way, and without protest this time Brownie did the drill, holding the smoke in for a bit, then letting it out as he passed the joint. Badge smiled widely and said, "Well shut my mouth. Now I've seen everything."

After partaking for now the second time in his life, Brownie's euphoria removed any doubts as to whether or not he was stoned, and he forgot about the fact that marijuana was illegal. Absolutely no one seemed to care, including the few police officers who trotted around on horseback at the edges of the pasture. It was unbelievable, and it was like nothing mattered, because nothing did.

"You guys hungry?" Brownie asked as he reached into one of the shopping bags. "We got some apples, some Fig Newtons, a box of Friehofer's donuts, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and a Milky Way.

"Wow!" Penny exclaimed. "Did you guys plan this?"

"My mom packed this for us before we left," said Brownie, eying a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

"Your mom must get high a lot."

The crowd stirred. "What's happening?" Badge asked as he jumped up and tried to peer over the crowd. The stage had to be a hundred and fifty yards away.

Brownie heard one of the freaks exclaim, "It looks like Richie Havens, man. Far out."

"Who the hell is Richie Havens?" Brownie asked.

"Beats the shit outta me," Badge replied as he plopped himself back down. "Looks like some black dude. Gimme one of those sandwiches." He ate half of it in one bite.

As the dude's music went on and on, they scarfed down food like it was their last day on earth. "Aren't these the best donuts?" Brownie said after his second one.

Song after song, artist after artist, the music and the wildness seemed to be never-ending. A slight coolness settled over them as the sun went down on the horizon, bringing relief from the day's blazing intensity. As the buzz wore off, Penny took out the second of the two joints Badge had rolled earlier, and lit it. Brownie sat there taking in the sweet scents of cow manure and pot that gently circled through the air, no longer giving consideration to the rightness or wrongness of his actions and resigning himself to the moment. All attention to the rules that had guided him his entire life blew away in the breeze with the marijuana smoke, and thoughts of home, or Alliance, or of baseball and the Cape League were the furthest things from his mind. Brownie accepted the marijuana readily as it came around and put the joint to his lips, giving in to the inevitability of his initiation into the drug society of 1969.

CHAPTER 5 Enough

"What do you fuckin' mean you only got rid of ten? What the fuck are you doing out there... you fuck?"

"Hey man, you can kiss my balls, you fat son of a bitch. These fuckin' hippies ain't buyin' this shit at fifty. They got enough fuckin' stash with them that they could sell us dope."

"Work the turf harder," Dandy Don ordered.

The runner grabbed his crotch. "Work this, asshole." He threw the bills into Dandy Don's face. "Just give me my cut so I can get the fuck outta this hippie piece-of-shit gang fuck. I can make more sellin' my old lady's pussy."

He was the third runner who'd already quit, and it was only Saturday. Who would have imagined the goddamned freaks shared their dope? They shared everything, including their women. At this rate, Dandy Don figured, he'd only get rid of half the inventory.

"What's the going rate?" he asked one of the other runners who was sitting there getting high.

The runner looked up between tokes. "Twenty, maybe twenty-five a bag. No more than that."

Shaking his head, Dandy Don gathered up the bills. Bartolo hated fuck ups, and this hippie festival gig was turning into one major fuck up.

* * * * *

Lying across the back seat of the station wagon, Brownie knew he was still zonked. "Jesus," he groaned. Badge was out like a light in the front seat, and there was no sign of Penny. Dazed, he looked off into the field, noticing a group of people beside a pink school bus painted full with peace signs and flowers, the words Make Love Not War on both sides. They were flashing, the freaky instructor said, making their diaphragms churn and, "depleting their bodies of oxygen, causing them to get high naturally without drugs." First thing in the morning? "Jesus," Brownie said again. To the other side, a beautiful copper-skinned girl was dancing in the middle of the road, wearing little more than a buckskin loincloth and a headband. There was no music, except surely the music in her head.

Badge came alive in the front seat. "I hope we're dead," he said, "because if this is alive, I'd have to rethink it." He sat up and hawked a wad into the grass. "What the hell happened to us last night?"

"I'm not sure," Brownie replied, suddenly feeling guilty for something he didn't even remember. More immediate pressures came to bear, however. "All I know is I gotta take a dump. Where the hell am I going to do that in the middle of this field? We got any napkins or paper towels or anything? I ain't using my shirt."

Badge looked into the glove compartment and came up with a couple of dusty McDonald's napkins.

Brownie moved as quickly as he could, given his condition, and headed to the edge of the field behind a stand of trees where some other people were headed, while others were coming from there. Pants down, squat....

Badge walked up and pretended to take his picture. "Click... click, click."

"Screw you, Badge." He wiped himself with the napkins, finding they were nowhere near enough to do the job. Having no other choice, he stepped up and away from the steaming mass of intestinal sculpture he'd just created, and dragged himself across the high grass in hopes that the hay would do the rest of the cleanup.

Badge doubled over in laughter. "I got my pool table story, you got this."

Back at the car, Penny walked up with a couple of paper plates. "Good morning, party boy," she said to Brownie. "Here, you can probably use this." She handed him a plate on which were a strip of the bacon, a piece of stale French bread, half an apple which had turned a little brown, three Ritz crackers, and some peanuts.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Back down the road. They set up a frying pan on top of a charcoal grill and made bacon and eggs. Everyone else chipped in whatever they had."

Badge joined them, and Penny pulled out a joint.

"No way," Brownie said. The guilt of the previous night's recklessness came back to him.

Penny shrugged and put it back in her pocket. They ate quickly. When they were done, Penny got up and said, "Let's go take a bath. I hear there's a couple of ponds behind the stage area."

"I didn't bring any swim trunks."

"You won't need them. Just bring your toothbrush and some soap if you brought any."

Minutes later, they were standing on the shoreline. A few people splashed merrily; others were soberly silent, quietly dipping towels and washing themselves. Some were naked. Brownie focused on a group about a dozen yards away. They were all the longhair sort, and all unathletically thin. One of them said, "Ready?" and, in unison, they removed their clothes. Brownie's eyes immediately gravitated to the girls. He'd seen the girls in Playboy, and he'd seen girls in their bathing suits at the lake, but never buck naked, right there in front of him. Now, four of them bounced past him into the water, each body unique.

Penny removed her clothes without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. She had no breasts to speak of, Brownie observed—more like a woman's nipples atop a little boy's chest—and he was a little surprised by the thick thatch of hair between her legs. He watched as she stepped gingerly into the water. "You guys coming in, or what?" she called.

Badge tore off his clothes and did a running belly flop, splashing water all over Penny. Hesitating, Brownie looked around. Proper etiquette seemed to be whatever one wanted to do, and he decided to strip down to his boxer shorts.

"Do you have any soap?" Penny called out. Having brought along some soap and shampoo, Brownie handed it to her. "Would you toss me my shirt and my underwear?" she asked, and again Brownie did so. She soaped up the clothes, washing and rinsing them before trading the soap for the shampoo. "Would you wash my back?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah, sure," Brownie stammered. Nervously, he rubbed the soap on her back, while she foamed shampoo into her wet head. She dipped below the surface to rinse off, coming up and pushing her hair away from her face. Turning, she said, "Here let me do you." Brownie felt her hands on his back. He looked around. Badge was nowhere to be seen.

"You have nice shoulders," she said. "Do you work out?"

"Well, sort of. I play baseball and I work in a lumberyard." He was proud of her observation.

Her soapy hands roamed freely, down to the small of his back and around to the front, soaping up his stomach. She pushed on his shoulders, turning him to face her directly. "Here, it's easier this way." She rubbed her lathered hands into his chest, smiling the whole time.

He was paralyzed. Her hands felt small on his skin, like little toy hands. Suddenly, they dipped below the surface and he felt them on the waistband of his shorts.

"You don't need these in here," she said, pulling them down until they fell into the sand at his feet. She took him in her soapy hands, and he was hard as a rock in seconds. She grinned. "You don't waste any time, do you? Let's go into the deeper water."

Brownie couldn't believe what was happening. He remembered how Mary Beth Wrysinski let him put his hands inside her bra once, and he was sure he could have gone further if Officer Calabrese hadn't come along and knocked on the car window, but this was different. No one was going to bother them here.

They went into deeper water. She put both arms around his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist. "Let's do it in the water, man. Put it in."

"Well, ah...."

She paused and looked into his eyes. He was transparent. "Is this your first time? It is, isn't it?" There was no judgment in her words. "Here, I'll show you." She unstraddled him and pulled his hand down between her legs.

Brownie touched her there, and looked at her questioningly.

"Easy now, not so hard."

"Sorry. Is this okay?"

"Yeah, that's it. Mmm, do it some more. Put your finger in."

Brownie did as he was told, noticing that her eyes were closed and her pelvis was gyrating. She gripped his penis as if she were holding a hammer, sliding her hand back and forth.

"Are you ready?" she murmured between breaths.

"I think so," he said, seeing as he was stiff as a tire iron.

"Put your hands under and hold me up. That's it. Now put it in."

He really wasn't sure where "in" was, but suddenly he found it. It felt warm, and he didn't expect that.

"That's it, back and forth. Easy now," she instructed. "Yeah, that's it. Fuck me." Brownie held her cheeks, raising and lowering her onto himself. The water buoyed her so that she wasn't at all heavy. He felt her getting tighter as he thrust in and out of her. "Yeah, that's it, yeah," he heard her say. Her breathing got heavier, and he found himself thrusting harder, making the water slap and swirl around them. Faster, harder; faster, harder. He didn't have any idea how long he could do it, but he just kept doing it.

"Yeah, that's it. Right there," she moaned.

"Is this okay?" he asked again between breaths.

"Shut up and fuck me," she said. "Yeah. That's it. Oh, yeah, faster."

He guessed that to be an affirmative answer. Feeling her hands tighten on his neck, he kept going until he felt himself go even more rigid with the overpowering sensation of his oncoming orgasm. He continued—wham, wham, wham—water rippling and churning, his penis on the verge of exploding, until suddenly, it did. It was like nothing he'd ever felt before, and he didn't know whether to stop or keep going, but he kept going until the friction was too much to bear. At that point, guessing he was done, he slowly pulled her off and set her down.

"Was that okay?"

Penny grabbed him under the water and stroked him until he was soft again. "That was okay," she said, smiling at him.

They hugged, neither of them seeing Badge, who was watching from the shoreline.

* * * * *

The August temperature was hot for racquetball, but Bernard Phelan liked how the sweat purged his body. He wiped his brow again, and reviewed the course outline he'd purposely left in his office. He'd intended to come in on Saturday all along, using the work and his racquetball game as an excuse to get away from Deborah for most of the day.

He thought he heard a knock on the thick oak door to his office, but dismissed it. Then he heard it again. He twisted the weathered doorknob, noting the young woman outside, more like a girl actually, wearing a brief summer tank top and shorts. She looked vaguely familiar.

"Hi, Bernie. Long time no see."

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"You promised you'd call me, Bernie. I've been waiting for you to call all summer." She was very nervous. "Can I come in?"

"I suppose." Perplexed, Phelan moved to the heavy oak desk. Deborah called him Bernie, and he'd grown to hate that name. "What's this all about, Miss... ah...?"

"What the hell do you mean, Miss? Don't you remember me? Last May? Beta Chi Delta?" Her tears poured forth.

What the...? Then, he noticed the silver and turquoise Indian bracelet. The last time he'd seen it, it decorated the hand that was sliding up and down on his cock. "Oh yes, the commencement party. Your name is Daisy, isn't it? It's nice to see you again," he said, lying through his teeth.

"You promised you'd call, Bernie. You said I was special. Why didn't you call?" Her voice was shaking.

He wondered now what other lies he'd told her. "I'm very sorry. I've been out of town a lot, and—"

"You haven't been out of town, you bastard! I've come down here half a dozen times to talk to you, but I've always chickened out. I've seen you! Why don't you tell me the truth?"

Surely this little chippie didn't think he was serious about her. He remembered distinctly now that she knew her way around a mattress. "Okay," he began, "To be honest—"

"Don't hand me that to be honest bullshit," she shouted. "If you were honest you would have told me you were married. What kind of girl do you think I am?"

The answer to that was rather obvious, he thought. He needed to get rid of this little hussy. "Listen, I'm really sorry it didn't turn out the way you wanted. Why don't we just let bygones be bygones, and—"

"Because I'm knocked up, is why!"

The redness drained from Phelan's face. "Now just a minute," he shouted. "You can't pin that on me, you tramp! You've probably screwed a dozen other guys since last May. You can't prove anything."

"I don't have to prove anything," she said arrogantly.

"You can't just waltz in here and make a claim like that. Who'd believe you?"

"By the time it gets to that point, the damage will already have been done, won't it Bernie dear?"

The realization hit him like a bag of bricks. This could ruin him. "There are ways to take care of problems like this," he said coldly.

"If you mean an abortion, it's not like getting your hair done. I'm only seventeen, Bernie. Besides, it's illegal in this state, and it would cost a ton of money."

Seventeen? He didn't think he'd gone that young before. "I'll pay for it," he shot back. It would be a cheap price to pay.

"How much you got?"

She was prepared, he realized. It was about more than an abortion. "I see what this is. How much do you want, you little slut?"

"Twenty-five," she answered calmly.

"Fine. Twenty-five hundred. It'll take me a couple of days to come up with that much, but I think I can swing it." The bile in his stomach climbed into his throat.

"I want twenty-five thousand, Bernie baby, and the money for the clinic. And not a fucking dime less, or I go right to your drunkie little wifey."

Phelan's solar plexus cramped up. "Why you little bitch! I'm not giving you any twenty-five thousand dollars!"

She got up and crossed the room. "Sure is hot in here, isn't it Bernie? Look, you're sweating." She yanked up on the window. "Ah, that feels better." She reached into her denim handbag and pulled out a whistle, which she blew on once. "Come over here, Bernie. I want you to see something."

Another girl stepped out from the edge of the building below them and blew a kiss toward the open window. Phelan recognized her as the second girl from that night of ecstasy at Beta Chi Delta.

"Hi Bernie," she yelled up.

Daisy pulled a small hand-held tape recorder from her bag and held it outside the window. Phelan panicked as he heard his own words: Why you little bitch! I'm not giving you any twenty-five.... Daisy clicked it off and tossed it before Phelan realized what had happened. "Twenty-five thousand, Bernie baby, plus the money for the clinic. Don't call me, I'll call you. Anything happens to me, you can guess where that tape ends up."

Phelan looked down. The second girl was already gone.

* * * * *

"Shit! Wake up, man. C'mon Badge!" For Brownie the whole scene was turning into a nightmare. If the festival was a sideshow on Friday, it turned into an episode from the planet of the freaks on Saturday, and now, Sunday afternoon, it had become a huge pain in the ass. Two nights in the station wagon were enough, the few portable toilets that were scattered about were utterly sickening, and he needed a shower—a real shower, with clean water, not the quasi-sewage he'd bathed in the last couple of days. Even the music was becoming annoying. One could take only so many screaming guitar licks.

Earlier that afternoon, Badge had found his way to the stage to watch some twitchy English guy named Joe Cocker who gyrated to his own music as if he were in some kind of fit. At first, Brownie thought Badge was doing an imitation. Badge didn't stop, however, and Brownie finally realized Badge was in real trouble when he urinated on himself. Not even Badge would be that disgusting.

Brownie tried his best. "C'mon Badge, let's go back to the car. I'll see if I can find something for you to drink."

"Aw man, I'llm not goin' wid joo. Wid joo dance w' me baby?" Badge clawed at Brownie's face and dropped like a stone. He didn't regain consciousness for almost two hours, during which time the sky opened up and dumped two inches of rain on them.

"Jesus, Badge, don't die on me," Brownie pleaded as they sat there getting soaked to the bone. He swore to himself that if he ever found the person who'd supplied whatever it was that Badge had taken, he'd kick the asshole's nuts into his throat. He had to get Badge out of there.

The field had turned into a slimy brown mass, ankle deep. The crowd thundered past as another act was getting ready to perform, and Brownie did his best to dodge the shins and kneecaps that rammed them as they lay in the mud. The radio reports said that the festival had been declared a disaster area, and army helicopters were flying in emergency food, water, and medical supplies. What an interesting juxtaposition, Brownie thought as one of the choppers flew by overhead. One of the main protest themes of the festival was aimed at the military, and here the army was helping those who taunted them.

And then there was the sex. People were screwing all over the place. Kids were shedding their puritanical upbringings like pulling off a heavy coat on a warm day. Pleasure seeking became an end onto itself: the more the better, whether it was drugs or sex.

What a turnabout from what he was always taught, Brownie contemplated as he watched a sheet of plastic bob up and down earlier in the day. It covered an obviously copulating couple. Premarital sex crossed against the grain of every social and religious norm he'd grown up with, and here it was not only accepted, it was encouraged. Sex itself had become a statement of social rebellion, and the more people one had sex with, the more of a statement a person made against the war, or racism, hypocrisy in government, or any number of other issues. People were fucking themselves into social awareness. He didn't understand it entirely.

Now, the rain having pummeled him into exhaustion, Brownie reached into the passing throng and grabbed two guys at random. "Help me out man! My friend is really sick." The strangers obliged, but moved on quickly, obviously used to seeing people in Badge's condition. Another band had taken the stage, and the crowd was ready for them. The crowd cheered and called back as Country Joe McDonald shouted out from the stage, "Give me an F... Give me a U... Give me a C... Give me a K... What's it spell?" "FUCK!" the crowd screamed back. "What's it spell?" he kept shouting. "FUCK!" the crowd kept shouting back. Once he got the crowd all fired up, Country Joe sang his antiwar anthem:

One, two, three, what are we fightin' for...

Don't ask me I don't give a damn...

Next stop is Vietnam...

Five, six, seven, open up the pearly gates...

Ain't no time to wonder why...

The end line stuck in Brownie's head:

Whoopee, we all gonna die!

Hopelessness reflected in comedy.

He propped Badge into an upright position. Slipping and sliding on his knees, Brownie was able to shove a shoulder into his friend's gut. Badge outweighed him by forty pounds, and with every ounce of strength he possessed, Brownie hoisted him into the air. Covered with muck and slime, his heart banged louder than the thunderbolts that had just passed over them. Soaking wet and caked with mud from head to toe, Brownie carried that load for an hour and twenty minutes, replacing the water in his clothes with sweat. The entire time he thought about the anthem he'd just heard from Country Joe. He could have been one of those soldiers in Vietnam Country Joe had just sung about, carrying one of his injured buddies out of battle. Most of the guys in this crowd had no idea of the misery the soldiers in Vietnam were suffering—not that he did either, but at least he wasn't pretending that he did. To him, it was the ultimate hypocrisy that they should be at this festival, drinking, smoking, and screwing each other with not a care in the world, while rationalizing the behavior by classifying it as a protest to the war. Drinking, and smoking, and sex had nothing to do with the war as far as he could see. It was self-gratification, pure and simple, and the protests were simply excuses to justify immoral, illegal, or unpatriotic behavior. There had to be another way to change the system.

As the station wagon came into view, his thoughts shifted back to Badge and what he should do. He dropped Badge into the Safari and swore to himself that if Badge survived this, he'd kill him.

CHAPTER 6 The Crosstown

Pietro Dal Maso didn't survive two assassination attempts by being careless. Pietro Dal Maso didn't become a millionaire by taking bad risks. Pietro Dal Maso didn't become Il padrone at age thirty-four because it was handed to him on a silver platter. He was smart, and he'd earned it.

He thought he'd outlined the investment parameters to his lieutenants clearly: all street investments had to be turned over within ten days; otherwise there was too great a chance that the product could be traced. The more talk there was on the street, the higher the chances that some undercover cop, or some snitch, would stumble across it. Ten days was his rule. He was sure he'd made that clear.

Dal Maso looked at himself in the mirror. The silk and satin dinner jacket looked good on him. He liked the paisley designs, and the navy satin lapels weren't too wide. He didn't want it to look like a pimp's jacket. "I'll take it," he said, pulling at the material around his midsection. "But take it in a little here." He was proud of the body he'd developed. He worked on it every day. The tailor brought out a tray of yardage samples for the contrasting ascot. Dal Maso waved him away. "You pick it." He smoothed his furrowed black mane and slipped back into the suit jacket being held by his bodyguard. He assumed his determined look, one he'd practiced in the mirror many times.

"Edward? Did I hear you correctly? Did you just tell me that we put product on the street six days ago and we've only liquidated a third of the inventory? How did this get so out of balance, Edward?"

Eddie The Barrel Bartolo was ten years older than Pietro Dal Maso, and unlike Il padrone he'd worked his way up in the organization through the traditional method of eliminating the competition. His nickname had come when a rival lieutenant began taking potential customers by opening up his own loan sharking operation. Everyone knew the penalty for such a betrayal. It was easy enough: one bullet in the knee to prevent any unpredictable aggression, then two to the head. Clean, neat, no problem. Disposing of the body so it could never be traced back to the family was more challenging. Eddie decided to simply cut the head off the corpse, stuff the body into one of his uncle's wine barrels, seal it, and roll in into the Hudson River. When the barrel was discovered nine days later, there wasn't the slightest possibility of it being traced back to the south end of State Street in Albany. It was a well-executed execution. Eddie The Barrel didn't get where he was by being stupid either, but now he had to explain to Il padrone how he'd fucked up on such a routine transaction. Ten days: the rules were the rules. There were no exceptions.

"Are you listening Edward?"

Eddie The Barrel pulled his six-foot-three frame from the chair and smoothed his brown chalk-striped suit. "I guess we just ran into some bad luck. Who would 'a guessed these hippie bastards would come fully stocked with product of their own?"

"Who's the distributor?"

"Dandy Don."

"Is he the fat slob who runs product to the colleges? I don't like him. He's a bad image for our organization. What we need are businessmen, men who understand their roles and are able to represent the family in a respectable light. This Dandy Don is a slobbering dog."

"Yes sir."

"How much longer will it take for us to turn the rest of the product, Edward?"

"It may be a problem sir."

"How much do we have into it?"

"Forty thousand."

"That's chickenshit." Dal Maso snapped his fingers as if to dismiss the sum, but that was hardly the case. "Pull the product into storage and make the usual connections. Just make sure this pig distributor knows he's not getting a dime out of this." Pietro Dal Maso wanted to make sure his instructions were clear. "And Edward?"

"Yes sir."

"Please take care of this personally." Il padrone had spoken.

* * * * *

Detective Michael Gravachevsky was almost out the door. "Hey, Gravachevsky, there's a call for you on line one. The guy says he's the Man From Uncle." Gravachevsky put the receiver to his ear and pounded the flashing button.

"Yeah... Are you sure?... Listen asshole, don't tell me what you can, or can't get. Just get me what I want, or I'll squash you like the cockroach that you are... How much more?... No way, fifty is all I can get... Fine... I can't tomorrow, I'm in court all day... Wednesday... No, not at the club. I can't go in there. Meet me at the Crosstown in the morning... Then drag your ass outta the fucking bed... Nine o'clock." Gravachevsky banged the phone down. The snitch sounded sure this time. Evidently, one of the dancers at the club had scored a whole pound of grass and said there was plenty more where that came from. He needed more details.

Gravachevsky had been watching marijuana, speed, LSD, hash, cocaine, heroin, and any number of other drugs and hallucinogenic substances filter through the tri-cities for over two years. The New York Thruway cut through the heart of the Albany-Troy-Schenectady triangle, and the area had turned into a major hub for shipments heading north to Montreal and west to Syracuse, Rochester, and Buffalo. A lot of the stuff stayed in the area, and the college crowd was gobbling it up like candy.

He didn't understand it all, really. Those damn college kids had the world by the balls. Him? He was twenty-seven when he finally figured out he wanted to be a cop. His father had been a cop, but things were different then. Ike was president and everyone knew where we stood on things. We hated Communists, and we were supposed to. The poor Negroes lived in another part of town and didn't come over to the white part, period. Things didn't always seem right, but the rules were clean, neat, and understood. The sixties were entirely different.

He'd been impressed by Kennedy's Ask not what your country can do for you speech—hell, everyone was impressed by that—and that's when he decided to go to the police academy. He wanted to make a difference, but his attitude changed after a while. Sometimes, what was wrong was okay, and what was right turned out to be wrong. Nowadays, kids couldn't say prayers in school anymore; Negroes were rioting all over the place; and then there was Vietnam. He remembered President Johnson's speech when he said, "Retreat does not bring safety, and weakness does not bring peace," but he didn't understand that either. So what if we won the war? Was it worth the loss of life? The protesters were right, but the government still sent soldiers over there to die.

Despite all that, Gravachevsky didn't understand how being part of the counterculture helped solve the morality problem with the war. How was doing drugs going to stop the war? He didn't see the connection. Over there, it was an escape. But here? There were no Viet Cong hiding in rice paddies on Central Avenue. He'd seen enough misery and despair to know that drugs had to be stopped, and right now it was his job to do it.

He wrote the information down on a slip of paper and stuffed it into his pocket: Crosstown Diner, Wednesday, 9:00.

* * * * *

Evelyn Brown took one look at her son and knew. He'd gotten back from his trip late and had rushed out of the house early in order to be at the lumberyard on time. Now, sitting there at the dinner table, he was strangely quiet. She wondered who the girl was, and if she was a nice girl.

Probing, she asked, "Aren't you going to tell us about your trip?" She stopped abruptly, knowing by the look on his face that she was already pressing her luck.

"Sorry Mom. I'm just really tired."

"We saw the pictures on TV. Where did you stay?"

"In a motel," Brownie replied.

Evelyn Brown wondered where he'd really stayed. She got up and started clearing the dishes.

* * * * *

Brownie went to bed at nine o'clock but didn't fall asleep, thinking about Badge's brush with death and how he must have had his head up his ass for taking that shit. He needed to have a talk with that boy. Then, he thought about Penny, and what he did with her in the water. What a weird chick. The last time he saw her was Saturday night. They were listening to the Grateful Dead when she got up and headed out with some longhaired guy.

"Hey, where you goin'?" Brownie asked.

"I'm outta pot," she said, and they never saw her again.

He thought about how warm it was between her legs. He wondered if it was like that with all girls. He wondered if it was like that with Jessica Badger. He still had her number. "God you're a jerk," he muttered to himself. Now, he thought, it's too late. She probably thinks you're not interested. He debated if he should call her anyway.

* * * * *

The Wednesday morning traffic was heavy on Brandywine Avenue, and the breakfast business was brisk at the Crosstown. Parking himself across the street, Gravachevsky waited patiently for the Snail, a.k.a. Howard Kelso, to show up. The nickname characterized him perfectly, Gravachevsky thought as he looked at the front of the Bamboo Club, the strip joint where Kelso worked as a go-fer. Gravachevsky knew the place well. It was a sleazy little joint where the carpeting was perpetually sticky and the girls earned extra money between sets. The going rate for a b-j was forty bucks. Kelso was the cleanup boy, sweeping up broken glass outside and picking up the sticky paper towels in the private room in the back.

Kelso turned the corner and stopped in front of the liquor store to light a cigarette. Gravachevsky waited ten more minutes and made his way through the bus fumes toward the Crosstown. Once inside, he just followed the smell. Kelso was in a back booth near the men's room. Gravachevsky sat down casually. "Did she score?" he asked.

"You got the money?" Kelso countered, not answering the question.

"I got it. Information first." Kelso's breath smelled like beer.

"Let's see it. No tickie, no laundry."

Gravachevsky flashed two twenties and a ten.

"You said an extra fifty for this."

"Yeah, if what you got is worth it. You ain't told me nothin' yet." The waitress came over, took a look at Kelso, and turned up her nose. Gravachevsky ordered coffee. Kelso ordered eggs, bacon, home fries, toast and waffles, and a Coke.

"Yeah, she scored. So did a couple of the other girls. You wanna know who they are?"

"I'm not paying you for a couple of junkie strippers. I want the supplier."

"Fat guy. Calls himself Dandy Don. Gross looking dude."

Jesus, if that wasn't the pot calling the kettle black. Gravachevsky thought he'd heard the name before. "You seen him before?"

"Yeah. Comes in a lot. Usually hangs with the girls. I hear he hires them once in a while to do some private stuff at the colleges."

"What kind of private stuff?"

"I don't know, stag parties or something."

"How much shit does he have?"

"Word is he's got a load."

"How much of a load?"

"What do I look like, fucking Joe Friday?"

"Listen asshole, I told you. I ain't forkin' over a c-note to bust a couple of hosebags on possession. I want to know how much the guy's got, and where he's got it." The waitress appeared with the food.

"How the hell am I going to get that?" Kelso whined.

"That's not my problem. Call me when you got something better than the shit you just shoveled." Gravachevsky got up and dropped a buck on the table for the coffee.

"Hey, what about the bread, man?"

"Call me when you got something that isn't a complete waste of my time."

"How about breakfast, man? I ain't got nothin' on me."

"Then wash the fucking dishes... and take a bath while you're at it."

CHAPTER 7 Winding Down, Winding Up

The phone rang. "I'll get it," Bernard Phelan called to his loving bride. He picked up, still studying the papers on his lap.

"Hi Bernie. How ya doin' baby?"

He sprang from his chair. "You can't call me here."

"I'll call you anywhere I want, Bernie baby. You makin' any progress?"

"Let me call you back. What's your number?"

"No way Bernie. You must think I'm really stupid."

It hadn't taken too much cunning to lure her into the sack, Phelan recalled. He looked up to see Deborah staggering down the stairs, banister in one hand, martini in the other.

"Who you talkin' to?" she slurred.

"It's just someone asking for a contribution," he said, holding his hand over the mouthpiece.

"Tell 'em we gave at the office," she said, waving her drink with a theatrical sweep and spilling some gin. "Shit. Gotta get a paper towel."

Phelan watched her weave into the kitchen. "I can't talk here!" he said angrily.

"Easy, Bernie baby. You got the money?"

"I don't have twenty-five thousand, at least not that I can put my hands on and nobody would notice. Listen, I can get five thousand right away."

"And what am I supposed to do with that, buy bubble gum?"

"It'll be enough to pay for the clinic."

"I don't think so, Bernie. Without this little bundle of joy I'm carrying, you could simply claim I'm some loony little bitch and you have no idea what I'm talking about. Just remember I still have this to fall back on." The sound of her voice on tape came through loud and clear: If you mean an abortion, it's not like getting your hair done. I'm only seventeen. "I suggest you find a way to raise the cash pretty soon, Bernie. Otherwise little wifey is in for one hell of a bad day."

"Why should she believe you?" Phelan countered weakly.

"Bernie, Bernie, Bernie dear...."

"Stop calling me that, you little bitch!" He slammed the receiver as Deborah reeled through the door carrying a role of paper towels.

"Don't those people jus' piss you off?" she asked thickly. She dropped the entire roll on the floor, rolling it into the wet spots with her foot. "People gottsum nerve, don't they Bernie dear?"

Phelan went upstairs and opened the safe behind the picture of Deborah's mother. Inside was a Llama thirty-two caliber automatic. He almost reached for it. Instead, he shuffled through the papers to check the amount of Deborah J. Phelan's life insurance policy.

* * * * *

Brownie threw some more wood on the fire. It was his fire in a way. He'd gathered up as much scrap as he could find around the lumberyard that afternoon, and everyone stopped by on their way to the party and filled their trunks. It made a great fire. It popped and crackled and the sparks flew up in a steady stream until they froze to death.

"Do you believe what's been going on in this country over the last couple of years?" Marcia Adams asked as she sipped on a soda. The stream of sparks reflected in her eyes, a moving chain of gold specks.

The conversation was a bit philosophical for his liking, but what the hell. Any conversation with a girl was better than no conversation, especially with a girl like Marcia. Too bad she was Badge's girlfriend.

"It's unbelievable," Brownie agreed. "You can't even listen to the news anymore."

They were in the middle of a huge field on the farm where Marcia lived, reminding him very much of his last experience in a hay field, except that this wasn't Yasgur's Farm. The physical setting wasn't much different, however. With her parents conveniently out of town, Marcia had conspired with her older brother to throw a last blast of the summer party. Brownie poked at the fire with a stick, feeling the heat as it radiated outward. The warmth was soothing, as were the alternating aromas of fruity smoke and freshly mowed hay. The discussion came around to a friend of Marcia's brother. He looked like a college kid, Brownie reflected, not unlike the thousands he'd seen at Woodstock. His hair was longer, and this one acted differently—more sophisticated somehow. He was probably trying to cozy up to Marcia, but hey, who could blame him for that?

"Well, not everything is bad," the stranger said. "How about those astronauts landing on the moon last month? I can't even imagine what that was like."

"That's true, but Marcia's got a point," Brownie said. "Remember the riots after Martin Luther King was killed last summer? And then Bobby Kennedy getting shot? And how about the cops beating the crap out of everyone at the convention in Chicago?"

Marcia added, "And just last week those Charles Manson crazies killed five people, including that actress who was eight months pregnant. Can you imagine?" Marcia wrinkled her nose and moved closer to Brownie—for warmth.

The college kid's demeanor took a sudden twist. "The pigs are always beating the crap out of someone."

"Don't you think there are issues on both sides?" Brownie asked. "I mean, there are ways to get your point across without throwing rocks and bottles."

"You don't know anything about it, man. They're always trying to keep us down, just like the faculties at our universities. We ought to shut the places down."

"What good would that do? I mean, if things need to be changed, how is paralyzing the schools going to accomplish anything?"

"You have to make the people in authority listen to you, and the only way to do it is to force them. Otherwise you'll get the same old rigmarole—they say one thing, do another. Take the war, for instance. The war is wrong. It's unwinnable, and immoral, and many of our politicians agree on that. Yet, we keep sending guys over there in the name of stopping Communist aggression."

"I don't understand the immoral part," Brownie said.

"It's bullshit, man. The reality of it is that American corporations are getting rich off the war, and the colleges are supporting them. The colleges develop the technology, the corporations pay them off with grants, and the corporations sell the stuff to the government. As long as they're all in bed together, we'll never stop the cycle. It has nothing to do with Communist aggression. It has to do with money, dude. That's the immorality of it."

"So you wouldn't go and fight if you were drafted?" Brownie questioned.

"I burned my draft card the day I got it," the college kid said proudly. "Didn't you?"

"I don't have one yet," Brownie answered, wondering if he could answer his own question. "I don't think it's right to weasel out of the draft if you have go, though."

"Don't be hypocritical," the college kid shot back. "You'll be getting a deferment. It's easy to talk tough when someone else is getting shot at."

As opposed to talking tough about shirking one's responsibility, thought Brownie, but the college kid had a point about the deferment thing. There were other things to worry about right now, however. "Say, where the hell did Badge go off to?" he asked, turning his attention back to Marcia. He'd had enough rhetoric and pomposity.

The college kid took the hint and said, "I'm gonna get a beer. You guys want one?"

Brownie said, "No thanks," and the guy disappeared, thank goodness.

Marcia moved even closer. "So, I hear you went to Woodstock."

She sure was being friendly. "You must have heard about that from Badge."

"I haven't talked to Badge in weeks."

"You're kidding."

"We've hardly seen each other all summer. I don't think he likes me anymore. At first I thought it was me, but now I think he's just getting strange."

Looking at Marcia as the flames danced in her eyes, Brownie thought: Badge was either an idiot, or blind. Unable to help himself, his gaze drifted down to Marcia's bulging sweater. She followed his eyes, but didn't seem to mind. If anything, he thought he detected the hint of a smile there. He wondered nervously if the inviting look was on purpose, and he erased the thought immediately. Marcia was his best friend's girl, and it wouldn't be right. Still... just one time....

"What happened at the festival?" she asked.

Brownie suddenly stopped thinking about Marcia's chest. "Badge took some LSD or something, I'm not sure. Whatever it was, it put him in a coma. I was really scared."

"You're kidding."

"He acted like it was really cool; didn't seem to give a damn that he almost died."

"That's the way he's been about everything lately, especially me. Sure, he's always acted a little immature at times, but I figured he did that to impress the younger kids on the team. Now, I don't know what to think. I mean, he's really smart. Did you know he got into every school he applied to?"

"I know he got into UMass."

"And Dartmouth, and Middlebury."

"You're kidding. Dartmouth?"

"See? But it doesn't seem important to him. I don't think he even wants to go to college." Then she said, "But let's change the subject. What about you? Are you going to play ball at Alliance?"

"I have to if I want to play in the Cape League next summer."

"You sound determined—a lot more determined than Badge seems to be."

Badge's name seemed to keep crawling back into the conversation. "Where is he anyway?" Brownie asked again.

"He's probably off somewhere drinking his brains out. He'll be around when he feels like it. Would you get me another soda?" Brownie was back in a flash. They touched cans.

Marcia drank and looked warmly into Brownie's eyes. "Before, when you were talking... would you really go to Vietnam and fight if you were drafted?"

Brownie never answered as Badge suddenly showed up and asked, "Hey, you guys want some beer? A couple of the college guys are going to make another run before the store closes."

Brownie handed him a couple of bucks and Badge turned away without even acknowledging Marcia.

"See what I mean?" she said. "He doesn't even know I'm alive." She pulled a corner of the blanket they were sitting on up over their legs.

It was warm under the blanket, thought Brownie, and Vietnam was half a world away.

* * * * *

"Whose damned university is this?" President Millard F. Stallings called across the table to Walter G. Prescott, his Dean of Campus Affairs. "We're not going to put up with the same nonsense as last year. This campus needs to maintain order." Prescott was a pain in the ass, always taking the other side. Stallings thought if he said blue, Prescott would say green. It was never-ending.

"I understand your point, President Stallings, and I don't mean to be argumentative, but..." Prescott adjusted his glasses and leaned forward to make his point. "...we can't simply squash student opinion. This crisis has been building for years, and we're not going to stop it overnight."

"That's bullshit, Walt." The comment came from Leonard Herzog, Chief of Campus Security, a retired police lieutenant from Rochester with twenty-four years on the job. "These rich kids are a bunch of damn trouble makers. We need more backbone."

Stallings said, "I've already made my decision. I want close monitoring of this incoming class, and I want any troublemakers identified immediately. Chief Herzog is right. We need to make an example of anyone who violates our code of conduct. As for the rest of the student body, I believe we have our list from last year, right Chief?"

"We'll be watching them closely, sir. Is there anyone else you would like us to keep an eye on?"

"That's a topic for another meeting. In the meantime, keep me posted on any problems. I want any protests held in check, and I want this drug situation controlled."

* * * * *

Dandy Don. Dandy Don. Gravachevsky had never heard back from Kelso, and he wondered if the supply had dried up. Now, driving by the Bamboo Club, he remembered the name. He found a phone booth and called in.

"Harry, do me a favor and see if you can find the number for the head of security over at Alliance." He waited a moment. "Thanks." Gravachevsky shoved another dime into the phone and dialed the number.

"Campus security, Chief Herzog speaking."

"Chief, this is Detective Gravachevsky, Schenectady PD. I was wondering if you could give me some details about a disturbance you had there last year."

"If I can. Always willing to help the boys in blue."

"Thanks. You had an incident where some fraternity brothers got drunked up and tried to coerce a young woman into having sex with them. As I recall, she pulled a knife and cut one or two of them, but I don't remember what happened after that. Do you recall the incident?"

"Sure do. It was a straight assault rap, as I remember it. Let me pull the file if I can find it real quick... Here it is. The girl was a Cindy J. Steiner; lived over in Troy. She'd been busted for prostitution, so evidently she was no saint. Her story was that they tried to rape her. I figure they didn't pay her and she got pissed off. Ended up that no charges were pressed either way."

"Do you have mention in the file of any student who went by the name of Dandy Don?"

Herzog closed the file. "Why do you want to know?"

Gravachevsky paused. "Something's got your antennae up, Chief. You wanna tell me what it is?"

"He ain't no student, is what. He worked as a cook at the frat house where the incident took place. I had some suspicions that he was dealing weed around campus, but I was never able to prove anything by the time school let out."

"Does he still work there?"

"Don't know. School won't be in session until the fifteenth. What's going on with this guy, Detective? I always knew he was scum."

Cutting it short, Gravachevsky said, "Can't say right now, Chief, but thanks for your help. I'll keep you posted on any developments." He tallied another connection to this Dandy Don.

"Do you want me to keep an eye on the bastard?" Herzog asked quickly, but the line was already dead. That's okay. He didn't need no Polack cop to fill him in on anything going down on his campus. He knew what to do.

CHAPTER 8 The Rules

Brownie turned in front of the mirror and looked at the price tag. The corduroy Levis fit just right. He caught her face in the reflection and suddenly he felt so hot that he started to itch.

Marcia Adams said, "They look fine, Brownie."

"Hi Marcia, what are you doing here?" He immediately thought about the party a week earlier and how dejected she'd become when Badge seemed more interested in playing Thumper than sitting by the bonfire with her. He remembered how she got a little drunk too, paying attention to him while Badge was being a dickhead. He also remembered how the night turned into a make out party under the blankets.

"I'm doing some school shopping, just like you evidently. I'm buying a couple of men's flannel shirts," she said. "They fit me better."

Right, thought Brownie, finding it impossible not to look at the taut fabric and remembering how she'd snuggled up against him—to keep warm, she'd said, in front of a roaring bonfire, in August. Uh-huh. Was she teasing him now, standing there like that? Damn, it was hot in that store.

"It's okay Brownie, you don't have to be embarrassed about last week. It wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Bad? No, it wasn't bad. I just thought I'd ticked you off. I know you wanted to and all, but then I stopped, or maybe you stopped, and then I thought you were really angry. I didn't mean to...."

"Brownie, it's all right. It was Badge I was mad at, and I guess I wanted to get back at him somehow. I've always liked you Brownie, but I was wrong to get you in the middle it."

"Well, let's just say maybe in another time, and in another place, it could have been." What a prophetic line. He was a real conversationalist.

"Maybe."

"So... how about we split a Fribble down at the Friendly's?"

"Strawberry?"

"Sure, strawberry." Shit, he thought. Now he finds out. But he knew it wouldn't have been right. She was still Badge's girl, and one didn't stab friends in the back like that.

* * * * *

Princess Kiyeena, The Hawaiian Goddess, was down to her rhinestoned halter top and silver G-string. The silver triangle between her legs couldn't have been bigger than a Band-Aid, thought Kelso, but he didn't detect any hair showing from underneath. He knew the routine by now: she came out in a see-through chiffon robe and a huge feathered headdress, with more of the huge feathers hanging from her wrists. A piece of the costume came off with each song to eventually reveal a beautiful tight brown ass. He counted the tips as she moved down the rail, doing her bump-and-grind as close to the faces of the mesmerized drunks as possible. He wondered if all the chicks in Hawaii were like her. She was flawless, muscles tight as piano strings beneath the glowing skin, her super long, jet-black hair waving over the crack of her ass. During the last song of her set, he visualized himself beneath her as she thrust her svelte hips into a feathered drop cloth in perfect timing to the pounding rhythm. She was magnificent.

When the routine ended, she paraded around, still naked, giving the old farts a kiss on the cheek and collecting still more money. Kelso guessed the bitch took in at least five hundred a night. He figured a real Hawaiian princess deserved at least that much, although one of the other dancers told him she was a mulatto from the east side of Watervliet. Afterwards, she hustled drinks and occasionally let the harmless ones cop a feel for ten bucks. She could double her money if she gave extras like some of the other girls, but she didn't need to. Kelso moved closer with his little sweep broom. Maybe he could get a better look.

"Sorry big guy," he heard her say as he approached the table near the back, "but if I let you touch me down there while I'm on stage, we'd both get thrown out. We couldn't have that now, could we sweetie?"

The smell of B.O. and after-shave hovered over the table. The guy's fleshy face had three days' growth and his teeth were brown as rust, but he must have had two hundred bucks stacked in front of him. It was enough to lure her into plopping her molasses-sweet ass down next to his. Immediately, Dandy Don's hands began to wander.

"Easy, big boy," Princess Kiyeena said. "Why don't we get to know each other first? How about a drink?"

Kelso got a little too close, and Dandy Don grabbed him by the shirt.

"Hey boy. Get me my waitress. Fuckin' beers cost two-fifty a pop and a guy can't even get any fuckin' service."

The guy was a real charmer. "Sure Dandy Don, sir. Anything you say. Something for the lady?" Kelso scooped up half a dozen empty Pabst bottles on the table, getting a good close look at Princess Kiyeena, along with a nose full of her bargain basement perfume.

Dandy Don spun him around. "Do you know me, boy?"

"Everyone knows an important man like you, sir."

Dandy Don smiled. "Right." He stuffed a buck into the scrawny little fuck's shirt pocket just as Princess Kiyeena's pinky finger started rubbing his dick.

"How 'bout a champagne split?" she cooed. "Big man like you can afford it."

"How much is a split, boy?"

"It's usually ten dollars sir, but let me see what I can do." He came back just in time to see Princess Kiyeena shove Dandy Don's hand off her breast.

"I told you I don't do that," she snarled. "You want your dick sucked, you get your mother to do it." She stormed off angrily. "Fucking cheap pervert prick," she shot over her shoulder.

Dandy Don looked up. "What the fuck you starin' at?"

Ice bucket in hand, "Do you still want the split?" Kelso asked. "I can take it back if you want."

"Gimme the fuckin' thing." Dandy Don yanked the cork and drained it in one motion. "Be right back," he belched. "Gotta take a fuckin' piss."

Kelso picked up the empty bottle and looked at the wad of bills on the table. Tempted, he looked around, noting that everyone was paying attention to the stage where the next dancer was displaying her suzy for all to see. It would be so easy. Suddenly, Kelso froze as Dandy Don appeared in the hallway that led from the men's room and squeezed his way back to the table. There was a big wet spot on his pants.

"What the hell you still doin' here, boy?"

"Just watching your table sir." Kelso nodded toward the stack of bills.

Realizing the snotty little twerp could have easily walked away with the money, Dandy Don asked, "How much for the split?"

"Forget about it. I don't think anyone even saw me take it."

Dandy Don slipped a ten spot into Kelso's shirt pocket. "How long you been workin' here kid?"

"'Bout four months. Money sucks, but the fringe benefits are pretty good." Kelso spread a lascivious smile and nodded toward the dancer on stage. Thinking about Gravachevsky's c-note payoff, he decided to press his luck. "Girls around here speak pretty highly of you. Say you can always get 'em some good stuff."

"What kinda stuff?"

"You know what kinda stuff, Mister Dandy Don, sir. Ain't no secrets around here. You know, I could unload some shit for you if you need distribution."

"I have no fuckin' idea what you're talkin' about," Dandy Don said warily.

"Hey, ain't no need to sweat. I ain't gonna spill the beans to nobody. Where you gettin' your stuff anyway? Sounds like a helluva score."

Fishing, Dandy Don asked, "You got distribution set up?"

"I got tons of connections, man. Maybe you and me can work something out." Kelso acted like the big man that he wasn't. "You got any shit left from couple 'a weeks ago?"

Dandy Don grabbed him by the shirt. "You ask a lot of fuckin' questions, boy. You and those fuckin' bitches are best off keeping your fuckin' mouths shut, you hear?" Dandy Don shoved him into a chair and squeezed his fat ass through the tables toward the exit.

Quickly, Kelso went to the phone behind the bar and dialed Gravachevsky's number. This needed to sound convincing. The phone just started to ring when the fat asshole came back through the door. Kelso slammed the phone down, thinking he was dead meat.

Grabbing his forgotten keys off the table, "I wonder who the lousy little fuck is calling," Dandy Don said to himself. Maybe he'd better call Bartolo and tell him that the street was talking.

* * * * *

"Leonard, be reasonable. We can't lock the dorms at ten o'clock. We'd just be asking for trouble." It was just three days before freshmen orientation and Chief of Campus Security Leonard Herzog and Dean of Campus Affairs Walter G. Prescott were having another one of their run-ins.

"You heard Stallings," Herzog responded. "He said he wants this drug trafficking situation controlled, and you know how he is. We need to address the problem immediately."

"I know, but you're talking about freshmen here. We both know the real problem is with the upperclassmen." Prescott got Herzog's point, however. Stallings could be a bear if his orders weren't carried out. "Couldn't you wait thirty days and set up some student informants or something?"

"That's too late," said Herzog. "Besides, the problem isn't just with the students."

"You're not insinuating that members of the faculty are... I don't believe it."

"No, not that. But I have reason to believe at least one civilian on campus is engaged in illegal activities of various kinds. He's a cook at one of the frat houses."

"Really? How do you know?"

Herzog hung his thumbs on his belt. "I got a call from Schenectady PD."

Finally, something to get Herzog out of Gestapo mode. "Are they sure about this?"

"Not entirely. The call was in relation to something else, but it was enough for me to raise the old antennae. I had suspicions about this guy last year. I know scum when I see it, and this guy is scum."

"If he is dealing drugs, maybe one of the students would turn him in."

Herzog wagged his head. "Not likely. He probably uses them as runners, and students just don't go around snitching on their classmates. No... we'd need to catch him in the act. What we need is a double agent, someone who could find out when something was going down and would be willing to pass it on."

Tentatively, Prescott said, "I think I might know someone who could help."

"Really? Who?"

"Believe it or not, Bernard Phelan."

"As in Professor Phelan?

"He'd be perfect. The students like him; he's been part of the antiwar movement here at Alliance; and he's invited to every dorm party and frat party on campus. And, his father-in-law is Millard Stallings. Surely he'd do it."

"Let's talk to Professor Phelan soon," Herzog suggested.

* * * * *

Margaret and Arthur Badger lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. "Are you as worried as I am?" Arthur asked, breaking the silence.

Margaret let out a long sigh. "Where did we go wrong Arthur? I don't know what to do any more."

Arthur propped himself on one elbow. "Did you see how defensive he got today?"

"You mean at the picnic table, when everyone was talking about that Army recruiting office that got burned down?"

"Right. Did you see how animated he got when Billy was talking about the kids that supposedly did it? He took it personally, almost like he was one of them."

"Oh Arthur, you really don't think that's possible, do you? He couldn't... could he? Oh Arthur, he's still just a boy."

"He's no boy Margaret. Just look at him. If this were another time, or another place, he'd be out supporting a family by now."

Margaret frowned. "I have looked at him Arthur, and I don't like what I see. All that damned long hair and dirty jeans all the time. Besides, he'd have to get serious about a girl in order to support a family. It's bad enough he let that Adams girl get away. I don't understand why he wouldn't like a lovely young girl like that. She's just like Jessica, smart, attractive, level headed, and he gets along with Jessica like she was a sister."

"Maybe the resemblance is too close."

"I guess. I just wish he'd focus in on something. Maybe Alliance will help him grow out of this."

"Let's hope so. Maybe he'll be excited about checking in tomorrow and meeting his new roommate." Arthur rolled over. "Good night sweetheart. Let's get some sleep."

Margaret paused before turning off the lamp. "Arthur, you don't think Mark could have had anything to do with that recruiting office, do you? Tell me he couldn't have been part of that."

Arthur Badger sidestepped the question. "Go to sleep Margaret. Tomorrow is a busy day."

* * * * *

Dandy Don looked at his watch again. It was almost midnight. He recalled dialing Bartolo's answering service that morning—the answering service he knew was anything but as only men answered, and men didn't work as answering service operators. Bartolo's return call didn't come for over an hour.

"Tell me again," Bartolo had said. "And how did this busboy find out about the shipment?... I see... I thought we had a discussion about putting the product into storage and waiting until the colleges were back in session... I see... And what's the name of this club again?... The Bamboo Club... I see...."

"Those bitches must have tried to sell some off, Mister Bartolo. I guess that's how the little prick got wind of the shipment... Yes sir, I'll go back tonight and see what else he knows... I'll take care of it... You can count on me sir... Yes sir, I know you'll be in touch." Bartolo hadn't sounded too pissed actually, but Bartolo was hard to read.

Now, watching the Hawaiian Princess show her ass for the fourth time, Dandy Don wondered why there was no sign of Kelso. Kiyeena steered clear when she came around to work the crowd, and that was good. He didn't have time to fuck around with her right now. Maybe the wormy little shit had the night off. Could be, except that Saturday had to be the busiest night of the week. Dandy Don gulped the last half of his Pabst and scooped up his money, leaving sixty cents for the waitress.

Outside, he walked to his car in the red neon glow of the Crosstown Diner sign across the street. The backup lights on the Cadillac in front of him lit up before he even turned the key, its bumper kissing that of his rusty Bonneville. Two men jumped out, moving quickly to either side of his car. Dandy Don watched as a Beretta automatic came to rest against his temple.

"Mister Bartolo wants to talk, fat boy. You make any quick moves and I'll drop you like a brick. Got it, blubber-ass?"

The second thug laughed. "That's funny Jimmy. Quick moves. Yeah, quick like fuckin' drunk elephant. Funny."

Dandy Don squeezed into the back of the Cadillac, and the one holding the Beretta said, "Jesus you stink." Twenty minutes later, he was being pushed through the shadows behind an auto parts store off Central Avenue, ending up in a well-furnished office that obviously had nothing to do with auto parts. He didn't recognize the well-groomed guy sitting behind the mahogany desk. Someone shoved him into a chair next to a large metal drum with the words olive verde stenciled on the side. The well-groomed guy got up and walked around to the front of the desk. Dandy Don waited, expecting him to say something.

Pietro Dal Maso wrinkled his nose as he walked past. Dandy Don started to turn around when a fist came out of nowhere, rocking into his gelatinous face with enough force to almost knock his huge poundage off the chair. A second brass-knuckled fist smashed him in the mouth, causing him to bite off a piece of his tongue. Gushing blood, he gagged on his own spit. A third blast landed squarely on the side of his forehead, chipping his skull. Someone grabbed his hair from behind, forcing him to look up. He could barely see through the blood, but he recognized the face of Eddie The Barrel Bartolo.

"You are aware..." Eddie The Barrel began, "...of our rules regarding the liquidation of inventory within ten days?"

Gurgling blood, Dandy Don didn't respond. Someone smashed him in the gut with a broom handle, causing him to spew a disgusting river of red gravy onto his chin and down his neck.

"I'm waiting for an answer," Eddie The Barrel said calmly.

Dandy Don managed a nod.

"You are also aware, are you not, of the fact that we insist on normal distribution channels for any movement of product, using known and established personnel?"

Dandy Don nodded again.

"And one last thing. You did understand, did you not, your instructions to pull the remainder of the shipment into storage?"

Dandy Don nodded for the third time.

"Then tell me you piece of shit, before I blow your fucking brains out, what the fuck you were thinking when you sold a lousy two pounds of product to a couple of junkie stripper whores?" Eddie The Barrel reached into his jacket and pulled out a nickel-plated .38, putting the barrel in the middle of Dandy Don's bleeding forehead. "I'm waiting."

Choking on his own blood, Dandy Don began to sob, his huge body heaving. Panic-stricken, he watched Eddie The Barrel cock the hammer and move the revolver away from his head and place it on his kneecap.

"Here's a little reminder for you the next time you get a wild hair up your ass."

"Just a minute," Pietro Dal Maso said as he came forward. "Incapacitating him will not contribute toward liquidation of the remainder of the shipment." It took a couple of seconds for Eddie The Barrel to figure out exactly what Il padrone had just said. When he did, he pulled the pistol off Dandy Don's kneecap. Il padrone continued. "Why don't you simply show him the consequences of his next poor decision?"

Eddie put the gun away and undid the spring latches on the olive verde container. Someone pushed Dandy Don's head to the container. There, in a pool of red liquid, was a pile of dismembered body parts, stacked like so many pieces of meat in a supermarket display case. Carrying a plastic bucket, one of the thugs walked over and pulled out a human head, its eyes still locked wide open in fear. Recognizing the head as belonging to the skinny busboy from the Bamboo Club, Dandy Don gasped and puked into the container, then passed out and slumped to the floor in a puddle of his own urine.

CHAPTER 9 The Drive

She came out with yet more bundles to put into the already overflowing car.

"Geez Mom, the astronauts went to the moon with less stuff than this. Don't you think maybe we could not worry about the wool blankets right now?"

"Winters in Schenectady are awfully cold, Wallace."

"Trust me Mom, they have heat in the dorms. Dad, help me out here, will you?"

"For what that school costs, you should have a helluva lot more than just heat. You should have your own butler, for Christ's sake."

"Dad, where is the schedule of activities?"

"What schedule of activities?"

"The one with the road map on the back."

"What do you need that for? I'm driving."

"I want to check what time we need to be there. It's already past eleven and at this rate I might not make enrollment for next year."

"You never gave it to me. Maybe Janet's got it."

"Dad, you asked me for it. You wanted to see if it was better to take Route 20 or the Mass Pike."

"Oh, you mean that little pamphlet thing? I put it over the visor so I could figure out whether or not to take the Pike."

"That's what I just said!" Brownie raised his hands skyward. "My parents have lost it." He perused the schedule with as much patience as he could muster. "It says check-in is between noon and three. We'd better move it if.... Mom! I am not taking an ironing board! Who the hell takes an ironing board to college? You can take that ironing board and—"

Phil Brown put a hand on Brownie's shoulder. "It's okay son. I'll take care of this."

"Would you, please!"

Phil Brown turned to his wife. "He's got a point honey. We need to get moving. We'll get something to eat on the way. Brownie, go find your sister."

"I can make something to take with us in the car," Evelyn Brown said. "It'll only take a minute. How about some—"

Phil Brown took his wife's hand. "Honey, it's time to let go. He's not your baby anymore."

"Has anyone seen Janet?" Brownie yelled. He was about search the garage when his sister came out pulling their ancient little red wagon. There were four large packages on it, all gift wrapped and tied with huge bows.

"This is from all of us," she said. "Come on, open them."

Brownie had no clue. He laid one of the packages on the tailgate of the station wagon and tore into it, seeing the word Advent on the box underneath. It was a speaker. Then, excitedly, he undid the remaining boxes, seeing the words Technics and Kenwood as he tore through the wrappings. It was all top-of-the-line gear.

"Probably hear the damn thing all way from Schenectady," Phil Brown grumbled.

Finally on the road, they sat silently, absorbed in their own thoughts as the scenery passed unnoticed. Brownie flipped contentedly through the owner's manuals to the stereo gear. Now, he thought, he had absolutely everything he'd need for college—except for his forgotten baseball glove, which was still hanging on a nail in the garage.

* * * * *

Arthur and Margaret Badger looked at each other. "Christ Almighty," Arthur griped, "you mean he's still in bed! We need to leave in an hour. I think I'm going to be glad to see him go."

"Arthur! Don't talk like that. He overslept, that's all. It'll only take a few minutes to put his things in the car. Remember what we said last night: it's just a phase."

* * * * *

Billy Badger was paying more attention to his daughter's reflection in the rearview than he was the roadway. They were only forty minutes outside Saratoga Springs, home to one of the shining stars of higher education for women. She seemed little overwhelmed by the responsibility she was about to shoulder, and he thought of their earlier discussion in the restaurant where they'd gone after church.

"Don't worry baby," he'd said. "You'll do fine. Having gone to public school is nothing to be ashamed of. Just because some of those girls went to fancy-shmansy prep schools, it doesn't mean they're any better than you are. Let's see who's ahead at the finish line when it's all said and done."

"This is not a competition," Nancy Badger scolded. "Jessica simply needs to be herself. Then, she can take that independent attitude to graduate school. Who knows what she can accomplish after that? Maybe she'll be the first woman to—"

"Mom! Dad! Would you two mind not living my life for me just yet? Maybe you'd like to pick out my boyfriend, or tell me what to name my children while you're at it."

"Boyfriend? You aren't going to have time for any boyfriend." Billy Badger knew immediately he'd said the wrong thing—again—but the image of some horny adolescent putting his paws all over his beautiful, innocent daughter stuck in his head. He wanted to say something like: You better watch out, sweetheart. I know what boys are like at your age, but he kept his mouth shut. There was no sense in trying to control it. Whatever was going to happen, was going to happen. Now it was up to her. Just as long as she didn't get herself tangled up with some pot-smoking weirdo, he thought again. He couldn't help it.

* * * * *

All the moms were crying like they'd just buried a relative, and all the dads acted like they knew what was going on, when they didn't really have a clue. It was funny. During the two-hour ride, Brownie had thought about the new people he'd meet. It was his opportunity to carve out a new and different niche in the social order. It was as exciting as it was scary. He thought about how it was in high school; how there were certain stigmas associated with the various cliques. There were the gearheads, the jocks, the brainy ones, the bullies, the punks, the cheerleaders. It was amazing how the labels stayed with them throughout their years. He imagined there were cliques in college as well, and he wondered how he was going to define his own presence. He decided that whatever group he was going to be part of, it was going to be a natural fit. He was under no pressure now to be part of the coolest group, like he felt in high school. He was independent, and free to choose the friends he wanted. It was a new and distinct comfort level.

The campus had been under a foot of snow when he'd visited in February. Now, walking around with his family, it seemed like a distinctly different place. It was inspirational. Whether it was the historical architecture, the huge trees that lined the sidewalks, or perhaps the crawling ivy that covered portions of the buildings, every building had characteristics that spoke from the past. There was an atmosphere of intellectuality here. It was a serious place, a place with a sense of order and discipline, not subject to the laws of time. It was 175 years old, and still avant-garde. You conformed to it, for it would not change for the passing fads of the day. The only requirement it made of its current students was that their thoughts be structured yet creative, nonconformist yet acceptable. It was a breeding ground for leadership. Three presidents had graduated from it, as well as hundreds of doctors, authors, judges—you name it. The list of prominent alumni both present and past boggled his mind, although Brownie hadn't heard of any big-league ballplayers who'd played at Alliance.

"Do you think the Badgers made it all right?" Phil Brown asked. "We haven't seen them yet today."

Brownie looked at his watch, noting that it was almost 4:30. "It's way past check in time," he said.

* * * * *

Nat Hinshaw sat on the stone wall at the far edge of the lawn in front of the West Academy dorm, and watched. Already some new students were hanging out. He had another half-hour or so to kill before they would gather to review the schedule for the remaining three days of orientation, so he thought he'd lie in the warm sun and take a little snooze. He pulled his New York Mets hat over his eyes and stretched out to enjoy the warmth. He peeked from under the hat occasionally to keep track of the goings-on. A particularly ravishing young creature passed on the sidewalk nearby, and he watched as she walked by intertwined with a studly looking but obvious freshman. They were probably taking a goodbye stroll, he figured. They found a place on the wall about fifteen feet away.

Trying to be sociable, "Hey, how about those Mets?" the studly-looking freshman called. "You think they're gonna go all the way?"

Nat knew then that he had to get off that wall. He needed to be part of the landscape, and lying out all alone on top of the wall was hardly unobtrusive. Giving the freshman and his companion a vague salute, Nat decided to meander across the lawn and into the dorm, thinking he'd cruise the hallways for a while and check things out. Better pocket the Mets hat, he thought, letting his roguishly long blonde hair spill out. His perpetual baby face belied a hard body toned by weights, jump rope, and twice-a-week sparring sessions—a carryover from his four years in the Navy where he fought for the fleet title as a twenty-year-old welterweight. He could pass for twenty-one easily, possibly nineteen if one didn't look too close. Dressed in a pair of old Levis, Adidas sneakers, and a Notre Dame t-shirt, he didn't look any older than the dorm monitors who were scurrying about trying to keep order amid the insanity inside the dorm.

Inside, he walked up to the third floor, checking things out along the way. He made his way down the H-shaped corridor network, casually peeking into rooms as he went. No one paid him any mind. Most of the doors were wide open as parents and students lugged boxes in and out of the rooms. "Oops, sorry... wrong room," he said to the new student and his parents who stood inside. He peeked into another room where a stereo was already set up and blaring music by The Who into the hallway. When the two students from room 313 saw him in their doorway, he looked at the room number and asked innocently, "Is this the east wing or the west wing? I'm looking for a guy named Flouchie Touey."

Pausing as he taped his poster of Raquel Welch to the newly painted wall, one of the freshmen said, "This is east wing. West wing's down there." He pointed somewhere through the wall past Raquel's boobs.

Nat moved on, poking and stumbling his way through the dorm, keeping his ears open as he walked. On the second floor, in the small lobby between the east and west wings, he stopped and listened to two guys who were strumming guitars and singing a Simon and Garfunkel song. They were really pretty good, Nat thought as he stood there next to another kid. "Are these guys pros?" he asked naively.

"Beats me," Brownie answered.

"Sounds of Silence is a little tame for me," said Nat. "We need some drinkin' and tokin' music, know what I mean?" He used his most unsophisticated facade, poking Brownie in the ribs as he winked wryly.

"Yeah, right," Brownie answered absently, backing away from the stranger in the Notre Dame t-shirt. He slid off down the corridor.

Nat went down to the bank of pay phones lined up outside the cafeteria on the first floor. Gravachevsky answered on the first ring. "Nat here. Just checking in."

"Anything shakin'?"

"Naw. Ain't nothin' gonna happen here today. I figure I'll come back at the end of the week when the upperclassmen start trickling in. If anyone's gonna break out any weed, it'll be then. You want me to put in a full shift here?"

"Naw. You're probably right. Later in the week would be better." Gravachevsky hung up the phone and watched Ron Swoboda crack a line shot up the middle just past the pitcher's ear. Damn Mets just might pull it out, he speculated. Amazing.

CHAPTER 10 Maxine

The alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. "Oh, God," she groaned. The baby was crying, but she just couldn't drag herself from the bed. Three hours wasn't much sleep. Luckily, Jennifer poked her head into the room.

"How you doing Mom? You got home really late last night."

"Everything's fine sweetheart. I just need to rest."

"Do you want me to feed Amanda?"

"Yeah, thanks. I put some water on the stove when I came in. I'll be up in a second, baby. I love you."

"I love you too Mom." Jennifer closed the door and went to attend to her little sister.

With her head ringing, Maxine painfully swung her legs over the side of the bed, repulsed by the stale odor that came off the sheets. Nauseated, she knew they'd absorbed the smell off her own skin. She staggered naked to the bathroom and splashed some water on her face and brushed her teeth, noting that her throat was raw from the clouds of cigarette smoke she'd inhaled the night before.

Looking at her reflection in the mirror, it looked as if she had aged a decade overnight. Not bad looking for soon-to-be thirty, she'd always felt, she turned sideways and examined herself. Her stomach was flat, and her butt was tight, and she reassured herself that she could get through another day before it all sagged to the floor. No one at work knew she had two kids. She turned the other way, noticing the scratches near her breast where the fool had grabbed her the night before. Running her fingers over the welts, she decided they were no big deal. They'd be gone in a day or two.

Amanda was still crying and she figured that Jennifer was having trouble this morning. Quickly, she ran a brush through hair. It was blonde again, because she made more money when she was a blonde.

"She won't take the bottle," Jennifer said apologetically.

"I'll take her sweetheart." Maxine took the infant and had her sucking enthusiastically in seconds.

"How'd you do that?" Jennifer asked.

Maxine smiled and said, "Trade secret only Moms know. Time for you to get ready for school. I'll have breakfast on the table when you come back." She watched Jennifer walk to her room. That walk had been coming and going in and out of her life since she was fifteen, but now it was Jennifer's walk, not Kenny's. He'd never be back. Texas was far enough away where he could comfortably put her and the girls out of mind. What was the old saying? Out of sight, out of mind: it was exactly the case.

They'd had a nice life together while it lasted. Kenny made good money at the Knowles Atomic Power Lab, and she didn't have to work. Then, his Texas belle showed up, probably through some connections from her rich daddy. By the time Maxine realized that Kenny was serious about his newfound love, it was too late. He asked for the divorce right away, said he'd leave her the house and one of the cars, as well as their few thousand in savings; he wanted to be fair. That was a matter of perspective, Maxine figured. She didn't discover she was pregnant with Amanda until after they'd separated, and she didn't tell Kenny right away because it wouldn't have mattered. The child support payments stopped when Kenny's new life with his Texas belle went south, as did the job her rich daddy had promised him. He'd catch up on the child support again once he got back on his feet, Kenny had said. It didn't happen.

It wasn't long after that Amanda developed chronic bronchitis, and the hospital bills depleted the savings literally overnight. Maxine had nowhere to turn. She sold the house, and that gave them enough to live on for a few months, but it wasn't long before they were back in the same situation. She needed to make money in a hurry, but she wasn't qualified for any jobs that paid well, and even if she was there was no one to take care of the girls. When Maxine told Jennifer they'd have to move again in order to qualify for welfare support, it was Jennifer who'd said, "Mom, I don't want to live on welfare. Why don't you get a night job? I can watch Amanda while you're working. I am twelve you know."

Maxine thought the idea made sense, given the alternative. She asked Mrs. Lasky who lived across the hall if they could hook up one of those baby monitors between her apartment and Amanda's room if she got a night job. Mrs. Lasky agreed readily, feeling sorry for the poor young woman with the two kids and no husband. Mrs. Lasky went even further, shuttling back and forth between apartments while Maxine worked. Maxine offered to pay, but Mrs. Lasky wouldn't hear of it.

The concept was good, but night jobs that paid well weren't plentiful. Jobs at the GE plant were union, and it didn't take long for Maxine to figure out there was no way she was getting into the union. She waited tables for a while, but that didn't provide enough, and then she tried working the cocktail lounge at a pickup place called the French Quarter. The money was better, not great, but better. They had enough for rent and food and not much else, but they managed to squeak by. Thank God for Mrs. Lasky, who didn't seem to mind. The arrangement worked well.

Maxine was hesitant about wearing the uniform at first —a tacky little French maid's outfit—but she rationalized that showing her legs and a little cleavage was worth the self-respect of being able to support herself and her family. Besides, she wasn't doing anything dishonest. The tips were good some nights, and they got better if she flirted a little, especially if the men were in groups. They all wanted to be big shots in front of their friends. A few gave her a little squeeze when they'd had too much to drink, but she handled it all pretty well, for the most part.

Then one night a customer she'd never seen before came in. It was a slow night and she paid a little extra attention to him, trying to butter up a nice tip. He commented that she had great gams, as he put it, and that she could make five times the money she made in the cocktail lounge with those legs.

"And how do I do that?" she asked. "Sell what's between them?"

The answer surprised her. "Not at all," he answered. "You don't have to touch anybody. You just show a little skin, that's all."

"I show a little skin here. What's the difference?"

"Well actually, you have to show a lot of skin, but you'd make five bills a week easy, tax free, and you'd only work three or four nights a week."

It sounded too good to be true. "Where?"

After he explained it, she brushed it off with a shrug, but she thought about it for days. Just for showing her little bare ass she could make five hundred a week—for three nights' work? It would solve all their problems. Hell, she thought, she was just about showing her bare ass now. Finally, her curiosity got the better of her and she decided to check the place out.

It wasn't far away, on Brandywine Avenue, the man had said. That was five months ago, but she remembered it like it was yesterday. She recalled now how she'd taken a deep breath outside the place, then pulled the door handle and gingerly stepped inside.

"You looking for work sweetie?" one of the waitresses asked immediately.

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Only one reason a girl comes in here, baby. You looking for waitress work, or dancing?"

"Dancing, I think," Maxine said tentatively.

"Over there. Ask for Jerry."

Maxine asked Jerry if she could make five hundred a week.

"You can if you're willing to do that," he said, pointing at the stage.

Maxine watched with a mixture of fascination and disgust while the dancer took her top off and tucked a couple of dollars from the bamboo rail underneath each saggy breast.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," she said. "Not big enough."

"That's not what I meant," Jerry said. "Just keep watching. If you're still interested after her set, we can talk some more."

Maxine watched for another twelve minutes as the dancer took off the rest of her clothes, wiggling and gyrating in front of each rail side patron, pulling money from their wallets like a magnet pulling at iron filings. With morbid curiosity, Maxine tallied each tip, counting up twenty-three dollars by the end of the set—that is, if the bills were all singles. It was unbelievable, and the place wasn't even crowded. The waitress who'd greeted her came over.

"Someone told me you could make good money here as a dancer," Maxine said.

"I think maybe you could. You got the body for it. I'm a little too wide in the saddle." The waitress patted her ample rump.

"Would you dance if you could? I mean, would you do that?"

"Listen baby, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, ya know? Everybody here's just trying to get by."

A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, Maxine thought. If that wasn't prophetic, what was?

Jerry came over and rested his elbow expectantly on the bar. "Well?" Do you think you're up for it, or not?"

"I don't know. Can I make five hundred a week?"

"Maybe... depends. If you got a nice body, and you work Friday and Saturday nights, you can make that much... maybe more on a good week."

"I got nice legs."

"Yeah, sure. You all do. You wanna audition?"

"For you?" she asked, not relishing the idea of taking her clothes off for this scraggly looking guy.

"You can do it for me, or take ten minutes on the stage. You got a costume?"

"No, I didn't bring anything. I really didn't plan to—"

"Listen, you want to audition or not? If you wanna dance, we gotta see what you look like and see if you can move. We can't have no slugs in here. It's bad for business."

"I'm no slug," she said as confidently as she could.

"Yeah, yeah. Like I said, you wanna audition, or what? We got some costumes in the back."

Maxine looked at the stage. Another dancer was just beginning her set, and again Maxine watched as the girl pulled off bits and pieces of her costume. Her body was as nice as the dancer's body, she thought, nicer actually. One by one, the men rained dollars on the dancer. It was incredible. Jerry was still waiting for an answer.

"Yeah, I'll audition," Maxine shouted above the music. "Do I have to take all my clothes off?"

"You do if you wanna make any money."

Maxine did it easily that night. She came out, heart pounding, and looked at the leering faces around the bamboo rail. The music started and she began to move, not like the other girls, she thought, clumsier. She looked up blankly, into space, not at the men who were watching her every move.

"Hey baby, what's your name?" one asked. He was dressed in a suit. She didn't give her name. Later, she'd take the stage name of Brandy Alexander. She just forced a fake smile as he tried to stuff a dollar into the tiny G-string she was wearing. She grabbed the bill before he got there.

"That's more like it," he said. "Smile. Don't be so stiff, baby." Then another one came up. Then a third. The clothes came off easily, much more easily than she ever imagined they would. She watched the eyes of every man as they settled on her face at first, then they drifted down, inevitably stopping at either her breasts or between her legs. She turned her back to the crowd and removed the G-string, only to be surprised by the burst of applause and whistles.

"Nice butt," she heard distinctly.

She turned to see two more men approaching from the back tables. She didn't remember any of them coming up during the previous performances. Both of them handed her money, one of them two dollars rather than one. "Wow!" he said. It was funny, and she smiled. Soon every man in the room had given her money. Seeing the next dancer come out and hearing the applause, she guessed the audition was over. She put on her robe and ran off the stage, feeling like she'd just lived the longest ten minutes of her life. Her fist was stuffed with bills. When she counted them, she was astonished to find thirty bucks there. Thirty bucks for ten minutes of work! She was lucky to make thirty bucks for a whole night's work at the cocktail lounge. Jerry came backstage.

"You wanna start, or what?" he asked casually.

"When?"

"Next week sometime. I'll put you on the new schedule. What's your number?"

It was easy, very easy, and it was easy every night, at first. She made seven hundred bucks one week, and almost that much the week after, but soon she discovered that once the regulars got a look at her little bare butt, it took more and more effort to coax the money from their billfolds. That's when she found out that some of the girls did things in the back to bring in extra cash. She wasn't about to do that, but soon she had to get a little more graphic, a little more suggestive during her sets. She would rub her hands over her body as the men fantasized about doing the same thing to her. Soon, the girls turned her on to smoking a little pot between sets. She didn't realize that a little pot was turning into a lot more pot, but it made the job more bearable, and she got into the music a lot more. The money kept coming, and she was able to keep it all a secret. For all Jennifer or Mrs. Lasky knew, she was still waiting tables. If they ever discovered the truth, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

The previous night was particularly rough. The guy she was with groped her roughly even though she'd told him not to. Normally she wouldn't have put up with it except that he kept shoving bills between her breasts and into her G-string. She tried to keep it all under control, teasing him just enough to keep the money and the drinks coming. He bragged like he made all kinds of money, but she didn't believe a word of it. Still, he spent cash like water and he seemed intent on spending it all on her.

"Jennifer honey, hurry up now. It's almost time to go and we have to go over your homework before you leave."

"Mommy, can I go to Lynn's house this Saturday afternoon?"

"Sure, as long as you're back by seven. You know I have to work Saturday night."

"It should be no problem. Lynn said her dad would drive me back."

"That's okay honey, I'll pick you up like I normally do. Just tell me what time and I'll be out front in the car with Amanda." The last thing Maxine wanted right now was be recognized by a man—any man—who had even the remotest chance of having been to the Bamboo Club in the last four months.

CHAPTER 11 Setting Up

Body Found In Mohawk River Near Amsterdam. Phelan read the article with morbid interest, thinking: how stupid could these people be? Putting a body into a container with the words olive verde printed on it was like telling the cops where to start looking. Mobsters weren't too bright, he imagined. The killing sounded like something out of a Mafia novel. Still, he wished he knew the person who cut up the poor soul inside that container. He could use his services.

He put the paper down and fingered the letter on his desk. It had come on Friday and was addressed simply to Bernie Baby. He managed to laugh it off when his secretary handed him the envelope and said, "Here's your mail, Bernie baby."

Inside was a cartoon of a terrified man over a barrel. The caricature had "Bernie" written across its chest, while the barrel was labeled "Deep Shit." Under the cartoon was a handwritten scrawl: I'll start showing in about three weeks. Love, Daisy. There was no return address, and the postmark was from the campus post office. The little bitch was sly, all right.

His mind shifted, and once again he thought about the fact that he was the sole beneficiary on his wife's life insurance policy. The policy was for a hundred thousand dollars, with a double indemnity clause in the event of accidental death. Two hundred thousand could provide an adequate return if invested properly, but it didn't compare with the millions in inheritance that would come his way eventually. He needed Deborah alive for that. His mind raced. How was he going to raise twenty-five thousand dollars in three weeks? And what if he did? How would he know the brazen little tramp wouldn't come back for more? How would he know what would happen to that tape? He wished those two girls were in that olive container in the Mohawk River. The phone rang, snapping him out of his daydream nightmare.

"Hello... Yes, good morning Dean Prescott... No, no, it's not too early. I was just about to head in to the office... Yes, I'm free for lunch... Chief Herzog's office?... Why in the world?... Yes, well, we'll discuss it in person then... Goodbye." Bernard Phelan pondered what the hell that was about.

* * * * *

Michael Gravachevsky showered after his morning run and dug into his breakfast, passing on the bacon and settling for just eggs and toast. Controlling his weight at thirty-six was a tad more difficult than it was at twenty-six. He was in better shape than most of his friends, though. That's what happened when marriage and kids came along. He liked the freedom of the single life, but thought often that he'd like to have a son someday.

It was his first day off of three in a row and he needed a normalcy break. As he poured his second cup of coffee, he noticed the article on the front page of the Schenectady Gazette. The article was brief: an old man discovered the body when he came to see what all the ruckus was about. Seems a bunch of dogs from the neighborhood were barking and clawing at a barrel hung up on the riverbank. The old man called the police when he saw what looked to be skin through a small hole in the container. The victim was a white male, estimated to be between twenty-five to thirty years of age, between 130 and 140 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, with no identifying marks on the body—parts. The body was dismembered. Gravachevsky tried to picture what an olive barrel looked like.

* * * * *

They took the short ride from Herzog's office to the Union House Restaurant. It was a professor's kind of place: dark paneled walls, stone fireplace, the smell of pipe tobacco hanging in the air. They all had the house specialty of New England clam chowder and spinach salad.

"I'm intrigued as to why I'm being invited to lunch by the Chief of Campus Security. Am I in some sort of trouble?" Shifting in his seat, Phelan was sure the pregnant little slut had squealed.

"Nothing like that," Herzog answered. "I'm sorry if I gave you that impression."

"I didn't know what else to think. I thought I had some overdue parking tickets or something." Phelan forced a smile.

Herzog looked him straight in the eye. "We have a special favor to ask, and Dean Prescott thinks you're just the man to help us out."

Phelan didn't like the way Herzog was looking at him. "How so?"

The more diplomatic Prescott said, "I'm sure you're aware that the drug situation at Alliance has risen to an alarming level over the past couple of years, and all indications are that it will be at an equally alarming level this year, if not worse."

"We have a lot of damned trouble makers on our campus," Herzog blurted. "Drug dealers, and President Stallings wants something done about it."

As Herzog and Prescott looked at each other, Phelan guessed that Stallings had bullied them into this. They had no choice if they had any intention of working at Alliance for any length of time. "What's all that got to do with me?"

Herzog continued. "We have to do something to control the situation on campus, but trying to monitor the entire student population is too big a job. We feel there are probably one or two major suppliers on the campus itself, and we'd like to zero in and prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law. We have a pretty good idea who they are."

"So what's the problem?" Phelan asked. "Why don't you just go out and arrest them?"

"Because we need evidence, that's why, and no student is going to walk up to us and volunteer to be part of a stake out. Besides, we're not interested in busting students. We want the dealers."

"Listen, I don't know what kind of scheme President Stallings is trying to—"

"This is all my doing," Prescott said. "I was the one who suggested we talk to you. You see, we need someone who is close to the students, someone who can stay close and not arouse any undue attention. We know you're a popular figure on campus, and the students don't object to your presence at their gatherings. They trust you."

"I get it. And you want me to betray that trust. I'm not sure I relish that role, gentlemen."

Prescott said, "I can understand that, but surely you see what this drug problem is doing to our school."

Phelan nodded as he stirred his chowder.

"I shudder to think about what sort of criminal element has infiltrated our campus. We're talking organized crime here."

Phelan looked up suddenly.

"What other explanation is there? Whoever the supplier, or suppliers, are, it's no nickel and dime operation."

The words hit Phelan like a left hook. Pretending to be evaluating Prescott's words, he ate some of his chowder. Organized crime: what a unique euphemism, he thought. Mobsters killed people all the time, didn't they? He'd heard of hit men for hire, men who killed anyone for the right price. Hell, some people said that a group of hit men had killed John Kennedy. If they could hit the President of the United States, it would be no big deal to hit the drunken wife of an insignificant college professor. It would be easy. Hell, she was drunk all the time anyway. The police would just chalk it up as another drunk driving accident. All he needed was the right connection. The thoughts rushed through his head.

"Professor Phelan, are you all right?"

"Yes. I... ah... was just thinking about what you said."

"Well, what do you think?"

"I think your point is valid. There is no room for irresponsible behavior in the pursuit of responsible causes. What do you want me to do?" Phelan saw the look of relief on their faces.

Chief Herzog gave the instructions. "It's not complicated. We need to uncover the supply chain, find out who's dealing, and where they get the stuff. The time to gather information is when tongues are wagging and the students are unsuspecting. Just show up at as many dorm parties and frat parties as you can. Show some interest, get yourself invited to things. That's when the kids will be the least inhibited. It shouldn't be too hard for you to slip in a few innocent questions along the way. Keep in mind that we're not looking to prosecute a few kids on some penny ante stuff, but we do need to start at the bottom of the pyramid. If we nail some students, we could cut a deal to get higher up the ladder. Can you handle it?"

"I think I can," Phelan answered confidently.

"One last thing," Herzog added. "We'd like you to check out the Sigma Tau Delta fraternity. I have reason to believe the man who works as their cook might do more than that, if you know what I mean. The guys at the fraternity call him Dandy Don.

"We'd appreciate complete confidentiality," Prescott added.

"Of course," Phelan said.

* * * * *

Nat was winded. He didn't know who the big guy with the scruffy hair was, or where he came from, but man, could he throw a football. The guys called him Badge. Nat had been around sports long enough to recognize natural talent, and this kid could play anywhere, anytime, if he really had the desire. They had the ball again and Badge was calling the play. He was talking quickly. Nat listened between gasps.

"Okay Nat, you almost had your man beat last time, but he's quick. What you need to do is turn him around to give yourself an extra step. Keep your eyes on the guy's hips. As soon as you see his hips turn to the inside, plant your left foot on the very next step, and, zwang, cut it hard and fast to the outside. Don't worry about the ball. When you look up it'll be right there, so be ready. Brownie, you line up just inside Nat and run a slow post underneath. Okay, ready, break." They all clapped hands as they came away from the huddle.

Nat did exactly as he was told: zwang... cut to the outside and look up. As predicted, the ball was already halfway there, spiraling perfectly and traveling close to the speed of sound. It smacked his hands with enough force that it took his upper body with it. He came down and did a rolling somersault over the hat that marked the goal line. Bouncing to his feet after barely touching the ground, he trotted back to middle of the lawn in front of the West Academy dorm and tried to catch his breath.

"Nice pattern," Badge said. "I told you it would be too late by the time he turned himself around."

"Thanks man," Nat gasped. "Listen, gotta go. Time to shower up for me." The game was breaking up anyway as everyone slapped hands and said their sportsmanlike, "Good game," to each other.

"You got quite an arm," Nat said. "Did you play quarterback in high school?"

"Naw. Played a little football, but not quarterback."

"He played more than a little," Brownie interjected as he brushed the dirt off his knees. "Badge was all-county three years in a row. Now look at him. Just a damn hippie." He slapped his best buddy on the back, and Badge grinned and awe-shucked his feet on the grass.

"Well, you missed your calling," Nat replied, catching some breath. "You guys from the same town?"

"Yeah, little town just over the Mass line in the Berkshires. Where you from?"

"Right here. Local boy."

"You in the east wing or the west wing?" Brownie asked.

"Neither. I live off campus."

"Must be nice. Your own bachelor pad, hot set of wheels. That's the way to go."

Chuckling, Nat said, "I wish. Still live with my folks, and my wheels are hardly hot." He pointed to the parking lot and the beat up Volkswagen square-back from the police impound.

"Hey, any wheels are better than no wheels. We'll see you around, Nat. Good game man." Brownie shook Nat's hand.

"Yeah, you too." Nat watched the two guys walk off toward the dorm. Stiffly, he walked to the VW and drove off, thinking about the last three days. His off-campus story seemed acceptable enough, and no one raised an eyebrow at the questions he was asking—except one. That was when he'd asked one of the maintenance guys if he knew anyone around campus named Dandy Don.

The old black man squinted at him suspiciously as he raked a mountain of acorns that had fallen from the huge oak above them. "Why you askin'?"

"Friend of mine says he's got lots of connections. You know where I can find him?"

"I wouldn't know nothin' 'bout no connections," the maintenance man responded. "Don't know nothin' 'bout no damn Dandy Don either." He threw his rake into the back of his pickup truck and got in, leaving the pile of acorns on the ground. "Gots to go an' git me a shovel. Forgot my shovel." He started the truck and rolled off slowly.

Nat noticed there was a flat-edge shovel sticking up from the back of the pickup. "That's okay old man," he said aloud even though the old man would never hear him. "He'll be easy enough to find."

CHAPTER 12 One-thirty, One-forty

Reviewing his schedule, Phelan thought Econ 101 wouldn't require much work this time around. He'd taught the intro course half a dozen times now. On the faculty registration form he was holding, he filled in the office hours for his position as Chairman of the Committee on Foreign Studies, as well as his office hours for his student advisory requirements.

The Committee on Foreign Studies was a nice line on his resume. It was odd that a professor without foreign language skills was picked to chair the committee, but all of the language professors had already served as chairman and none of them wanted it again. This year the exchange programs were Frankfurt in the fall, Bogota in the winter, and both Paris and Venice in the spring, same as last year.

He scanned the syllabus for his Econ courses and noticed that some of the books weren't in yet. Damn bookstore. Now he'd have to juggle the lesson plan. He'd decided to beef up the workload this year, afraid that his popularity wasn't because he was interesting, or charismatic, but because his courses were guts. Yes sir, these kids were in for quite a challenge this time, especially in the advanced courses. He needed to regain his respectability.

The intercom on his desk buzzed. "Professor, there is a Miss Daisy on the line. Are you in?"

He flushed with embarrassment despite the fact that no one could see him. Damn her. "Put her through please."

Her tone was direct and sour. "Did you get my letter?"

"I got it. I wish you'd stop calling me."

"Listen Bernie baby, I'll call you whenever and wherever I want. I'm puking my guts out every morning, and I can't wait much longer for you to come up with that money. I'm gonna start showing soon, and people are gonna start asking questions."

"What about the clinic?"

"Maybe you didn't hear me last time. First you come up with the money, then we talk about an abortion."

Phelan felt his pulse quicken. "How do I know you're really pregnant? How do I know it's even mine, you conniving tramp!"

"Are you willing to take that chance, Bernie baby?"

"What if I am? I'll deny the whole thing. It'll be your word against mine."

"That's right. Who do you think your wife will believe?"

The conversation with Prescott and Herzog at the Union House restaurant flashed through his mind. If only he could find someone to do the job. With Deborah gone, the girl had no one to go to with the tape. Suddenly, Phelan realized he'd missed the obvious. The tape! He had to find that tape, damn it! It wasn't Deborah that needed to be taken out of the puzzle, it was Daisy and her friend that had to disappear. But what he needed now was time—and a trap. He needed to lure the little bitches into the open.

"Listen, I told you before, I need time. I have enough for the abortion right away. I'll try to raise the rest as fast as I can. Besides, you'll still have the tape." There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

"You said you got five thousand?" she asked, nibbling on the bait.

"Yes. I'll send you a check. What's your address?"

"No you don't, Bernie baby. No address, no check. I want cash."

Perfect. "Okay, cash. Where do you live?"

"You must really think I'm stupid. I want you to leave it someplace. I'll let you know when and where, Bernie baby. What about the rest of it?"

"I told you, I need time."

"How much time?"

"A month."

"Two weeks, Bernie baby. You got to the end of the month or I send the tape to wifey."

"How do I know there's only one copy?" he asked, knowing that if she hadn't thought of making a copy, she would now.

"You don't."

"How will I know where to drop the five thousand?"

"You'll know. Get the money." The line went to dial tone.

* * * * *

Lieutenant McQuade pointed a finger at Gravachevsky's nose. "Listen, either get Hinshaw to shit, or get him off the pot. Got it?"

Gravachevsky was used to getting his ass chewed by McQuade. "Yeah, I got it. How much longer can I have him?"

"Two days, or I'm gonna pull him and have him work Erie Boulevard. Fucking hookers are workin' the porno theater again. Now beat it. I got things to do."

Two days. The chances were slim. They didn't even have Dandy Don's last name. Gravachevsky had checked around and none of his police buddies in Albany or Troy had heard the handle before. And, he hadn't heard from that little worm Kelso at the Bamboo Club in over two weeks. At minimum, he thought that surely the hundred bucks would have encouraged Kelso to invent something. Maybe it was a good time to pay him a visit.

* * * * *

"Edward, please get a drink for our guest. What's your pleasure, Paulo?"

"Chivas rocks, if jyou got it," Salinas replied.

Dal Maso held up two fingers and said, "Get one for yourself Edward, and come join us."

Eddie The Barrel nodded and unscrewed the scowl from his face.

"So Paulo. How's business? Things should be picking up now that the colleges are back in session, eh?"

"Es abou' the same, jyou kno'. I don' kno' if is going to pick up, or no. If it don', we gonna have to raise de prices." Salinas settled comfortably in the fancy living room of Dal Maso's playhouse overlooking Great Sacandaga Lake. A large blue cheese moon was suspended over the horizon and hung prominently in the middle of the far wall, which was all plate glass. The huge main floor room was made up in various shades of white. Salinas took his drink and said, "Nice place." Eddie The Barrel took a cushy club chair upholstered in white silk.

"You have to keep the prices down," Dal Maso said. "The last time we paid through the nose, my friend."

Salinas didn't want to seem greedy in front of Dal Maso. "Dats because of dat fat pig jyou sent to me. Why jyou sent such an insulting person? I don' like fuckin' wid him."

His eyes burning, Dal Maso looked at Eddie. "You sent that fat bastard to negotiate the last shipment, Edward?"

"I thought he could handle it sir. I woulda checked with you personally if I'd 'a known about the price."

"Es not da price," said Salinas. "Es da insults. Anyone else, dey call me names like he did, an usually I take care 'a dem. But I kno' dat he was from jyou, so I don' do nothin'. I jus' jack de price a little, dats all. Es no so bad, eh?" Salinas liked honor among thieves.

"Please accept my apology," said Dal Maso. "I'll take care of that situation once and for all." Dal Maso shot a look that could have melted steel. "Edward, how long will it take to liquidate the rest of the shipment?"

"Well, it's hard to tell at that price, sir."

"Don' worry about the price," Salinas interjected. "I give jyou back de difference on de nex' couple a deals. Jyou said jyou wan' some snow, yes? I got fifty kilos on de water now. Jyou take five and I charge jyou less twenty thousand. Deal?"

Dal Maso took Salinas' hand. "Deal." He turned to Eddie The Barrel. "Edward, drop back to our normal price and try to liquidate the rest at the schools within the ten-day limit. Then, take whatever is left and move it to the auto parts store. We can use the parts trucks to liquidate the rest. And Edward, I'd like this Dandy Don off our payroll shortly after this shipment has been distributed. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir. I understand completely."

"Good. Now, Paulo, how about a little fun? I have a little surprise for you. Edward, if you please."

Eddie pushed the black button on the wall intercom. "Okay, ladies, show time." A moment later, four gorgeous women came into the room, all of them wearing satin robes. Paulo examined each one closely as they came over and opened their robe for his examination. He didn't care for the thin blonde; too Scandinavian looking. He like the second one better, a redhead with huge freckled breasts that bounced like flubber. He liked the third one too, a cute brunette whose painted red lips looked like they could suck the fuzz off a tennis ball. But the last one, she was a goddess, a bronze statue with shiny jet-black hair that came past the crack of her ass.

"I didn't know what flavor you liked," said Dal Maso. "So I got one of each. Take your pick, Paulo. Take all of them if you want."

The blonde put on some music and the girls began to gyrate, but there was really no contest. Only one moved with the effortless grace of a jungle cat. Paulo took her hand, pulling her down next to him on the sofa. Tossing back the rest of his Chivas, he looked into the eyes of his newly found friend as he touched a hard brown nipple. "Wass jyou name baby? Jyou like Colombian boys?"

"My name is Kiyeena, and I like this." She smiled and unzipped his pants.

* * * * *

Gravachevsky watched the dancer for the second time that night, thinking how sad she looked. Nat was at another table, smiling as he stuffed a buck into the waitress's cleavage. She said something to him, and he put another bunch of bills between her boobs. She set down his beer and moved off. Nat looked over and caught Gravachevsky's eye, who motioned for him to come over. "What d'ya get, Nat?"

"She says he ain't been around all week. Has no idea what happened to him. You get anything?"

"Nothing. What say we pull the shields?"

"If you do, you'll lose him as a snitch."

"No big deal. He hasn't been giving me much anyway." Gravachevsky motioned to one of the waitresses.

"You guys want another beer?" she asked. Gravachevsky held up his shield. "Jesus, this is gettin' to be a real fuckin' habit."

"Who's the boss?" Gravachevsky asked.

"Over there, behind the bar. His name is Jerry. Am I gonna be tied up again all night? Last time my old man weren't around for me to make bail."

"Just tell Jerry to get his ass over here."

A stubby unfiltered cigarette dangled from the manager's lips. "You guys can't be serious," he said above the music. "These girls are clean. They ain't been doin' nothin' in the back."

The guy looked like he could use a sandwich, thought Gravachevsky. "We ain't here for that. You got a guy who works here, real skinny, grubby looking, goes by the nickname Snail."

"Yeah, so?"

"So where is he?"

"Wish I could help you man, but I ain't seen 'im. He kinda disappeared. I still got his pay sittin' here. What's he done?"

"What's his address?"

"No idea."

"Check his application."

"I don't give no applications for cleanup boys. People in this business move around a lot, know what I mean? Here today, gone tomorrow."

"Is there an address on his check?"

"I pay him in cash. What's he done?"

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"About a week ago. He kill somebody or somethin'?"

"We're just looking for him, okay? You know a real fat guy that comes in here, calls himself Dandy Don?"

"Sure. Comes in all the time. He's friends with some of the girls. Gets 'em some side jobs once in a while."

"What kind of jobs?"

"Take a guess."

Firing the questions rapidly, Gravachevsky went on. "He been in here lately?"

"Yeah. I think so. A few days ago."

"When, a few days ago?"

"Shit, I don't know, man. I don't keep track."

"Well think harder asshole, or I'll have the wagon here in half an hour."

"I told you. These girls ain't doin' nothin' illegal."

"Check it out." Gravachevsky pointed to one of the tables where one of the girls had a hand between an old man's legs.

"Now, when was the last time you saw this Dandy Don character?"

"He was in about a week ago. Last Friday night."

"How do you know it was Friday?"

"'Cause that was the night we had a circuit girl in the house."

"What's a circuit girl?"

"That's a girl that don't dance regular at no club. She just makes the rounds wherever she can get booked. Has a special show and everything. It's good for business. Guys get tired of the same old shit."

"And he was in here then?"

"Yeah. I remember 'cause she complained 'cause he was tryin' to shove his fingers up her snatch."

"This Dandy Don got a real name?"

"Just know him as Dandy Don, man. They done something together?"

Gravachevsky wondered if the snitch's disappearance and Dandy Don were indeed connected somehow. He remembered the newspaper article about the body in the olive barrel.

"You know anything about any of your girls scoring dope from this Dandy Don asshole?"

"Shit man, you expect me to answer that? I ain't that fuckin' stupid." The answer was good enough.

"How much do you think this Snail guy weighed?"

Jerry looked at Gravachevsky like he was crazy. "How the fuck do I know?"

"Listen, if you had to guess how much he weighed, what would you guess? How much do you weigh?"

"What's it fuckin' matter how much I weigh?"

"Just answer the goddamn question."

"I don't know. One-sixty maybe."

"Was this Snail guy about the same height as you?"

"No, man, he was shorter."

"How much shorter?"

"Jesus man, I don't know."

"Stand up."

Nat just looked on.

"Where did he come up to you?"

Jerry held his hand about chin high.

"That's probably about five-six. And he was skinny, right?"

"Yeah, kinda skinny, I guess. What the fuck, man?"

"If he was six inches shorter than you and on the skinny side, that would put him at about one-thirty, maybe one-forty." Gravachevsky recalled that as being the approximate weight of the body as described in the newspaper article from the Schenectady Gazette. He decided it might be a good idea to call the Amsterdam police department first thing in the morning. "Listen, if this Dandy Don comes in, I want you to call me at this number." He wrote a phone number down on a damp napkin.

"Who do I ask for?"

"Just call the fucking number if you know what's good for you." He motioned at Nat and walked toward the door.

"Yeah, right," Jerry the bar manager scoffed when Gravachevsky was out of range. He crumpled the napkin and threw it on the table.

CHAPTER 13 Teddy K's

Fig turned out to be okay as a roommate. At first, Brownie got the impression that he was pretty straight-laced. There were indications, however, that he possessed an admirably sick sense of humor, like when he wrote home to his younger sister. Instead of a return address, he Scotch-taped pieces of his cut off toenails to the outside of the envelope: definitely disgusting. Fig's real name was Richie Newton, but Richie had given way to Fig years ago. They'd shot a few games of pool at a local joint called Teddy K's on the second night of orientation. The beer was cheap, and the purple pickled eggs were deadly. Now, sitting at breakfast this first Saturday of his young college career, Brownie wondered if Fig knew anything about the raid. So far, he hadn't mentioned it.

Brownie sipped his coffee and noticed that his hand was still shaking. He still wasn't sure if he was in the clear, although surely the security people would have already knocked on his door if they knew he was involved. Could they do that? he asked himself uneasily. After all, they really didn't have any proof. He'd gotten away, hadn't he? Damn that Badge! He relived the events of the previous night, only half conscious of the fact that Fig was trying to have a conversation with him.

He'd gone down to Badge's room after dinner. Having already been to Teddy K's with Fig, he thought maybe he'd take Badge there, figuring he'd like the place. He'd only seen Badge a couple of times during the entire three days of orientation, and he'd never gotten a chance to ask Badge why he'd completely missed check-in on Sunday.

As he approached the room, Brownie smelled the aroma all the way from the stairway. Someone is having a hell of a party he thought, never dreaming that his destination was the source of the smoke hanging in the hallway. He knocked. Hearing the loud, "Come on in," above the blaring music, he opened the door and was greeted by Badge's roommate—a kid named L. Dean Fillmont that he'd met only once—who exhaled a cloud of smoke into his face as he entered. L. Dean was an obnoxious preppy snot who reeked of money and had probably never wanted for anything his entire life, Brownie imagined. Badge referred to him as one of the rich fuckers. Inside, the smoke was so thick that it moved in a wave as L. Dean closed the door.

"Brownie! Where you been, man?" It was Badge. "Hey guys, this here's my main man, Brownie. Him and me's from the same high school, man."

Brownie wondered why Badge was talking like a black man. A pipe suddenly appeared in front of them, but Brownie shook it off. He looked around uneasily, not recognizing anyone except Badge and L. Dean. "Badge, are you fucking nuts?" he asked. "We're barely out of orientation and you go and pull this shit? You could get thrown out of school, man! You don't think the RAs are gonna report this stuff?" Brownie couldn't believe it. An empty beer can sailed toward a trashcan, barely missing his head and splashing some beer on his face as it flew by. Someone laughed, but Brownie didn't think it was funny. L. Dean was flaming about loudly, and suddenly a joint began following the pipe around the room. Brownie didn't find the scene at all entertaining, bothered that Badge seemed so into it and was obviously stoned beyond sensibility. He knew Badge would be in no mood to go to Teddy K's, but thought he'd ask anyway, deciding to leave if Badge was intent on screwing around with L. Dean and his new asshole friends.

"Hey Badge, I found a place called Teddy K's just off campus. I figured maybe you and me could...."

Suddenly, everyone's attention focused on the alternating red and blue flashes that blipped through the open window. "Holy shit!" one of the guys near the window called out. "Three cop cars just pulled up! Let's get the fuck outta here man!" Everyone stampeded from the room, L. Dean included, scattering like cockroaches and leaving Brownie and Badge inside.

Badge moved fast, yanking up on the window and turning off the lights. He locked the door. "Brownie! Here, use this. Fan the smoke out the window. C'mon hurry! If they find out it's us, we're screwed, man!"

Brownie felt a towel hit him. He picked it up and fanned vigorously as he heard a commotion from somewhere down the hall. Seconds later, nightsticks were knocking on the doors, and the sound was coming closer. He fanned faster. Suddenly, the knocks were there, loud and deafening.

Bang, bang, bang. "Anybody in there? Campus police, open up!" Bang, bang, bang. The voice on the other side of the door didn't sound pleasant. "Over here! It's definitely coming from this room."

Keys jingled. Someone jiggled the doorknob. Brownie felt his heart thundering in his chest. He grabbed Badge, stopping him from his towel-fanning. "Badge!" he hissed, nodding toward the open window. "We gotta get the hell outta here man!"

"It's locked, Chief," the voice outside the door called.

"Open the fucking thing," another voice said gruffly. "Break it down if you have to."

Brownie looked through the open window, and he suddenly saw himself at Morrison's Lumberyard, covered in pine pitch and sawdust, piling bark slabs and sweating his ass off next to Popsie. There was no college in that vision, and no baseball, just misery and dejection. They were one story up, twelve or thirteen feet off the ground, Brownie figured, but it looked like a mile. He didn't see anyone below, or near the three flashing police cars in the parking lot. Hearing keys scrape against the doorknob, Brownie grabbed Badge by the shirt and shoved his bulky body to the open window.

"You first," Badge whispered. "It's my room. You get the hell out of here! Go... I'll be right behind you!"

Brownie was in no position to argue. He stepped out onto the ledge. Flashes from the police lights dotted his chest. In desperation, he jumped into the murky darkness and collided with planet Earth a second later. Earth was much bigger than he was, and his eyes clattered inside his head as he collapsed into a pile of tangled limbs.

"Hey... you!" came an officer's call. "Stop! Security!"

Brownie ran blindly through the parking lot next to the dorm and out into the street, not knowing if Badge had made it or not. There were loud voices behind him, but they got fainter and fainter as he distanced himself from the dorm. They couldn't have recognized him, could they? Running until his breath would no longer come, he paused, finding himself off campus near Teddy K's, by coincidence. Wheezing as if he'd lost a lung, he decided that would be as good a place to hide as any, and he walked the rest of the way trying to calm himself and thinking about what would have happened if he'd gotten caught. He couldn't even imagine what his parents would do, but one thing was for sure: life as he knew it would come to an abrupt halt.

He ordered a Coke and sat stoically at the bar, watching the street as the vision of him stacking bark slabs with Popsie came back to him. A campus police car appeared in the window, and he froze. Pausing as if it were sniffing the air, the car suddenly moved off and prowled up the street. Almost collapsing with relief, Brownie wiped the sweat off the back of his neck and realized he'd almost lost every dream he ever had, thinking he might lose it yet, depending on what had happened to Badge.

Now, at breakfast, still caught up in the flashback, he rubbed his leg where he'd twisted it after he'd jumped from the window. Fig was going on about how today, Saturday, was going to be the party day. They needed, no they deserved, a party, Fig said. It didn't matter where, as long as there was beer. Girls would be a bonus. Brownie watched as Fig mapped out an itinerary on his napkin.

"First we ought to go over to the new dorms, you know, where the upperclassmen stay. There's going to be a band there. Then we could go up to fraternity row." Fig had already made the assumption that they were going to hang out together, and Brownie made no objection.

The black kid who lived in the dorm room across the hall from them came over and sat down. His name was Darnell The Wind Kelly. Darnell was vying for wide receiver on the football team; hence the nickname. The Wind had a huge pile of food on his tray.

"You going over to the dorm center tonight?" Fig asked as The Wind plowed half a pancake into his mouth.

"If there's beer there, I'm there."

"Sounds like a plan to me," said Fig. "Let's hook up later, after the dorm game this afternoon.

"Deal," said The Wind, eating two entire sausages in one bite.

Brownie decided he'd head over to the bookstore, thinking Vietnam might not be as far away as he thought.

* * * * *

It was hard to tell with all the caked blood, but it was him. There were about a dozen pictures. Some showed the limbs stacked inside the olive container. Others showed them arranged together like a big puzzle. Gravachevsky shuddered at the thought that someone had to take them out of the container and arrange them on the coroner's table to be photographed. Vice had its share of vile moments, but homicide definitely took the prize when it came to sheer grossness. The legs had been cut into two pieces, evidently in order that they fit neatly into the container. The torso was put in vertically, with the other pieces tucked in around it like so many pickles in a jar. He remembered how the medical examiner's report said that the body had been drained before it was dismembered. Someone knew what he was doing, the ME said, bleeding the body like bleeding a deer before field dressing it. The container itself looked to be about the diameter of an oil drum, but not as tall. The head was photographed separately. Thank God the eyes were closed, Gravachevsky thought. It looked swollen to three times its normal size. He wondered what kind of terror the poor slob went through before he was put out of his misery.

Once again, Gravachevsky's instincts told him that the grisly pictures and Dandy Don were connected in some way. He didn't know how, but he'd find out. He simply had to convince McQuade of that, and talk him to assigning Nat to the case full time. They needed to find this Dandy Don character and see where he led them.

CHAPTER 14 Porchball

Sitting in the bookstore and leafing through the pages of one of his textbooks, Brownie tried to get the flavor of the material. It looked totally unappetizing. He'd been unprepared the previous day, not knowing he had to declare a major at freshman registration. He'd given it no thought whatsoever.

He remembered looking up at the basketball hoops in the old gym where registration was taking place, the possibilities spinning through his head. Any subject that involved cracking equations was out of the question. He heard someone in the next line say, "Economics." What the hell was economics? he asked himself. It had to do with business, didn't it? He tried to remember the various fields of study listed in the school catalog that didn't involve a lot of math. There was English, of course, and he remembered Political Science, Sociology, History. None of those sounded interesting. He was next. He sat down and handed over his forms. The woman behind the desk took them without comment, then looked at him expectantly.

"What's your major?" she asked.

"I haven't picked one yet. Do I have to do that now?"

"You have to put something down so we can assign you a faculty advisor, but don't worry, a lot of kids don't know what they want as a major. Just put something down. Your faculty advisor can help you with that when you meet with him or her. What do you think you're interested in?"

Brownie thought for a second. "Can I change my major any time?"

"Any time at all," the woman verified. She was trying to help. "I suggest you take some of the required comp classes your first trimester. Most of them are requirements in several majors so you won't be wasting the course work. Your advisor will help you out a lot."

"Economics," Brownie blurted out. "That sounds like something I might be interested in."

"Fine," she said, writing it down. "Do you have a list of classes you'd like to take?" Brownie handed her a list, none of which were economics courses. "These are fine. None of these are closed out and you have no time conflicts." She handed him the class times and a book list.

He only had one class on Wednesday. Neat, he thought.

"You'll be notified who your advisor is by postcard in about a week. Good luck." Boom, it was over. "Next," she called without looking at him further.

Brownie wondered if he'd just decided his life's work while standing in line.

* * * * *

The annual West Academy dorm freshman football game was a tradition: east wing versus west wing. Shortly before one o'clock, Brownie made his way down to the huge lawn in front of the dorm. It was jammed with guys throwing footballs and running pass routes as if they were preparing to catch passes from Johnny Unitas. Some guys were arguing about the upcoming football season, making the point that the Jets victory over the Colts in the last Super Bowl was a fluke, and that Joe Namath was a pussy.

The variety of dress was indeed impressive. There were old high school jerseys, sweatshirts from UCLA, Notre Dame, Ohio State, Navy, Stanford. Two guys wore t-shirts with Jimi Hendrix on the front and the Zig-Zag man on the back. There were headbands, kneepads, and elbow pads in various colors and configurations. Some guys wore sweatpants with adhesive tape wrapped around the ankles, while others wore shorts with peace signs painted on their butt. Badge came down in sweatpants and shirt and tie, sunglasses, and his hair tied back in a ponytail.

Brownie went over, looking around as if he expected the campus police to be spying on them from behind trees or something. "Where the hell have you been?" he asked, his voice laced with worry. "Did you get caught last night?"

"No way," Badge scoffed, brushing off the question. "I was right behind you out the window. By the way, you run like that during the season and you could set the Alliance base stealing record next spring." Badge didn't seem the least bit concerned. "We just gotta lie low for a while, that's all."

Lie low? Brownie thought he was listening to a gangster movie. The conversation broke as Badge chased after a dropped ball. Brownie wondered if he was overreacting—deciding he wasn't—when the dorm monitors called for attention for the announcement of the rules.

One of the monitors began by addressing what had happened the previous night. "Listen guys, I don't want to ruin the mood, but all of you know about the incident in the dorm last night. The only thing we'll say is no-harm, no-foul, but the campus cops don't see it that way. As monitors, we're supposed to keep an eye on the dorm and report you guys that smoke dope or do any other things that are against the rules. All we can say is that some of you are gonna get yourselves thrown outta here if you don't watch yourselves. Use some common sense, okay?"

Were they excusing it? Brownie asked himself. Were they saying it was all right to smoke grass in the dorm as long as you didn't get caught? It sure sounded that way to him. It wasn't against the rules, it was illegal! He decided to leave well enough alone. "No-harm, no-foul," the monitor had said. So be it.

Brownie was on the east wing team, and he already knew some of the other guys. Of course there was Fig. Then there was the future Doctor Shapiro, the Grynch, B. Dick Norton, Casper the Ghost, Zulu, and Kermit. He didn't know any of the other twenty or so players on his team. On the west team, the only players he knew were Badge, L. Dean, Sam the Man and the Pharaohs—the Pharaohs being the LonGIsland twins: Hempstead and Brentwood Fischer—Skislope Romanovski, and Jack Myhogoff.

Speakers were jammed into dorm windows, all tuned to the same station and blaring almost at full blast. By two o'clock the half wall at the edge of the lawn was filled with students from other parts of the campus who came to watch the annual struggle, some of them carrying plastic cups full of something that came from somewhere. Girls accompanied some of the upperclassmen, who were streaming steadily onto campus in anticipation of the beginning of classes on Monday. Brownie checked them out. Some of them were a little freaky-looking, like the war protesters they always showed on TV. He caught a tiny whiff of marijuana smoke, its source unknown, and immediately thought of Woodstock and how kids smoked the stuff right out in the open, without fear. Then, he thought again of the night before and knew it was different on campus, but grass was absolutely everywhere, it seemed. He was confused. Was it all right, or was it not all right? For the kids, it was no big deal. For the adults, it was a different story. Chasing after a missed pass, he saw Nat Hinshaw sitting on the half wall.

"Hey Nat," he yelled from the middle of the lawn, "C'mon, you'll be on our side."

Nat too had detected the marijuana smell and was casually looking around for the source when he heard his name being called. "I don't live in the dorm," he yelled back.

Brownie called, "Who cares?" and waved for Nat to follow. He was glad to have snagged him. Nat was a prized player.

The game was a comedy. Guys were clowning around all over the place, and beer started showing up on the sidelines. The LonGIsland twins slammed into each other running a pass route; Sam the Man did his Pharaoh dance in the end zone; and Jack Myhogoff mooned the crowd after a touchdown catch.

Everyone slapped hands, congratulating each other when the game was over. The dorm monitors called for quiet, and made the ceremonial trophy presentation in the middle of the field. They also had some joke trophies. Brownie watched as Badge accepted the award for best uniform for wearing his jock strap on the outside of his sweatpants, stuffed with socks. Badge accepted his trophy and toasted the crowd with a can of Utica Club. From where he got it, Brownie didn't know. Public drinking, marijuana smoke in broad daylight, no-harm, no-foul; Brownie thought: was nothing forbidden on this campus?

* * * * *

Nat Hinshaw thought of what his next step should be in trying to track down Dandy Don. He needed to be part of a group. "Hey Brownie, what are you guys doing tonight?" The kid seemed friendly enough, thought Nat.

"Me and Fig were planning to check out the dorm center. You wanna go?" Brownie replied.

"Sure. I'll catch you back say around 7:30. What's your room number?"

"211. Corner room. You want to eat with us?"

"Sorry, I'm not on the meal plan. Living at home, you know. I'll catch you later." Nat left, thinking it would be good to have a student ID.

* * * * *

Brownie, Fig, and the future Doctor Shapiro looked at the fliers. Several fraternities were announcing their Welcoming Party, and all of the fliers said freshmen were invited. Some said there would be free beer.

"Free beer!" Fig exclaimed. "You guys up for it?"

"Does a shark fart under water?" the future Doctor Shapiro responded. "Is Badge coming?"

Brownie said, "Wait here a second." With mixed emotions, he ran up one floor and knocked on Badge's door. Badge was sprawled out on his bed with a Sports Illustrated and a can of beer balanced on his chest. He was still wearing his jock strap on the outside of his sweatpants.

"Hey Badge, some of us are gonna make the rounds at the fraternity houses. You wanna go?" Brownie thought the room still smelled of marijuana smoke.

"Absofuckinglutely," Badge responded as he jumped up from the bed. "Just let me spruce up a little." His idea of sprucing up was to put his stringy hair underneath a Red Sox hat. "Let's roll," he announced. He tossed the empty can into the wastebasket where it rattled around with several others.

The first house was Alpha Sigma Delta, where a brother that was obviously the greeting committee greeted them. They all shook hands and were ushered into the bar where they made small talk with some other brothers who were hanging out in front of a TV watching Green Acres. They were all polite enough, Brownie thought, but soon they all said thanks, and left.

The second house was Beta something or other, and the brothers there just called it the Beta house. White pillars ringed the entrance, and inside waiters were running around in white jackets.

"These guys are all rich fuckers like L. Dean," Badge said. They had one drink and were out of there.

Right next to the Beta house, set up on a little hill, was a neat place that looked like a Swiss chalet, with exposed wood beams in the façade and high peaked roofs that came out at various angles. Steps were carved into the hill and led to a large rectangular cement porch that spanned the main wing of the building. As he scanned the scene, Brownie noticed that people were hanging out all over the place, but not on the porch. A keg was nestled in a tub of ice below the porch, next to which a large gold-colored Lab dog was panting to beat the band. All attention, including the dog's, was on the porch, but Brownie focused quickly on a long pair of legs perched on tan wedge-heeled sandals. They were dancing in place to a Sam and Dave song that came from somewhere behind a tree, and were topped by the skimpiest of well-worn jean shorts. The girl was holding two cups. She must have felt his gaze because she looked his way, smiled, and pointed to the keg.

"Help yourself," she said. "It's on the house."

"Thanks," Brownie answered. There was some kind of contest going on, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. Briefly, he watched as four guys on the porch batted a tennis ball up onto the steeply sloped roof. It was like four-man handball, or in this case, roofball. The players scampered around, chasing down every roll and carom as the ball careened off the steeply pitched roof. They batted the ball back with either hand, sometimes sending it high on the roof so that it would come screaming down the slope; other times, when an opponent was out of position, a player would gingerly tap the ball so that it barely made contact with the very bottom edge of the roof. The ball would just barely touch and immediately fall to the porch floor, and the point would be over. There was strategy, Brownie observed. He watched another point and, when the ball was positioned just so, one of the players jumped up and batted it much like one would pound a slam in volleyball. The ball struck the roof once and bounced entirely off the porch and down the hill. The dog immediately bolted after it and carried it back between drooling jaws, dropping it at the feet of the first person to snap his fingers. That shot was appropriately called a slam, but there were many of other types of shots and caroms, it seemed. There were various protrusions and nooks on and along the various planes of the roof, things like chimneys, finials, and cubbyholes, which made for some very interesting caroms and shot names. A player would often aim for one of these particular areas when batting the ball back, hoping to get an unexpected bounce and preventing his opponent from returning the shot. Each point was begun with a serve—which in itself was a science, it seemed—from the far corner of the porch. For example, there was the Box Serve, the Single Shingle Serve, the Idiot Serve, the Penis "In" Serve, and the Sacroiliac Serve, just to name a few of the more colorful ones.

One of the brothers walked up to the dish in the jean shorts and took one of the cups she was holding. "Welcome to the Lodge," he said to them. "Help yourselves to a beer."

The future Doctor Shapiro came over with two cups, handing one to Brownie and asking, "What's the name of this place?"

Brownie shrugged. "I don't know. He just said 'Welcome to the Lodge'." Another of the brothers came over.

"Hi. I'm Stu Mosbacher. Where you guys from?"

"Me and the Red Sox hat are from Massachusetts," Brownie answered as he motioned at Badge who was already moving toward the keg. "Better watch him. He might be a little drunk." Brownie didn't know why he felt the need to explain for Badge, but he did.

"That's okay. We'll watch out for him. Where in Mass?"

"Just outside Pittsfield. Small town named Fallston."

Someone called from the porch. "Anybody up next?"

"I'm up," Stu called out. "You wanna play?"

Brownie was caught off guard. "Naw, you go ahead. I don't even know the rules. I'll make us lose for sure."

"No you won't. We'll win, you'll see. It's just like handball—with a conduct rule."

"A conduct rule?"

"That's the most important rule. If a player makes a call, that's it. Everyone's taken at their word."

"What if you have someone who cheats?"

"We don't. Everyone always does the right thing."

Brownie thought he was serious. They went up to the porch and Stu introduced him to the other team. Then, he held up his arms, like he was asking for quiet.

"The rules and precepts of the great game of Porchball have been explained to this man, and he has accepted them in good faith. I, Stu Mosbacher, vouch for this neophyte and recommend that he be allowed to participate in the Sport of Gentlemen."

"So be it," any brothers within hearing distance responded, and they immediately went back to whatever they were doing.

Brownie didn't know if they were pulling his chain, or not. It was sort of comical, corny even, and he almost laughed.

"Here, take a little practice," Stu said, tossing him one of the balls.

"This one's all wet," Brownie responded. "Toss me another tennis ball."

"Porchball," Stu corrected. "Probably just a little Hutch juice." He pointed to the drooling dog.

They played. On the last shot the ball ricocheted and flew completely off the porch, about thirty feet down the hill where Hutch chased after it at full tilt. They won.

"I told you we'd win," Stu said as he shook Brownie's hand.

As they came off the porch Brownie asked, "What was that you said at the beginning of the game, you know, about vouching for me? Was that for real? I almost laughed."

"But you didn't," Stu said. "We all know it's kind of goofy, and a lot of guys do laugh the first time, but that's a signal. It's not right to ridicule things you don't understand."

"Why did you vouch for me? I mean, how did you know I wasn't a jerk?"

Stu grinned and said, "We would have figured that out during the match."

"Oh... so this Porchball thing is a test?"

"Not exactly, but we get to know what the guys are like and whether they'd be right for us. We think we have a good brotherhood here and we'd like to keep it that way. You want another beer?"

Brownie looked around for his friends and noticed the sun was down below the rooftops. He looked at his watch. It was already more than an hour past the time he was supposed to have met up with Nat Hinshaw.

* * * * *

Nat went to room 211: no one there. He figured maybe the kid was having dinner, but he didn't find him there either. He went to the dorm center and made two trips around. No luck. Standing there and playing pocket pool wasn't a good way to blend in, so he decided to have a beer.

"It's okay. The drinking age is New York is eighteen."

Nat turned and looked at the stranger in the gray herringbone blazer. "I'm sorry. Were you talking to me?"

"Yes. Sorry. I was just trying to be funny. You looked like you were afraid to get into the beer line. I'm Bernard Phelan. I'm one of the professors here at Alliance."

Great, thought Nat. Here he was trying to be wallpaper and he was standing out like a zit on the end of his nose. "I was just looking for a couple of guys I was supposed to meet up with. My name's Nat," he said, shaking Phelan's hand. "What do you teach?"

"Economics mostly, and a couple of comp courses now and then?"

"Comp? Is that a kind of economics or something?"

"Comp courses—you know, comprehensive. They should have explained that to you at registration. Are you a freshman?"

"Yeah. Right. Comp courses. Now I remember." Nat wasn't prepared for this. He needed to get the conversation going into a different direction.

"Are you staying in the West dorm?"

Nat didn't want to answer any more questions; he wanted to find Dandy Don. "Is there more to this place?"

"You mean the dorm center? No this is it, just this one area. Why do you ask?"

Jesus, thought Nat, another question. "I was supposed to meet up with some friends and we were supposed to go to a party at some place called Dandy Don's. Do you know where that is? Maybe they're already there."

"Dandy Don's?" Phelan questioned. "Dandy Don isn't a place. It's a person."

"It is?" Nat feigned. "Do you know him?"

Phelan recalled the conversation with Chief Herzog. "He works at one of the fraternity houses. Sigma Tau Delta, I think."

Bingo, thought Nat. "Oh, maybe that's what they meant. Do you know where that is?"

"Over near the gardens. Do you know where they are?"

"Yeah, sure," said Nat. He didn't know the gardens, but he needed to get away from all the questions. "I think I'll head over and see if my friends are there. Thanks."

"Sure, no problem," Professor Phelan responded. "Maybe I'll head over there myself."

CHAPTER 15 A Rubber?

"You guys need a lot more than that if you expect me to back you up on this. We've got heroin on the streets in Mount Pleasant; the kids over at Linton High are getting stoned at lunch; the Chinese hookers got a fucking price war going on, and you want me to okay a stakeout on this cook? Based on what? The word of a strip joint cleanup boy who is now nothing more than Ken'l Ration? You got nothin'. You got less than nothin'. Gimme a break."

"You said you'd give us two days," Nat complained.

"You've had your two days," McQuade snapped back, "and all you got is the name of the fraternity house."

Gravachevsky said, "C'mon Lieutenant. I know the sonofabitch is connected."

Knowing Gravachevsky seldom asked for rope, McQuade paused. Finally, he said, "Nothing goes on the duty logs until you got something solid. If you happen to squeeze a few hours away from something else, I don't know nothin' about it. Got it?"

"Got it," Gravachevsky shot back. It was all McQuade was going to give him.

"It would be a lot easier for me to get around if I had a student ID," Nat mentioned as he and Gravachevsky got up to leave.

McQuade agreed. Grinning, he added, "You might wanna get yourself set up in a couple of classes as well. You can always flunk out when this is all over."

* * * * *

Jessica looked at the clock, then at her bearded bedmate. He needed to be out of there. Maybe if she wriggled around he'd wake up. She rubbed up against his leg and realized he was still naked. Jesus, she thought, what the hell had gotten into her? What made her decide last night was the night? Lying there, she recalled the opportunities she'd had during the summer with boys she liked better than this RPI turkey. It would have been better with one of them. They were nice to her. This guy acted like he owned her. He'd made it clear from the very beginning what he was interested in, and she let him do it. Her first time should have been better. She got up and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, making plenty of commotion in the process. He finally opened his eyes.

"You gotta go. My roommate is due back with her parents and they're taking us to Sunday brunch," she lied. He got the hint. Not wanting to look at him, or it, again, she turned her back as he put on his pants. He came over and tried to give her a hug for such a memorable evening. She backed off.

"When can I see you again, babe?"

"My name is Jessica, and I don't know. I'll see you around." It was the best she could do. When he was gone, she stripped off her clothes and ran down the hall to the shower, intent on using up every bit of hot water in the dorm.

* * * * *

His mom picked up on the first ring, which wasn't surprising. They'd agreed that he'd call every Sunday morning. Trying to sound upbeat, Brownie said, "Hi Mom."

"I knew it was you. How's everything going? We really miss you son."

"I miss you too Mom. Everything is fine. The first week was kind of a drag actually... you know orientation, buying books, that kind of thing." He didn't dare tell the truth.

"What, no wild parties?"

Guilt shot through him like an arrow. "That's on the agenda for this week," he said, laughing weakly.

"Classes start tomorrow, don't they? What kind of courses are you taking?"

Thank God she changed the subject. "I thought I'd start with some of the comprehensive requirements. That way I could get the feel of things and gauge the workload."

"How's Mark doing? Is he making friends with the other boys?"

"He's doing fine," he lied again. If she only knew....

"Do you need anything? Do you have enough clothes? Do you need money?"

"No Mom, everything is fine. And I have plenty of clothes. I could use one of your pot roast dinners though."

"Your father is right here and he's dying to talk to you. Be sure to wear clean clothes every day, and be polite with your professors. You always need to make a good impression. I love you son."

"Love you too, Mom."

His father's voice came on the line. "Do you need more money already?"

"No Dad, I'm okay for now, but the books cost a fortune. I bought six books yesterday and spent almost seventy bucks."

"Well son, I'd rather than you spent it on books than going out boozing every night."

Was he trying to make a joke? "I'm not going out boozing every night."

"Well I hope not. How's Mark doing?"

"Listen Dad, I told Mom that Badge was doing fine, but just between you and me, he's turned into a wild man. I'm a little worried about him."

Phil Brown paused. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't know. I figured you'd tell me what to do."

"You're a grown man now, son, and you have to govern your own affairs. I will tell you to be careful though, and not get caught up in his problems."

That's it? Be careful? That was the best he could do?

"Listen son," Phil Brown went on, "sometimes there's a fine line between loyalty and stupidity. Don't let yourself get caught in that trap. You've got to look out for yourself." Changing the subject, "How are the babes?" Phil Brown asked.

Brownie couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

"Betcha there's some good lookin' ones out there, eh son?"

Brownie had to laugh. "Yeah Dad, there are. Problem is that they're always with somebody else."

"Well, you'll take care of that, I'm sure. Don't do anything stupid, though. Put a rubber in your pocket."

A rubber! Who was that on the other end of the line?

* * * * *

It wasn't even noon and Deborah was already having her first cocktail. It always happened before she had to face up to her father. Sunday brunch with the old bastard was always such a pleasure. Just hang on a little longer, Phelan told himself. Play up to that inflated ego just a few more times. Someday, maybe someday soon, the money would be his. Deborah's life would revolve around the bottle, and he'd be free to do whatever he wanted, with whomever he wanted. Who would blame him? After all, he had to bear the burden and cover the shame of her problem all these years. Everyone knew.

Deborah came in and said, "Zip me, would you baby? We want to make sure we look proper for old Daddykins." When he was done, she turned and smiled. "Thanks for the zip, baby. Maybe I can return the favor. You've seemed preoccupied lately. Do you want me to do something to take your mind off whatever it is?" She put her hand down and felt him under his trousers.

That's what he liked. That was the girl he fell in love with. Why wasn't it like this all the time? Damn the alcohol. Damn that fucking Stallings. Phelan remembered how it was when they were younger. She was the daughter of then Dean Stallings of Oberlin College, all prim and proper on the outside, but a sex fiend on the inside. He remembered the first time she went down on him. He'd heard of girls that liked to French, but he'd never met any until Deborah. She said she liked to do it, and she talked dirty to him while she did it, asking him if he liked it. Oh God, did he like it. He never got enough of it.

Things changed, however. It wasn't until after they were married that they found out that children were out of the question. Her menstrual cycle was irregular, probably a result of the neurotic pounding she took from her father on a regular basis, Phelan speculated. Deborah turned to the bottle, and it was never the same after that.

The phone rang and Deborah answered it. "It's for you," she said. "She says she's one of your students." She looked at him questioningly. "Since when did Alliance start accepting women?"

Phelan took the phone. "Hello."

"I need the money now!" Daisy screamed into the phone. "I've had it with this pregnancy shit!"

The guilt dripped off Phelan's face. Deborah took one look and stormed off.

"Yes, can I call you back on that?" he asked, trying to hide what was already done.

"Listen, you pervert, I don't know what kind of games you're playing, and I don't care. I'm pregnant, and I need to get unpregnant, now. The last thing I want to do is hatch your kid. I want the five thousand tomorrow. Meet me in front of the main entrance of Carl's department store."

"I can't get it by tomorrow. It's the first day of classes and I'll be busy all day. I can get to the bank after my last class and I can have it for you Tuesday."

"Fine, Tuesday then. Meet me at noon. And don't forget I've still got the tape. I'm through screwing around with you."

Phelan put the phone down and decided that he wasn't going to wait for any party to find out about Dandy Don. He needed to get this situation out of his life—immediately.

* * * * *

Eddie The Barrel Bartolo knew the rules against moving product around, but he thought it would be less of a risk than leaving this big-mouthed cook in place. He could split up what was left of the shipment and send it to the state campus and the community colleges. He'd even move it personally if he had to. He knew Il padrone had had it with the fuck ups on this shipment, and he wasn't about to risk another one. Eddie picked up the phone and dialed. He knew the number by heart.

"Yeah."

"I got another job for you," said Eddie The Barrel.

"I hope it's not like last time. I messed up a brand new fuckin' suit on that one."

"This ain't like that. As a matter of fact, it would probably be better if this one was found right away. Maybe the papers could be tipped off as to where to find the body. People need to know this cocksucker is out of the picture. Besides, he's is too big to fit into any fucking barrel."

"Who is it?"

"The cook."

"Jesus. Ain't no way we could move him anyway, the fat fuck. We'll just have to drop 'im somewhere."

"That's fine. Arrange a meeting with him so we can get our hands on the rest of the shipment before you do the job."

"When you wanna meet?"

"Tuesday or Wednesday. I'm playing golf tomorrow. Oh, and Benny, we can't afford no fuck ups on this one. Understand?"

CHAPTER 16 Strange Bedfellows

Stallings gave him a once over, taking note of the jeans and corduroy blazer. "So this is what detectives look like these days," he said smugly. "I assume you're here because of Chief Herzog."

Checking out the paneled office, Gravachevsky noted the pictures. The first one showed Stallings with Dwight Eisenhower, their arms around each other, golf clubs in hand. In another, Stallings was sporting a tuxedo and shaking hands with Frank Sinatra. In yet another, he was with Sandy Koufax. Pointing, he asked, "Did you know him?"

"Yes, quite well actually. I still remember his funeral in March. It was quite a humbling experience. Dwight was a good friend."

"I was talking about Sandy Koufax."

"Yes, of course you were."

Gravachevsky wondered what the hell that meant.

Stallings looked over his bifocals. "About your visit... I have a busy day planned."

Gravachevsky squirmed, thinking his chair felt a little low to the ground. "Mister Stallings—"

"President Stallings, if you don't mind."

"Yes, of course. There's been a huge increase in drug trafficking in the tri-cities over the last couple of years, and a lot of the stuff ends up at the colleges."

"I'm aware of that, Officer Gravski."

"That's Gravachevsky... and it's Detective Gravachevsky, if you don't mind." Screw you, he thought.

"Yes, well, as I was saying, I'm aware of that. As a matter of fact, I recently had a meeting with my people to discuss the matter. I ordered them to monitor the situation on campus very closely. I'd have a police officer in every dorm on campus if we could afford it. Not everyone sees it my way, however. What's your point in all this?"

"We have reason to believe that a person who works on your campus is linked to a major distribution network. We'd like to infiltrate his network by setting up an informant."

"You mean a police officer?"

"Yes. Someone posing as a student."

"And what do you want from me?"

"Well, we'd like to do it as quietly as possible. It would be a lot less noticeable if we could get our man in here right away while there are a lot of new faces around. We'd like him to establish himself as part of the student population."

"And you need me to...."

"Set him up in a couple of classes, get him a student ID, that sort of thing. And we'd like no one else to know, including your head of security."

Pausing, Stallings said, "I understand. But you've made no mention of arresting any students."

Gravachevsky thought: what a dick. "The students aren't our ultimate goal. As a matter of fact, the man we're talking about may not be our ultimate goal. We may even try to cut a deal with him." He saw the disapproving look on Stalling's face. "I'm sure you're aware that we don't need permission to come on campus. Breaking the law is breaking the law, on campus or not. We were just hoping you'd make it a little easier. As a matter of fact, we've had a man here for a week now."

Stallings said, "I see. We could conduct our own investigation, you know."

"You'd never get close using your own people." Seeing another serious scowl, Gravachevsky changed tack. "Just think of the positive publicity, and how it would enhance your reputation if we were successful." Stallings smiled, and Gravachevsky knew he'd just pushed the right button.

"I'll see what I can do," Stallings said. "Do you have a number where I can reach you?"

Gravachevsky handed him a card.

* * * * *

He made it back just in time. Distracted and perspiring under his clothes, Phelan walked into his two o'clock class with five thousand dollars bulging in the inside pocket of his blazer. The pressure was overwhelming. He needed those two girls and that tape out of his life before his world caved in around him.

As he tried to compose himself, an image flashed through his head and he saw himself as an old man, stirring tea in an apartment where the living room and the bedroom were the same room. He watched himself through a dirty window, reading his books in tattered clothes, drinking his tea from a chipped cup, eating his oyster crackers from a cracked plate. He wasn't going to let that happen. Another, different image sharpened in his mind's eye. This time, he saw a large house with sparkling white columns in front, and a shiny black Lincoln parked in a curved driveway made of white gravel. A young Puerto Rican maid served him a fresh Manhattan, not too sweet, just the way he liked it. She winked at him knowingly when she bent over, letting him get a good look at her abundant cleavage. She was the one he'd be banging in that big house after Deborah fell asleep with her head swimming in gin. That's what he wanted, and that's what he'd have with the millions in inheritance that was due him.

A cough brought him back to reality. The students were staring, waiting for him to say something. He debated cutting the class short. Econ 301 was an advanced course, and they all knew the first class was a review of the course material. So he'd give them a little break. So what? It would be the last one they'd get for quite a while.

He surveyed the faces. Some of them would try to get a head start on the material, while others wouldn't do anything until the last minute. It was their choice, he thought. He didn't care how they got the work in as long as they did so on time. He wasn't going to fall for any bullshit stories this time around. No sympathy for last minute deaths in the family, and no make-up exams, period, unless the student was in a hospital bed. Yes sir, Bernard Phelan's reputation would change after this class.

He recognized most of the dozen students. There was Cohen. There was Miller; he wondered if Miller still carried a perfect 4.0. And there was Fleming, Mosbacher, Kovach, Rosenblum, Beecher, and Denardo. Then there were four he didn't know. A couple of them wouldn't make it to the end.

Phelan looked at the clock, and his thoughts drifted again. Meal plans for the upperclassmen started today, so surely the man would be on the job. It was time to find out.

"I'm going to cut this first class a little short," he said, and he saw the resulting smiles. "But don't get used to it. Have the first book on your syllabus read by tomorrow." The smiles faded quickly. Stick it to 'em, Phelan thought.

Twenty minutes later, he walked along the chain link fence that bordered the north end of campus on Van Dyke Road, spotting the red brick Sigma Tau Delta house located just inside the fence. He approached the worn and weathered house slowly. The front door was propped open with a crushed beer can, and a musty odor came from inside. Hesitating, he turned around, thinking perhaps it would be best to first observe the house from a distance. Maybe he'd try to spot the location of the kitchen. Maybe he'd get lucky and get a look at the infamous Dandy Don himself. Walking to the bus stop across the street, he saw a delivery truck parked around back with Cahoes Meat Packing painted on its side. A food delivery truck would be parked outside the kitchen, wouldn't it? He waited for the truck to leave. When it did, he saw a pile of boxes left behind, and there, loading them onto a hand truck, had to be the man he was looking for. A white apron barely covered the huge stomach. Phelan moved quickly.

Dandy Don loaded a box of frozen hamburgers and looked up. "Yeah?" he said, gasping.

Immediately sickened, Phelan noted the man's face was a mass of scabs. The eyes were dark and purplish, and his lower lip was blown up to twice its normal size. "Are you Dandy Don?" he asked tentatively.

"I'm paid up on all my bills."

"I'm not a bill collector."

Dandy Don looked at him sideways. "How the hell do you know my name?"

Barely understanding, Phelan asked, "What's the matter with your mouth?"

Dandy Don stuck out his tongue.

Phelan shuddered as he looked at the raw, red edge where it had been bitten away. "The campus security people know about you," he blurted blindly.

Dandy Don said, "I got no fuckin' idea what you're talking about." He dropped the last box on the hand truck and settled a glare on Phelan. Milky white skin, rust-colored beard: "Do I know you from someplace?"

"I'm a professor here at the college."

"And I'm just a lousy fuckin' cook."

"Don't play dumb with me," Phelan said bravely. "I, and half the kids on campus know about you, as does the administration. Security is looking to arrest one of your runners and make a deal with him. The kid walks, you go to jail."

Dandy Don looked around as if he expected someone to be listening. "How the fuck you know all this?"

"Because I'm part of it, that's how."

Dandy Don kept his eyes on him. "What exactly do you want, professor A-hole?"

"I need to avail myself of your services."

"Avail? What the fuck you sayin'?"

"I need someone to handle a problem for me, and I think you know just the person who can accomplish the messy little task."

"What kind of problem?"

"Let's just say I need for someone to have an unfortunate accident."

Dandy Don laughed. "Wait, let me fuckin' guess: I take care of your problem, and in exchange you don't squeal on me. Is that it? What if I tell you to go fuck yourself?"

"Are you willing to take that chance? My guess is that someone in your organization would be pretty upset if one of your people was in a position to make a deal with the police." Phelan hoped the idiot wasn't too stupid to see the logic.

Dandy Don grabbed him by the shirt. "I don't know who the fuck you think you are coming in here and slinging this shit, but I had a lot of fuckin' guys a lot fuckin' scarier than you after me. Don't you go fuckin' threatening me, you fuckin' pussy. I kill guys like you just for laughs." He pointed to the scabs on his face as he said it.

"Take your hands off me... or I'll kill you!" The words came out by themselves.

Dandy Don laughed again, but stopped. The guy was starting to shake, like he had some sort of fucking disease or something.

Again, Phelan's words came out as if they came from his own ghost, his head twitching uncontrollably to one side. "If you don't take your hands off me right this second, I'll find you, and I'll kill you just as sure as I'm standing here."

The guy was having a seizure or something. Dandy Don let go of his shirt. "Listen asshole, I don't need no pussy-ass professor coming on my turf and making threats. I oughta kick your snotty ass."

"Then you'd better get ready to do it. I have nothing to lose."

Dandy Don paused and said, "Things like that don't come free."

Just then, some fraternity brothers came out of the kitchen. "Say bro," one of them said to Dandy Don. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I was eatin' pussy and she crossed her legs on me, man." The students chuckled and moved along, but not before giving Dandy Don a long, disgusted look.

Dandy Don turned back. "About the money."

Phelan fingered the bulge in his pocket. "I have five thousand dollars right here."

Dandy Don looked around. "This ain't the place to talk about this. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Tonight!" Phelan shot back, digging his fingers into Dandy Don's arm. "You pick the place."

Dandy Don yanked his arm free. "Okay asshole, tonight it is. Meet me at the Bamboo Club, across from the Crosstown Diner on Brandywine Avenue. Nine o'clock."

"I'll be there," Phelan spat back as he walked away.

* * * * *

Nat munched his cheeseburger and turned the page. Like a lot of people, he'd been reading about the Hollywood murders with morbid fascination for the last month. What a shame, he thought. Sharon Tate was a babe. He imagined what it must have been like being first on the scene, seeing all those hacked up bodies and the words PIGS and HELTER SKELTER written on the walls in blood. And what did a Beatles song have to do with anything? Those Manson freaks were a bunch of sick bastards, to say the least. It was the type of crime that would consume a cop, and he wondered if he'd ever get the opportunity to work one like that.

He took a bite of his cheeseburger and listened to the various conversations around him. Some kid was talking about the first day of classes, and then he mentioned something about a marijuana raid in the freshman dorm on Friday night. Damn! He hadn't heard about that. He decided immediately that he needed to sniff out the details, thinking instantly about the kid named Brownie with whom he'd never hooked up with on Saturday. Nat decided to head over to the freshman dorm and knock on the door to room 211, figuring it would be a good bet the kid would be around on this first real school night. He might know something about that raid on Friday.

* * * * *

Gazing at the faded posters, Phelan checked his watch. It was 9:15 and he could hear music thumping right through the walls of the Bamboo Club. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the handle and stepped into a dark vestibule that smelled like an ashtray. A second door awaited, the music loud now, the beat drumming him in the chest. He moved past the stench, and was blinded by several spotlights. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, they settled on a box-like structure in the middle of a low stage. There, lying atop a box-like structure over which was draped a tiger skin rug, a girl splayed herself for the crowd. The sight caught him off guard, despite the fact that he knew what kind of club he was walking into. The dancer stared at the man in front of her, who watched the rhinestone G-string between her legs as if he were a guard dog and it was about to get away. She moved off the box, and Phelan's eyes stayed with her as she undid the G-string and charmingly pumped her pelvis toward her admirers.

He looked away in search of his appointment. Someone grabbed his arm and he turned reflexively.

"Easy!" Dandy Don yelled above the music. "You're strung tighter than piano wire, for Christ's sake."

"Don't ever grab me like that!" Phelan shouted. He felt himself starting to tremble again, just as he had earlier in the afternoon.

Dandy Don pointed to a table in the back. "You're givin' me the fuckin' creeps, man." A waitress came over, almost as wide as she was tall, a pencil wedged into her cleavage. Dandy Don ordered a Pabst. Phelan ordered the same.

Dandy Don said, "Why don't you tell me why a nice professor like you needs a guy like me? If I like your story, I might just help you out."

The waitress came back and Phelan gulped his beer, trying to get his mouth wet enough to speak. "You don't need to know my story."

"Listen Cosmo, I don't know where you come from, but where I come from a guy doesn't fuck around unless he's got some idea of what he's getting into. Now, I'm going to ask you again, real nice. Why don't you tell me what the fuck this is all about? Otherwise you can go shit in your hat and I'll take my chances with the campus dicks. You were saying?"

Phelan swallowed hard and watched the next dancer put one leg behind her neck. He took another swallow and told his story, surprised that he felt better when it was over.

"Well, well, well; so you got yourself in a jam scoring a teenaged piece of ass. That's not exactly what I expected. You sure there's no other way?"

"You don't understand. If my wife finds out about this she'll divorce me."

"So?"

"There's an inheritance involved."

"Ah," said Dandy Don. "That makes more sense. So why don't you just pay the bitch off and get her an abortion?"

"I've already done that. As a matter of fact, I'm supposed to meet her tomorrow and deliver the money."

"How much?"

"Five thousand dollars."

"Five thousand!" Dandy Don coughed. "An abortion is five hundred—a thousand, tops. You're getting it up the ass, my professor friend."

Friend indeed. "And that's not the worst of it," Phelan added. He went on to tell about the second girl and the incriminating tape.

"And how much does she want to make that disappear?"

"Twenty-five thousand by the end of the month."

Dandy Don let out a long low whistle. "And lemme guess... you ain't got it. Otherwise you'd just pay the little twat and everyone would live happily ever after. You're fucked, aren't you, Professor?"

The waitress came over and they ordered their fourth beer. They watched as another dancer poured baby oil on her substantial breasts and massaged them three inches from the nose of some bald guy who stuffed another buck into her garter.

"What time tomorrow?" Dandy Don asked.

"Noon. In front of Carl's department store."

"Don't show up."

"I have to, or she'll go straight to my wife."

"No you don't. Here's a plan. Tell me what you think."

Phelan listened for the next hour and a half while they drank another half a dozen beers and watched every dancer again. Finally, when they were done talking, they moved rail side. Glassy eyed, Phelan watched as the dancer came over. He studied her small but well-proportioned body.

"This is Brandy," Dandy Don said approvingly. "Brandy Alexander, and she's one of the best." With that, he pushed Phelan's head forward so he could get a closer look at what was between Brandy's legs.

Phelan got so close he could count the little curly hairs if he wanted to.

CHAPTER 17 The Favor

It was Tuesday, September 16th, and Stu Mosbacher looked over his course schedule. Only 168 more days to go and he'd be through with this crap. He'd wondered more than once if he'd wasted the last three years. He was already twenty-one and the kids being drafted into pro ball now were getting better and better. It was his dad, Stan Night Train Mosbacher, who'd persuaded Stu to go to college despite being drafted by the Cardinals straight out of high school. Night Train was a legend, having hit 441 homers with the Pirates in just twelve years. Despite his own success, it was the older Mosbacher who'd said not to take the offer from St. Louis.

"Listen son, I've seen better bats than you come up and go for three or four years. Then they got hurt, or their arm went bad, and they were out on their ass with nothing to fall back on. The best they could do after that was run a Boys' Club for the rest of their lives. You need better than that son. The majors will always be there."

Stu didn't know if he regretted taking the advice or not. His dad told him not to worry though.

"It's what between your ears son. Everyone thinks you have to run faster, throw harder, hit better, but that's not it at all. You have to be able to think faster, think harder, and think better than the other guys. If you do, you'll play in the majors for a long time. That's what's important."

Getting back to the course schedule, Stu noted that the work load was huge for a ten-week trimester: six papers—three of them major term papers—finals in all three classes, midterms, and thirteen books all together; and all of it had to be completed before Christmas break. It was going to be tough maintaining his sterling 2.0 average, which was the minimum required to play a varsity sport at Alliance. If he didn't play, his chances of being drafted again were slim to none. He could always try out as a walk on, which certainly his dad could arrange, but that really wasn't the way he wanted to make it to the pros.

Econ 301 looked to be the most grueling. He'd had Phelan as an instructor before, remembering that he'd gotten a C, but he didn't recall the workload being this heavy. It was going to be a bitch.

"Hey Night Train, you up for some Porchball? We need a fourth." Stu looked up to see Willy Lord Buckingham tossing a porchball from hand to hand.

"I don't know. I've already got a shitload of work, and I haven't even bought my books yet. I should probably go to the bookstore and get it over with."

"Hey, the bookstore will be there later."

Stu considered the offer. "Yeah, piss on it. It's only the first week anyway."

Stu Night Train Mosbacher cut his next class.

* * * * *

Phelan checked the time and said, "Roll down the damn window, will you? It smells like a gym locker in here. Does that meter have any time left on it?"

"That's the third time you've asked about the fuckin' meter," Dandy Don replied. "You need to relax."

They were parked across from Carl's department store on State Street in the heart of downtown Schenectady, such as it was.

"What's she look like?" Dandy Don asked.

"Like every other kid on the street."

They both watched the front of the store for the next half hour.

"Are you sure about this? You did say noon, didn't you?"

"I'm sure of it." Phelan looked at his watch. "Maybe she's watching the door too. Maybe she's coming down only if she sees us first."

"It's not us, Professor, it's you, but you've got a good point. Why don't you take a little stroll by the front of the store? I'll wait here."

"So she can spot you when I come back? That's just brilliant. I thought you knew what you were doing!"

"I don't know which is worse, your fuckin' whining or your goddamned—"

"Shut up, damn it! Look... over there! Under the awning, in front of the sporting goods store! There! There!"

Dandy Don spotted the sporting goods store about half a block down. Dressed in denim shorts and a t-shirt, she was pacing back and forth, smoking a cigarette and glancing nervously at the front of the Carl's store across the street.

"That's her? She doesn't look pregnant to me."

"That's the friend, the one who caught the tape recorder. Do you think she saw us?"

"How the fuck do I know? Wait here."

Phelan panicked. "She'll see you!"

"So what, asshole? She doesn't know who I am. Just slouch down in the seat and chill out. Here, wear these sunglasses."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm just gonna take a little look-see, is all. Just be cool and keep your eyes peeled. The other one might be close by. If you see her, just tap the horn three times, nothing that anyone would notice. Got it?"

Phelan took a deep breath. "Yeah, got it." He watched as Dandy Don shuffled aimlessly toward the sporting goods store, nonchalantly eying merchandise in the windows along the way. He walked directly past the girl and continued about thirty yards down the street, then walked to the curb. He shot a glimpse at the girl to see if she was watching him. She wasn't. He crossed the street and lumbered past the main entrance of Carl's, continuing another thirty yards or so in the opposite direction. Again he paused at the curb, watching the car, the girl, and the main entrance to Carl's all at the same time. He looked at his watch. It was 12:45. He completed his loop and came back to the car.

"She's here," he said to Phelan.

"How do you know?"

"Because about five minutes ago the one in front of the sporting goods store faced Carl's and did one of these numbers." Dandy Don shrugged, palms up: the universal I don't know sign. "She was obviously signaling to the other girl."

"Or to someone else," Phelan noted. "Maybe someone else is supposed to collect the money. They could have a guy involved, maybe for protection, you know?"

"Maybe," said Dandy Don. "Only one way to find out." He got out and poked his head back through the window. "When I give you the signal, pull up in front of her. Leave the engine running."

Phelan was shaking. "What for?"

"We're going to flush out the other girl, or whoever is out there. Now, do exactly what I tell you. Got it?" He didn't wait for a response. He waddled to within twenty yards of the girl and turned back toward the car, giving a little wag with his finger.

Phelan pulled up and double-parked no more than twenty feet from the girl. Moments later, Dandy Don was standing next to her, pointing to the car. She started to retreat, but Dandy Don was too quick. He grabbed her by the arm and had her in the front seat in seconds. He jumped in next to her, rocking the car on its axles.

"Drive!" he screamed.

Phelan barely realized what just happened. Flailing wildly, the girl tried to beat on Dandy Don, but he grabbed her wrists and twisted until she folded in obvious pain. Phelan gunned the engine and pulled off down State Street. "What are you doing to her?" he yelled as he weaved in and out of traffic.

"Shut up and drive. Take a right back toward the college."

"The college! Are you out of your mind?"

"Do you want this problem taken care of, or what?" The girl sobbed uncontrollably, her arm twisted into a painful hammerlock. Dandy Don barked directions while Phelan drove blindly through neighborhoods he didn't know. "See that house with the brown shingles and green shutters? Pull in and drive around back into the garage."

Again, Phelan did as he was told. Dandy Don quickly dragged the girl to the back entrance of the house. Brutally, he shoved her inside and looked back at Phelan. "Bring her purse."

Phelan followed them through a grimy kitchen, avoiding the cat dishes that littered the filthy linoleum floor. They entered a messy old living room where Dandy Don pushed the girl into a couch. She collapsed into tears while he rifled through her purse and found her ID.

"Well, Miss Linda Marie Quinlan of 191 Sanderson Lane. Nice to meet you. About the other girl: was she back there?"

Sobbing, the girl looked up and nodded yes.

"Where was she?" The girl didn't answer right away, and Dandy Don grabbed her wrist and twisted until she screamed. "I'm only going to ask you once."

Horrified, Phelan said, "Listen, don't you think—"

"Shut up!" Dandy Don screamed. "You'd take care of this yourself if you had any fuckin' balls between your legs." He turned back to the girl. "You'd know something about that, wouldn't you sweetie? Now, where was the other girl?"

"In... in... inside the store," she sobbed, "looking for him." She glanced at Phelan.

"Where is she now?"

"I... I don't know."

"How do we get hold of her?"

"I don't know," the girl answered, ripping her arm free.

Dandy Don grabbed her again, twisting her arm even harder as he slapped her across the face. "Next time I'll break it," he warned. "Now, think real hard. Does she have a phone at home?"

The girl nodded yes, not looking.

"Do you know her address?"

"11 North Edison Avenue."

"Good. I want you to call her, and I want you to tell her what happened just in case she didn't see it. Now, listen very carefully. I want you to tell her to come to 226 Howser Street right away. I want you to tell her to bring the tape and any other copies with her, and I want you to tell her to be here in an hour. If she's not here in an hour, I want you to tell her that I'm going to kill you."

Phelan began to twitch and the girl stiffened like an ironing board. Dandy Don let go of the girl and walked to a bookcase, taking a cigar box off the shelf. He opened it and pulled out a huge black automatic pistol. Then, he came back and picked up the telephone, handing it to the girl. "What's the number?" Calmly, he dialed while she recited the number.

"This is Linda," she said in a shaky voice.

"Where are you?" came the screech from the receiver, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Dandy Don grabbed the receiver and waved the gun menacingly. "Tell her exactly what I told you to say. Nothing more."

The girl let out a long uneven breath and put the receiver to her ear. "Listen Daisy, and listen carefully."

That was good, thought Dandy Don.

"He has a gun and he says he's going to kill me if you don't show up with the tape." She looked at the big black pistol in Dandy Don's meaty fingers. "Yes, that's right, a gun. Please Daisy, please! I don't want to die!" Losing control at that point, she burst into tears and dropped the phone as she buried her face in her hands.

Dandy Don picked up the phone. "Can you hear me all right, Daisy? Good. Now I'm only going to say this once. Bring the tape and any copies to 226 Howser Street in one hour, or else you'll find your friend Linda floating face down in the Hudson. Come alone. Once we have the tape, we'll give you enough money to take care of your little problem, and then you and your friend can go. One hour, or your friend is fish bait." Hanging up, he said, "Now we wait. Professor, why don't you go into the garage and find something we can use to tie up our guest. We wouldn't want to take any chances now, would we?"

Phelan stumbled through the back door and heaved his guts.

* * * * *

Gravachevsky looked at his watch for the third time in five minutes. "I have to be somewhere in half an hour."

"Of course," Stallings said apologetically. "I can't imagine where Professor Phelan could be. I guess we'll have to go on without him."

Looking around the room, Gravachevsky said, "I thought we needed to keep this quiet."

"There's no need to be paranoid," Stallings responded with more than a touch of indignation. "These men are perfectly capable of keeping things to themselves. Besides, we need them in order to execute your plan."

Leonard Herzog asked, "How do you pronounce your last name, Detective...."

Gravachevsky pronounced it for him, slowly.

"Now I remember. We talked a couple of weeks ago, right? About a cook who works on campus? Is that who you're after?"

"Chief, is this the same employee you and I discussed yesterday?" Stallings asked.

Well, so much for secrecy. "Maybe we could put an article in the school newspaper," Gravachevsky spat sarcastically, "...with my undercover man's picture in it."

Stalling said, "Really, Detective."

Gravachevsky said, "Don't really me, President Stallings." Eyebrows shot up around the room. "You want my help, you gotta do it my way."

"We didn't ask for your help," Herzog said.

Gravachevsky speared him with his eyes. "Let me say this one more time. I don't need your permission to come onto this campus. This has to be confined to the four of us... period."

"And Professor Phelan," Dean Prescott said, speaking for the first time.

Gravachevsky threw up is hands.

"Surely we'll have to let him know. After all, he's already looking into things for us." Prescott let the words slip out before he realized it.

"He is?" Stallings asked.

Herzog shot Prescott a look. "Yes," he said, trying to sound like he was on top of things. "We've suspected this man was a trouble maker for some time. Your son-in-law is familiar with many of the student organizations, and we thought he'd be the perfect person to snoop around and uncover some information for us. You know, an innocent conversation here and there."

Stallings nodded. "I'd agree with that."

Both Herzog and Prescott sighed with relief.

"I'd still prefer that no one else know," Gravachevsky insisted. "Can't we just enroll my man into this Professor Phelan's class like a regular student? Why does the professor have to know any different?"

Turning to Prescott, "The detective has a point," Herzog said. "Can't we do that, Walt? Just put the papers through like he was a late starter or something?"

"I guess we could," Prescott answered. "I'd have to do it myself though. The people in the registrar's office would naturally look for enrollment papers before adding him to the class roster, but it could be done."

"Fine then," said Stallings. "Give the detective what he wants."

"Will I know who he is?" Herzog inquired, "...just in case he needs some help?"

"I'll let you know when the time comes," Gravachevsky replied.

"Of course," Herzog said deferentially, knowing he'd be able to find out easily enough. Then he'd see for himself if the guy was any good.

CHAPTER 18 Going North

One class on Wednesday—at 10:00 a.m. no less—and, boom, it was over. Brownie was off to the gym. He hadn't had any real exercise for ten days and he felt himself getting a little rusty. He wasn't about to let that happen. He was determined to report to baseball tryouts in February in the best shape of his life. After his workout, he figured he'd have some lunch and basically see what developed the rest of the day. What a deal. No orders, no nagging. Life was good.

He'd gotten a tour of the athletic facility during orientation, and he decided to try his hand on the basketball court this first time out. The courts were crowded, and there were four separate half-court games going on simultaneously. Some of the players were quite good, Brownie observed, especially in the game closest to him. There, they were playing three-on-three. He wondered about the little guy who consistently outrebounded players a foot taller. He suddenly recognized one of the players as being Stu Mosbacher, and he watched him closely as he warmed up at one of the side hoops. It was evident that Stu had played a lot of basketball, but he was constantly getting beat to the hoop by the same little guy who seemed to blow past anyone at will.

The contests varied in quality as games became available. Brownie heard someone calling for players and took a slot, shaking hands with all the players on both sides, all of whom were strangers. Some of them seemed older. He handled the ball most of the time, with his two teammates content to drift to the inside. He made some good passes and executed a couple of nice pick-and-rolls, and even sank some shots from the outside. He held his own, and felt good about it. His team played twice more before losing almost an hour later. He'd worked up pretty good lather and was resting on the bleachers when Stu Mosbacher passed by mopping himself with a towel.

"You looked pretty good out there," Stu said.

"Not as good as your bunch," Brownie responded. "You guys looked like the Celtics. Who's the little guy?"

"You mean the one who left me standing in my shoes? That's Nick Marino. He's the all-time scoring leader here at Alliance, and was Division III All-American last year. I'll introduce you the next time you're at the Lodge."

"He's a brother?"

"Yeah, and so was one of the guys you were playing with."

"How'd you get an All-American to join your fraternity? I mean, how do guys go about joining your fraternity—or any fraternity for that matter?

"They have to be rushed," Stu answered as he sat down.

"What's rushed?"

"Being rushed is like being recruited. All the houses invite guys to come around during rush season. It's kind of a get-to-know-you period. At least that's the way it is at the Lodge."

"When is rush season?"

"It officially doesn't begin until the second trimester. The college has rules against interfering with the freshmen during their first term at school, but all the houses conduct an unofficial rush."

"How do you know who to invite?"

"There's a rush chairman who tries to coordinate things, you know, plan activities and stuff, but mostly you get to know guys over the months and it sort of takes care of itself."

"And who's the rush chairman at Zeta Chi?"

"I am."

Brownie wasn't surprised. "Have my friends and I already been blackballed for drinking up all your beer Saturday night?"

"Naw, you guys were fine. Speaking of which, we've got a few cars going North tonight. Why don't you and your friend... What's his name?"

"You mean Badge?"

"Yeah. Why don't you both come over for dinner, then we'll head up afterwards."

"What's going North?"

Stu smiled. "You'll see. Just don't plan on coming back early. If you're lucky, maybe you won't come back at all." Stu winked and moved off. "We eat at six."

Brownie was impressed with himself.

* * * * *

"Hold on for Mister Bartolo," the burly voice commanded.

Dandy Don wiped his greasy hands on his already dirty apron, and waited.

Not interested in small talk, Bartolo came on the line and said, "Yeah."

"I think we got a professor from the college in our pocket, boss."

Bartolo didn't respond right away. "How do you mean, in our pocket?"

Dandy Don continued to drop hamburgers on the broiler tray as he went on about his brilliant manipulations in foiling Phelan's little blackmail problem. "That sissy professor will do anything to keep his episode with those two young sluts a secret," Dandy Don said, and the three thousand smackaroos in his back pocket proved it. Bartolo didn't need to know about that, however.

"I see," said Eddie The Barrel. "That's good news."

Gloating, Dandy Don puffed his chest.

Changing the subject, Bartolo said, "We need to meet. It's time to liquidate the rest of that shipment, but I want to talk about that in person. I don't want any more screw ups."

"Sure boss. When?"

"I'll be in touch," said Eddie. He hung up and immediately dialed Benny V.'s number. He spoke quickly. "Benny... hold off on the job with the cook... There's been a change in plans. I'll be in touch."

Eddie The Barrel thought: this was a problem. The idiot was so proud of the fact that he'd beat up on a couple of teenaged whores that he didn't see the danger. He wondered who else besides the professor knew about Dandy Don's connections. Probably lots of people, he guessed. The fat fuck was right about one thing, though: it was good to have a professor in their pocket, and from the sound of it, he was in there pretty deep. This could be very beneficial for the organization, Bartolo thought. Then, he remembered the discussion with Il padrone on Friday night. This asshole cook may have just found his own replacement.

* * * * *

Lil put on her heavy cardigan sweater and stashed the half pint of Black Velvet in one of the big square pockets. Out of the corner of one red eye, she watched the kid who'd just invaded her turf. "What you doin' in my kitchen?"

Brownie had been warned. Lil could be a surly, especially if she'd been drinking. Lil was surly a lot, he guessed. "Ah, Willy sent me to get a mayonnaise jar."

"Make sure you bring the damn thing back. I'm running out of jars to put the orange juice in."

Brownie said, "Okay," and tried to not irritate her any further. He went over to the storage shelves and noticed there must have been twenty empty plastic mayonnaise jars there. He took one, thinking these guys must drink a shitload of orange juice. Back in the bar, he handed the jar to Willy Lord Buckingham, who yanked the huge tap handle like a gearshift, holding the one-gallon jar at an angle with both hands so he wouldn't get too much foam. "Shut the tap when it gets to the top," he said. When it was full, he screwed the top on and handed the heavy jar to Brownie, proclaiming, "Let's roll, Kemosabe."

Stu rode shotgun and Willy Lord Buckingham got behind the wheel of the Chickmobile, as he called it. Brownie took one look at the shiny, nine-year-old, 1960 Cadillac DeVille Brougham, and immediately understood the name. He stretched out in the cavernous back seat with Badge and another brother they called Hot-Hot.

Up to this point, he'd had no clue as to the proper preparation for the evening, as even the dinner was ceremonial. On Wednesday, dinner was always Lil's Sheppard's Pie, made with plenty of mashed potatoes. The brothers spooned heaping gobs of the glue-like substance onto their plates, drenching the mess in a sticky brown gravy and washing it down with bug juice, which looked suspiciously like cherry Kool-Aid. Dessert was a huge pile of Lil's crusty walnut brownies—appropriately named Lil's depth charges—heavy enough to sink down below the weighty mass of the Shepard's Pie. This was the purposefully prescribed stomach-coating meal, which was supposedly impenetrable to the effects of alcohol. It was all a crock, of course, but it was fun.

As Brownie was told, going North was a trip into the land of the laid, where one merely needed to be able to breathe in order to score. It was a journey to a land of willing goddesses, hungry, sex-craving vixens, the brothers said, who adored the men from Alliance regardless of their status on campus. It was a trip to a land where beer flowed in rivers. It was a trip to Saratoga, to Vandermont College, and there were rules that needed to be followed.

The first rule was in and of itself one of common decency. You had to smell good. Brownie would later find out that some of the brothers of Zeta Chi took ritualized showers in order to maximize the magnetism of late-night musky body odor and Brut. The second rule, he discovered, was that one could not maintain the proper panache if one was not imbued with the proper mentally appropriate attitude. Hence, the need for the mayonnaise jar, which also helped in the event that anyone was short on funds. More proper etiquette, however, dictated the purchase of one's own personal quart of sudsy beverage from DiCerbo's Grocery, which was located across from Teddy K's. Genny Cream Ale was the beverage of choice, and a one-quart bottle proved to be the perfect amount for the twenty-six-mile ride. Old Mister DiCerbo was always on duty, never failing to admonish the young men in his thick Italian accent to be careful. It was considered a blessing, as if the Pope himself had laid it on them. The riders who took dibs on the mayonnaise jar usually imbibed through straws in order to not spill the sloshing contents all over themselves by drinking directly from the wide-mouthed jar. The camaraderie of the event was interesting, to say the least.

During the ride, Brownie told about how he and Badge had been friends since grammar school, and the brothers did the same, to lesser degrees. He and Badge listened to the stories about Stu's dad, and while Stu himself didn't say it, they were told Stu would be swatting homers in the majors soon enough. Brownie immediately focused in on the baseball talk, but the topic was short-lived. Tonight, baseball was not on the agenda.

Stu was smooth, a natural talker who could just as easily talk about the stock market to an influential alum as he could about eating pussy to wide-eyed freshmen—which he did readily—making it sound like every girl at Vandermont was a sex fiend. Babes, he called them repeatedly. As it would turn out, a babe was any girl that could speak English and understand slurred speech, although they definitely became more goddess-like as the evening wore on. Stu's fanciful description of the hordes of perfect women waiting for them made Brownie's anticipation grow with each passing mile as all the while he sucked brew from the mayonnaise jar.

According to Stu, there were a number of bars in Saratoga that catered to the young college deviates from Alliance. The first one he described was D'Antonia's. Nice brass rail, nice etched mirrors behind the bar," Stu said, painting a verbal picture. "You can probably have a good time at D'Antonia's if you enjoy weddings and bar mitzvahs."

"What about the babes?" Brownie questioned, picking up on the lingo.

Stu smiled. "Most of the ones that go to D'Antonia's are pseudointellectual princesses."

"Badge says that girls that wear headbands screw," said Brownie, trying to be funny.

"Lots of girls screw," said Stu, sucking down a gulp of his Genny Cream Ale. "All you gotta do is pick 'em out."

"And how do you do that?" Brownie and Badge asked simultaneously.

"Yeah," Hot-Hot added curiously, "I'd like to hear that too."

Stu continued. "I've got this philosophy. I think you gotta go for the ones who are in rebellion."

"Rebellion against what?" Badge asked, who up to now hadn't said much.

"It doesn't matter," Stu answered. "All I know is that the real make-love-not-war, I'll-hammer-anybody-after-I-get-high kind of chicks will do anything just to piss off anybody in authority. I don't know what they're rebelling against—the war, their parents, rules... Who the hell knows? All I know is that they'll do anything that makes people in authority angry, especially drinking, and smoking... and fucking. If drinking, smoking grass, and fucking were approved behaviors, these girls would probably join a convent. It's almost like the issues themselves aren't important, just the intentions of going against predetermined traditional standards of conduct."

Willy Lord Buckingham looked over from behind the wheel and said, "That was damn eloquent, Night Train."

"So how do you know if they're into this rebellion thing?" Hot-Hot asked.

"I think it's an attitude," Stu went on, "and you have to learn to detect it. The ideal situation is to find a chick who is just a little rebellious. You know, not into communes or anything, but just stylishly hippie."

"Stylishly hippie?"

"Yeah, not so uptight, and willing to step outside the boundaries—but not too far. They'll drink, and smoke, and screw your brains out. Girls like that don't go the D'Antonia's. Girls like that go to The Hub, and that, my young friends, is where we are headed." The big old car cruised along at a comfy fifty, and everyone took the moment to toast their destination.

Having consumed his share of the mayonnaise jar, Brownie was feeling loose by the time they pulled into the parking lot. Badge and Hot-Hot seemed to hit it off, and they stayed behind to finish off what was left in the jar. Having seen it before, and leery that Badge was beginning another of his mind-altering episodes, Brownie decided to go inside without him and use the bathroom. Big mistake. The Hub was skinny and long, and it was packed like a sardine can.

"Where's the bathroom?" he asked the guy with whom he was rubbing elbows. The guy pointed somewhere toward the back, which Brownie couldn't even see. Damn, thought Brownie, and he started his journey, pushing his way through the alternating fragrances of beer breath, cigarettes, and shampoo. The entire way was a gauntlet of sandal-clad Vandermont honeys and testosterone-laden Alliance hyenas, a slalom course of open beer cups over a sticky floor that was trying to pull the shoes right off his feet.

"Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me, coming through," Brownie repeated politely on his trek through the gauntlet, when suddenly, for no reason, some big lunker nailed him square in the face with a huge, gassive, "BBBRRAAUUGGHH." Reeling backward from the almost liquid assault, Brownie smelled a combination of what could have been bad meatloaf mixed with pinto beans and beer. It was bad. He looked up to see some gap-toothed, pizza-faced dickhead grinning at him.

"Good one, eh shorty?" The dickhead laughed boldly and slapped hands with his friends on either side.

Brownie failed to see humor in the moment. He took note of the Greek letters on the dickhead's disgusting windbreaker, along with the name Moose emblazoned underneath it. The letters looked like they were stained with ketchup. He responded with a quick and original, "Fuck you asshole," and proceeded to make his way to the single-hole men's room seemingly a mile away.

Once there, he found four other guys waiting impatiently for their turn in front of the porcelain. Brownie hopped from foot to foot, wondering if bladders could explode. Finally, his turn came for blessed relief. When he was done, he did the usual shake and zip and turned to wash his hands, only to be put off by another jerk in a Sigma Tau Delta jacket who said, "'Bout time. I was about to piss into the sink." These guys were disgusting, he thought. He made a mental note to never touch that sink, and to beware of guys from Sigma Tau Delta.

He hadn't really paid attention to things on the way in to the bathroom, but on the way out he noticed lots of girls hanging around in little groups, as were most of the guys. The groups were checking each other out. He made room for a group of Vandermont girls coming through the crowd, and was quick to observe how a couple of girls' breasts jiggled under their flannel shirts as they walked. This braless thing was great, he thought. Then, spotting Badge up toward the front, he decided to make his way back toward him. The dickhead that had purposely belched all over him was standing in the way, and Brownie tried not to inhale as he walked by. Uugh! He almost gagged. Trying not to look, he felt the dickhead's eyes on him.

"Hey shorty, who the fuck are you to call me an asshole?"

Brownie felt his stomach churning. He turned. "And who the fuck are you, trying to puke in my face like that?" Getting into it with this idiot was the last thing he wanted to do in unknown territory, but he had to make an attempt at standing up for himself. At the very least, he had to let the dickhead know he was a dickhead. If he was lucky, maybe Moose's friends wouldn't kick the shit out of him.

"I think you should apologize," said Moose.

"I'm not apologizing to you for shit." Brownie left the comment there and resumed his walk toward the front. What the hell was the jerk trying to prove, anyway? As he walked past, Brownie felt the dickhead grab his shirt. He lashed out immediately, sending the jerk's arm flying and causing him to spill his beer.

Suddenly, Badge came up and said, "Hey man, where you been? I've been looking all over for you. Have you met Moose? He can say an entire sentence in belch talk. Show 'em, Moose."

This was all rather juvenile, thought Brownie, but he didn't expect any more from Badge these days. He could probably never expect more from Badge, guessing that in about an hour he and Moose would probably be calculating the physics of spit-wad free-fall from the top of the building. Once again, he decided to move away from Badge, confident that the conversation would deteriorate even further, if that were possible. As Brownie walked away he heard Moose say to Badge, "You guys know each other? Your friend needs to learn how to take a joke, man."

"Eat me," Brownie said defiantly, albeit under his breath. He headed for the bar, thinking it was time to chill out and check things out. It struck him then and there—why, he didn't know—that one could decide consciously how he was going to conduct his life, and how he was going to act in certain situations. In a supervised world of parents and teachers, he'd always felt pressure to act in a certain way, to do the things that were acceptable—to others. Here, was a world of no supervision. He could do what he wanted, with whomever he wanted. He could act childishly like Badge and Moose, and perpetuate the infantile proving grounds of pranks and vulgar behavior, or, he could act in a manner important first and foremost to himself.

He paid for his beer, knowing the first one wouldn't last long. He was in that type of mood. As he picked up his cup, he thought about how differently he and Badge had become, and how they were heading into different directions. While he was branching out and moving away from his lifelong friend, Badge was still acting like an adolescent and surely trying to kill himself with alcohol and pot. He didn't want that. He wanted to be more like Stu, more sophisticated somehow, worldly but sincere, not crass and conceited, but down to earth, secure in one's own self-concept and one's own abilities. That's how people should act. Hell, if anyone could be macho and conceited, it was Stu. He was going to be a major league ball player, yet he didn't flaunt his success in search of approval. The approval came naturally, although, Brownie concluded, he was sure Stu had worked very hard to become what he was. He decided to have more conversation with Stu regarding Zeta Chi, as well as the baseball team at Alliance. He speculated that Stu would be as good a person to emulate as anyone he'd met thus far.

He tossed back the rest of his beer and ordered another, visualizing himself standing next to Stu on the baseball diamond, the number 17—his number—contrasting brightly on his back. His beer arrived and Brownie took another gulp as he observed Willy Lord Buckingham about fifteen feet up the bar hugging what could have been the most gorgeous girl in North America. She had a mountain of long, strawberry blond hair that came to the small of her back. It probably smelled like strawberries too, Brownie fantasized, and it seemed to sparkle as if it was dressed with fairy dust. He noted instantly that she had the whitest, straightest teeth he'd ever seen. How did one get to meet such people? He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Nice, ain't she?"

Brownie turned to see Stu grinning at him. "Nice doesn't even begin to describe her. She looks like one of those girls you see in Playboy."

"She is."

"She is... what?" Brownie asked.

"One of the girls you see in Playboy. She was in it."

"As in the magazine? You're kidding me, right?"

"No really. Last year they did a picture thing called Girls From Girls' Schools, or something, and she was one of them."

"Naked?"

"Buck, fucking naked. Stupendous knockers," Stu added, holding his hands in front of his chest to make the point. "You wanna meet her? Her name is Angela."

"You've seen her naked?" Brownie persisted, not yet ready to part with the image.

"Only in the magazine. I don't know about Willy though. He's dated her a couple of times and he might be able to tell you if she's a natural blond." Stu winked and grabbed his arm. "Let's go over. She's a sister at the Lambda sorority and she's rushing some new freshman. This might the first time away from the dorms for some of them. C'mon, you might get lucky."

Lord Willy and Miss Playboy were just stepping away from the bar as Stu and Brownie approached. Stu flashed the peace sign at her.

She smiled back and said, "Peace, brother."

Brownie tried not to gawk at her as she walked by.

"I'd like a piece," Stu joked.

"In your dreams," she snapped, smiling a perfect smile. She looked at Brownie and said, "Neophyte?"

Stu nodded, and Brownie suddenly felt like pond scum.

They followed her to the back of the bar and they stopped at a crowded table. Miss Playboy made a few introductions and sat next to Lord Willy, while Stu slid right in beside her. Brownie took an empty chair, content to observe for the moment, when he heard the voice.

"Brownie? Is that you? I don't believe it!"

Brownie looked across the table through fuzzy eyeballs. Jessica Badger was waving and smiling at him, and he instantly took a dislike to the guy she was sitting with even though he'd never seen the asshole before in his entire life.

CHAPTER 19 Coming Together

"Would you please repeat that last part, Edward?"

"Like I said, this professor told him the campus fuzz is looking to nab one of the runners and then make a deal with him so he'll rat out who's supplying him."

Dal Maso weighed the situation. "It sounds like a lot of people know about our fat friend."

"That's exactly what I thought. I thought maybe we could use the professor instead of the cook, seeing as we got something pretty good on him."

Il padrone nodded. "That's a very interesting thought, Edward. What about the field network?"

"You mean the runners? The cook is their only connection. With him out of the picture we could let them slide and get new ones. Off campus runners would probably be better this time."

"I agree. What's the status on the remaining product?"

"He still has it, but he knows we're going to do something with it. He's expecting me to call him about it."

"How much is left?"

"Should be about fifty pounds. We should be able to get rid of it quickly at one of the other schools. I'd say over at the state campus."

Waving trivially, "That's fine," said Il padrone. "Just get it moved, and get this fat bastard out of our hair. I'd like this taken care of once and for all within the next week or so. Do you understand, Edward? By the way, who's the professor?"

"I... I don't know," Bartolo admitted.

"Well, Edward, I think you should find that out before we go much further, don't you think?" Il padrone was becoming more and more disappointed with Edward's inability to handle all the details of his operation. He had several smarter and more talented lieutenants in his army.

* * * * *

Herzog entered quietly, and put the passkey back in his pocket. The office looked different at night, smaller and more cluttered. He held close to the door for a minute to get the lay of the land. There were stacks of paper all over the place: on every desk, on every file cabinet, in every tray, bundled, jacketed, foldered, labeled, but he didn't let that intimidate him. He knew there had to be a system of some sort. As he'd predicted, any attempt at security was a joke. The file cabinets were locked, but the staff members kept the keys in their desk drawers, which weren't locked. A monkey could have figured it out. He didn't know where the class rosters were kept, but it only took a few minutes to figure it out.

There was a box labeled To Be Filed on top of each file cabinet. If a roster had been taken out earlier in the day, it was a good bet it would still be in one of those filing boxes. His eyes gleamed as he found the two rosters, one on top of the other. Both had Office of the Registrar written across the top, along with the name Bernard Phelan written in the space labeled Professor. At the bottom of each roster was the name Nathaniel R. Hinshaw.

* * * * *

"How long did you stay with him?" Gravachevsky looked at the clock radio, noting that it was almost two in the morning.

"I picked him up at the frat house just after dinner, then I followed him to some dump at 226 Howser Street. Around eight, I tailed him to the strip joint. He was inside for at least three hours and looked pretty shitfaced when he came out. He went directly back to the dump, so I guess he lives there. He didn't hang with anybody all night."

"Check the criss-cross directory. With any luck we'll get a name besides Dandy Don."

"Will do."

"Did you go into the joint with him?"

"No. I didn't want to take the chance. If I play my cards right, he's gonna see my face around the fraternity house this weekend and there was no sense in being too visible."

Gravachevsky yawned into the phone. "Good thinking. By the way, there's a rule against drinking while you're on duty."

"Hey, Gravachevsky, look into the phone. Can you see what I'm doing now?"

"Same to you."

Nat chuckled as he turned off the light and hit the pillow.

Outside, Herzog nodded thoughtfully to himself as the light went out. His hunch had been right. It was no coincidence when the yellow VW squareback had pulled up and parked up the street from the Bonneville on Brandywine Avenue. He noticed the Mets hat when he took a stroll past the VW, but it was too dark to get a good look at the guy behind the wheel without being obvious. That's okay, he said to himself; he had time. He fingered the scrap of paper with the plate number from the VW. In the morning he'd call his old friend Samuelson and have him run it. Chances are it was registered to the Schenectady PD.

* * * * *

Angela held up her hand, stopping him from making excuses for his frat brother. "Hey, I'm not that broken up by it, okay? If all he wants is to get into my pants, he can just forget it."

"I can't believe Willy would be that big of a butthead," said Stu. "Did he actually say that?"

"Not in those words, but I can tell that's all he's after. Well, not this girl, not like that anyway." She'd had enough of talking about Willy and changed the subject. "Did you have a good time on Wednesday night?" She smiled. Stu was nice, and he had nice eyes, eyes that stayed focused on hers when they talked instead of focusing somewhere else.

"It was decent. How about you?"

"It was decent," she mimicked, "but I was on a mother mission. You know, had to keep an eye on the freshmen. One of them knew your neophyte friend."

"That was Brownie. He must've asked a million questions about you."

"What about me?"

"You know... the Playboy thing. I told him about it."

Blushing, Angela said, "That again. I should never have done that. I thought it would be kind of fun, but now all I'm known for is: Angela, the girl from Vandermont who showed her bazongas in Playboy."

Stu touched her arm. "I think you should be proud. Like, how many girls are pretty enough to get into that magazine?"

Pretty? Not many guys called her pretty. Pretty was a nice word.

"Thirty or forty years from now you'll be showing it to your grandkids and saying, 'See what grandma looked like when she wasn't all saggy and droopy.'"

Angela slapped his arm. "Can we talk about something else besides my potential problem with sagging—which is never, ever, going to happen, by the way."

"You brought it up. I was just continuing the flow of the conversation."

"Right. Let's talk about you."

"What about me?"

"Willy told me you're going to be a professional baseball player."

"I've got a shot, but I need to have a good season this year."

"So have a good season."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. You can do anything if you want it bad enough."

"I'll remember that when finals time comes around. I'm more worried about maintaining my GPA than having a good season."

"Why's that?"

"I have to maintain a 2.0 in order to play this spring, and I've got one Econ course that's going to be a real ball-buster."

"A 2.0 isn't that difficult, is it?" The look on his face said otherwise. Okay, so he wasn't a genius. "Listen, I was thinking about how I'm going to get back to Vandermont tonight. I was figuring Willy would give me a ride back, but now that's not going happen and it's already two in the morning."

"So why don't you stay here and catch a ride in the morning? You can take my room. I'll find another rack."

"Are you sure?"

"It's no problem. How about breakfast?"

"I'll be up early."

"That's okay. We'll do Sunday breakfast at the Crosstown. Deal?"

Thankful that Stu was being so nice, Angela said, "Deal." She wondered if he was being nice because he wanted to get into her pants too. He was, of course, and she knew that, but he was smoother about it. Too bad he wasn't getting into them tonight either.

CHAPTER 20 Clouds

"Chug... it!... Chug... it!... Chug... it!"

"You know the rules," one of the brothers yelled. "If you snooze, you lose." They were playing Buzz, and Badge was turning out to be the big loser—or the big winner, depending on how one looked at it. The object of the game, after all, was to get uproariously, stinking drunk.

The chant continued. "Chug... it!... Chug... it! " Badge's head dangled from the end of his neck. Slowly, he reached for the saltshaker and another wedge of lemon.

Brownie grabbed his arm. "No Badge. People can die drinking like this."

Badge shoved his hand away and leaned over, barely finding the shot glass. He tipped it into his mouth, hardly lifting it off the bar as if it weighed a ton. The crowd cheered, and Badge fell off his stool onto the filthy floor of the fraternity house bar.

"Bathroom... hurry," Badge gasped as Brownie tried to help him up.

Brownie dragged him to the nearest exit, just making it to the grass before Badge became violently ill. Almost losing it himself, he grabbed Badge's feet and hauled him away from the puddle of filth he'd just made. His first thought was to leave him there—the dumb fuck. He leaned over and tried to get him to a seated position, thinking of the similar situation at Woodstock, but it was useless. Badge was out cold.

Noticing that Badge's wallet had fallen out onto the grass, Brownie picked it up, stuffed it into his back pocket, and thought about what to do next. He could go back inside and look for help, but that wouldn't be easy to find. He'd tagged along when Moose—Badge's new soul buddy—invited them to come over after the football game "and get shitfaced," but he really didn't know anyone there, nor did he want to. These Sigma Tau Delta guys were animals. Then, he remembered having seen Nat hanging around inside. Nat had a car, and seemed like the kind of guy who would help.

He walked to the back of the house and checked out the cars parked there. There it was: a yellow VW squareback. He wandered about searching for Nat, detecting the sharp odor of marijuana that had been in and out of the air all night. This time, it was coming from the other side of a closed door that didn't do much to conceal what was going on behind it. He knocked, hoping someone inside could hear it above the loud music. The door cracked opened, and a surge of smoke smacked him in the face.

Red-eyed and stoned out of her skull, the girl who opened the door said, "Yeah?"

"I'm looking for a guy named Nat. Is he in there?"

She turned back. "Anyone in here named Nat?"

"I'm Nat," a voice called. The crack widened. "Brownie?"

From inside, someone yelled, "Hey, close the door! In or out, man."

Nat said, "Come on in," and he pulled Brownie into the room.

Brownie looked around, thinking Nat really looked out of place. There were perhaps a dozen people inside, all of them freaky looking, sitting around some bearded guy who was on the floor packing a water pipe. The bearded guy was no college kid.

"Brownie, what's up?" Nat repeated.

"My friend Badge is really messed up. I saw your car and was hoping maybe you could help me get him back to the dorm."

"Where is he?"

"This way." Leading the way, Brownie vowed to himself he'd never do this again. As soon they reached the scene, Nat rolled Badge onto his back and shoved two fingers deep into his mouth.

"What are you doing?" Brownie asked. Nat looked a little panicked.

"Just checking to make sure his breathing passage is clear. In cases like this, a guy could suffocate on his own tongue or drown on his own vomit." Nat lifted Badge's eyelids. "Jesus, how much did he have to drink?"

"A ton. Is he okay?"

"He might be going into a coma. I think it would be best to take him to the emergency room—just in case. I'll get the car."

"Goddamn it," Brownie cursed, wondering how Nat knew all this stuff. Thank God he did.

Three fraternity brothers came out as Nat pulled up. One of them was Moose.

"I told you he couldn't take it," Moose hollered.

"Why don't you go fuck yourself?" Brownie shot back.

"That's the second time this week you've cursed me out, you little shit. I think maybe you should apologize."

Again with the apology. "And I think maybe you should kiss my ass," Brownie shot back.

Moose lunged without warning, wrestling Brownie to the ground easily. Nat jumped from the car and went to separate them, only to find his arms held back by the other two brothers.

"It's their fight, man," one of them said.

Moose pounded Brownie's stomach, and followed up with a punch to his head. Brownie kicked and clawed, finally grabbing Moose's hair and yanking with all his might. Moose screamed in pain.

Nat ripped free and drove a fist into one of the brothers holding his arms. Sprinting, he drove a shoulder into Moose and sprang to his feet.

Brownie jumped up quickly. "Nat, it's okay, man. This is my fight."

Nat held up his hand as if he were stopping traffic. "This won't take long."

Taking a clumsy stance, Moose said, "So you wanna box, eh? C'mon, Mohammed Ali, let's see what you got." Hands up, he plodded forward while Nat circled to the left. He launched a left and Nat deflected it easily. He hurled another left and Nat dodged it, stepping quickly to his right. Moose repositioned himself, clenching and unclenching his fists.

Brownie dragged Badge toward the car as the other two brothers yelled for Moose to kick some ass.

Moose fired off a jab that only made it halfway to Nat's head, then heaved a right with all his might. Again, Nat detected the setup and let the fist whistle by an inch from his chin. Moose stumbled as his upper torso followed the momentum of the punch, and Nat pushed him aside easily. Moose fell like a safe. Enraged, no longer boxing but brawling, he got up and charged. Again Nat evaded him, tangling his feet and spilling him into the grass for the second time.

Suddenly, blue and red police lights came on from across the street, piercing the darkness.

"Shit!" said Nat.

"What the hell is going on here?" Chief Herzog asked a minute later, having watched the whole thing from across the street.

Brownie said, "I think my friend needs to get to a hospital."

"Then get him out of here," Herzog ordered.

They loaded Badge into the car and Nat took off.

"You boys got any IDs?" Herzog asked.

One by one, they all pulled wallets and showed student IDs. Brownie felt something trickling down the side of his face and his hand came away bloody. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his handkerchief and spilled Badge's wallet onto the grass.

"What's that?" Herzog asked, spotting the second wallet.

"That's my friend's wallet," Brownie said. "The guy Nat just took to the hospital."

"Did you say Nat?"

Brownie nodded.

"Nat what?"

"Hinshaw, I think."

A tight-lipped smile worked its way across Herzog's face. "Let me see it," he said, indicating the wallet. Taking it, he noticed it wasn't a wallet at all, but a pouch, like one used to hold pipe tobacco. Folding back the leather flap and opening it, he spied two packs of Zig-Zag papers and a little baggie inside. Herzog knew instantly what it was. It wasn't much, perhaps half an ounce, but grass was grass and it was illegal. "I think you'd better come with me," he said to Brownie, pointing toward the flashing campus police car.

* * * * *

Jessica watched as Humphrey Bogart lit a cigarette, but she really wasn't interested in the movie. Her thoughts drifted back to Wednesday night at The Hub, remembering Brownie's shy smile and tentative wave when she called to him from across the table. The guy next to her was firing lines, and she would have dumped him in a heartbeat had Brownie come over, but he was engrossed in conversation with one of Angela's upperclassman friends. Finally, she went over.

"Hi," she said, putting on a smile.

He said, "Hi," back, and sat there with his mouth open.

"Small world," she said. It was clear who was going to lead this conversation.

"Sure is. Uh, let me introduce you to Stu." Brownie turned, but Stu was already gone.

"Would you rather talk to him, or me?" She warmed up her smile.

"I'd much rather talk to you."

"Right answer." He smiled back. She took his hand. "How was your summer?"

He got the hint. "It would have been better if I'd called you."

"Why didn't you?"

He shrugged. "Nerves, I guess."

"There's nothing to be nervous about, Brownie. I know who you are, and I know what you're like."

"So you're not mad?"

"Of course I'm mad, but I'm a forgiving kind of person. Would you like to go outside for some air so I can forgive you?"

"What about your friend?"

She glanced across the table. "He'll have to find someone else to use his lines on."

They went outside. They talked, they kissed once, and they talked some more. He was definitely excited to see her, but he seemed intent on being the perfect gentleman. She remembered being a little confused about whether she liked that part of his personality, or not, that confusion still with her. This was the second time she'd been suggestive with him, and still she could see him holding back. Most guys would have been all over her. Then she thought: maybe he's moving slowly on purpose; maybe he's the one reeling me in and I don't even realize it. If so, it was working.

"How's Mark doing?" she'd asked when she found out he was supposedly there Wednesday night. Mark looked messy and unkept, and he hardly said two words to her when they finally saw each. They'd been like brother and sister their whole lives and all she got was a "Hi Jesse, how's it going?" and, "Be right back", but he never came back. He just stayed up at the bar drinking with his loudmouth friend. Brownie said that Mark was doing fine; he was just making friends and into having a good time, that's all. She asked if that was all Mark was into, and she remembered how Brownie didn't answer directly. He didn't want to talk about someone else, he said. It just wouldn't be right.

* * * * *

Gravachevsky needed the late-night jog to align the details in his head. The connections between Kelso's grisly death, the olive container, and the school's plan to catch student drug traffickers all revolved around Dandy Don like so many clouds in the sky. They were there, but there was nothing solid.

As he ran, he tried to remember the exact wording in the report about the olive container. It was traced to four possible importers, all in New York City, all of whom dealt in large quantities of cheeses, cold cuts, olive oil, and other specialty imports. Olives were among the products, mostly from Italy, and were bought in huge tractor-trailer-sized loads. They were then sold by the barrel to a number of food wholesalers throughout the northeast and as far west as Chicago. The wholesalers in turn supplied to their own networks of Italian grocery stores, sandwich shops, and restaurants, but only large volume stores like the ones in Little Italy could deal with entire barrels of green olives. The smaller shops bought the product by the case, packed with four one-gallon-sized glass jars. There were a good number of Italian stores and sandwich places in the tri-city area, but Gravachevsky discovered that only three of them bought green olives by the barrel rather than by the case. One of them was the Napoli Importing Company on Lark Street, and it was owned by the Sunset Holding Company. The other places were owned by individual small businessmen who were trying to hack out a living. It sure would be interesting to find out why a holding company owned an Italian food store. It would also be interesting to see what else this holding company had in its portfolio. Gravachevsky bet himself a buck he could name a couple of its customers.

CHAPTER 21 Getting Deeper and Deeper

He'd only seen it the one time, but he'd never forget the place. Driving up Central Avenue, he looked for the auto parts store and touched the bruises on his face, testing a particularly tender spot that didn't seem to be healing properly. It was a hot night for the last week of September, and he felt his shirt sticking to the vinyl seat of the Bonneville. Pulling in around back as he was told, he took a moment to run a comb through his sweaty hair and splash on some Aqua Velva from a bottle he kept in the glove compartment. He wanted to look his best for this. Hitching up his huge pants and tucking in his damp shirt, Dandy Don waddled up to dark metal door in back and rang the doorbell.

Benny V. opened the door and got a look at his next assignment. He sneered and said, "This way fatso."

Dandy Don followed him into the same office where the same three thugs who'd beaten the crap out of him three weeks earlier were slouching around, giving him about as much regard as they would road kill. It looked like they were waiting, so he took a seat and decided to wait with them. There was no small talk.

Eddie The Barrel came up from behind. "You've caused us some problems," he began. "This episode with the professor is most distressing."

"Is that right?" Dandy Don fired back, his demeanor self-assured. "Seems to me I saved your bacon. If this professor had gone ahead and set us up, we'd be up shit's creek, wouldn't we? Now, with my help, he's out of the picture, and the campus dicks can go fuck themselves. My guess is that a lot of other people might be in on this. We should move the product and set up new operations. Start fresh."

"Is that right?" Bartolo mimicked, fuming at Dandy Don's arrogance. "What makes you think someone else isn't trying to set us up?"

"Listen asshole, isn't that what I just said?"

Benny V. stepped up and held a pistol to the back of Dandy Don's head. All he needed was a nod.

Dandy Don felt the gun barrel grinding against the back of his skull, but he knew he'd already be dead if his number was up. A voice came from another part of the office.

"No, not now Benny." Pietro Dal Maso followed the sound of his voice into the center of the room. "You are correct my fat friend. Where is the remaining product?"

"I have it."

"Where?"

"Let's just leave it at that."

"We know where you live."

"I'm not that fuckin' stupid."

Dal Maso looked at Bartolo, who shrugged, indicating he knew nothing of the product being moved.

"Where did you move it to?"

Dandy Don felt the .22 pushing harder into his skull. "Yeah, right. If I tell you that, I figure I'll end up in the river and our professor friend becomes part of this friendly little group. Now, you guys be sure to let me know if I'm wrong, okay?" Silence. Dandy Don decided to play his trump card. "Problem is, you don't know who he is, and you ain't gonna know. Without me you got no setup, no dope, no professor, no nothin', and you're out forty grand."

Dal Maso motioned for Benny to back away. "We'll be in touch, Mister Dandy Don."

Dandy Don got up and wiped the sweat from his face. Glaring at Bartolo, he strutted through the same metal door he'd used a few minutes earlier.

Il padrone issued his orders with no explanation of the consequences if they weren't carried out to the letter. "Put Benny and Doyle on him twenty-four hours a day if you have to. We need to know where he stashed the product, and we need to know who this professor is. Got it?"

Eddie The Barrel didn't dare debate the wisdom of having two hoods hang around on campus, knowing they'd blend in like shit in milk. "Got it," he said, and stormed out, unable to figure out how he'd gotten himself into this fucking mess.

* * * * *

Herzog wrote down the name of the auto parts store as he watched the Bonneville pull out and fly down Central Avenue. A moment later, the yellow VW squareback fired up from across the street, spewing exhaust in hot pursuit.

"Tri-City Auto Parts," Herzog said aloud, knowing he'd never catch up.

* * * * *

"Sunset Holding Company," McQuade said, scratching his chin and stirring his Thursday morning coffee. "Holding companies hold stock in other companies, right? They really don't make anything, do they?"

Gravachevsky said, "That's right."

"And who owns Sunset Holding Company?"

"Another corporation named Capital Properties, Inc."

"And who owns that?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet," Gravachevsky replied, "but I'd bet my mother's eyeballs we won't find any names listed."

* * * * *

As she'd already done three times before, Maxine worked the sparse crowd. Her mind was on Amanda again, but she managed a smile when one of the college kids wiggled his tongue at her while his friends whooped and hollered. Damn college kids. They never had any money. They'd been coming in for the last two weeks, sitting in the back and nursing their beers. Normally she would have moved off, but she needed every tip she could get. Jennifer had said Amanda's fever was high again, and Mrs. Lasky said she hoped it wasn't rheumatic fever. Seeing the guy in the suit come up from the back table, Maxine went up and smiled widely, letting him linger. It was good for two bucks, plus an invitation to sit down with him after the set. He looked harmless enough. She ran from the stage when the set ended and shoved a dime into the pay phone backstage as she slipped on her robe. She counted the money from her garter as she waited for the call to go through: eight lousy bucks. Between the doctor visits and the prescriptions, it had already cost a couple of hundred this week alone, which was about all she'd made. Damned doctors made a fortune, she thought. Jennifer's voice came on the line.

"How's Amanda, baby?"

"About the same, Mom. Mrs. Lasky thinks she may have to go to the doctor again. She says the fever has gone on too long."

"We'll take her first thing in the morning. Tell Mrs. Lasky she's a dream. You okay?"

"I just wish you were here. Amanda doesn't cry so much when you're here."

"Tomorrow is Sunday, sweetheart. I'll be there all day and all night. I gotta get back now. You be a big girl and help Mrs. Lasky, okay? I love you."

"I love you too Mom."

Tightening the robe, Maxine walked into the dressing room, obviously interrupting something as one of the other dancers spat into a paper towel. Maxine watched as the man calmly wiped himself off and displayed his pride and joy.

"You want some baby?" he asked arrogantly as it flopped around like a trout. He grinned as he pulled up his pants and handed the girl a stack of bills before swaggering out of the room.

"Sorry hon," the other dancer said. "The play room was occupied. That guy was hung like a racehorse." She held up the bills for Maxine to see, then nonchalantly folded them into her purse. Her hand came out with a joint. She lit it and offered some to Maxine as she looked back into the mirror and fixed her smeared makeup.

Maxine took a long hard hit. She needed it right now. Passing the joint back, she wondered if she'd ever have to do what the other girl had just done. She vowed once she'd never do that, but she wasn't about to let Jennifer and Amanda suffer. There had to be a way to make more money. There just had to be. Maxine combed her hair and smoothed her lipstick, remembering there was a customer waiting for her out front.

* * * * *

"I'm sorry, but I haven't been able to uncover a thing," Phelan answered. "I've been keeping my ear low to the ground, but I haven't had any luck."

"Not surprising," Herzog replied. "You're really not trained for this kind of work."

Herzog's patronizing attitude was more than annoying. If only he knew the truth, Phelan thought to himself.

Prescott made the final suggestion of the meeting. "Let's continue our plan. We're only through the second week of classes; let's meet again in a couple of weeks. If we don't have anything by then, we'll reevaluate."

Boastfully, Herzog said, "We'll have something by then. The Polack cop has a good man on it."

Curious as to what the others knew that he didn't, "What Polack cop?" Phelan asked.

Herzog said, "I'll in touch. Be sure to call me if you come across anything, and don't try to do anything yourself. That's what I'm here for."

Phelan didn't press further. Stopping by his office to pick up some work before going home for the weekend, he couldn't help but spot the pink message slip sitting smack in the middle of his desk: Professor, man called. Didn't leave name. Said for you to call 843-2599 ASAP. Said you'd know who it was.

* * * * *

Brownie counted his coins and pulled the phone number he'd been carrying for the last week and a half out of his wallet. He couldn't get her out of his head. He thought about her in class, in the shower, everywhere he went, remembering how she'd pressed up against him outside The Hub.

"It's cold," she'd said as she curled herself around his arm and came close.

Brownie had the feeling he was being played like a fiddle, but he liked it. He remembered the way she looked. Her hair was soft and curled, and it smelled great, just as it had at the Showboat. He pictured the tight corduroy pants, recalling how flat her belly looked under the rise of those pants, and how her blue turtleneck was tucked neatly around her tiny waist. He remembered how he couldn't keep his eyes off that blue turtleneck.

He fed the pay phone and dialed, figuring it would take a while for someone to answer. Finally, someone picked up and a sleepy female voice issued a grumpy, "Hello."

"Can I talk to Jessica Badger please?" He could feel his pulse thumping.

"Geez, little miss popular tonight. Hold on a minute."

He wondered who else had called her. The last thing he wanted was a competition. He'd seen guys trying to out-cool each other before, and it was ugly. Maybe he needed to get moving. Jessica's voice came on.

"Hello."

"Hi. Jessica? This is Brownie, Wallace Brown?"

"Yes Brownie."

She sounded wide-awake, and he couldn't tell if she was happy to hear from him, or not. "I'm sorry if I called too late, but I thought you might have gone out, it being Saturday night and all."

"Actually, I was out."

"At The Hub?" he asked a little too strongly. It was probably none of his business.

"Actually, yes."

His hopes sank. "Oh. Well, I'm sorry if I called you too late."

"You already said that."

"Right. Well, uh, the reason I called is, uh, well, Homecoming weekend is coming up soon, and I was wondering if you'd like to come down for the weekend."

"Gee, Brownie, I'm sorry but I've already been invited."

"Really? With the same guy you were with last week?" He felt embarrassed.

"No, it's with someone else."

She sounded upset, and he wondered if he'd pissed her off. "Well, okay," he went on, stumped for words. "Sorry I bothered you. I guess I'll just see you around then."

"Wait... Brownie?" she said quickly.

"Yes?" he answered hopefully.

"What's going on with Mark?" she asked. "He was acting really weird last week."

"Mark and I haven't spoken in a while." He heard the edge in his own voice. Badge was the last thing he wanted to talk about with her.

"Really? Why?"

"I'm in a lot of trouble because of him." He wanted to take the words back immediately, but it was too late.

"What kind of trouble?"

"I'm on disciplinary probation, is what. If I get into any trouble on campus again, I'll be thrown out of school."

"You can't be serious!"

"Serious as a heart attack."

"What happened?"

He'd barely begun the story about the Sigma Tau incident when the operator came on asking for another sixty cents for three more minutes. "Hold on," he said, reaching into his pocket. "Listen, I'm afraid I gotta go. I don't have any more change for the phone. I'll have to tell you about it the next time I...." He heard the click, and then the dial tone as the line went dead.

CHAPTER 22 Playing For Keeps

Phelan sat at his desk, watching dust particles trapped in a sunbeam. He thought of how small those particles were, yet they contained still smaller atoms, each comprised of a nucleus and orbiting electrons like so many planets around a sun. He imagined each of those atoms to be solar systems, the electrons little worlds onto themselves, and his own existence suddenly seemed insignificant. Funny how everything was so important and yet so meaningless at the same time. He fingered the pink message note he'd found on his desk. 843-2599: note was correct. He did indeed know the number.

He refocused on the lesson planners on his desk. The work assignments were starting to get heavy. Some of the students would take it as a challenge; most would barely keep their heads above water. Reynolds and Mosbacher wouldn't fare well. After so many classes and so many students, he could even predict the grades. The A-students were only too eager to ask questions, like Sturdayvant and Grimes. Others were quiet, like the late student, Hinshaw. He sure did ask a lot of questions after class though. Funny.

He picked up the message note, knowing he had no choice but to call. If he ignored it, there would only be another message, and another one after that, and he couldn't take the chance that something would disrupt the tranquility he'd finally achieved at home. Something had changed. Deborah actually seemed happy the last couple of weeks, and as far as he knew, she hadn't had a drink in several days. It seemed like he finally had control of things—at least temporarily. He dialed the number.

"Hello."

"This is Professor Phelan."

"Hi there, Romeo," said Dandy Don. "Glad you called. How's the little missus?"

"Just get to the point."

"I got a little business proposition for you."

* * * * *

"Something strange is happening." Nat sat on the edge of the McQuade's desk, emphasizing the point with his hands. Gravachevsky was on the other side with his feet up, looking bored.

"Let's hear it," McQuade said, scowling at Gravachevsky's feet and Hinshaw's ass on his desk.

"I noticed it Friday a couple of times, but I didn't give it much thought. I came back here to catch up on some reports, then went back to the campus around 5:30 or so. I figured I'd tail the cook when he left work, so I parked myself on Van Dyke across the street from the frat house. That's when I saw the black Ford LTD again. It was the same one I'd seen earlier in the day. I remember because it was shiny, like it had a spit shine on it or something, but again, I didn't give it much thought. Then I spotted it again on Monday—twice—once on campus, and then later parked on Van Dyke. It still didn't register. What finally rang my bell was Monday night. I'm parked on Howser and the lights are off inside the cook's house, but it's still pretty early, around nine, I'd guess. I didn't see him come out, so I decide to take a stroll and check for the Bonneville. I'm walking up Howser, and there comes the LTD creeping along. It stops in front of the house for a minute, then creeps off again, makes another round, and parks. I watch it; it watches the house. At about ten o'clock, it pulls out, creeps down the street again, makes another round, and takes off."

"Any chance this is some student's car, or maybe the administration?" McQuade asked.

"This is no student's car. I ran the plate." Nat handed the piece of paper to McQuade.

"It's a company car?"

"Yeah. Registered to Seabird Trucking, Inc."

"So?"

"So, Seabird Trucking is owned by Sunset Holding Company."

Suddenly alert, Gravachevsky took his shoes off the edge of the desk and sat up.

McQuade reacted instantly as well. "Okay, clear your caseloads. Let's find out who's inside the LTD, and let's get to the bottom of Sunset Holding and Capital Properties. Both of you stay on this cook day and night. Split your shifts if you have to."

"I got four days off starting the first of the month," Nat said.

"You got any plans?"

"No."

"Cancel it. Take it later."

"I canceled the last one."

"Tough shit. You're young."

Gravachevsky smiled, knowing later would never come.

* * * * *

Brownie was beginning to love Wednesdays. It was almost like having a weekend in the middle of the week. He flipped the switch and his new Advent speakers came to life, bouncing Santana off the walls of his room. You got to change your evil ways... baby.... For an instant he was back in the water with Penny. He wondered where she might be. There were no feelings inside him for her, or about her. It was just something that happened.

Examining the two pieces of mail he'd received, he suddenly felt panic set in. One of them was from home. His immediate thought was that the college had notified his parents of the disciplinary probation. He ripped it open, relieved to find a check for his October spending money, and a note from his folks saying that they missed him. So far, so good. He knew it would be worse if they found out from someone else, but it would be bad either way. They might not even let him play ball because of it, and all because he tried to be a Good Samaritan. It wasn't fucking fair, he thought bitterly.

The second letter was from the college. He'd been assigned a faculty advisor in his major field of study—a professor named Bernard Phelan. He pulled out his calendar, noting the appointment which was set for the following Wednesday, October 8th, at 4:00 p.m., and thought about whether a faculty advisor could help him get off disciplinary probation.

* * * * *

Deborah looked at him over the edge of her glass again. He could tell something was weighing on her mind, but he didn't ask as his apprehension over his meeting with Dandy Don after dinner was governing every thought in his head. He speculated about the business proposition, and what the fat cook could possibly want.

She asked, "Is everything all right, darling? You seem terribly preoccupied."

"Just thinking about work," Phelan said. He pushed the food around on his plate, reflecting once again on how different she was without the alcohol.

Unexpectedly, she asked, "What do you know about getting girls pregnant?"

Phelan felt his stomach seize. The little sluts had betrayed him after all! He braced himself for the inevitable onslaught. "What do you mean?" he asked, his hand shaking so hard that the fork rattled against his plate.

"You must know something about it... because you did it."

Odd. He would have expected her to erupt like a volcano, possibly even throw something, not speak calmly with that smirky half smile on her face. Beads of sweat formed on his head like tiny water balloons. "How did you find out?"

"Like anyone finds out, silly. I went to the doctor."

It took a few seconds before he realized they were on different frequencies. Was she saying she was pregnant?

"Are you all right darling? You look like you're going to be sick."

"No, I'm fine. It's just that, well, I thought you were going to say something else and wasn't prepared for this. I... I don't know what to say."

"How about something like, 'I'm so happy that after all these years I'm finally going to be a father, and I love you very much.'" She came over and pulled him out of his chair, burying her face in his chest. "I'm sorry sweetheart. I'm sorry for all the years of drinking and meanness. We finally have something meaningful in our lives." She pulled back. "You're trembling... and your hands are freezing. Are you sure you're alright?"

Phelan stared blankly into the opposing wall. "How long has it been?"

"Almost three months, can you believe it? I just thought it was my irregular period again. Are you happy?" she asked tenderly.

"I'm very happy, darling. My thoughts are so jumbled I don't even know what to say. I'll never get through my meeting tonight." He gave her a half-hearted peck on the lips.

"Why don't you go upstairs and collect yourself, darling. We'll talk later when you get back." She kissed him as tears of joy welled in her eyes. "What did you think I was going to say?" she asked as she started clearing the dishes.

* * * * *

The horn from the car behind him shook him from his thoughts, and Phelan noticed that the light had turned green. The horn blasted again as the car pulled out and raced around his Peugeot. Damn it, he thought, all the houses looked the same. Cement steps came out like exposed teeth, and cars stood like silent sentries in narrow driveways beside each house. Tall ragged hedges split the properties, making personal enclaves inside the neighborhood. He looked for a street sign, but many of them were missing. He decided to go around and try again. Howser Street was off Lincoln, wasn't it? A cat squirted from between some garbage cans.

Phelan looked at the clock. It was almost nine. He'd told Deborah he'd be home by then, and he thought about turning around. Could he risk it? He didn't need the cook's services anymore, did he? Stallings would insure that his grandchild be provided for, and it was simply a matter of time before the words trust fund became part of the household vocabulary. Contentment was within reach. Phelan thought of how he would raise a child with that kind of money, concluding that it wouldn't be the way that bastard Stallings had raised Deborah.

* * * * *

Nat tapped the side of the car with his foot and handed Gravachevsky a cup of coffee. Pulling the collar tighter on his camouflage jacket, he said, "Hell of a cold front coming in. It's freezing out there. Still quiet?"

"Real quiet. Only seen a couple of dog-walkers in the last hour. Listen, I'll take the rest of the shift," Gravachevsky offered. "There's no sense in both of us sitting here all night." He adjusted the .38-caliber lump under his armpit and pulled the zipper up on his bomber jacket.

"That's okay," Nat said, looking at his watch. "I've got nothing planned." A mangy looking dog paused on the sidewalk, its breath coming in short bursts. Nat pointed at the mutt. "I think we've been made."

Gravachevsky chuckled. "He's probably thinking: 'What are these two idiots up to?'" Almost contemptuously, the dog lifted its leg and squirted on a huge maple tree at the edge of the sidewalk. It turned and pranced off, suddenly caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. The headlights followed the dog briefly and went dark, but the car didn't park. It came toward them, rolling slowly past 226 Howser, streetlights reflecting off its shiny finish.

"It's the damn car from the campus!" Nat exclaimed as the car came closer. "The LTD! Get down!" He pulled Gravachevsky down into the seat as the black Ford inched past them not fifteen feet away. Down the street, it made a right onto Corona Avenue. "I'm gonna follow it," Nat said.

Gravachevsky didn't have time to respond. Nat opened his door and backed himself onto the sidewalk. Hunching low for a moment, he sprinted off toward Corona Avenue, his white Adidas sneakers disappearing into the darkness. Moving quickly, he crossed to the far side of Corona, careful to occasionally pause behind the oaks and elms at the edges of the sidewalk. When he didn't see the car, he turned and ran back to the brown police Chevy. Gravachevsky was nowhere to be seen. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Easy," Gravachevsky said. "Where'd it go?"

"Don't know. Maybe it's coming back around for another pass."

"You stay here. I'm gonna park myself on the other side of the house." Gravachevsky turned and jogged down the street, his crepe-soled shoes silent on the concrete sidewalk. He watched as Nat positioned himself behind a big maple. Looking up the street past Nat, Gravachevsky swore he spotted someone's head inside one of the cars, but he didn't see it when he looked a second time. He waited. Three cars passed during the next fifteen minutes, none of them the black LTD.

Another set of headlights appeared, these dull and yellow, and one of them was out of line. The high beams clicked on, then off, then on again. Gravachevsky recognized the model. It was one of those foreign jobs, French—a Peugeot. He puzzled briefly as to why anyone would buy one of the ugly things. It edged past him toward Nat, but never made it that far, pulling into the driveway at 226 Howser.

Gravachevsky was across the street, three houses down in front of number 219. He watched as the driver got out and a light came on in the entry vestibule of 226 Howser. The fat cook appeared in the doorway, and the two men went inside.

* * * * *

Dandy Don cleared a spot on the filthy sofa. "Have a seat, teach."

"Why don't you just get to the point?" Phelan said, not sitting. The house was warm, and the smell of dinner hung in the air, mixing with the acrid odor already present.

"Now there's no need to be snippy, is there? You came to me with a business deal, and now I'm coming to you. It's the American way: you scratch my back, I scratch yours."

"Just tell my why I'm here," Phelan snapped. His shoes stuck to something on the linoleum.

"Okay then, Mister Professor. I need to have something shipped."

"Call UPS," Phelan said smugly.

Dandy Don picked his teeth with a matchbook cover and put a key down on the coffee table. "Here's all you have to do."

Phelan picked up the key a minute later and said, "Let me get this straight. All I have to do is go to this storage place, put the bundles in my car, and deliver them to another storage place—no questions asked?"

Dandy Don nodded. "That's it, anytime you want, day or night. Just so it gets there by Monday."

"Then we're even?"

"Even," Dandy Don lied. The stupid professor would owe him for a long time.

"Why don't you do it yourself if it's that simple?"

"Let's just say I have people who know where I am at all times. I don't want them to know the location of this shipment."

"Shipment? What kind of shipment?" Phelan asked.

Dandy Don didn't answer.

* * * * *

Inside the LTD, Benny V. took a pull on the ginger brandy and offered the bottle to his passenger. "You want some?"

"Thanks," said Tommy Doyle. He took long pull, swishing it around like mouthwash. "That's better," he said, patting his belly. He wiped his almost nonexistent lips with the back of a thin leather glove.

"You got it?" Benny V. asked. "Or you want me to go around again?"

"Naw, I got it. 226, right? Drop me off down the street and I'll do a walk by."

Five minutes later, Tommy Doyle was back in the LTD. Benny V. took another snort of ginger brandy and said, "So what's up?"

"He's got someone in there with him; that's what's up. I can't believe we're gonna have to wait to do this." Tommy took the bottle. "It's colder than a witch's tit out there. How about some heat?"

Benny V. turned up the heater.

"What if the stuff ain't in the house?" Tommy asked.

"Eddie said he'd cover that end of it, and to do it anyway. He wants this fat prick out of the picture, period." Tommy put three shells into his jacket and three more into a short-barreled Remington pump. Benny checked the magazine on his Berretta nine-millimeter. They had some more brandy.

* * * * *

Gravachevsky made his way back to Nat, careful to stay in the shadows and out of sight of the Ford LTD. "One of the guys from the LTD did a walk-by about five minutes ago and gave a look-see into the house."

"Where is he now?" Nat asked.

"He went back to the car and is still inside. My guess is they're waiting for the cook's guest to leave."

"As we speak," said Nat, motioning at the Peugeot that was pulling out of the driveway. Seconds later, two figures emerged from the LTD and walked calmly up the sidewalk.

"Here we go," Gravachevsky whispered, and he quickly took cover behind a pickup truck while Nat slid behind a tree about ten feet away. Headlights appeared and a station wagon sailed past them, the radio blaring from inside the car. In the time it took the wagon to pass, the two figures disappeared.

"Where'd they go?" Nat whispered.

"I don't know. Just watch the house. They'll show up." Suddenly they were there, just in front of the driveway. A dog barked, and the figures paused in the muted glow of the house lights until they were sure they weren't the objects of the dog's attention. Gravachevsky saw the glint off the Remington as Tommy Doyle pulled it from under his coat. He motioned to Nat, seeing him pull his nickel-plated Smith and Wesson and keeping it inside his jacket so there'd be no possibility of its shine being detected.

Gravachevsky held his own stout Colt .38 between his knees. The figure with the shotgun made his way to the lighted vestibule and unscrewed the single light bulb that illuminated the enclosure. The second figure disappeared up the driveway, presumably to go around back, Gravachevsky guessed. He knew if the two thugs got inside it would be all over for the cook, but if he and Nat moved now they took the chance that one or both of them would get away. It was a tough choice, but the decision never came. He heard what sounded like a muffled pop as a bullet ripped through the front door, causing Tommy Doyle to drop to the floor and wriggle from the vestibule. Two more pops came from a first story window, the bullets thudding into the ground inches from the scampering Doyle. From up the driveway, three shots rang out in rapid succession, shattering a window, and another pop rang out in return. Gravachevsky scooted to the front of the pickup so as to have the motor between him and the assassins. Nat stood low behind the tree, his .357 clutched firmly.

"Move!" Nat ordered. "I've got you!"

Gravachevsky swung the .38 over the hood of the pickup. "Freeze, police!" he screamed. Doyle blasted two rounds into the truck and slid off behind Dandy Don's Bonneville, which was parked in the driveway.

Benny V. ran from the driveway firing blindly. Nat squeezed off a shot, missing. He brought his gun back off its recoil and fired again, catching his mark. The slug hit Benny V. like a sledgehammer, exiting near his left shoulder blade and making a hole the size of a lemon.

Good shot, thought Gravachevsky as he watched Benny corkscrew into the ground. Benny raised his Berretta in a desperate attempt to defend himself, and Gravachevsky fired before Benny could squeeze the trigger. The bullet smashed into Benny's chest as two more rounds exploded from the house, one of them slicing through Benny's neck.

Having lost track of Doyle, Gravachevsky ran down the street hoping to spot him. As he did, lights came on as residents peeked out their front doors trying to see what was happening.

"Go inside! Police!" Nat yelled, waving them back. A shotgun blast peppered the tree behind him, and three pellets of 00 buckshot hit him in the right forearm while one more shattered his jaw.

Gravachevsky saw him go down, writhing in agony. That meant he was alive—for the time being. Quickly, he ran to the hedgerow bordering the driveway, and while he couldn't see through the hedge, it was darker there than under the street lights and he doubted anyone could see him either. Suddenly, from the other side of the hedge, he heard the sound of Tommy Doyle shoving some fresh shells into his Remington. As for himself, he knew he had five rounds left. He only needed one. He picked his mark and considered the odds of a shotgun blast making it through the hedge.

Suddenly, a voice came from somewhere behind the Bonneville. "Police! Freeze, or you're a dead man!" The shotgun blast came immediately.

Gravachevsky rolled out onto the sidewalk and fired at the spot where he imagined Doyle to be located. As there was no return fire and he found himself still alive, he called to the house, "You, inside! Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you," came Dandy Don's reply.

"This is the police! Hold your fire!"

With both hands on his .38, Gravachevsky edged toward the Bonneville. Kicking the shotgun away, he took one look and knew Doyle would be dead within minutes. As he checked for more weapons, he saw a motionless lump on the ground next to the garage and wondered if Nat had called for backup. He went to the lump and turned it over. Now he knew whose head he'd seen inside that car, despite the fact that half of it had been blown off. There was nothing he could do for Leonard Herzog, and it was time to take care of Nat.

CHAPTER 23 Good Little Boy

Pietro Dal Maso planted his feet and watched his cock slide in and out of her mouth. No wonder Paulo liked this bitch so much. He could go on like this for an hour. She looked up at him and smiled between mouthfuls.

"You want me to get on top and ride?" Kiyeena the Hawaiian Princess asked. "I'll do all the work."

Dal Maso got into position and said, "Hop on, baby." She got off her knees and hopped up onto the bed. Squatting, she lowered herself onto him. She was like a hot slick glove, and he felt her all the way in. The muscles under her bronze skin rippled as she worked, and the only part of her that touched him was the part between her legs. He felt his shaft getting wetter and wetter, and all his sensations were crowded into his cock. Content to go along for the ride, he put his hands behind his head and waited for the inevitable explosive orgasm. The phone rang.

"Shit," he said, picking it up after the third ring. She kept working until he jumped halfway to the ceiling. The veins in his neck darkened, bulging against his flushed skin. "Where?" he screamed, getting up and pacing naked across the room. "I don't give a fuck where he is. Find him, and find him now! I'll be there in an hour." Phone, receiver, line, everything, went through the plate glass window onto the elevated deck of his playhouse, leaving glass shards hanging like guillotine blades from the window frame. Dal Maso's primal yell could be heard clear across Great Sacandaga Lake.

* * * * *

Walter Prescott couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "How long has it been since you've slept?" he asked.

"That doesn't matter," Gravachevsky snarled. His hair was matted, and he could feel his beard snagging on the collar of his shirt. "Get to the point."

"The point is that I cannot allow you to search that fraternity house."

"I can get a warrant," Gravachevsky shot back.

"You can try," Prescott countered, "but I doubt you'd succeed. All you have is hearsay from some drunken students."

"Hearsay my ass! The guy was handing out dope like Chiclets, and bragging that he had tons of the stuff. You call that hearsay?"

"Listen Detective, I'm sorry about your friend, but one of my colleagues was killed, for God's sake. I have an interest in this too, but I still can't do what you want. What the hell was Chief Herzog doing there anyway?"

"I have no idea. He came out of nowhere."

"We can't storm that fraternity like the Marines on D-day. I suspect a judge would say the same thing."

Gravachevsky got up to leave. "I'll be in touch," he said. There was no handshake.

His senses dulled, he got back in the car. Sixteen hours earlier his entire body was one raw nerve; now he was almost numb. Turning onto Brandywine Avenue, his eyes focused on the muted red neon sign of the Crosstown Diner as it flickered in the overcast daylight. Pulling in to revive himself with a cup of coffee, he pictured the glossy eight-by-tens of Kelso's body inside the olive container. The coffee came quickly, and the elements of the case swirled in his head like the coffee in his cup. He knew instinctively where they'd settle once the swirling stopped, and knew more people would be dead by then. He glanced at the Bamboo Club across the street, thinking how cheap and vulgar it looked.

He eventually made it back to the squad room only to have McQuade start in on him. "You look like shit. Get some rest."

"Gee, thanks for the concern, Lieutenant."

McQuade just shook his head, knowing there was no reasoning with him. "What did you do with the cook?" he began.

"Let him go. There wasn't much else we could do."

"As long as you're driving yourself into exhaustion, here's something to make the trip a little easier."

Reclining in his beat up desk chair behind his beat up desk, Gravachevsky looked at the folders as they landed on his stomach. He read the names printed on the stick-on tabs: Vincenzo, Benjamin Pasquale and Doyle, Thomas Stephen. Vincenzo, Benjamin had four convictions from the time he was seventeen: grand theft auto, passing counterfeit bills and check kiting in Jersey City, one for racketeering, one for second degree manslaughter. He'd been to Attica twice, did a year at Walpole, and forty-two months of a seven-year hitch at Rahway. Doyle, Thomas Stephen was no boy scout either: dishonorable discharge, three convictions including armed robbery and assault with intent, did two years in Leavenworth, eighteen months also at Rahway.

McQuade continued, "This wasn't the first county fair for these two cowboys."

"You think maybe these guys got to be buddies at Rahway? I wonder if anyone else we know was there around that time."

"I've already thought of that." McQuade held up a list, and it didn't look short.

"Who sounds familiar?"

"So far we've found fourteen names in the tri-city phone book, and we're only through the Ps. We should get through the rest of the alphabet by tomorrow, Monday at the latest. You gonna get any sleep?"

"Yeah, real soon."

McQuade just walked away as Gravachevsky fell asleep in his chair.

* * * * *

"I'm afraid she's going to need dialysis."

Maxine wasn't quite sure what that meant. "What's dialysis?" The tears spilled down her cheeks, leaving tracks that looked like they'd never go away.

"Dialysis means she'll be hooked up to a machine twice a week until her kidneys develop fully and function properly. Her condition isn't as serious as you might think though, Mrs. Nolan."

"It's Ginnzler," she sniffled. "I'm divorced."

"Yes... well... in time and with proper treatment, her kidneys should be able to function adequately."

"Is it painful?" The tears continued to fall.

"No," the doctor said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "She'll have to be brought here twice a week, maybe three times a week at first. The sessions take a while. You'll have to make arrangements if you work."

"I work nights. I should be able to get her here without too much trouble. How much does it cost?"

"Your insurance should cover most of it."

"I don't have insurance."

"Oh my... Have you talked to the department of social services?"

Maxine wiped the tears from her eyes and tightened the little knit hat around Amanda's head. "Don't worry doctor," she said willfully, "I'll get the money somehow. Nothing's going to jeopardize the health of my little girl." Walking into the breeze of a cold front that had just moved in, Maxine calculated how much money she'd have to squeeze out of each set in order to pay for the dialysis treatments.

* * * * *

Looking for the number on the key ring, Bernard Phelan pulled into U-Save Storage off Route 50. He saw the number 21 etched into the key itself, and the storage locker didn't take long to find. The place was deserted, and he was glad for that, at least. He unlocked the door not knowing what to expect, and saw the thirty-one brown paper grocery bags on the metal shelving inside the six-by-eight space. Each bag except one, he saw, contained a cube—relatively light considering its size—wrapped in brown butcher paper, then wrapped again in clear polyethylene sheeting and sealed with plastic tape. Quickly, he put all thirty-one bags in neat rows in the hatchback of his Peugeot, then drove eighteen miles to the Quickie Storage on South Pearl Street in Albany. Finding the appropriate locker—a carbon copy of the first but damp and musty as a rain forest inside—he lined up thirty bags neatly, then went back to the car and took out six boxes of D-Con rat poison from bag number thirty-one. He divided the rat poison among the thirty bags of whatever he'd just moved. It was only when he was at the second to last bag that he saw the little rat hole. He poked a finger into the hole and pulled out a pinch of the dried crumbly substance inside, confirming his suspicion that he'd just moved sixty pounds of marijuana. Phelan slammed the locker door behind him and ran to the Peugeot. He gunned the engine and squealed onto South Pearl Street, knocking down the small Enter Here sign to the storage facility.

Two hours later, after hearing from the professor that the move had been completed, Dandy Don pulled into the Quickie Storage on South Pearl Street, and pulled half a dozen bags from locker number 42, putting them in the trunk of his rusty Bonneville. He laughed as he cracked open the last can of Pabst from the six-pack he'd been nursing. "Little Professor Phelan is a good little boy," he said aloud to no one. "Yes sir, he's going to do anything we want."

* * * * *

Stu just didn't get it. Lowest variable cost, fixed costs, consumption curves, equilibrium. "Screw this," he said as he slammed the notebook shut. He slammed the textbook even harder. He went to the pay phone outside the fraternity house dining room and dialed the number.

"Let me talk to Angela," he said curtly when someone answered.

"Which one?" the voice asked just as curtly. "We have two."

He suddenly realized he didn't know her last name. "The one with the long blond hair and big pointy boobies." The girl on the other end slammed the phone down with a huff and he hung on just to make sure he hadn't been disconnected, picturing Angela as he waited.

"Hello." The voice sounded sweet.

"Hi. This is Stu."

"Oh, so you're the asshole."

"I beg your pardon."

"Sheila said some asshole was calling, and here you are."

"I'm not an asshole. I may be an ass-kisser, but under no circumstances am I an ass-hole."

"Did you call for any reason other than to talk dirty to me?"

"I'd like to come up and see you."

"When?"

"Now."

"You can't stay," she said, but it didn't sound convincing.

"I didn't ask if I could stay. I said I wanted to see you. Can I come up or not?"

"I guess so."

"Meet me at The Hub at 11:30. You got any money?"

"Only an ass-hole would ask a girl for money."

"Okay, I'm an ass-hole. You still like me though." He hung up.

The smile on her face widened as she admitted to herself that she did.

* * * * *

Eddie The Barrel knew it as soon as he walked into the room. He'd been in rooms like this half a dozen times in his life, and he knew they were there, hidden and waiting. He could feel their eyes, sense their breath as it came from flared nostrils.

"Where's it going to happen," he asked.

"Right here," Il padrone answered, voice subdued.

"When?"

"Tonight. Now."

Eddie The Barrel straightened his bulky frame, smoothing his tie and buttoning his double-breasted suit. With steely eyes, he focused on a spot directly in front of him.

"Do you have anything to say, Edward?"

"Yeah. You're a fucking pinhead."

The crack from the .22 dissipated quickly as the bullet broke through the back of Eddie's skull and embedded itself just inside his forehead. Two more were added for good measure after he crumpled to the floor. The various guests appeared as if by osmosis. Il padrone turned away and snapped his fingers, and two men with featureless faces came forward and dragged the corpse from the room, leaving a trail of dark warm blood on the tile floor. His body would be found six days later, a mile north of the Tappan Zee Bridge, stuffed inside a fifty-five-gallon oil drum. A hand extended a .22 revolver toward Il padrone, and it glittered as if captured in a spotlight.

"This is your game now Patsy. Put your team together and let's get back on track. Find that fat fucking cook and do what you need to do. Only one thing."

Patsy Little Man Salvano asked, "What's that?"

Pietro Dal Maso nodded toward the puddle of blood on the floor. "Don't fuck this up."

CHAPTER 24 Cat With Four Lives

Gravachevsky thought about the fact that it was only the second time all year that he'd taken off a complete three-day stretch. He worked five-on, three-off, and while it sounded like he got a little more time off than the average working bloke, there was no consideration as to where or how the five-on fell on the schedule. Christmas, Easter, 4th of July: all of them were regular working days. The slime of society didn't take time off.

He'd slept and hung out in the apartment a lot, drinking beer in his sweatpants and watching the tube. He liked the Dick Van Dyke reruns, and he wondered if Laura Petrie was any good in the sack and how often old Rob got it on with her. Besides drinking beer and thinking dirty, he visited Nat a couple of times. Sometimes guys got really bummed out after coming that close to the hereafter, but Nat seemed to be taking everything pretty much in stride. Tough kid, he thought.

He'd even gone out on a date. There hadn't been many women in his life, romantically speaking. He found that few of them understood the sleazy job and the weird hours, but Sue Lombardi did, and there were times when he thought about turning up the heat in the relationship. She was always the one on his arm at the proper police department functions; and he was on hers at the Linton High School ones where she was a social studies teacher. She was ten years younger, only twenty-six. She still had time. He knew at his age, however, that he'd have to decide soon if he was going to have another person in his life, or if he was going to be the bachelor rogue he was perceived to be by some.

He looked down the list in front of him. He calculated that following up on all thirty-one names would take days. There had to be another way to find out how Vincenzo, Benjamin Pasquale and Doyle, Thomas Stephen wound up in the same organization after prison. At this point, he had no doubt that he was dealing with an organization—an organization with enough money to afford new LTDs for its hit men, enough money to fund any number of businesses, enough money to have snitch informants cut up into little pieces and used for fish food.

He looked at the other list on his desk. The State Corporation Commission showed Capital Properties, Inc. to be a privately held corporation with a New York City address, with one Gerald F. Levine as the Chairman of the Board. He'd found a Gerald F. Levine listed in the tri-city phone book as an attorney with an Albany address. The New York City address belonged to a produce warehouse in Brooklyn. The man he'd spoken to there said in his eloquent Brooklyn accent that, "He'd never fucking heard of Capital Properties, Inc., and that he had a load of apples to get out." On top of that, there were no state tax returns on file for Napoli Importing Company, Tri-City Auto Parts, or Seabird Trucking—entirely possible if they were part of another corporation. He guessed the tax returns could be filed under the parent company's name—if they were filed at all—but there was no return filed under Sunset Holding Company either. The state return for Capital Properties, Inc. showed the names Ascot Realty and Witherspoon and Company under the doing business as entry, but he found neither listed in any of the phone books. He knew he could spend a couple of weeks tracking down the linkages between the corporations, sub corporations, and partnerships, but he didn't need to. He knew that one person would ultimately control all of the businesses. That person would be the head of the crime syndicate to which the skeleton of companies in front of him belonged.

* * * * *

"Well, to tell you the truth, Professor Phelan, I put down economics as my major, but I'm not really sure about it. I thought I'd take a couple of courses and see if they seemed interesting."

Phelan puffed on his pipe and nodded. "I understand completely, Mister Brown. You have plenty of time to zero in on your major, but I urge you to do so by the end of the year." The phone in the outer office rang for the fourth time. "That way you'll still have plenty of time—" The phone was on its fifth ring. Politely, Phelan said, "Excuse me," and punched the blinking button on the phone console on his desk.

There were no pleasantries, and Brownie guessed from the look on the professor's face that the call was probably pretty important.

"What do you mean, tonight? You said we were even," Phelan said urgently. "I did my part."

Brownie looked on in bewilderment as the professor eyed him back and turned away in his chair. He couldn't help but notice how the professor's hands started shaking all of a sudden, and he debated whether to excuse himself and go to the bathroom or something.

Phelan pulled the phone lower and spoke in low but urgent tones. "Listen, I can't talk now. There's someone here... No... NO! You can't come here."

Brownie squirmed in his chair.

"Where then?" Phelan whispered. "Same place as last time?... Why not?... What about last week?... Did someone follow me?"

The professor had forgotten about him completely, Brownie thought.

"You mean Herzog?" Phelan went on. Realizing that Brownie was still sitting there and obviously listening, Phelan said to him, "I'm sorry. I need to finish this call. Would you mind waiting outside? I'll be done in a minute."

With pleasure, thought Brownie, and he went to the outer office, swinging the door closed behind him, wondering why Phelan had mentioned Herzog's name. It wasn't a name he liked to hear these days.

Back on the call, Phelan said, "I heard only that Chief Herzog had passed away, and I wasn't too broken up over it," he said, thinking to himself that with Herzog dead his stint as campus spy was over.

"Yeah, he's passed away, all right," Dandy Don said smartly. "He got his fuckin' head blown off outside my door after you left. Jesus, I can't believe you're that fuckin' dumb."

Five minutes later, when he couldn't hear the professor's voice through the door any more, Brownie knocked and tentatively stuck his head back in to Phelan's office. "Professor Phelan? Are we finished?" When the professor didn't answer, he came into the room and stepped closer. He couldn't believe it. The professor had passed out, or fainted, or something, right there in his chair. The man wasn't even moving. Maybe he was dead, Brownie thought to himself. Quickly, he ran around to the back of the desk and shook him. "Professor Phelan? Professor Phelan, are you alright?" He heard a voice coming from the receiver and picked it up. "Hello?" he said questioningly.

"Who is this?" the voice demanded gruffly.

"This is Wallace Brown."

"Where's the professor?"

"He fainted, I think."

"Fainted? Goddamn wimp. Listen, give him a message. Tell him to be at the Bamboo at ten. He'll know what it means." The line went dead.

Brownie wrote down the message and ran to the outer office to get some water from the water cooler there, coming back to find the professor with his head down on the desk. Was he crying? Maybe he was just clearing his sinuses, or maybe he was just a little sick or something. Brownie decided the hell with giving the water to the professor and drank it himself as he walked down the stairway. What was that all about? he asked himself, disappointed that he hadn't gotten the chance to talk about his disciplinary probation situation.

* * * * *

It was a decent crowd for a Wednesday night, and Maxine was working it with the best of them. She'd put a fresh touch up job on her hair earlier in the day, and made sure her makeup was done up right. She'd even put an extra dab of perfume on each nipple, just to have that little extra something in the air when she sashayed by. Her smile frozen to her face, she gave it all she had, up close, as close as she could get without having the manager tell her to back off. She ventured a guess that if the customers looked up her coochie any harder, they'd be able to see what she had for lunch, but it was worth it. She was raking it in, and she thought of Amanda with every bill they shoved into the little lace garter on her leg. She hustled drinks between sets like the pro she'd become, pawing and fawning all over the drunken fools, laughing at their foul-breathed jokes, letting them touch her while she teased them back by rubbing their zippers. Then, she worked them for twenty-five-dollar champagne splits, of which she got half the money, plus whatever additional tips she could wangle by making promises she would never keep. She didn't ask any of them if they wanted a private dance in the back, though. She'd debated it, but the money was rolling in.

She recognized the fat guy in the back. Once again, his friend with the glasses and the rust-colored hair tagged along. They made an odd-looking pair, she thought. Sometimes the fat one was a good tipper. He was laughing a lot, ordering lots of drinks and slapping his friend on the back. When he came to the stage, she smiled, took his buck and said, "I'll see you later big boy." She ran a finger down his cheek, then down between her breasts.

He said, "I'll be waiting, baby," and went back to his table where he shoved another dollar into the rusty-haired guy's hand and pushed him up to the stage. The rusty-haired guy came up and put the money in her garter without looking at her face, which was understandable in a way, seeing as she'd thrust her chest to within six inches of his nose. She was surprised when she went by after her set and asked with her sweetest lipsticked smile if they wanted any company.

"Maybe later," the fat one said as he put his hand around her waist. "We're doin' a little business right now. How about keeping it warm for us, sweet cheeks?" He patted her almost naked butt lovingly, certain that it was turning her on.

Maxine kept her sparkling smile intact. "It's no problem, big guy. Whenever you want me to come over, just put your lips together... and blow," she said, blowing a whistle through a sexy pout. She waved goodbye with her ass as she strutted off toward another gawking patron.

Dandy Don resumed his conversation. "Listen, I've got it all lined up. All you have to do is deliver the goods and pick up an envelope. No sweat."

"What if they decide not to hand over the money?"

"Not these people. They're students, rich faggots. They've got lots and lots of their daddies' money, and they don't give a shit what it costs as long as they get it. I guess they wanna be high while they're cornholing each other. They're not gonna fuck with you."

"Listen, I don't know."

"No, you listen, teach. Either you do this my way, or the little lady and your tight-assed father-in-law find out about those two bitches. Got it?"

"How do you know about my father-in-law?"

"What's it matter how I know? Now, you'll pick up ten grand for each drop. A thousand will be for you. I'll call the faggots to make sure they have the money ready. Here's the key to the storage locker. Now," Dandy Don continued, changing the subject, "how about a shot of Brandy. You'd like that, wouldn't you Professor Phelan? She's quite the little beauty, all right." Dandy Don laughed heartily and slapped Phelan on the back for perhaps the hundredth time that night.

Phelan simply took the key and walked wordlessly from the Bamboo Club.

Dandy Don got up and changed seats, taking a table against the wall. He crooked a finger and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together with the universal sign for money. Maxine went over and snuggled up real tight as his hand came around and covered her left breast. She didn't try to stop him.

"Easy big guy. How about a little drink?"

"Sure baby. Anything you want." He snapped his fingers at the waitress, who waited for the almost imperceptible nod from Maxine before she brought the champagne split. Dandy Don toasted by clinking his Pabst against her cocktail glass. "You wanna make a little extra money, little sweet Brandy Alexander?"

Maxine sipped some champagne. Normally, she would have been out of there, but she stuck around to see where it led. She could milk a few more bucks before things got too hairy. "Sorry sugar. I don't do private shows, not unless I get to know you a little better." She started doing some seat dancing to Sly and the Family Stone, rubbing herself all over him.

"That's not what I mean. I got a business proposition for you. You ever dance at the college?"

"You mean Alliance? They don't have a club there, do they?"

"No, but a couple of the frat houses might be interested in some entertainment, if you know what I mean. You up for a little side job?"

"Just dancing?"

"That's up to you."

"How much does it pay?" Behind the cheap makeup and Mylar patches of fabric adorning her body, she was already counting the money for the dialysis treatments.

"$150 for the night, plus whatever you make on the side."

"I told you, I don't turn tricks."

"And I told you, that's up to you. You up for it, or not?"

"When?"

"A week from this Saturday, Homecoming weekend."

"I'm there baby." Maxine held up her cocktail glass and clinked his bottle while he slid a hand up her thigh.

* * * * *

Bartolo always called back within the hour. Maybe he was on vacation or something. Dandy Don debated calling again but decided against it, thinking it would be better to just sit and be patient. Someone would call. Bartolo and the boys would be proud of him. The wormy professor was quite efficient. He'd said he wanted out desperately, but Dandy Don saw how his eyes twinkled each time he took his thousand-dollar cut.

"I'll be able to get this back into my account before the next statement," Phelan had said blankly. "I'll say it was some kind of bank error if Deborah detects the transactions."

Dandy Don had no idea what the man was talking about. Gloating silently as he mixed his meatloaf, he heard a knock and looked up to see Patsy Salvano standing outside the door to his fraternity house kitchen. He'd seen him around during his visits to the auto parts store. They called him Little Man. He opened the door and said, "What the fuck do you want?" Patsy wasn't there to have tea.

Patsy smoothed his jacket and adjusted the cuffs on his stiff pointy-collared shirt. He was five-foot-five, tops, tight-skinned and cocky, and he wasn't Dandy Don's biggest fan. "We need to talk, blubber ass."

"Where's Bartolo?" Dandy Don asked impudently.

"He's moved to another firm. I'm taking his place and you and me need to have a little powwow."

"Go ahead."

"We need to bring in the rest of your outstanding shipment right away."

"It's gone."

"And where the fuck is it?"

"Sold. I've got the money."

"Let me have it."

Dandy Don ignored him and continued to play who's got the bigger dick. "I don't think so. Set me up with the big man as soon as possible. I'll bring the money then. I have a business proposition I wanna discuss with him."

Patsy eyed the filthy apron. "I ain't no errand boy. You discuss things with me."

"Listen shit-for-brains, I got a deal and it'll be your ass if it gets fucked up."

Patsy's face tightened. Control wasn't one of his best attributes, so for him not picking up a kitchen knife and gutting the fat load right there was doing pretty well.

"Bartolo fucked up bad," Dandy Don went on. "Wouldn't it look good if the first thing you put your hands on turned to gold? Think about it: I show up with the money, the shipment's gone, and we don't have to fuck with it. How about it?" Dandy Don's heart pumped so hard his shirt collar vibrated.

Patsy took a second. "Seven o'clock at the auto parts store. Go to confession before you come, fatso. It might be your last day on Earth."

* * * * *

At 6:58 Dandy Don knocked on the door at Tri-City Auto Parts. Patsy opened it promptly.

"Right on time, tubby."

Dandy Don knew the way. Dal Maso was already seated behind the large mahogany desk. A single desk lamp was the only source of light.

Patsy went first. "Please tell Mister Dal Maso our plan."

Our plan, thought Dandy Don.

"You've caused us a great deal of trouble," said Il padrone, not giving Dandy Don a chance to pontificate.

Once again, Dandy Don decided to play offense, knowing he could live or die by the strategy. Either way, it would be better to be in control. "That's only because of that fool Bartolo."

"Edward was a friend of mine."

This guy was a real prince. Dandy Don pressed forward. "He may have been your friend, but he played all the wrong cards. When he originally sent me to make the deal with the Colombian, he was the one who said to rough the guy up on price. Then, he insisted that we set the price high, telling me over and over that those fucking hippies would buy the shit at any price. I tried to tell him, Mister Dal Maso, but he wouldn't listen. Later, when I told him we had heat on our ass and we needed a new network, I got my balls stuck in a vice and my teeth kicked in." Most of it was a lie, but Bartolo was too dead to dispute it.

"What about Benny and Tommy?" Dal Maso asked patiently.

"What d'you think, the cops were there trying to protect me? They had to be tailing your boys. Seems to me it was one fuck up after another."

There was silence, except for the letter opener Il padrone was tapping thoughtfully on the desk. Dandy Don wondered if it was the last sound he'd ever hear. Nothing moved. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Patsy still standing with his hands folded in front of him. He looked around, then behind him. If he was going to get it, it would be head on.

Finally, Dal Maso said, "Patsy says you got rid of the shipment."

Dandy Don reached into his jacket and tossed three envelopes on the desk.

Il padrone looked at the bulging packets. "How much?"

"Twenty-seven grand. That, plus the original thirty or so we got back in August covers our cost— and then some." He didn't say anything about the remaining six pounds he'd glommed and stashed.

"Very good." Dal Maso took the envelopes and held them out for Patsy. Showing a trace of a smile, Patsy took them and moved off to one side. Il padrone was pleased. "Tell me about this business proposition," he said.

"There's a professor at the college who owes us real big."

"I know."

"He's the head of the Committee on Foreign Studies."

"So?"

"So, the college does regular business with a school in Bogota."

"And?"

"As I recall, your friend Paulo is from Bogota. There's got to be a way to use the schools' regular business to make a direct link. Bogota to here, no middlemen, no stops."

"How?" Dal Maso asked. He and Patsy seemed very attentive.

"I haven't worked all that out yet, but our professor might be just the person to set it up. We've got a lot on him, and he'd do just about anything to keep it quiet."

"It sounds interesting, Mister Dandy Don. It sounds like you've given this some thought."

Dandy Don smiled. "I have. Grass might be too bulky, but it would be a good plan for a coke deal. I'd bet that cutting out some of the middlemen would double, maybe triple your profits. Why don't you talk to your friend Paulo about it, see if he's interested?"

"You know," said Il padrone, looking directly into Dandy Don's eyes, "it wouldn't be too hard to find out about this professor. There's only one head of that committee you mentioned, right?"

Like a cat on his fourth life, "Without me he'd fold up," Dandy Don said confidently. "You'd have nothing. If you want to take that risk, it's up to you. Besides, seems to me that I'm the one who's straightening out what you guys fucked up."

* * * * *

Inside his study, Phelan sat deadly still and realized his life would never be the same. His new-found peace with Deborah was as secure as a leaf in a windstorm, and the millions he was counting on could never materialize. It was as if he was in a neck-deep hole in the sand: the more he clawed to get out, the more the walls came tumbling down around him. Soon he'd bury himself. He contemplated if he should kill himself.

CHAPTER 25 Homecoming

Sitting in the back seat of the little red Beetle, Jessica checked to make sure she'd shoved a clean pair of panties and a toothbrush into her backpack. Her date had invited her down for the game and the subsequent Homecoming party, but hadn't said anything about providing a ride back to Vandermont afterwards. She wondered if accepting his invitation to the game was tantamount to accepting an invitation to stay overnight. Still, she'd said yes, thinking that's what college women did. Besides, she could take care of herself.

From the passenger seat, Angela turned around and gave her a once over. "Aren't you the little heartbreaker?" she said. "I love the look, especially the wire glasses. They look really cute."

"Oh, well, they're new," Jessica said, having no idea about any look. Glasses were glasses, weren't they? She took them off and put them away, brushing back the mass of wavy brown hair that flared from under her Yankees hat.

"So, who invited you down?" Angela asked, trying to be friendly.

"It's a friend of a friend kind of thing," Jessica answered indirectly, deciding immediately to change the subject. "Thanks for picking me up. This is better than riding that nasty bus."

Angela didn't pursue it. "We always swing by the bus station to see who needs a ride. It's sort of a community thing."

The two girls in front chatted aimlessly the rest of the way to Alliance College, while Jessica sat in back thinking about the conversation she'd had with her dad when he called to gloat about the Amazing Mets having won the World Series.

"You owe me another buck," he'd said.

They bet on all sorts of things. Jessica thought she must have owed him at least a million dollars by now. He never collected when he won, but he always paid off when he lost, which was hardly ever.

"When are you coming home to visit?" Billy Badger had asked.

"I've only been gone a month," Jessica answered. "Don't worry, Dad. I'm not ready to grow my armpit hair and have a child named Stargazer... yet."

"That's not funny," Billy Badger said. "I guess I need to know you're not getting caught up in this counterculture thing."

* * * * *

Mark had changed—a lot—and it bothered her. His attitude was more than cavalier; it was more like downright rude. This Mark was foul-mouthed and disrespectful. Everything was fuck this and fuck that, and while she was no prude, there was no need for him to yell obscenities at the top of his lungs when the other team scored a touchdown. No one thought it was funny, except his crude new friends from that weird fraternity house. And there was no need to make dirty comments to girls as they passed by. She was sorry to admit that he'd turned into a flaming butthead, and she felt embarrassed for him. Using the end of the first half as an opportune moment, Jessica said to her date, "Let's get a hot dog. I'm hungry." She had no such urge, but she had no intention of coming back to sit with Mark and his vile friends. It would have been better had she not run into him.

"Your cousin sure is rowdy," her date said when they were away from the bleachers. "Is he always like that?"

* * * * *

"Hey Brownie, want some punch?" The question came from the edge of the stands. Brownie looked over to see Stu Mosbacher and the babe from The Hub—the one who was in Playboy, he remembered distinctly—huddled in the cool air with some brothers from the Lodge. They were all standing about with cups of punch in their hands—he could only imagine what kind of punch it was—and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Hutch the dog stood guard over a couple of coolers with the ever-present tennis ball in his mouth. There were several girls in the group, as well as a few freshmen he recognized, including his roommate Fig and the future Doctor Shapiro.

Brownie spotted a couple of mayonnaise jars inside one of the coolers, and one of them was already empty. He hesitated before taking some of the punch, knowing it was undoubtedly spiked and thinking about the disciplinary probation thing. He almost looked over his shoulder to make sure Chief Herzog wasn't around. What the hell, just don't get stupid, he thought, and he had some punch, and then some more as he watched the game with his friends. They joked and laughed, and tried not to stare at Miss Playboy after Brownie told them about her being in the magazine.

Pulling Brownie to the side, "How do you think she'd look without all those clothes on?" the future Doctor Shapiro whispered after he'd had his second cup of punch. He went on to give his opinion on the topic in great detail, and just as he mentally removed her last piece of clothing Brownie heard Miss Playboy call out, "Fancy meeting you here." He noted immediately that she was talking to Jessica Badger, who was walking by hand-in-hand with her date just a few feet away at the foot of the bleachers.

Brownie thought he detected Miss Playboy offer a glimpse in his direction, her look a questioning one. His gaze moved to Jessica, and his eyes devoured her completely. "Hi Jesse," he said. It came out naturally, his smile was friendly, and he was pleased with himself. He'd never called her Jesse, and he liked the way it sounded.

Her stare locked with his in midair. "Hi Brownie." Her date stood awkwardly silent until she did the introductions. "This is Wallace Brown," she said. "He's a friend from back home. Everyone calls him Brownie. This is Dale Cauley."

"You guys want some punch?" Brownie asked, offering what wasn't his.

They had some punch; they small-talked; Brownie found out that Dale was a sophomore and a brother at Theta Delta, and he felt like he was wearing an itchy sweater on a hot day. Deciding it would be polite to leave Jessica to her date, he moved off gracefully, using the excuse that he had to go and find a bathroom. He said he'd be right back, knowing he wouldn't.

"Can I tag along?" Jessica asked. "I have to go too."

"I guess so," Brownie answered as he took off toward the old gymnasium where the bathrooms were located.

After a few steps Jessica asked him about the comment he'd made when he'd called a couple of weeks earlier. "Are you still in trouble because of Mark?" she asked sincerely. "You know, the probation thing?"

He stopped, ready to explain it, but was distracted by her green eyes. Maybe it was the punch, maybe it was her, but he didn't answer. He simply pulled on the brim of the Yankees hat and planted a kiss squarely on her lips. Immediately, he felt a tug on his arm. He turned. Dale Cauley was obviously less than pleased.

"Hey, Brownie, old buddy, old pal from back home, she's with me, at least for today, okay?"

Brownie just held up his hands and moved off silently. The last thing he needed right now was to get into trouble.

* * * * *

The Annual Old Farts Porchball Tournament was preceded by ceremony and reverence. It began with the annual Porchball Hall of Fame induction and the presentation of the elegant Porchball Hall of Fame Trophy: a porchball on a stick, spray painted gold. This year's alumni induction speech was especially touching as Porchball Hall of Fame inductee Warner P. Huddleston, class of '67, held up his hands and called for quiet. Brownie listened attentively as, when all was appropriately calm, Warner held his Zeta Chi mug skyward and uttered to the enthralled audience the inspiring words, "More sauce."

The first round of the two-day event kicked off shortly after the football game, which Alliance won, making for an even livelier mood. The Lodge was jammed with alumni, some of whom, Brownie discovered, had traveled great distances to attend. His heart quickened when he spotted the Yankees hat making its way through the crowd surrounding the porch. Dale Cauley was right behind her. They stopped right in front of him.

"Here we are, Zeta Chi," Dale said to Jessica, motioning toward the Lodge. He turned to Brownie. "All she could talk about was you, man. I figured I'd bring her over."

"Listen, Dale, I mean... I didn't...."

Dale held up his hand. "Brownie, it's okay man. Not a problem. Are you thinking about pledging here?" he went on, pointing at the Lodge.

"I have no idea yet," Brownie replied.

"You won't go wrong if you do," said Dale. "It's a good house. Stop in and see us at Theta Delta sometime. Y.I.T.B.," he said, turning away. "See you around campus."

"Y.I.T.B.?" Brownie questioned.

"Yours In The Bonds," Dale called back as he moved off down the walkway. "It's corny, but you'll get used to hearing it around here."

Imitating the line he'd heard earlier in the day, "Fancy meeting you here," Brownie said to Jessica when Dale was some distance away.

"I don't have a ride back to Vandermont," she said.

* * * * *

He was mesmerized. She was smart; she had a sense of humor; she reacted with interest to what he had to say. He found himself talking nonstop about any number of topics about which he had an incredible wealth of knowledge, it seemed. He and Jessica were gathered in a corner of the bar of the Lodge with Fig, the future Doctor Shapiro, and the Long GIsland twins, gossiping about Miss Playboy, who was balanced on a bar stool across the room. They were debating if she was braless.

"Her name is Angela," Jessica informed them, "not Miss Playboy. And is that all you guys can talk about?" which, evidently, it was.

"You've seen the pictures?" the future Doctor Shapiro asked Jessica, straining to hear.

"It was only one picture, but yeah, one of the girls in her sorority showed it to me."

"And?" he questioned, waiting for the gory details.

"Well, she was lying on this long shag rug in front of a white fireplace, and all she was wearing were high heels and a smile. Great tan lines, by the way. Her lipstick and makeup were perfect."

"The hell with the lipstick and makeup," said the future Doctor Shapiro, indicating: get to the good part.

"She has an unbelievable body," Jessica continued, really laying it on. "She had one hand behind her head, with her other hand reaching out of the page, beckoning. Oh, and there was a caption underneath the picture."

"What did it say?" the future Doctor Shapiro asked, eyes wide open so he could hear better.

"It said she was a lesbian—but she would think about going straight if she ever found a small, curly haired Jewish guy who wanted to be a doctor."

* * * * *

Maxine had trouble finding the house. The fat man said he'd meet her at 9:30 at the entrance at the chain link fence along Van Dyke Road. Finally, she spotted it.

"Cutting it close, sweet cakes," he said as she approached.

"Sorry." She could smell the smoke and alcohol emanating from him. "Everything is so dark. Is that the house?" She could barely make out the ominous outline. There were no lights anywhere, and it was nothing but a dark lump in the night.

"Yeah, let's go. You're the opening act."

She followed him to the house where two young men stood guard. One of them unlocked the door as if he were unlocking Fort Knox. She smelled beer as she passed, and felt their eyes on her despite the darkness. Their comments faded as the door closed behind her with a thud.

Dandy Don said, "This is your dressing room. Someone will knock when the show is ready to start. Make yourself look real good baby, and give these guys what they want."

She almost turned back. What the hell was she getting into? She'd been naked in front of strange men plenty of times by now, but somehow this was different, more bizarre. "What do they want?" she asked, wondering if she'd have to do something other than what she did four nights a week at the Bamboo Club.

"You know," Dandy Don replied, "make 'em hot and horny as toads. Get 'em ready for the action."

"I told you I don't do anything besides dance. All I want is my hundred and fifty bucks and I'm out of here. Speaking of which, where's my money?"

"You get it after the show."

"I get it now, or I'm gone." Her voice was steely, but Dandy Don didn't budge.

"You get it after the show. And get yourself in a better mood, sweet cakes. If you're nice to them, they'll be nice to you. Your props are inside. You got about twenty minutes."

What props? she thought as she made her way into the room, which was obviously someone's bedroom. She was surprised to see two other girls inside standing in front of the brown butcher paper that covered all the windows, both naked, and spreading sparkly powder on each other. They were passing a joint back and forth between them.

"Hey baby," the skinny one with the long stringy hair said. "You gonna be with us?" The other girl was more attractive, Maxine thought, darker skinned, a Latin type perhaps.

"I'm the opening act," Maxine replied. She eyed the joint.

"That must be your stuff over there," the skinny girl said. She offered the joint to Maxine. "My name is Sasha. This is Serena."

Maxine took the joint. Sasha and Serena—the names sounded as fake as her own. "My name is Brandy," she said as she looked at the bed and saw her props, including two dildos—a white one, and a huge black one—a bottle of white Jergen's lotion, a Lone Ranger mask, and a short stubby whip. "What am I supposed to do with all that?" she asked nervously.

"Use your imagination," the skinny one named Sasha said.

"Are you the main attraction?" Maxine asked, hoping the grass would ease her anxiety. There was a knock at the door and the dark-skinned girl opened it a crack. A heavily muscled black man, dark as coal, entered, along with another man, white and tall, perhaps six-three.

"This is the main attraction," said the dark-skinned girl.

Beyond surprise, Maxine watched as the men got naked almost immediately. She stripped to her bra and panties and listened as the foursome exchanged small talk and lit two more joints. She couldn't help but notice the penis on the tall one. It was huge, and hung halfway to his knees. It swung back and forth like a club, and she had a hard time keeping her eyes off it. She cringed when the black man, stroking himself in front of her, his growing erection getting thicker and longer as he did so, asked if she was going to join them.

"She's opening for us," the dark-skinned Serena answered. "I don't think she's in the life."

Eyeing her, "Too bad," said the black man. "I could make a pinwheel out of that sleek little body."

Wild whoops and hollers came from the floor beneath them, and a second later someone knocked on the door. "Five minutes," the voice announced. Maxine quickly took off the rest of her clothes and put on her costume.

"Mmm, mmm, mmm," the black man said. "Yes sir, any time, any place."

"Give me a little warm up, baby," the tall one said to the skinny Sasha, pointing his huge organ at her like a cannon.

"Not now Trigger, we can't use up all the ammunition before show time."

"Don't worry about me, baby. I'll handle my end. Just come over here and talk into the big purple microphone." He held it with one hand and toked on the grass with the other.

Settling on her knees, Sasha said, "Just a little," and she proceeded to shove the thick thing halfway down her throat.

Maxine watched dumbfounded as it stretched incredibly, coming out of the girl's mouth like a python.

The girl continued to work it for some moments, ramming it in and out of her mouth. "No more," she said when it was halfway hard. The big head flopped from her lips and she wiped the spit off her face. "We need to save some for later."

Dazed, Maxine wondered if she could really deal with this. She had enough trouble dealing with what the girls did in the back room at the club, and now she'd lapsed even deeper into depravity. Then, she thought of the money. She thought of her girls and how much she loved them. She thought about brave little Jennifer and how proud she was that her mother supported them and they didn't have to live on welfare.

"Show time!" came the call from outside the door.

"Be right there," Maxine yelled back nervously. She could hear some kind of chant coming through the floor. She looked at the four naked people and asked bravely, "You guys got any more grass?" Serena pulled yet another joint from her bag, lighting it for Maxine. Maxine took two huge hits, adjusted her skimpy costume, and gathered the sex toys from the bed. Following the fraternity brother through the darkened house, Maxine heard the noise getting louder. Finally, outside the entrance to a large room, she saw the anxious crowd inside clapping and chanting wildly to the pounding music. Dandy Don gave the instructions.

"I'm going to go in there and pump them up. When I introduce you, you come in a give 'em a good show, okay?"

"Okay," Maxine said, bracing herself. Think of the money; think of the kids: she kept repeating the words in her mind as if the thought would somehow make it less degrading. Having the presence of mind to put on the Lone Ranger mask so that no one could observe her face directly, she listened for Dandy Don's introduction.

"And here she is, direct from the world-renowned Bamboo Club, the gorgeous, the beautiful, the sexy, the one and only, Miss Brandy Alexander!"

The music got louder as she shot into the room. Cheers echoed off the walls, and she knew immediately why the windows were covered. Soon the middle of the room disappeared as the wild brothers and alumni closed in on her like a pack of wolves. Dandy Don came in and spread them back out, then said into her ear, "C'mon, sweet cakes, you gotta do better than that. Get closer, give 'em a show." He gave her a little push toward the edge of the crowd.

Maxine looked into the spellbound eyes of the student in front of her as she took off her flimsy top and spilled into his face. She heard a cheer as the crowd went wild. She went up to the next one and did the same thing with her tiny G-string, pulling his face into the patch between her legs. The crowd got even wilder.

* * * * *

Jessica's body mashed up against his under the big maple just off the porch. The air was cool out there, but didn't do much to reduce the heat. Brownie felt every muscle of her back as his arms wrapped around her and pulled her tight. He mashed his lips against hers and his hands roamed, touching parts of her body that would have been off limits normally, but she didn't do anything to stop him. He was surprised when her hands did some roaming of their own.

He'd had enough beer to bolster his bravery, and she seemed pretty loose as well. She'd laughed at the fraternity brothers' crude jokes, and she'd brushed off their impolite language. After all, she'd said, it was a fraternity house. He appreciated the fact that she could go with the flow, and he tried to be mindful as to whether she was enjoying herself or not. They both laughed when the brim of the Yankees hat smacked him in the nose as he tried to kiss her again.

"I'll make it easy for you," she said, and she offered her lips to his, crushing herself into him.

Brownie's hand came up. Maybe it was the beer that made her so uninhibited, but right now, who cared? He put his hand on her breast and felt the bra underneath her shirt. He was surprised at the fullness in his hand, and it excited him tremendously. He felt a tingling sensation shoot through his body, and he could feel himself getting harder, fast.

* * * * *

Badge chugged down another beer. The dancer had a great body, he thought, spectacular tight ass and great legs. He watched as she circled the room to the beat of the music, bending and touching and shaking her way around the crowd. Everyone was getting a show, and he was next. She came closer, then closer yet, and she pulled his face into her cleavage. Then she grabbed him by the hair and did a bump and grind inches from his nose. He heard the brothers laughing and whistling, the room vibrating with sound. He watched her as she waved the toys in the air, taunting the crowd and twirling the stubby whip. A thunderous chant erupted when she waved the big black dildo in the air.

"Black dick, black dick, black dick," the crowd chanted. "Black dick, black dick," they continued until she gave them what they wanted.

For no particular reason, Badge looked at the dancer's face and noticed she wasn't smiling beneath the mask. He watched as she dripped white lotion on the big rubber penis, coating it completely. Then, she dripped lotion on her breasts, rubbing herself until her entire upper body was oiled and slick. She handed the bottle to one of the brothers, who proceeded to drip yet more lotion onto her. She took his hands and put them on her, and he spread the lotion over her already greased body. She went around the room as various members of the crowd came forward. She was right in front of him now, and Badge took the bottle. She turned. He squeezed some of the lotion onto her butt and rubbed it into her skin, not feeling quite right about it. She turned back as the incited crowd clapped and cheered, taking the bottle and moving on to the next willing participant. That's when he saw the mascara running down from underneath the Lone Ranger mask, forming jagged black lines on her face.

"Black dick, black dick," the crowd chanted.

Someone unfurled some sheets onto the carpeted floor. Badge watched as she dripped more lotion on the rubber penis, then spread her legs and rubbed herself with it.

"Put it in!" came one yell from the crowd. "Fuck yourself with it!" came another. "All the way in, baby!"

Badge watched as she gave in, but instead of concentrating on the obvious, he watched the tears that flowed from under the mask while she pumped the huge penis in and out of herself. She was crying, for God's sake, and no one seemed to notice. Was he the only one who saw what was happening? He felt the pressure building inside him. Either he had to leave the room, or stop the action; he didn't know which. Abruptly, Dandy Don entered and waved his hands while the performer closed her legs and picked herself up off the floor. It was over.

"Let's all give a big hand, and some of you already have, to the fabulous Brand......y Alexan......der!"

The crowd cheered as she threw the dildo on the floor and raced from the room without acknowledging the roaring approval of her performance. Badge wondered if anyone gave any thought as to why she ran out like that.

Dandy Don moved immediately into the next introduction. The music started again as the four naked performers came in and marched around the room before settling on the sheets in the middle. Badge looked on as they did exactly what everyone expected them to do. The girls began sucking on their partners, and the crowd gasped as the tall one's huge cock got harder and harder inside the girl's mouth. A couple of minutes into the procedure, the girls switched and the dark-skinned one tried to swallow its monstrous length, and much to the crowd's amazement, she almost did. When the men were completely hard, the girls got into position.

They were right there, humping like wild animals, and it didn't seem to bother them at all. The dancer hadn't acted like that, Badge thought. She didn't want to be there. He watched as they changed positions, thinking about how intensely she'd cried. Why didn't she just leave? he asked himself. He watched as the muscular black man stood up over the skinny white girl. She grabbed his penis and stroked it furiously, seemingly forever until he pumped big gobs of semen onto her chest. A few moments later, the guy with the big schlong did the same thing, but this time the dark-skinned girl sucked him until he shot streams of jizz like a fire hose, on her face, in her hair, all over the place.

The men immediately grabbed towels and left the room. The girls, however, each yanked a surprised observer from the crowd and stood them back-to-back in the middle of the room. As the brothers cheered, they pulled the pants of their surprised partners down around their ankles and sucked on them for about a minute until, together, they pranced from the room, leaving the brothers at half-mast.

Numbed, Badge listened as Dandy Don came in and announced that the show was over, but if anyone wanted some action for themselves, the girls would be hanging around upstairs to provide some more entertainment. Badge went to the bar and silently drew himself a beer, unsure of what to make of what he'd just seen. He didn't understand why his reaction wasn't like that of the other guys who were howling with laughter.

He felt sorry for the first dancer, wondering why anyone would do what she did unless they got off on it, and she obviously didn't. He gulped his beer and went upstairs. The other girls had robes on, and were bartering with some guys in the hallway. The dark-skinned girl took one by the hand and disappeared into one of the rooms. Obviously, an appropriate deal had been negotiated.

* * * * *

"Just give me the fucking money!" Maxine shouted furiously. "You told me all I had to do was dance." She tried not to think of what she'd just done.

"Hey, you didn't have to fuck anybody, did you? A hundred-and-a-half for ten minutes work ain't bad, and there's an extra twenty in there for a job well done."

"Fuck you!" she spat as she snatched the bills. "It's a good thing I need the money."

"Why you need the money so bad? You make plenty."

"It's none of your damn business why." She shoved the money into her purse.

"Yeah, well I can get you plenty more if you need it, sweet cakes."

"Stop calling me that, you fucking jerk," but it didn't seem to bother Dandy Don a bit. She paused, and asked hesitantly, "How much?" She felt like what she thought a prostitute must feel like. The money was all that mattered.

Grinning, Dandy Don said, "I'll see you at the club."

"Yeah, right." Maxine slammed the door so hard that the floor shook. She stomped up the hallway, her eyes burning from the tears.

"Hey, are you all right?"

She looked up, seeing the big kid with the ponytail standing at the end of the hall. "What the fuck do you care?" she said, trying to squeeze past him.

Badge said, "I don't know why I care, but I do."

She stopped. Overwhelmed with thoughts about her miserable life, she looked into Badge's eyes and her whole body collapsed. He caught her and pulled her up before she crumbled to the floor. "You don't care," she said, burying her face into his chest. "Nobody cares about me."

Badge held her, not knowing what to do, or say. "You want to get some coffee or something?" he asked.

* * * * *

Brownie looked at his watch. It was 2:30 in the morning. He could barely keep his eyes open, and Jessica wasn't much better. At the moment, she was laughing at BVD's story. He was a Lodge brother who'd promised them the dining experience of their lives, and with whom they'd become quick friends.

"So why is this place called Hot-Hot's," she asked, looking around the dilapidated structure.

"You'll find out," BVD answered.

"And why are all those taxis outside?"

"They're always there," said Jill, BVD's girlfriend. Inside, the place was just as clean and fashionable as the cab drivers.

"What are you gonna have?" Brownie asked, looking around. "Where's the menu?"

"There isn't one," said BVD. "They only serve one thing."

"No burgers, no fries?"

"Nope. Just dogs... and Coke."

The only employee was the guy behind the counter in a stained Rolling Stones t-shirt. A smoking cigarette hung from his lip. "How many?" he called. BVD held up two fingers. Brownie followed suit. Jessica watched Jill, who held up one. She did the same.

"Onions in a bowl," BVD called.

A minute later, a tray of six was waiting for them at the counter, along with a huge pile of onions so strong that Brownie thought they'd eat through the bowl. There they were, big thick dogs, covered in a nasty-looking sauce of some sort.

"What's this brown stuff?" Jessica asked, sniffing tentatively.

"No one's ever figured it out," BVD replied as he dropped a big trail of onions on his dog. Brownie did the same. The girls passed.

Brownie watched as BVD took a huge bite. Bravely, he positioned one of the dogs for insertion and took a big bite of his own. Jill took a dainty nibble. Jessica just watched. Suddenly, Brownie reached for the soda. He gulped, and gulped again, finishing his glass and taking Jessica's. "Hot!" he coughed. Jessica just pushed her plate away.

Usually two of these beauties were all a normal person could handle, BVD explained, and he told how brother Hot-Hot had eaten eleven of the torpedoes of death in one sitting—and then went North.

* * * * *

At 3:35 a.m., Jessica told Brownie he had onion breath. He breathed on her and she smacked him. Forty seconds later, while they were both thinking about sex, roommate Fig returned from his own adventures of the evening, dashing any hopes Brownie may have had on the subject. They both watched silently as Fig stripped to his shorts and paraded unknowingly in the darkness, and Brownie clamped his hand over Jessica's mouth when he felt her stomach begin to shake with laughter. Minutes later, they were both asleep in their clothes.

CHAPTER 26 What a Great Country

Stu woke up early. He thought briefly of the previous night with Angela. She was strong and passionate, but he'd done a good job. Even the thought of her body on top of his didn't stay with him for long, however. Midterms were only a week away, and he had no clue in his Econ 301 class. He had no chance of passing the midterm, and getting an F in the course would be devastating. There'd be no baseball if that happened. Withdrawing from the course was an option, but that would mean he wouldn't have enough credits to graduate in June. That, in and of itself, wouldn't be so bad—if he was drafted. He could play pro ball and come back for his degree at a later time, but there'd be a helluva lot of explaining to do to his father. All in all, he determined the best plan was to pass the midterm.

* * * * *

Brownie checked out the bathroom and declared the coast was clear as Jessica stood in the hallway squeezing her legs together. She rushed in and emerged minutes later a new woman. Thinking he had a small furry animal camped out in his mouth, he ran in behind her and said he'd meet her back at the room in a couple of minutes.

When he got back, she was under the covers and the clothes she'd been wearing were folded neatly on the chair. He stood there, shifting glances between her and his zonked-out roommate until she got up and drew the shade to darken the room. She was wearing one of his t-shirts and, while he tried not to seem too obvious, it was impossible for him not to notice how her breasts quivered under the shirt when she moved. He looked at her bare, flawless legs and her tousled brown hair and thought: damn!

Whispering, she looked at him and said, "You're not coming back in here with your clothes on, are you?"

Taking the hint, "I guess not," he whispered back. He took off his shirt, hooked the waistband on his jockey shorts, and said, "Turn your head."

"There probably isn't anything there I haven't seen before," she said.

He changed into a clean pair of gym shorts and slid in next to her, excited that they could be this close, and frustrated that it could go no further. He lay there, not moving a muscle and staring at the ceiling.

"Your skin feels good," she whispered into his ear.

"I probably smell like a goat."

She gave him a peck on the shoulder. "Maybe a small goat."

"Have you ever had sex?" he blurted—quite crudely, he thought.

"Yes, once. Why?"

"I was just wondering."

"Have you?" she asked curiously.

"Once."

"Really? With who?"

"No one you would know."

"Tell me about it." She propped herself on one elbow and waited for the juicy details.

"Why?"

"I just want to know. Where did it happen?"

"It happened at a lake, in the water."

Even more curiously, "Really?" she asked. "In the water? C'mon, tell me."

"Why?"

"I told you, I just want to know."

In between Fig's bursts of snoring, he told her about Penny and Woodstock, and she told him about her experience with the loser from RPI. When it was over, she looked at him and asked, "Would you be trying to have sex with me if your roommate wasn't here?"

Brownie thought for a second. "Would you want me to be trying to have sex with you if my roommate wasn't here?"

"Let's go back to sleep," she said, not answering.

She tangled her legs with his and he felt her silky panties rubbing against his skin. She laid her head on his shoulder, and after some time he determined quite conclusively that she was either very good at being a tease, or she was scared to do it—perhaps more scared than he was. In any case, he knew it wasn't going to happen in that bed, and he bit through his frustration, knowing there was no way for him to control the erection growing in his gym shorts.

* * * * *

Homecoming was a working weekend for the faculty. There were a lot of influential, but more importantly, rich, alumni from Alliance, and Millard Stallings made no bones about the fact that he wanted them entertained, flattered, schmoozed, and pampered. As he opened the door and helped Deborah and Mrs. Carlson from the back seat of his Peugeot, Bernard Phelan chatted about the political state of affairs with United States Senator Mitchell P. Carlson, class of '44.

"There were no such things as war protests in the forties," Carlson said, "but things were much clearer then. The whole country knew our mission was to kick the Nazis' and the Japs' asses. All this business about undeclared war in Vietnam is hogwash. We either need to go in there and kick some ass, or we need to pull out and let those gooks kill each other off. I'm afraid a lot of our boys are getting their asses shot off for nothing. I can understand why a lot of the students are upset."

"Darling, do you know you just used the word ass three times in less than a minute?" Mrs. Carlson said to her agitated husband.

* * * * *

It had taken Gravachevsky almost ten days to find out from the three dealerships in the area how many white Peugeots had been sold in 1967 or 1968. One of the white cars had been sold to a Bernard Phelan, with a Ballston Spa address. The little game he played on the phone had worked like a charm.

"Hello, is this Mrs. Phelan?"

"Yes it is."

"I'm sorry to bother you Mrs. Phelan, but is Mister Phelan there?"

"No, I'm afraid he's at work."

"Well, like I said, I'm sorry to bother you, but this is Mike from Schenectady Graphics. I'm supposed to send a package off to Mister Phelan but I'm afraid I've lost the piece of paper where I wrote down his work address and phone number. I found your number in the phone book. Would you mind giving me that information so I can get this out to him?"

"I wouldn't mind at all. He works at Alliance College. It's...."

Bingo. It didn't take too many trips around the college parking lots to spot the white Peugeot. Now, as Gravachevsky watched him helping the women from the back seat, the man's face and rust colored hair etched indelibly into his mind. Something connected the professor and the cook.

* * * * *

Wondering who would be knocking on her door on a Sunday morning, Maxine pulled it open and said, "What are you doing here?"

"I just came by to see if you were okay," Badge answered.

"I'm fine," she responded curtly.

Jennifer came to the door and said, "Who's that Mommy?"

"It's just a nice man who helped Mommy out last night."

"What happened last night?" Jennifer persisted.

Badge leaned over and smiled. "Your mom had some car trouble and I kind of gave her a ride home."

Maxine's eyes softened. Still, his being here was not a good idea. She quickly re-erected her façade.

Seeing it, "I'm sorry to bother you," Badge said. "I just wanted to make sure everything was all right." He turned to leave.

His clothes were a lot neater than they were the previous night, and his hair was combed back. "Wait," she called. "Maybe you'd like to come in and have a cup of coffee or something. Or have you had enough coffee for a while?"

"No, coffee would be fine."

Two hours later Badge stood up to leave. "Thanks for the coffee and the sandwich," he said, turning to Jennifer. "And Joe Namath does not actually wear panty hose in real life. It's just a commercial." Jennifer laughed.

When he was halfway out the door Maxine asked, "Why did you come here today?"

Badge pulled a loose strand of hair from his eyes and looked avoidingly at the ground. "A couple of people I've known all my life told me recently that I've turned into a jerk. Maybe I just came over to see if they were right."

Maxine leaned on the door frame and waited to see if he was going to say anything else. He seemed as confused as she was.

"Would you mind if I came by the club to see you sometime?"

Indignation won out over pity, and she stepped into the hallway, keeping her voice low. "Why?" she asked urgently. "You've already seen all there is to see. Isn't abusing myself in front of fifty guys enough for you?"

"I want to see if I can prove something to myself."

"I don't know what you're trying to prove, but don't make me a guinea pig for your feelings. I've got enough problems. I don't need some nineteen-year-old messing up my life even more than it already is. You want to come by the club and watch me wag my ass, that's up to you, but don't think I'm gonna owe you something just because you were nice to me. I can have a lot of guys be nice to me if I want, and I can charge them fifty an hour while they're showing me their appreciation." She went back inside and kicked the door closed as Badge turned and walked away. She went to the window and looked down into the street, choking down the welling feeling in her chest and realizing that she wanted desperately for someone to help her out of the box she was in. She saw him cross and head back in the direction of the college. She wanted a normal life again.

* * * * *

They walked arm in arm toward the Lodge, and from a distance they could see the crowd gathered around the porch. It was a beautiful fall Sunday afternoon and brothers, alumni, girlfriends, and wives happily cheered their favorite team in the finals of the Old Farts Porchball Tournament. They found Stu and Angela in the crowd and watched with them. Jessica and Angela talked about school and girl stuff. Brownie and Stu talked baseball.

"Are you any good?" Stu asked directly.

"I can throw," Brownie said factually.

"You're gonna play here in the spring, right?"

"If my folks don't stop me," Brownie answered.

"Why would they do that?"

Brownie went on to explain about getting caught with the pouch of marijuana and the disciplinary probation thing.

Jessica listened intently to that part, thinking Uncle Arthur and Aunt Margaret would be pretty pissed if they knew what was going on with Mark.

Stu suddenly got a very strange look on his face. "You won't have to worry about that campus cop bugging you anymore."

"Why not?" Brownie asked.

"He's dead. He got caught up in something last week and got shot."

Brownie pulled back, feeling guilty, oddly, about being relieved that the man was dead. He wondered if anyone else would be checking up on him now, and thought that it would be good to try again to talk with his faculty advisor about the situation. That's what advisors were supposed to do, right? Advise?

The final match ended and Brownie listened to the presentation of the Old Farts Porchball Trophy. Brother Kenneth M. Rosen, originator of the cross-court return of serve shot with Israeli spin, class of '64, made the presentation.

"Fellow Lodgers, we proclaim this team, Brother David No Redeemable Social Value Wilson, class of '67, and Brother Edward Crawford Johnson—better known to us as Brother Half-Inch Johnson—class of '66, as worthy of this trophy, presented only to those men who believe in the Game of Gentlemen, a game where men do what's right, and screw the rest."

Brownie laughed as Brother Rosen presented the gold porchball on a stick to the winning team. Brother Rosen turned and held up his hands for silence.

"And this year," he continued, "we would like to make another presentation, to the person responsible for the creation of a new Porchball shot, never before performed by the men of Zeta Chi, or men period. It will be termed the Gynecological Shot, and it is the hopes and prayers of the brotherhood that next year, as Alliance goes coed, there will be sisters among us able to perform this shot as capably as Miss Angela Bishop."

Amid whistles and catcalls, Angela accepted her trophy of two porchballs joined together with a cigar protruding between them. Her acceptance speech was short. "I'm proud to be an American," she said, holding her balls for all to admire.

CHAPTER 27 Good Ones

The more he thought about it, the more he had to admit that the idea made sense. If he was able to orchestrate the proper chain of events, they could establish a direct link from Columbia into the tri-cities. No middle men, no handling, no risks, just profit—lots and lots of profit. "How do they travel?" Patsy asked.

"Who?" said Dandy Don.

"The students, asshole."

"How the fuck do I know? Plane, I'd guess."

"Commercial or charter?"

"I have no idea."

"Can you find out, fatso?"

"I guess so. Why?"

"You are one dumb fuck, you know that? If they chartered a plane it would be a snap. There to here."

"What about customs?"

"Listen, pantload, don't keep telling me why we can't do this. All we gotta do is set someone up at both ends. Product on, product off. It'll be easy, and your boy the professor is just the one to set it up. No one would suspect a fucking professor—not in a million years."

Il padrone would be very pleased if he was able to pull this off, thought Patsy. He would become a very important man in the organization, and people would listen to him.

* * * * *

As she sat in the dressing room preparing to show her body to another group of strange men, Maxine couldn't help but think of how different her life was now than when she was married to Kenny. Back then, the mere mention of a four-letter word caused her to blush. Now, her life was a four-letter word. Someday, when things got better, she'd find another job—a legitimate one—but right now she was going to do whatever she had to do to keep things afloat. You can take it, she kept telling herself. All you have to do is find a way to make a few extra bucks until Amanda gets off those treatments. After that, you can snuggle up to some guy in the crowd—one with a nice suit and a tall pile of bills on the table—and sooner or later one of them will offer you a job as his assistant, or his private secretary, or something. If she could live through the humiliation of the sex show, she could live through anything. That's how tough she was. She spread her top a little wider and spritzed some cologne into her cleavage. It was time to pull in some cash.

The crowd hadn't improved since her first set, but she noticed that Dandy Don had shown up. He was nursing a beer at one of the back tables. She smiled and gave him a little tease from the stage, and debated whether or not to be nice to him. He was usually good for a few bucks when she gave him some attention, and she considered swallowing her pride—which had never made a fucking dime for her—and making like the sex show had never happened. Speaking of money, she remembered that he'd said something about another opportunity. She decided to find out what it was.

"Hiya sweet cakes," he said when she went over after her set.

"Whatd'ya say, big man?" She played the role, touching, lingering, teasing him as if nothing had ever happened.

"Are you pissed at me?" he asked as he ordered a Pabst.

His antennae must have detected her underlying hostility. "I was, but I got over it when I realized I hadn't been fucked like that in years." She laughed. He didn't get it.

"You wanna do it again?" He took a slug of his beer and glanced at the stage where a new girl was performing for the first time.

Maxine looked at the girl, seeing the desperation on her face, and knew this would be her first and last night. "Another fraternity house?"

"Union hall this time. Just a bunch of guys lookin' for something different. You up for it? No playthings this time."

"Doesn't sound like my style. Got anything else?"

"If you can keep your mouth shut."

"What is it?"

"You interested in running a little weed?"

Nothing seemed to faze her anymore, and the thought of selling a little grass seemed harmless enough. "What's in it for me?" she asked first and foremost.

"You get ten bucks for every ounce you run, but you gotta get the money up front. Shit, you can probably get rid of a couple of pounds right here at the club. What are there, twenty, thirty girls here?"

He was right. The girls were always looking for a score. "How much stuff you got?"

"I got plenty. You get nailed by the cops, you're on your own. Got it?"

"Don't worry about me, big boy. I can smell a cop from across the room." She wasn't bluffing. "How much you asking?"

"Forty an ounce."

It only took an hour for Maxine to test the water. Five of the other girls dancing that night said they'd take an ounce, as did two of the waitresses. Two of the dancers also said their boyfriends might be interested. Maxine came out after her fourth set and handed Dandy Don a wad of bills.

He peeled seventy bucks from the roll and stuffed them into her top. "Nice doing business with you, sweet cakes. Call me when you need more." He handed her a matchbook with a number on it. "I'll be back tomorrow with the merchandise. Remember, pass it off quick. You don't want the stuff hanging around."

That night Maxine got three more orders—and the money—from some of the regulars. She'd made an extra hundred, just like that, and two or three nights a week like this would pay for Amanda's treatments. It was going to be easier than she thought, she thought.

* * * * *

The reading chair on the mezzanine of the Raleigh Library was his regular study spot. It had become his "office" of sorts, but despite the familiarity, Brownie was having a difficult time concentrating on the task at hand. The mezzanine overlooked the double-door entrance to the library, and his mind drifted between the book on his lap and the recent weekend with Jessica. He replayed it over and over again, remembering how the other guys had reacted. "You dog!" Fig had said when they were alone.

Slouched in his chair, he spotted Badge and L. Dean as they came through the doors. Badge looked up immediately to see if Brownie was in his office, and, seeing him, waved off to L. Dean. Brownie noticed that Badge's face was shaved and smooth when he came up to him a couple of minutes later.

"Did you know Jessica was on campus this weekend?" Badge asked, actually sounding happy he'd seen her. "She looked hot."

"I saw her around," Brownie answered, surprised to hear Badge describe his own cousin as hot.

"She likes you—a lot," Badge added.

"Did she tell you that?"

"Not in so many words, but I can tell. She asked a lot of questions about how you were doing." Badge took a seat on the floor, cross-legged. "Can I talk to you?"

Surprised, Brownie asked, "About what?" They'd hardly talked in over a month, and Brownie felt like they'd drifted apart. He'd already accepted it, and was moving on.

In hushed voice, Badge explained about the sex show, and Dandy Don, and Maxine, about how he'd gone to her apartment to check on her, about how he'd eaten lunch with her and her two little girls.

"You mean they were screwing right there on the floor? In front of you? What in the world made you decide to get in the middle of something like that?"

"I don't know," Badge answered. "But it just isn't right that she has to do something like that to support her kids. I just felt like someone had to help her out, or at least try to."

"Jesus Badge, you don't even know this woman. A stripper for God's sake—with two kids! Talk about crazy! I think you've been smoking too much dope."

* * * * *

There were thirty-four names on the list from Rahway. Over a third of them were back in jail, four were dead, a few were on parole, some were on welfare, and one was in a mental hospital. Surprisingly, several held down paying jobs, while five couldn't be located. One of them was Edward Giacomo Bartolo. Gravachevsky stared at his own report and knew something didn't smell right. He'd driven to the address that corresponded to Bartolo's phone number. It was a nice Cape Cod style house, in a nice middle-class neighborhood in Guilderland. He'd examined the lawns up and down the street, noting that the hedges were trimmed, and everything was neat, clean, and put away. It was obvious that the lawn in front of number 27 Trident Way hadn't been mowed in some time. He wasn't able to see into the two-car garage, but there was no car in the driveway. He saw where the rain had washed some dirt into a low spot at the end of the driveway, and noticed that it was dry and that there were no tire marks on it. He tried to remember the last time it rained. It had been over a week that he could remember. Also, the mailbox there was overflowing. Sticking out of it was a notice from the post office that mail delivery had been stopped, and the resident should go to the post office to claim it. The notice was dated October 14th. That was eight days ago.

* * * * *

He couldn't believe Maxine actually worked there. The particular girl on stage had to weigh close to two hundred pounds. Badge looked on as she wiggled clumsily in front of the freaky looking guy who kept feeding her garter. Watching, he felt sorry for both of them. But who was he to pass judgment? They did what they did of their own accord. It wasn't like his life where he had no such choices. The pressure on him was constant, and had been for as long as he could remember. "Be the best," his father and mother had said. "You're better than the other kids. You're a better athlete, you have better grades, you are going places. Why don't you go out with that nice Adams girl? She's going places too. She'd be a good one for you." Good one? One what? A trophy? Something to show off to the neighbors? Cars made good ones. Dogs made good ones. He wondered if he made a good one for his parents.

This was the third dancer, and he'd not yet seen Maxine. He wondered if she offered to do private shows like one of the dancers had with him a few minutes earlier. He didn't need to speculate too hard on what a private show was.

"Is Maxine working tonight?" he asked above the music.

"Maxine? Don't know anyone named Maxine," the waitress yelled back.

Then he remembered the stage name. "How about Brandy?"

"Brandy's off," she answered, snapping her gum. "Too bad. She's got a regular fan club in here tonight." She nodded toward the back row of tables.

* * * * *

Dandy Don recognized the kid four tables up when he turned around and looked at him. He'd seen him hanging around the frat house. He thought nothing further of it, as he had other things to worry about. He grabbed the brown paper bag next to him and drained his beer. He told the bitch he'd be here with the dope. Now, he'd wasted a trip. Fucking cunt.

CHAPTER 28 A Blanket of Ants

Could there be a bigger bitch anywhere in the world? Brownie thought. "I was wondering if I could speak to Professor Phelan."

Talking down to him, the secretary looked up at him through her bifocals. "I'm afraid the professor is in his Econ 301 class right now. And you are?"

Brownie figured he was annoying her in some way. "My name is Wallace Brown. Professor Phelan is my faculty advisor."

"And just why do you need to see the professor?"

"I'd like to talk to him about changing my major... and about something else." The part about the disciplinary probation was none of her business.

"The professor does maintain regular office hours, Mister Brown. Usually one makes an appointment to see him then."

"Sorry, I didn't know. I only wanted to ask him a couple of questions. It won't take long."

"Have a seat, Mister Brown. He should be in shortly."

Brownie said, "Thank you," and fell into the old leather sofa. He looked about the room and noticed the elaborate crown molding. Oak, he figured, proud that he could name the species of wood strictly from observation. He could always fall back on lumberyard work if everything else fell through. Right. It was definitely oak though, old oak, probably several decades old. He contemplated how many students had looked at that molding over those decades, and wondered if any of them had a problem picking their major.

The door burst open, distracting him from his daydream. He recognized the professor immediately: rusty hair, and a pipe clenched between his teeth. The professor held the door, and Stu Mosbacher walked through a second later.

Pointing to the sofa, Phelan said, "Have a seat Mister Mosbacher. I'll be right with you." He gave Brownie no acknowledgement. Turning behind a puff of smoke, he scooped up a handful of pink messages from the secretary's desk.

She nodded in Brownie's direction. "There's a Mister Brown to see you as well, Professor."

Phelan wheeled behind another puff of smoke and said, "Yes, Mister Brown?" He was every bit as pompous as his secretary.

"I'd like to talk to you about my major... You're my advisor," Brownie added, seeing that the professor had absolutely no recollection of who he was.

"Yes, well, ah, fine Mister Brown. I can see you for a few minutes right after I finish with Mister Mosbacher." He whirled behind yet another gray cloud and disappeared behind one of three huge walnut doors that were arranged in a semicircle off the secretarial office. The door closed with a heavy thud. Stu plopped down next to Brownie as the curtain of tobacco smoke floated away.

"Hiya Brownie," he said amicably, extending his palm and waiting for Brownie's soul slap. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to talk with the professor about that probation thing, and maybe about changing my major. I signed up for economics, but I'm not too sure about it. I might change it to English."

"They both suck," Stu said loudly. The secretary shifted in her chair and shook her head disapprovingly. For added measure, Stu held up his book from the Econ 301 class he'd just come from. "Thank God I'm almost done with this crap."

"Is the professor your advisor too?"

"No, I'm here to ask for an incomplete. There's no way I'm going to pass this course, and if I flunk there's no way I can play ball this year. I figure I'll pull out and take it again in the spring."

"Won't you have to make up the credits?"

"Yeah. I'll take an extra course next term. If I'm lucky, I'll find some gut I can skate through."

The secretary stirred again, obviously not enraptured with Mister Mosbacher's attitude. She stood and pulled on a heavy cardigan, then pressed a button on the intercom.

"It's 4:30 Professor Phelan. Do you need anything before I go?"

His voice coming from the little box, Phelan said, "No, you go ahead, Mrs. Keefer. I'll see you tomorrow. Would you tell Mister Mosbacher I'll be with him after I make this last phone call?"

She turned, but Stu held up a hand indicating he'd heard the intercom, and said, "Good night Mrs. Keefer." She shot him a look and gathered her things, and before long the sound of her heels on the wood floor faded to nothing.

Inside his office, Phelan called the number on the message note, not recognizing it. He waited through five or six rings, and someone picked up just as he was about to hang up.

"Sigma," the voice said brusquely.

"I'm sorry," Phelan responded, not expecting the greeting. "Who is this again?"

Brownie and Stu heard the professor's voice clearly through the intercom. Mrs. Keefer must have forgotten to turn it off.

"Sigma Tau Delta," the voice said. "Who you wanna talk to?"

Phelan still didn't get it. Again, his voice crackled through the intercom. "You mean the fraternity house?"

Brownie looked at Stu, and shrugged.

"Yeah, Sigma Tau Delta," the voice said again. "You wanna talk to somebody, or what?"

Sigma Tau Delta: a moment passed before Phelan made the connection, realizing it would indeed be better to talk in the privacy of his own office rather than have the fat son of a bitch call him at home.

"Let me talk to Dandy Don," Phelan's voice said from the intercom.

The name stung Brownie's ears. He remembered it distinctly. From what Badge had said, Dandy Don was the pimp who'd recruited Maxine to do the sex show.

Coming on the line, "Yeah," Dandy Don said gruffly.

"This is Professor Phelan. What the hell do you want this time?"

Brownie looked at Stu in disbelief.

"This time?" Stu mouthed silently, as if his words would be heard through the door.

"I got a little job for you."

"Listen, you bastard, I'm not running any more dope for you." Phelan made no attempt to keep his voice down, having no reason to think he had to. "I've more than paid you back."

Brownie tiptoed across the creaky floor and peeked into the other two offices off the reception area. They were empty. He tiptoed back to Mrs. Keefer's desk and looked at the intercom, dumbfounded. He'd just heard the professor admit to running drugs for this Dandy Don person. Unbelievable.

"You'll be done paying me back when I fuckin' say so. If it wasn't for me, those two little twats would have nailed your ass and you'd be fucked... no wife, no job, no inheritance, no nothing. So don't wise off at me, you prick, or I'll be the one you gotta worry about instead of some pregnant jailbait pussy. You got that asshole?"

"Fuck you," Phelan cried into the phone. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!" The twitching began.

"Listen, pansy-ass, all you gotta do is get some information. And stop your fuckin' bawling, you fuckin' wimp."

Sucking up some mucus, "What kind of information?" Phelan asked, his voice quivering.

"The college still sends kids to Bogota as part of its student exchange program... right?"

"Yes."

"And you're still the chairman of the Foreign Committee, right?"

"That's the Committee on Foreign Studies."

"Whatever. I want you to find out three things. First, I want the dates when the students go to Bogota next. Second, I want to know if they fly commercial or charter. Third, I want to know how we can arrange for someone to be one of the incoming students, if you know what I mean."

"They fly commercial," Phelan's voice said from the intercom. Brownie and Stu looked at each other again, neither of them following the drift of the conversation.

"Then change it. Have the school charter a plane."

"Why? And how the hell am I going to do that?"

"That's your problem, teach. Just fuckin' do it. Get back to me in a couple of days." Abruptly, the line went dead.

"Hello, hello?" Phelan's voice said from the intercom.

Brownie threw a thumb over his shoulder. "Let's get the hell out of here!" They were down the stairs in a flash.

Phelan put his head on his desk, thinking his life was over. He caught something out of the corner of his eye and glanced up to see the red ON light on the intercom. He'd forgotten to turn it off. Flipping the OFF switch, he remembered that Mrs. Keefer's intercom had to be turned on as well in order for his voice to be heard in the outer office. He stood and straightened himself up as best he could, then walked over and opened his office door, surprised to see neither of the two students who'd been waiting for him. He hadn't kept them waiting that long, he thought as he looked at the clock on Mrs. Keefer's desk. That's when he noticed that the little red light on her intercom was also set to ON.

Outside, Brownie and Stu made tracks.

"Do you believe that?" Brownie asked.

Yes sir, someone had the professor by the short hairs, and was pulling pretty hard. "Probably nothing we should get caught up in," Stu responded. "I got enough problems with this guy and this damn Econ class." He hoped Brownie would take the hint.

"You're probably right. Still, I just can't believe what we just heard, can you?"

Purposely ignoring the question, Stu said, "Shit. I left my notebook back there and I gotta have it to study for midterms. I'll catch up with you later, man." Shaking Brownie's hand, he turned and headed back to Phelan's office.

* * * * *

"Why are you bothering me?" Maxine asked.

"I just came in to see if you were all right," Badge answered, expecting some gratitude. Her eyes were glistening, and he wanted to believe that, somehow, down deep, they were both kindred spirits that had become tangled in some common web.

"I don't like you being here," she fired back. "It's hard enough doing what I do in front of strangers, and I don't need you giving me a guilt trip."

"It didn't look too hard to me," he sneered. "Looks to me like you kind of enjoyed it."

"What the hell do you care? I make more money if I smile, and these guys like to be smiled at. God knows it's probably the only place they get any appreciation."

"Oh, so you're a social worker. Just therapy for the unappreciated masses; is that it?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"Yeah, and I suppose you give them a little more appreciation in the back room," he said loudly enough to be heard over the music. A couple of the other patrons looked over.

"If I did, it wouldn't be any goddamned business of yours."

"Don't you have any self-respect?"

"What the hell would you know about self-respect? I have two daughters. Who the hell is going to take care of them besides me? You've got some fucking nerve coming in here and acting all sanctimonious on me." She got up, knocking her chair over. "I've got another set to do. Why don't you come up front and get a good seat. I'll spread it nice and pink for you, okay? It'll only cost you a buck."

Badge watched as she took the stage. There was nothing left to any imagination in the room by the time the first song was over. Dandy Don walked through the entrance halfway through her set, and she smiled widely at him. She even blew a kiss as he passed the stage. He didn't look amused.

She reappeared after her set with her makeup sharpened and blonde hair brushed, decked out in a revealing little outfit. Badge sat there as she ignored him completely. Her cheap perfume penetrated the air as she walked by, and she joined Dandy Don on the bench seat against the back wall.

Dandy Don slurped his beer and said, "Where the fuck were you last night?"

"I was off."

"I was here with your fuckin' stuff."

"Take a pill, okay? What's the big deal?"

"The big deal, sweet cakes, is that I've got another deal and I told the customer you'd meet him tonight."

"I can't meet him tonight. I'm working 'til two," she said, taking Dandy Don's hand off her leg.

"Too late. I already made the appointment. Besides, you'll do it."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because it's worth two hundred bucks."

She paused. "What do I have to do?"

"In here," said Dandy Don, pointing to a large paper grocery bag, "there's the seven ounces from the other night, and another pound that has to be delivered tonight. All you gotta do is drop it off, bring me the rest of the money he owes me, and the two hundred is yours. You want the deal, or not?"

"Where?"

"Here's the address and the phone number. Call before you go so that they know you're coming. Tell the guy you've got his shipment. He'll know what you mean. Before midnight, okay?"

"I told you, I work 'til two."

"So take an hour off, sweet cakes. Is it worth two hundred to you?"

She looked at the address on the slip of paper. It was only fifteen minutes away, tops. She could do it between sets. She snatched the paper and said, "Just this one time. I don't like dealing with people I don't know. You have to put the bag in my car," she insisted.

"Anything for you, sweet cakes. Gimme your keys."

Three guys in Navy uniforms fed bills to the dancer on stage with their teeth. Huddled over his beer, Badge watched as Maxine disappeared and came back out, handing Dandy Don some keys. She said something in his ear and stayed at the table while he grabbed the bag sitting next to him and left the bar. He returned a minute later without the bag, slid a bill into her G-string, then left again. She strutted over to the longhaired troll behind the bar, and every head she passed turned to get a look at her ass. The troll vigorously shook his head no in response to whatever she'd said, and after about a minute of pleading, she walked away in a huff as he gave her one final no with a combination of gestures. Badge took one last pull on his beer and figured it was time to go.

"Hey, college boy!" Maxine called out as he got up. She marched toward him, breasts quivering beneath her costume. "You wanna make some money?"

"I'll give you the fifty when you come back with the money," she said after a minute of conversation.

"I don't want your money," Badge said.

"Fine. I'll keep it. You gonna help me out, or what?" She held the keys out for him. "Please," she added.

Badge took the keys and left.

She went to the dressing room to prepare for her next set, thinking the manager's refusal to let her leave may have been a blessing in disguise. She could still make her tip money while the college kid went out and did the dirty work. Just think of the girls, she said to herself as the guilt began to crawl over her like a blanket of ants.

CHAPTER 29 Good Guys Finish Last

The shadow moved across his desk and covered what was left of his sandwich. Head down, Gravachevsky guessed it was McQuade again, there to bug him for the hundredth time that week about taking on another partner. Prepared to say, "No thanks," again, Gravachevsky looked up and was pleased to see Nat standing there, trying to smile despite his wired jaw. "I thought the doctor said you'd be out for at least three more weeks."

Nat held his middle finger toward the ceiling.

"Fuck the doctor?" Gravachevsky guessed. Nat looked like he'd dropped about fifteen pounds.

"Right," Nat signaled with the fingers sticking out of his cast.

Gravachevsky picked up his sandwich and said, "You want a bite?" This time, Nat's middle finger was aimed at him. They both laughed. Gravachevsky took a bite and said, "McQuade wants me to take on another partner."

Nat signaled for something to write on. "Not on my case," he wrote, barely able to scratch out the words. He scratched some more. "Anything new?"

"Well," Gravachevsky began, "somehow a professor from the college is tangled up in this. You remember the white Peugeot?" Nat nodded. "Turns out it belongs to a professor named Bernard Phelan."

Nat scratched out, "He was mine!" on the paper.

Searching Nat's eyes, "He was yours... your what?" Gravachevsky asked. "Your professor? In your class?"

Nat nodded vigorously.

Pondering, Gravachevsky said, "Isn't that interesting? Do you think there's any chance you were made?"

Nat shrugged.

"If you were, it could explain why the professor was at the cook's house that night. Maybe he was tipping the cook off that we were getting too close."

Nat scratched some more. "Why would a college professor be selling drugs? For the money?"

"I know; it makes no sense. A professor wouldn't do anything like that unless he had to." They looked at each other at the same time. "Do you think he had to?"

Nat scratched, "Maybe," onto the pad.

"How are you feeling?" Gravachevsky asked slyly.

"FINE," Nat scratched in big letters.

"Fine enough to tail this professor? Remember, he's knows your face from the class."

Nat waved away any concern and scratched out, "I need an automatic." Gravachevsky thought he meant a weapon, but realized he meant a car when Nat pretended to be holding a steering wheel.

* * * * *

Sweating despite the brisk air of this last Sunday morning in October, Dandy Don felt the cold as he rolled into the dark, oily area of the mattress on which he slept every night. His head hurt, and the light made it worse. Irritated, he got up and adjusted the bed sheet that served as a curtain, then plodded into the bathroom to take a piss. There was no reason for him to get up now, or any time the entire day, he thought as he climbed back onto the filthy mattress.

He closed his eyes and dreamt of the new black girl he'd seen at the club the night before. Normally he didn't like black girls, but this one was different. Her hair was smooth, like a white girl's hair, and Mother Nature had certainly been good to her. She was a combination of hard muscle and firm, glowing flesh, and lots of it. He'd probably given her fifty bucks, he remembered, but what the hell. All the money from the stash he'd wangled was free and clear. He was rolling in dough. He remembered that his other little plaything didn't seem too pleased, but she really didn't have anything to complain about. He'd fixed her up real good too. With what she'd sold at the club, plus the two big scores she'd run the last couple of nights, she'd raked in another five hundred bucks this week. He figured maybe she should give him some courtesy time in the back room pretty soon.

He rolled over, hoping that maybe he'd dream about the black girl and Brandy doing it to him at the same time, but a knock on the door interrupted his beauty sleep. Ignoring it, he hoped that whoever it was would go away, but the knocking got louder and more insistent. Finally, he rolled off the greasy mattress, striding through the litter and grit on his living room floor. Seeing the professor at the window, he mumbled, "Jesus fucking Christ. What now?"

Phelan slipped past, not waiting for an invitation to come in. "We need to talk... now!"

Making no attempt to cover the rolls of fat hanging off him, Dandy Don scratched his balls and said, "What the hell's got you all wound up?"

"They know!"

"Slow down, pinhead. Who knows, and what?" Trying to seem unconcerned, Dandy Don walked into the kitchen and came back with a beer, but Phelan's words rang volumes.

"The students... they know! They know I've been moving dope for you."

Dandy Don looked up over the can. "And how do you know that?"

"Because one of them is trying to blackmail me... that's how!"

"Relax, for Christ's sake, and stop that fuckin' twitching. Now, take it real slow, sit down, and tell me exactly what the fuck you're talking about."

"You remember the phone conversation we had Thursday, the one about chartering a plane?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Someone who was waiting to see me in my office heard the whole thing—one of my students."

"How do you know?"

"Because he told me, and said if I didn't give him a passing grade he'd find a way to let other people know. Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah, it means you're one dumb motherfucker. How the fuck could he have heard that conversation?"

Hanging his head, Phelan said, "Through the intercom. My secretary left it on."

"And what exactly does he know?"

"He knows I've been running dope for you. Isn't that enough?"

Dandy Don slurped his morning beer and took a moment to think. "So what's the big fuckin' deal? Just give him a passing grade. Nothing's happened yet."

Phelan's eyes glistened. "I want out. I want out now!"

"Take it easy, chicken neck. You're not getting out of this so easy." He slurped some more beer. "Who's the kid?"

Not answering, Phelan pulled his Llama .32 automatic out of his jacket pocket and pointed it straight at Dandy Don's head.

Dandy Don stopped in mid slurp. Slowly, he put the beer down and looked directly into Phelan's eyes. They weren't even looking at him. They were focused somewhere past him, in the direction of the windows. In an instant, before Phelan even realized it, he grabbed the automatic and put it against Phelan's forehead and cocked the hammer. "You spineless little worm. You think you can scare me with this fuckin' peashooter? I ought to...." He stopped. The professor just sat there, waiting, tears rolling down his cheeks. "That's what you want, isn't it teach? You want me to put one between your eyes, don't you?" Again, Phelan's eyes darted to the windows. Dandy Don turned, seeing nothing but a few darting shadows from the trees. "What are you looking at, teach?" When Phelan didn't answer, he lashed out and slapped him across the face. "What a fuckin' gutless piece of shit," he snarled as Phelan collapsed into a sobbing mass. "Now, who's the kid? I ain't gonna ask you again."

"Stu Mosbacher," Phelan sobbed.

"The baseball player?"

Phelan nodded.

* * * * *

Thinking about the two midterms he'd just taken, Brownie moved down the line and examined the offerings behind the cafeteria glass. Everything on the steam table looked as gray as he felt. He thought about how different the midterms had been compared to the tests he'd taken in high school. Those little blue books were deceiving, and he had no idea how much he'd written.

He stayed away from the liver and onions and settled on the meatball sub, which looked less ominous. Spotting Fig and the future Doctor Shapiro, he decided to join them. He noticed that some of the guys were studying while they ate. Now that was hardcore dedication. Either that, or they didn't know the material. Too late.

"How'd it go?" Fig asked.

"I guess it went okay," Brownie answered. "How about you Doc?"

"I have no idea," the future Doctor Shapiro replied. "I just threw a bunch up against the wall and hoped enough of it would stick."

Brownie bit into a rock-hard meatball and dropped the sandwich on his plate. He pushed it away, too nervous to really have an appetite. In the distance, he noticed Badge getting up from one table and moving to another where the LonGIsland twins were seated. A few minutes later he moved again to yet another table where L. Dean was sitting with some of his monogrammed preppy friends. It wasn't long before Badge sat down and leaned into the middle of their table. "Any of you guys wanna buy some shit?"

No one responded until, for clarification, Fig asked, "You mean grass?"

"Yeah," Badge whispered, like no one in the cafeteria knew what he was doing by now. "You guys want some? I know where I can get it."

Brownie looked at Badge and wondered what the hell he was doing with his life. Somehow the progression into selling pot didn't surprise him.

"No thanks," the future Doctor Shapiro replied.

Brownie just sat there.

"If you know anybody who's looking, tell 'em I can get some pretty quick... okay?" said Badge.

"Yeah, sure," they all mumbled as Badge got up and made his way to another table.

"Where do you think he's getting it?" Fig asked.

Holding up his hand, Brownie said, "I don't even want to think about it."

Later, as he gathered his books for the regular trek to his library office, Brownie couldn't help but brood over whether he should say something to Jessica, or his parents, or Badge's parents—anyone—convinced that Badge had lost all proper judgment. Then, he thought: it was none of his business. Yet it was his business; they were friends, or at least they had been, and walking away from that friendship without at least telling Badge what he thought wouldn't be right. If Badge told him to screw off, well then so be it. At least his own conscience would be clear.

He took a quick detour, knocked on the door to Badge's dorm room, and walked right in. "Are you determined to fuck up your life on purpose, or do you just have an extreme case of head-up-your-ass?"

"It's not what you think."

"Oh really. You seem to know just about everything, so why don't you go ahead and tell me what I think?"

"You think I've turned into some freaked out dickhead with a death wish; that's what you think."

"Actually," said Brownie, "that's it exactly."

"Well, it isn't. I'm not."

"Hey, if it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck—"

"I told you," Badge lashed out, "it's not what you think."

"Then why don't you explain what the hell you were doing in the cafeteria?"

"I don't owe you any explanations."

"Oh, you don't? Who hauled your ass through the rain and the mud when you loaded up on that bad acid at Woodstock, huh? Who got his face kicked in by that big jackass you've been hanging around with, while you almost died from alcohol poisoning? Who's on disciplinary probation because of you? Who's been your best friend your whole life—the same friend who's kept his mouth shut while you've gone to the verge of throwing away everything you've worked for your whole life?"

"This is not what I've worked for my whole life. I'm only here because my parents and my teachers, and everyone else think this is what I should do. I really don't give a shit about any of this. I'm just wasting time here."

"I see," Brownie said sarcastically. "So you're aspiring to be a dope dealer, and to go out with strippers? Give me a king-size break, Badge! I can accept the fact that you may not want to be at this school, but don't hand me this persecution bullshit. You want to do something different, fine. But you gotta do better than this. You could end up in jail!" He was pleading and preaching at the same time.

"It's my life."

"Listen to reason, for Christ's sake."

"You've always been the voice of reason, haven't you? You've always been Mister Sensible—never did anything wrong, never had any doubts. You've always wanted what your parents wanted. It's been easy for you."

"And I'm on the verge of losing it all because of you! And my parents have nothing to do with what I want. I'm here because I want to be here—no other reason." The essence of the argument started to crystallize, and Brownie changed his tone. "Why did you come to Alliance?"

"I told you, I'm only here because of my parents."

"Have you ever talked to them about it? What is this, your own little rebellion, your way of getting back at them by hanging out with some sleazebag and selling dope? That's pretty fucking selfish, don't you think? Like it or not, you're part of their lives, Badge. Don't you think you owe them the courtesy of explaining the way you feel?" He was getting louder and angrier as the conversation went on.

"She's not a sleazebag! And it's my life, so why don't you butt the fuck out!"

Brownie picked up his books and stormed toward the door. "Hey, no sweat off my back! No sweat at all!"

"She needs the money for her kids!" Badge called out, but the words were lost in the noise of the slamming door. Badge sat there looking at it for a long time, thinking it a fitting punctuation to the conversation, and perhaps his life.

* * * * *

At 2:40 in the morning, bleary-eyed, Badge looked up at the police detective who'd asked him the same question five times in the last ten minutes.

"Now, tell me again. What's your connection to Mister Jenkins?"

"I already told you," Badge said, "I don't even know him. I was just doing a favor for someone."

"A favor? This is the third favor we've watched you pull off this week, son, and you're in some pretty deep shit. Tell me who your connection is and maybe we can make a deal."

"I... I can't."

"It's either that, or you're taking gas on this." The detective looked across the table. "Any news on Jenkins' whereabouts?"

"I wouldn't count on him turning up anytime soon," a second detective named Delaney answered.

"Tell me again about how they slipped through," the first detective said sarcastically. "Just ran away through all the back yards, eh Delaney?"

Delaney just looked at his shoes, not answering.

The first detective motioned toward a uniformed officer. "Okay Murph, take him. Make sure he gets his phone call."

CHAPTER 30 Good Intentions

"Dandy Don! Phone!"

"Be right there," Dandy Don yelled back, wiping the grease off his hands. He found the receiver dangling from its cord.

"Yeah."

"Jenkins here."

"Hey man, you calling for another shipment already? Business must be good."

"No, not that. Listen, you gotta lie low for a while, man."

"What are you talking about, Jenkins?"

"The fuzz, man. The fuzz was there last night, and they got your delivery boy."

Dandy Don took a second. "What delivery boy?"

"The same fuckin' delivery boy you been sending all along, shit-for-brains."

"I've been sending one of the bitches from the club."

"Listen, all I know is the fuzz busted him at my front door last night. I barely squeaked out, man. You best lie low, y'hear." Jenkins hung up.

It was just barely dark when Dandy Don blasted through the doors of the Bamboo Club. He grabbed the first waitress he saw. "Where's the blonde bitch... Brandy?"

"Off tonight, honey."

He squeezed her arm harder. "How do I get hold of her?"

"It's not my day to watch her. Now let go."

"I need to get in touch with her, now!"

"Hey, fuck off!" the waitress screamed, trying to wrench free.

There was no bouncer on duty yet, and the longhaired troll behind the bar came over when he saw the commotion. Dandy Don grabbed him by the shirt and put his foul green teeth up against the troll's foul green teeth. "You got Brandy's address and phone number?" His hand moved from the shirt to the troll's neck, squeezing until his eyes bugged out. "I want it now!"

The troll wasn't about to argue. He led Dandy Don to a room the size of a closet, which contained a desk and a file cabinet. His mission complete, Dandy Don blasted his way back through the bar, knocking over a table and two chairs on his way out.

The apartment wasn't hard to find. He pounded furiously, not hearing Mrs. Lasky's door crack open across the hall. The door swung open and he stepped back, surprised to see little Jennifer standing there. He half expected to see a guy—whose face he was prepared to pound into hamburger. "Where's the blonde bitch?" he demanded, his mouth foaming.

Instantly terrified, Jennifer stepped back as Maxine came to the door. "It's okay honey. It's for Mommy." She gently urged Jennifer back into the apartment and stepped into the hall. Eyes blazing, she turned while Mrs. Lasky listened from across the hall.

"How dare you! What the hell are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" he taunted. "I'm here because your boyfriend's in jail, that's why. And let me make something perfectly clear, sweet cakes. If I go down, you go down. No, better yet, if I go down, I'll make sure that the little sweetheart who answered the door is taken care of. Do I make myself clear?"

Maxine slapped his fleshy face before she realized it happened. "If you so much as get near my children I'll cut your eyes out!" She slapped him again before he had a chance to react.

Manhandling her, Dandy Don shouted, "You hit me again, you cunt, and you'll be giving gum jobs instead of blow jobs in the back room of that club. You tell that boyfriend of yours if he so much as squeaks about our little arrangement, you or that little honey of yours might cross the street at the wrong time. Comprende?"

Mrs. Lasky said a little prayer when the fat man stomped down the hall. Poor Maxine. She always seemed to lose, no matter how she played the game.

* * * * *

Gravachevsky took one look and said, "You look like shit," when McQuade walked in. He and Nat were discussing the results of Nat's surveillance, specifically that once again Professor Phelan had gone to the fat cook's house at 226 Howser Street, this time on a Sunday morning.

McQuade sipped his third coffee of the morning and said, "You'd look like this too after thirty-six hours straight. Happens every damn time I'm supposed to get off midnights. Somebody makes a late collar and keeps me here for fucking ever. You and Hinshaw might be interested in this one."

"What d'ya got?" Gravachevsky asked as Nat looked on.

"Do you remember how we had the new guy Boudreau stake out the Jenkins place?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Him and Delaney moved in last night."

"Did they get Jenkins?"

"Jenkins bolted. Left Delaney holding his balls, but Boudreau collared the kid who was making the delivery. There was a pound cube in a shopping bag, but the kid won't roll on the supplier."

"Why not?"

"Don't know," McQuade said through a huge yawn, "but he won't."

"Why would we be interested in that?

"The kid says he's from the college."

Gravachevsky and Nat sprang to attention. "What's his name?"

McQuade pulled a file off his desk. "It's a Mark Badger. He's still in holding." McQuade sipped some more coffee and turned to put the file back on the desk. By the time he turned back, Gravachevsky and Hinshaw were already gone.

* * * * *

Badge watched as Maxine cried fitfully into her tissue. Amanda was squirming all over the place, and Maxine showed all the patience only a mother could show.

"First," she sobbed, "he said he'd hurt me if you said anything, then he threatened to hurt Jennifer." Her strength drained with each tear.

Badge gripped the wire mesh. "Don't worry. I wouldn't say anything to hurt you or the girls. How'd he find out?"

Maxine shook her head and looked at him. Like it or not, their lives, and the lives of her children, were intertwined. "Thanks," was all she said. She got up, sniffling. Their eyes met briefly, and she left.

One of the officers led Badge back to the little room where they'd questioned him until three in the morning. There were two new cops in there, and Badge sat with his head down, waiting for one of them to start talking. There was no sound until one of them tore a piece of paper off a notepad and slid it across the table.

"Hi Badge, remember me?" the note said.

Badge looked up. "Nat? What are you doing here?"

"I'm a cop," Nat wrote on his notepad.

"You're a cop? You can't be a cop. Why can't you talk?"

"His jaw is wired," Gravachevsky answered. "Where'd you get the stuff, kid?"

Confused, Badge looked at the ceiling. "I already told you guys a hundred times, I can't tell you that."

Gravachevsky pressed on. "Does the name Dandy Don ring a bell?"

"I don't know any Dandy Don."

Nat tapped Gravachevsky on the shoulder and wrote something on the note pad. "Yes you do," Gravachevsky countered. "How does he fit into this?"

"I'll say it again: I don't know any Dandy Don."

"Look at me," Gravachevsky ordered.

Badge looked up, the lie written all over his face like the words on Nat's notepad.

"That your old lady who just left here with the baby?"

"She's just a friend."

"That your kid?"

"No," Badge answered, avoiding eye contact.

"Does she have anything to do with this?"

"No! I told you, she's just a friend."

Gravachevsky took a shot. "Does the name Bernard Phelan mean anything to you?"

"Never heard it before."

They'd be there another two-and-a-half hours, covering the same ground over and over again, but the kid didn't budge. Outside, on their way to lunch, Nat spotted Brownie crossing the street some twenty yards away. He looked at Gravachevsky and indicated he'd meet him back at the station at one o'clock. It was just as well. He really didn't want to watch Gravachevsky scarf down a fat cheeseburger while he sucked up a satisfying serving of applesauce. Walking fast, he caught up to Brownie and tapped him on the shoulder.

Brownie turned. "Nat? What are you doing here?"

* * * * *

Patsy Salvano was drinking an espresso in the back of the Napoli Importing Company when the phone rang.

Another thug answered and said, "Answering service... Yeah, he'll call you back. What's your number?" He put the phone to his chest and said, "It's the fat guy. He says he's got trouble with the professor."

Patsy took the phone. "What's up with the professor, lard ass?" He listened closely as Dandy Don relayed the details of Phelan's Sunday visit. "So how'd this ballplayer find out we had the professor by the balls?"

"I don't know how," Dandy Don lied. "He just did."

That night, at the Inferno Steak House, Pietro Dal Maso listened intently as he cut into a two-inch filet. Paulo Salinas poured himself another glass of wine while Patsy finished talking.

"We need the professor," said Il padrone. "He's the key to having everything in place so our people can stuff the pipeline."

"When did d'you say de studen' eschange thing happen?" Salinas inquired.

Patsy answered, "Middle of January, according to the professor."

"Es jus' abou' de right time," said Salinas. "We can get fifty, maybe sixty kilos on de plane by den. But es goin' to take us dat long to get people in place at de airport."

"We need that professor to arrange the charters with Air Colombia," said Il padrone. "This could ruin everything. Do you think he'll fold up, Mister Salvano?"

"Don't think so," Patsy replied, hoping he was right. "Fatso seems to be able to pull his strings pretty easy."

"Let's go forward then. Just make sure this ballplayer keeps his mouth shut."

"You want it shut permanently?"

Seemingly unconcerned, "That's up to you," Dal Maso responded, "but I want him out of the picture long enough to get the charters set up. After that, who gives a shit what happens to any of them." Il padrone turned to Paulo and clinked glasses in a salute to the dollar signs dancing in their heads.

CHAPTER 31 The Long Black Caddy

Brownie looked up from his book and stared blankly at the wall. With one more midterm to go, he knew that if he wasn't ready by now, studying for another hour wouldn't make any difference. His dad had a favorite saying that always seemed to put things in perspective: Twenty years from now, this won't seem important, and certainly the crap he was reading wouldn't be important ten minutes after the midterm. He switched gears and tried to think of a way to hook a ride North. With any luck, he might be able to see Jessica tonight. If there was anything or anyone that would be important twenty years from now, it just might be her. He sat in his library office at midmorning, trying to untangle the countless thoughts scooting about inside his head.

One of them was whether or not he should tell Jessica about Badge. He struggled further with the issue of whether to talk to his own parents, despite the fact that Badge had begged him not to. "Why?" he'd asked in disbelief. "Someone is going to have to come up with bail money. Isn't that how it works? And what about the girl?" he asked, referring to Maxine. "Don't you think she should do something?"

"Like what?" Badge shot angrily. "Like squeal? Who's going to protect her then? And what about the kids?"

"Well, how about a lawyer? Aren't you going to need a lawyer?" He'd tried to make two things clear. First, there was no way Badge was going to get out of this mess without someone's help. Second, Badge needed to think about himself first. "What about your midterms?" he'd questioned, but Badge had no notion about his midterms, or, perhaps, the rest of his life.

On the one hand, Brownie thought: screw it; it's his life. On the other hand, he thought further, he should do whatever he thought was best, even if it cost him their friendship. It was on the brink of destruction anyway. He recalled more of his father's advice, this piece from only a month earlier: Listen son, sometimes there's a fine line between loyalty and stupidity. Don't let yourself get trapped. You've got to look out for yourself. His loyalty to Badge had already trapped him once, having rewarded him with disciplinary probation for his trouble, and almost destroying his dream of playing ball at Alliance before he'd even had the chance to try. Not only that, his 2-S deferment would be gone if he got kicked out of school, and then what? It was Vietnam, here I come, he figured. His father had a way of putting things simply, and as such sometimes the solution seemed simple too. It was simple, he finally determined, and Badge didn't get it.

Brownie slammed his book shut. Fuck it. He was as ready as he was going to be. Bring on that damned midterm. When it was over, he'd get in a good workout and call Jessica. He'd get to Saratoga somehow.

* * * * *

Studying hard wasn't his gig, but he did it anyway, despite the fact that he didn't need to—now.

"I'll do anything you want," Phelan had said, almost groveling at his feet. "Just don't tell anyone what you heard, please! I'll give you an A in the course if you want."

Not knowing what to make of Phelan's sudden twitching, Stu said, "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Professor. I just came to talk to you about getting an incomplete."

"I know you heard it," Phelan cried. "You're here to ruin me, aren't you? You and that other kid. Is he part of your plan too? You want something from me, all right, just like everyone else does. What is it, Mister Mosbacher?"

The man was oozing with paranoia. "Brownie left before it happened. I was alone. He didn't hear any of it." There was no sense in revealing otherwise.

"So, you did hear something!"

Stu had trapped himself. He thought it best that perhaps he should, like, leave. "Listen, I can't afford to get an F right now, not if I want to play ball this year. I came to talk to you about taking an incomplete, or maybe doing some makeup work or something. What you talked about on the phone with Dan..." He stopped himself just in time, "...is really none of my business." Tears tracked down the man's face.

"Oh, I get it. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Is that how you want to play the game, Mister Mosbacher?"

Stu hadn't intimated anything of the sort.

"You win, Mister Mosbacher. You need not worry about your grade, Mister Big Man On Campus, Mister Night Train! Your little blackmail scheme is going to pay off! You can take your midterm, and you can be assured that your answers will be interpreted with the widest possible latitude. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

The man was seeing ghosts. Stu got up to leave. "Maybe I should come back another time."

"Sure you will. And you'll be back again after that, and again, and again, until you've sucked the blood from my veins—just like my wife, just like Stallings! Well, Mister Mosbacher, this is the first and last time. You'll get no more out of Bernard Phelan. This is the last favor you'll get from me, Mister Mosbacher! The last, do you hear!"

The guy was nuts, Stu thought as he'd hustled out of the office, but he couldn't help but smile. Now, a week later, he smiled again at the fact that, inconceivably, the whole thing had somehow come down in his favor. He closed his book, ready to take the afternoon exam. He wanted to pass the midterm on his own, but the thought of Phelan reviewing his answers with the widest possible latitude was certainly comforting. He couldn't have planned it any better if he tried. The weekend was going to start early.

* * * * *

Brownie pulled his Alliance windbreaker tight, thankful that he'd thought of wearing a sweater as well as a flannel shirt. Still, the damp, cold air cut right through. He wore Jessica's Yankees hat—the one she'd worn at Homecoming, and forgotten. He pulled it down to shield his face from the spitting mist, and stuck out his thumb as a car passed. The only thing that kept him warm was the heartburn from the mystery meat he'd eaten at dinner. That, and the comment he'd heard on the phone earlier: She says you're cute. It made him feel good.

After getting back to his room after his workout, he'd looked into his change jar and saw that he had just enough for one call to Vandermont. He deposited the required coins into the pay phone in the hallway, and waited. Someone picked up on the second ring.

"Jessica Badger, please," he'd said politely.

"Hold on." The same voice came back after a minute. "Sorry, she's not in her room. Can I leave a message for you?"

That was kind. "Yes, please. Could you tell her to meet Brownie at The Hub at nine o'clock?"

"Okay, sure. Are you Homecoming Brownie, from Alliance?"

He was caught off guard. "I guess so," he stammered.

"She says you're cute," the girl had said. "I'll leave the message. Bye-bye Brownie."

Hitching a ride was proving difficult. There wasn't much traffic on Route 50 on such a miserable night, and he could tell it was difficult for drivers to see him. Surely, he thought, someone from Alliance would be going North.

* * * * *

Stu checked his wallet. Money was okay. He checked the foil package on the Trojan he carried. It had been there so long that it formed an outline into the leather. How adolescent, he thought, and he chucked the Trojan. Girls took the pill nowadays, and besides, Lady Luck was looking down on him. The exam wasn't half as bad as it could have been, and he was pretty sure he'd managed to pass it on his own—barely maybe, but that was good enough. He'd even convinced Moscow Dan to let him borrow his wheels. Ah, the sweet smell of mold and damp cigarette smoke, Stu thought as he kicked some beer cans out of the way. Moscow Dan's car was a nine-year-old, piece-of-shit Rambler Ambassador, and the rattletrap coughed smoke all over the place. A car was a car, however, and all that mattered was that it made it to Saratoga and back.

* * * * *

Jessica looked at her watch: 9:45 and no sign of Brownie. It was pretty nasty out; maybe he had trouble getting a ride. She was looking forward to seeing him though, and she'd made sure she looked good for the occasion: hair washed, a little lipstick—the frosty kind—and a tight sweater. That would keep his attention.

At five minutes to ten, she saw him making his way through the sparse crowd inside The Hub. She ran and planted herself in front of him, fixing a welcoming smile on her face. He didn't react at all the way she'd expected. Her smile disappeared when he took off the Yankees hat and took her by the shoulders. It was no sweetheart's greeting.

"Badge is in jail," he said soberly. They sat. Brownie ordered a couple of beers and proceeded to tell her about Maxine, the live stag show, and all the prurient details that went along with it. Jessica listened with a confused, unbelieving dullness about her.

* * * * *

Stu wiped the wet windshield with the back of his hand, smearing it and making it even harder to see. The radio was cranked to WTRY, and he snapped his fingers to Blood, Sweat, and Tears. He loved that group. The road was curvy as a rattlesnake, and he watched it carefully as one of the headlights on the piece-of-shit Rambler pointed into the stratosphere. Even the obvious things didn't become so until he was almost past them. Two things were obvious, however, those being the high beams in his rearview, which looked to be about an inch off his tail. He noticed the broken single line in the road, which meant he was in a passing zone, and he let up on the accelerator.

"Fucking asshole," he said aloud when the other driver didn't catch on. Suddenly, the high beams vanished from the rearview, and he heard the roar of the other car's engine above the radio. Tires whined as they hydroplaned on the wet pavement and the car streaked past, red bullet taillights vanishing into the mist. The car was large, and black—a Caddy—and Stu didn't see the passenger peering at him as it blew past.

He slid the lever all the way to the red zone on the defroster and pushed a button on the radio. He leaned over to adjust the tuning, and suddenly, there in the rearview mirror, were a pair of high beams, again an inch off his tail. He swore it was the Caddy again, but it had just passed. What the hell....? Once more, he slowed. Whoever was driving that car was a real jerk—or just a piss-poor driver, he thought. His mom drove like that, always on top of the car in front of her no matter how slow or how fast she was going. Again the Caddy blew past. Mist flew off the fins, and it looked like a rocket hurtling into the abyss. Like before, Stu didn't notice that the Caddy's passenger window was halfway down, or that the rider was straining to get a better view. Saratoga, and Angela, and that big beautiful smile of hers were only fifteen minutes away.

Just outside of town, he settled at a light and noticed the bright windows of a Grand Union supermarket. Thinking it might be a good idea to buy some gum to freshen his breath, he went inside and plunked down a dime for two packs of Doublemint to a pimply-faced cashier at the checkout. He went back out to the Rambler and noticed the black Caddy parked just a couple of spaces away. Who was this jackass? Stu fired up the Rambler and warily eased it to the edge of the lot. Thinking it was going to stall, he gunned the engine and left a little squeal on the pavement as he lurched into the street. He stopped at the next light and saw the Caddy pull up behind him, the light from its high beams magnified through the thousand mini-prisms of raindrops on his back windshield. It was time to have a few words, Stu decided, ready to roll his window down and give the guy the go-around or something. Suddenly, his passenger door flew open and someone in a khaki trench coat plopped himself down in the passenger seat. This had to be a prank, he thought immediately—someone from Alliance playing games. Then, he saw the man's face. He didn't recognize it, and it wasn't any student's face.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Patsy said, "Shut the fuck up and drive, college boy." His right hand came up, and a white-handled automatic sniffed for Stu's head.

"What the hell is...." Stu never finished the question as the gun barrel lashed into his skull just behind his right ear.

The Rambler jerked into the intersection and Patsy reached over and slammed the car into park while it was still moving. "Drive, or I'll blow your fucking brains out all over the fucking glass!" he screamed, jamming the gun into Stu's ribs.

Dazed, pain cutting through him like a spear, Stu notched the car into drive as warm blood poured from his head. The guy was a nut case. The car crawled through the intersection. Stu turned. "Are you the guy from the Caddy?" he choked.

The gun bashed into Stu's face, tearing skin and cracking bone underneath it. "I said drive, college boy—not talk!" The voice was deep and ugly.

The car swerved and Stu fought to maintain control. Once more, the maniac raised the gun and Stu put his arm up to protect himself. What was happening? Steel collided with bone, this time on the outside of Stu's wrist, cracking it. There were no thoughts in Stu's head now, save those of getting away. In a single motion, he slammed the brakes and heaved the gearshift into park. Fumbling for the handle, he pounded his shoulder into the door to escape. Another blow, this time to the top of his head.

In a second, Patsy was on the other side of the car, kicking through the open door until Stu fell over in the front seat. Patsy gave a mighty shove and jumped in. The Rambler's back wheels squealed on the wet pavement and smoke poured from the exhaust. Patsy made a right and hauled ass until he came to a shopping center. He pulled around back behind a Woolworth store and parked next to an overflowing dumpster. The Caddy came around from behind and positioned itself so that its high beams were focused on the Rambler. Doors opened. Someone from the Caddy dragged Stu from the front seat, and propped him up against the side of the car. One by one, blows rained down faster than the rain pelting them all. Stu collapsed beneath the onslaught, and someone lifted him off the ground and bent him over the Rambler.

"Listen up, college boy. You leave the professor alone, you hear? You tell anybody else about that phone conversation, and you're a dead man. You mind your own fucking business."

Stu nodded as best he could, choking on his own spit. He could feel himself cruising toward unconsciousness as someone turned him around and threw him against the Rambler.

"Back home, this is how we use Louisville Sluggers," Patsy said.

Almost blinded by the Caddy's lights, Stu managed to catch something as it flashed through the high beams. Then, just below the knee, the something smashed into his leg with sufficient force to splinter the bone lengthwise. Stu crumpled, his baseball career as a player over forever.

CHAPTER 32 Loyalty

Angela returned from her morning class and removed the message that was taped to her door: Police called... Please call back... Ask for Officer Mervine. There was a number next to the name. She had absolutely no idea about the message, thinking momentarily that it was just someone else trying to ask her out. She'd had a lot of that since the Playboy thing. It seemed like every hot-blooded, self-absorbed stud in the state was crawling out of the woodwork, thinking she'd fall on her knees with gratitude for the sheer pleasure of enjoying their companionship. She threw the note into the trash. But speaking of hot-blooded, self-absorbed studs, she wondered what happened to Stu last night. She wasn't used to being blown off like that. She decided to call the Lodge. Someone answered right away.

"Lodge."

"Hi, is Stu there please?"

"Nope."

"Who's this?"

"Xerox. Who's this?"

"Angela."

"What are you wearing?"

"Combat boots."

"With high heels?"

"Do you know where he is?"

"Isn't he there—with you?"

"If he was here, Brainiac, why would I be calling you?"

"He supposed to be up there... and he needs to get his ass back here. We need the car for a road trip."

"He never showed up last night. Did something happen?"

"He probably got arrested for DWI or something," Xerox scoffed.

The light bulb went on. That was it: he needed someone to bail his ass out of jail. For God's sake.... She rushed back to her room and fished the message from the wastepaper basket, and returned to the Furman Room where she dialed the number for the police station. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and waited. Someone picked up after the first ring.

"Saratoga police, Officer Mervine speaking."

"Yes, I have received a message that you called. My name is Angela Bishop."

"Yes, Miss Bishop. Do you know a Stuart Mosbacher."

Here it comes, she thought as she prepared to take down directions to the police station. "Yes, we're friends. I can come down right away. What's your address?"

"Mister Mosbacher isn't here, Miss Bishop."

"He's not? What's this all about then?"

"Mister Mosbacher has had some trouble. He's been beaten—rather severely, I'm afraid."

Angela felt like she'd been plunged into a pool of ice water.

"It looks like he was in some sort of fight, or perhaps it was a mugging. We're not sure. In any case, we found his ID and we've called his family, but they won't be here until later today. We found your phone number in his wallet."

Angela stepped from the taxi thirty minutes later and rushed to the information desk just off the main lobby of Saratoga Medical Center. It took seven aggravating minutes to obtain the room number from the impersonal attendant behind the desk, and all the way there her heart pounded so hard that she felt it in her fingertips. Finding the room, not wanting to go in but knowing she had to, she slowly pushed the door open. The room was dark except for a few streaks of light that peeked through drawn drapes, the only noise being the whir of a machine somewhere. The first bed was empty. She stepped to the curtain surrounding the second bed, feeling a tremble in her lip. The IV came into view, and she knew immediately that her preparation had been inadequate. The form in the bed was motionless, wrapped seemingly in miles of gauze with red splotches bleeding through. She recoiled, then steeled herself and forced her eyes to focus on the casts: one on the right forearm, and one on the right leg, both of them huge. She folded herself into a dark corner and let her tears stream forth, mimicking the drops that flowed into the tube attached to Stu's arm. She felt helpless and angry at the same time, and she cried in great gulps.

* * * * *

"Mark! You've been in here for three days!" Jessica bellowed to no avail. "You've got to call your parents. You need help! You don't actually believe they're not going to find out, do you? Even if we find a way to raise the two thousand dollars for bail, what do you think is going to happen if this goes to trial? You're going to go to jail, that's what! You need a lawyer. Use some common sense, will you?"

Brownie listened as she went over the same ground he'd covered for the last hour. Badge didn't say much.

"She used you to do her dirty work and you fell for it!" Jessica went on. "You took all the risk while she did whatever it is she does at that filthy fucking club!"

Brownie had never heard her talk like that.

Badge bristled. "She didn't use me! You have no clue!"

Jessica walked off in a huff.

Badge gathered his hair into a ponytail. His eyes were determined and clear, Brownie noted. He'd seen that look before, but not for some time, and certainly not since coming to Alliance. He reflected on the conversation they'd had in his library office when Badge described how Maxine had cried during the sex show.

"It's just not right that someone should be forced to do something they don't want to do," Badge had said.

Could it be that this woman—this Maxine—did what she did not because of some sick choice she'd made, but because something, or someone, was forcing her to do it? He suddenly saw Badge's point: it wasn't right, and it was that violation that prevented Badge from seeing the situation through impartial eyes. Badge saw Maxine in the same light as he saw himself: they were victims, incapable of breaking the barriers of their environments. But they could do something about it, couldn't they? Maybe they couldn't. Maybe they needed help.

Brownie remembered the time when he and Badge were walking back from the baseball diamond with their bats slung over their shoulders. They were eleven. Two dogs came at them from different directions, curious dogs simply sniffing at whoever or whatever roamed through their turf. Seeing each other, they did what dogs did. Threatening growls escalated into sudden, lightning strikes, and the bigger of the two, a tan and gray Sheppard, started tearing up the smaller dog. It happened in a flash, and Brownie remembered how Badge reached right into the middle of the fray, with teeth and claws flying every which way, grabbing the smaller dog and yanking him from certain destruction. He whacked the larger dog with the end of his bat, but the damage had already been done—to Badge as well as the smaller dog. He was bitten badly, and when Brownie asked him why he did it, Badge just shrugged and said, "It just wasn't right. The little dog needed help."

"Please Mark," Jessica pleaded. "We love you, and we want to help you. Please tell us why you're doing this to yourself—and to us. Please!"

Brownie touched her arm softly and said, "Hey Badge. Remember the time when we were walking back from the Legion field and you broke up that dogfight?"

"Yeah?"

"You going to jail isn't right either. There's got to be better way out of this—without you being the one who gets bit."

Badge took a deep breath. Tears formed in his eyes as he started talking, the loathing evident in his tone. "He came to her house," he said ultimately. "He said he'd hurt them if I said anything. If he was here right now, I swear I'd kill him." He pounded his fists. "I can't put Maxine and those kids in that kind of danger—and I don't want you to do it either."

Brownie knew that Badge meant every word he said. The guard came over and tapped Badge on the shoulder. Visiting time was over.

* * * * *

Angela went back at the hospital first thing Saturday, pleased to see the lobby already full of brothers from the Lodge. Only two visitors were allowed in the room at the same time, and they shuttled back and forth, shaking their heads in disbelief as they returned. No one indicated that Stu was in good spirits. Giving them their time, Angela went up and stood by the bed when they left. He was awake, but unmoving.

"I'm never going to hit one over the fence again."

She looked down, seeing his eyes puddled with moisture. Her own emotions were an indistinct mush of feeling, and she could only imagine what his were like. She dabbed his eyes with a tissue and hugged him lightly, knowing that any response from her would do nothing to piece together his shattered dreams.

"All my life I've thought about playing in the big leagues, and now, because of some crazed out professor, it's over. The thing I've always wanted the most is gone."

She didn't try to console him, or change the subject. He needed to deal with the unfairness of it all, the randomness with which his life was suddenly changed forever. She stood there and listened, not giving him some stupid, "It'll be all right," because it wasn't going to be all right. His life as he knew it was over, and he needed his revenge. What possible justice could he ever find for what happened to him? Then, she interrupted her own thoughts. What did he say? She straightened up, a quizzical look on her face. "What do you mean, because of some crazed out professor?"

Stu looked away wordlessly. His eyelids worked like snowplows, forcing the welled-up tears down his cheeks and onto the bandages that covered his face.

She wiped the tears away with a tissue. "Stu, do you know who did this?" Still, there was silence. She pressed further, determined to find the truth. "Stu, if you know who did this, you can't let them get away with it. You have to fight back somehow."

Silence, the eyes turning.

"Please, tell me. I promise I won't say anything," she said, lying through her teeth.

He looked up. "I don't have any proof that he was behind it."

"He who? This professor? He had you beaten? But why?" The conclusions came quickly. "Is this one of your professors?" Her voice took on a more urgent edge. "If you know who did this and you do nothing about it, you'll regret it for the rest of your life—more than you'll regret not being able to play ball. Someone ruined part of your life, Stu. Get your revenge—ruin his."

"They said if I talk, I'm a dead man."

"What about justice Stu? What about settling the score?"

He looked away and she knew her lecture hadn't gotten through. Changing demeanor, she put her head down close to his ear and said, "If you tell me who did this, I'll...." She whispered the rest and he laughed.

"Me and that freshman kid—Brownie," he began, "both of us were in Phelan's office waiting to see him...."

* * * * *

Gravachevsky took a seat and passed a business card across the desk.

Brownie looked at the name and said, "Detective...."

"It's pronounced Grav-a-chev-sky. I'm Nat's partner on the case." He extended his hand.

"My name is Wallace Brown, and this is Jessica Badger."

"What can you tell me about why your friend is in jail?" The kid squirmed and looked at the girl.

"I don't know too much about it."

"Has he mentioned, or said anything, about someone named Dandy Don?"

"Is that why you called us down here?"

"We think that's who supplied him with the dope."

Again, the kids traded glances and Gravachevsky kept fishing. "How about the name Phelan? Do either of you recognize that name?" The kid looked away and the girl burned a hole into him. Gravachevsky leaned forward. "Don't be stupid, kids. Tell me what you know. People have died because of this Dandy Don scumbag." Nothing. "I'm not sure who, or what, you're covering for, but your buddy is going down for this if I don't get some answers."

"We told Nat everything we know," Brownie responded.

Outside, the guilt ate at him like acid eating through tin foil. He hugged Jessica around the waist as they walked.

She uncurled his arm and asked quite angrily, "What is this stupid code of loyalty you and Badge have between you?"

CHAPTER 33 Girls With Balls

It was November already, and Thanksgiving was only about three weeks away. The Badger families always came together on Thanksgiving, and Jessica grappled with the thought that Mark could still be in jail if someone didn't come up with the bail money by then. Pondering, she wondered how she'd feel if she ever had a child who got into trouble, concluding that she'd never disown her own child in a million years; she'd do everything and anything possible to get him or her out of whatever situation they faced. It would be no different with Uncle Arthur and Aunt Margaret. She knew what she had to do, regardless of what Mark wanted.

Someone knocked on the door. "Phone call."

Her first thought was that it might be her parents, it being Sunday night. It was her opportunity to talk to her dad about this mess. She would do it.

"Hello," she said, expecting a familiar voice on the other end.

"Jessica, this is Angela, Angela Bishop... from Lambda."

Surprised, Jessica just said, "Hi."

"We have to talk, right away."

Angela's voice sounded kind of urgent. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"Your boyfriend may be in a lot of trouble."

For a second Jessica thought she was talking about Mark, he being the one in trouble, then she realized Angela didn't even know Mark. "You mean Brownie? How do you know? What kind of trouble?" She shot the questions rapid-fire.

"I told you, we need to talk. Can you come to the sorority house right away?"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

She was still putting on her jacket as she ran from the dorm into the cold November air. Her mind was fixated on what Angela had said, and only thing she could think of was that Brownie had done something stupid like try and break Mark out of jail or something. Reconsidering, that would have been impossible, she thought, but it wouldn't have surprised her a bit. She remembered his foolish display from the day before. They should've told that detective with the Polish name everything: that it wasn't this Dandy Don—whoever he was—who gave Mark the marijuana. It was Mark's new love, the stripper, and she should be the one behind bars instead of Mark. All that stuff about the kids was probably a bunch of crap, Jessica thought. No one becomes a stripper and sells pot to support a family. Poor Mark had been taken in, and now Brownie had gotten himself into a mess trying to help him out—just like he'd gotten into trouble before and put on probation. But, how did Angela know about all this?

She walked up to the Lambda Theta Nu house, which overlooked the old Vandermont campus. She lifted the huge brass knocker and banged loudly. A girl Jessica didn't know opened the door. "Hi, is Angela here?"

The words were barely out when Angela appeared in the doorway. "Come on in," she said, all business. "My room is upstairs."

The whole thing was starting to get a little spooky. Jessica followed her to a balcony one flight up, off which hung a moose head decorated with bras and panties.

"It's a joke," Angela said, noticing Jessica's curiosity. "Just our little way."

Angela's room was an orderly arrangement of books, toiletries, and clothing, and much of the furniture was real furniture, Jessica noted, not the cinderblock and plank configuration she had in her room. And there was an actual bedspread, a flowered one, on a queen-sized bed; and lots of white in the room; and the pictures had actual frames on them. She couldn't tell if it was hot in there, or if it was just her.

Angela closed the door and pointed to an old loveseat under the window. "Have a seat," she said. "Let me have your jacket. Is it hot in here?"

"Real hot."

Angela took the jacket and tossed it on the bed, then pulled off her sweater, pulling it up over her long strawberry blonde hair. The flannel shirt underneath came up as well, revealing Angela's taut belly and brassiere. Holy cow, Jessica thought while Angela struggled with the sweater; no wonder all the guys went nuts over her.

Angela got right to the point. "Brownie might be in a whole lot of trouble, and he may not know it."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Do you remember the guy I was with at the Alliance Homecoming?"

"Sure. That was Stu. Brownie says he's a good guy."

"Well, someone beat him up Thursday night. I mean, really badly. He's in the hospital."

"Oh my God! Is he going to be all right?"

Angela choked up. "He'll live, if that's what you mean. Someone hit him with a baseball bat, and as it stands now, he may never walk normally again."

"Oh, Angela! Does anyone know who did it... or why?"

"Yes and no. Stu didn't know the men who actually did it, but he knows who was behind it." Angela paused for a moment. "And that's why Brownie had better watch himself."

"What does Brownie have to do with this?"

"Has he ever mentioned anything about the fact that he and Stu overheard a conversation in a professor's office, and—"

"The one where they found out the professor was selling grass or something? Yeah, he told me about it. Oh my God! Did the professor have Stu beaten up?"

"One of the thugs told Stu to, quote, 'keep his mouth shut about the professor,' or they'd kill him. Then, they smashed his leg with the baseball bat. You figure it out."

"Oh my God!" Jessica cried out for the third time. "Did Stu say anything to the police?"

"He's afraid to. He says these guys weren't fooling around. What he really wants is to find the professor himself. I can only imagine what Stu would do to him if he was really behind it."

The words sizzled on top of Jessica's thoughts: if he was really behind it. "Who else would be behind such an awful thing?"

"Stu said something about the professor running dope for someone else. Can you believe it? A professor running dope?"

Wham! It was like a slap in the face. Brownie had said the same thing—and that someone else was Dandy Don. Brownie and Stu had both heard it on the intercom, and, according to Mark, this Dandy Don person was the same man who'd gone to the stripper's apartment and threatened her and her kids. People have died because of this scumbag: the Polish detective's words. Dandy Don's slimy web connected everything, and now Brownie was caught up in it.

"Dandy Don," Jessica said. The words came up like phlegm.

Angela said, "What?"

"Dandy Don. He's the one behind all of this. I see it now, and I think I understand why Mark feels the way he does."

Angela had no clue. "Does this have anything to do with Stu, or with your boyfriend?"

"It has to do with the professor," Jessica said angrily. "And it has to do with my cousin—who's in a dirty disgusting jail because of this creep."

"Your cousin? What the hell are you talking about?"

Jessica told it all: about Mark, the sex show, the stripper named Maxine, about how Mark got caught trying to help her out.

"Then it's conceivable that this Dandy Don is behind Stu's beating, isn't it?" Angela concluded when she was done.

"And if this creep finds out that Brownie knows about the professor, then it's possible that Brownie could end up being hurt as well," Jessica added.

Angela shook her head. "Stu said the professor doesn't know about Brownie, but it's important that Brownie not open his mouth. That's what I wanted to tell you from the beginning. Do you know if Brownie has talked about this with anyone else besides you?"

"I don't know, but we can't just sit here. We've got to stop him!"

Angela paused. "Him being this Dandy Don person? Why?"

"For one thing, so we can get my cousin out of jail. Don't you see? Ultimately, he's behind all of it. What happened to Stu is because of him too."

Trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together, Angela said slyly, "I know exactly what we should do—if we've got the guts."

Jessica wondered what was turning inside Angela's head. "What?" she asked.

"We need to set him up."

"Him who? Dandy Don? And what do you mean, set him up? How?"

"Get information; pass it on to the police. What was the name of that club again?"

"The Bamboo Club."

"And this Dandy Don goes there all the time?"

"According to Mark."

"So all we have to do is find this animal and get him to talk to us, right?"

"And how are we going to do that?"

Angela flashed a cunning smile. "Trust me. I can get any man, anyplace, to do anything I want."

Jessica had no doubt whatsoever. "What are you going to do?"

"Tell me what you think...."

Jessica listened intently. Ten minutes later she said, "I'm going with you."

* * * * *

Nat listened patiently. Brownie was right. There was no way Badge should be where he was.

"But it's not my case," Nat mumbled as he wrote it on the notepad.

"There's got to be something you can do," Brownie pleaded. "Can't you get them to drop the bail or something?"

"I'll see what I can do," Nat wrote, then, underneath, he added, "Where did the girl get the dope?"

"I can't tell you that," Brownie said.

Nat wrote some more. "I've gotta have something to deal, or the DA won't ask the judge to drop the bail. It's give and take, and I gotta have something to give—like the supplier up the line."

"But he's innocent," Brownie protested, referring to Badge again. "He was doing it for someone else."

Nat scowled, and scrawled quickly on the paper. "He's not innocent. He got caught red handed and he's guilty as sin, regardless of his motivation. He used poor judgment."

"So he should go to jail for using poor judgment?"

"He broke the law." Nat underlined the words for emphasis.

Brownie settled into a funk.

Nat tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the note pad. "What about his parents?"

"He doesn't want them to know."

Nat simply held his hands up questioningly.

"I'll see what I can do," Brownie said as he got up to leave.

"I'll see what I can do," Nat wrote.

Brownie knew it was time someone did something. He just didn't know what.

* * * * *

Angela said, "Wear something trashy. Don't you have anything really indecent?"

Examining the straining laces that crisscrossed down the front of Angela's black leather bustier, Jessica asked, "Where'd you get that thing?" It was like stuffing ten pounds of potatoes into a five-pound bag. She helped Angela push on a pair of out-of-style white go-go boots like the ones Nancy Sinatra wore when she sang These Boots Are Made For Walkin'. The heels were high and spiky, and made her legs look a mile long beneath a very short denim miniskirt.

"What about these?" Angela asked, holding up a pair of large hoop earrings.

"Really nice."

Angela donned the earrings and applied some frosty white lipstick. "Perfect," she said as she fluffed her hair and checked herself out in the mirror. "All I need now is a cigarette and a wad of gum."

"The perfect stereotypical bimbo tramp," Jessica chimed in.

Moving to the closet, Angela said, "Let's see what you have in here." She rummaged around for a bit, then opened a couple of drawers on Jessica's dresser. Finally, she came out with a flimsy white t-shirt with tie-dyed streaks on the front and Martha's Vineyard printed on the back. Jessica used it to sleep in. "This is perfect."

"Perfect for what?"

"For making you look really trashy. Do you have any skinny hip-huggers, maybe with some really wide bells? And how about some platform shoes?"

Jessica pulled out the closest things she had to what Angela had described, and Angela examined them carefully. "I guess this will have to do. Put these on."

She hadn't worn the stuff in months, Jessica thought as she squeezed into a pair of white bell-bottomed pants. She'd bought them a couple of years ago, but she wasn't a junior in high school anymore. She should have put them in the Salvation Army bag long ago. She sucked in her stomach and snapped the clasp on the waistband.

"Little tight in the crotch," she said, wiggling in place.

"They're perfect." Angela tossed her the t-shirt. "Now this."

Wearing only a bra underneath, Jessica took off her Vandermont sweatshirt.

"Take that off," Angela instructed.

"Take what off?"

"Your bra, take it off. It's time to unlimber the timber."

Unlimber the timber? Embarrassed, Jessica turned and slipped into the t-shirt.

Angela nodded approvingly. The kid hid it well. "No, not like that," she said when Jessica tried to tuck in the shirt. "Like this. Let's see some skin." She gathered the material under Jessica's jutting breasts, and cinched it tightly from the back. Jessica stepped into a pair of high canvas espadrilles to complete the ensemble.

"Now, let's do something with the face and hair," Angela said. She applied some of the white lipstick and fluffed the hair into a large poof. Then, she pulled a red headband from her bag and slipped it over Jessica's forehead.

Jessica stepped to the mirror. She looked trashy, all right. Everything was so tight she was afraid to move.

"You make quite the little floozy," Angela said. "You ready?" Jessica nodded. "Let's haul."

Jessica grabbed the longest coat she had and followed Angela to the door.

Angela pointed to a smaller jacket and said, "Uh-uh. You're going to have to show a little something."

"Just let me wear the coat out of the dorm," Jessica begged. "I'll change when we get to the club." Show a little something? What exactly did that mean?

* * * * *

An hour and six minutes later, they drove past Schenectady's famed Bamboo Club for the second time. It was quarter to eight, a typical brisk New York State November night. Parking across the street, the sign from the Crosstown Diner buzzing steadily above them, they watched as patrons made their way in and out of the club.

"You ready?" Angela asked after they'd watched for a while.

"I guess," Jessica answered tentatively.

Angela pulled two sticks of Juicy Fruit from a new pack and handed them both to Jessica. "Chew..." she said. "...with your mouth open. Then stick your tits out and try not to look too smart."

Jessica did as she was told and followed Angela into the club, having no idea what to expect. They lingered in the space between the outer and inner doors for a moment, and surely, Jessica guessed, she'd just enjoyed the most disgusting smell in the universe. She was relieved to simply get past it—or so she thought. As they entered, her eyes were drawn to the area commanding the most light, which was the stage. There, lying on a white shag blanket, was the performer of the moment, ankles pointed to the moon, and breasts sagging off her chest.

One of her rail side admirers was perched unsteadily on his chair, laughing and joking with his friends in drunken delight. "Hey, look at me," he yelled. "I'm Lloyd Bridges—diving for muff." He pretended to take a swan dive onto the dancer and the other guys all hooted and hollered.

Jessica's eyes were riveted on the dancer—if one could call her that—who somehow smiled through what looked to be an inch of makeup. She got off her back and gyrated down the rail, collecting bills along the way. Gawking, Jessica stood there like a statue until Angela poked her in the ribs.

"Take your coat off and make like this is no big deal," she yelled above the music.

Jessica swallowed nervously, her mouth dry as desert sand despite the wad of gum she was chewing on. Looking away from the stage, she noticed that every eye in the place was on them. Angela must have felt it too because she turned and smiled an electric smile, making sure everyone got a good look at things.

"Hi boys," she teased. "Any of you'all know where I can find the manager. Me and my friend might be lookin' for a job."

Jessica choked, coughing up her gum from halfway down her throat. Looking for a job!

One of the waitresses came up and gave them a once over. "You girls lookin' for work?" she asked, shifting her weight between one foot and the other.

"Yeah," Angela replied real snotty like. "Who's doin' the hiring?"

"Dancin' or waitressin'? We ain't got no waitressin' jobs open right now," she added, obviously not in love with the idea of two tight young tarts snaking tips from her regulars.

"Dancin'... whatd'ya think?" Angela turned up her nose like she was smelling onions. "Where's the manager, honey. I ain't got all night."

"Behind the bar," the chunky waitress snarled. "Name's Jerry."

Angela strutted over to the bar, making sure every eye in the place got another dose of cleavage and thighs.

Jessica followed, catching her own share of stares, although she tried not to be as obvious as Angela. One patron from the front row nodded approvingly as she walked by and said, "Hi there, sweet stuff." Another pointed a buck at her tight t-shirt and said, "How about a look inside, cupcake?" Suddenly, she was burning up, and couldn't help but think of what her parents would say if they knew she was in a place like this. They'd die!

Angela asked the skinny, pock-marked thing standing at the end of the bar if he was Jerry.

"Yeah. What you girls want?" he asked, an unfiltered butt dangling from his lip.

Angela made sure she was right in front of him. "I'm lookin' for work. You need any more dancers?"

Jerry was obviously impressed with what was standing in front of him. "We always got room when it comes to girls like you. Why you lookin' to strut your stuff here?" he asked curiously, knowing there were classier skin palaces around.

Angela struck a slutty little pose for old Jerry. "I need some fast money. Got myself in a little jam and I need to get out of it. You know how it is, don't you Jerry honey? In and out?"

Jerry's eyes stayed focused on the ever-widening bustier, as was Jessica. She couldn't help it. Angela was virtually spilling out of it.

"You got any experience?"

Angela reached into her bag and pulled out a Playboy magazine. She flipped through it and put it under Jerry's nose. "Me," she said proudly.

Jerry looked at it for some moments and let out a long whistle. Without looking up he said, "Yes sir, we got room for one like you. The other girls won't like it much, but you know what they say... can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen—and you got some heat, baby, some serious heat. When you wanna start?"

"Like I said, I need the cash, fast. How 'bout right away, tomorrow?"

"Come by tomorrow night. Club opens at seven on Tuesdays, you be here by 6:30. I'll fit you into the rotation. Bring your own costumes. You know, usually I get an audition. How do I know you can move?"

Angela pointed to the stage and said, "This ain't Radio City, Jerry."

Jessica looked under the spotlights as another dancer cavorted rump-up in front of the front row geniuses.

"Okay, tomorrow. Be here. What's your name?"

Unprepared for the question, Angela hesitated a little too long while she tried to think of a stage name.

"Angel," Jessica blurted out. "Her name is Angel."

Jerry finally turned his eyes from Angela's bosom and leered at Jessica. "How about you, sugar pants? You look like you're packin' a little sweater meat of your own. You two would be good for business. Get it?" he cackled feebly. "I said you two. I shoulda' said you four."

"No thank you," Jessica responded, adding far too politely, "I'm afraid I'm not looking for employment."

Almost prancing, Angela led the way to the front door amid more appreciative comments. Again, every head in the place turned to watch the miniskirt and white go-go boots slide by, and again, Jessica felt every eye in the place touch her butt as she trailed behind.

As soon as they were back in the car, Angela said, "What a performance. I think we pulled it off," she added, trying to hide the fact that her hands were shaking.

"Are you really going to go through with this?"

Deflecting the question, Angela said, "Hey, now you know you've got something to fall back on if things get tough."

Thinking blankly about what they'd just done, Jessica thought: packin' sweater meat? God!

CHAPTER 34 Letting the Blade Fall

Recording the grades on his summary sheet, Phelan noted that he was due in class in twenty minutes. As he posted Mosbacher's grade, he reflected on the events of that Thursday afternoon ten days earlier. He was glad, now, for Mister Mosbacher, who for once in his less than illustrious academic career had managed to string together enough coherent thoughts to warrant a C-plus. Relieved that he didn't have to interpret the answers with the widest possible latitude, Phelan made a mental note that he should probably let that fat bastard Dandy Don know that Mister Mosbacher was probably no longer an issue. After all, Mosbacher never did directly admit that he'd heard anything over that intercom.

Phelan's thoughts shifted and he debated if perhaps he'd blown the whole thing out of proportion. Was it any wonder? The pressures on his life were tremendous. He thought how peaceful it would be teaching a high school class: no pressures, no loathsome father-in-law, no intimidating drug dealer blackmailing him. Then he thought of the inheritance. "Just a little while longer," he whispered to himself. If he could hang on just a little while longer.

He checked his daily agenda and noted that he needed to call the Omega Travel Agency back to see if the arrangements for the charter plane from the University of Bogota had been finalized. The request made sense logistically. "The coordinating, greeting, and gathering of the students would be much easier on both ends of the exchange if we used a charter instead," he'd said at the last committee meeting, and no one had objected to a change in the travel arrangements. It had looked innocent enough.

Phelan made his way to the afternoon Econ 301 class two hundred yards away in the Edison Building classroom. It was a nice day outside. Without comment or greeting, he professorially handed out the blue books. "Miller. Kovach. Fleming," he called out. "Beecher, Denardo, Mosbacher." No answer. "Mosbacher," he called again. Tucking the two blue books in back of the rest, Phelan thought that perhaps Mister Mosbacher could be late, but he doubted it. He shook his head. Some things never changed.

* * * * *

Picking at her food, Jessica checked her watch for the third time in fifteen minutes. It was 6:30, and if she actually went through with it, Angela would be reporting for work at the Bamboo Club about now. It didn't seem so scary last night, but now it seemed insane. It was insane! She remembered that afterward Angela had seemed a little worried as well, but said she was going to do it. She was determined to find out if Dandy Don was behind Stu's beating.

"What's the worst that could happen?" she'd asked. "No one has ever died of nudity before. If it is Dandy Don," she went on, "I'm going fix him but good. All I need to do is talk to him, and I'll get anything I want." She was confident, cocky even. She could do it, she'd said, and Jessica believed her.

Jessica debated whether or not to tell Brownie about the scheme, but decided to wait until she talked to Angela again.

* * * * *

Maxine was late. Amanda's dialysis treatment had run long and she barely had time to get home, make dinner, and check Jennifer's homework before it was time to leave for her waitressing job. Mrs. Lasky shooed her out the door.

"Go, go," Mrs. Lasky said in her broken German accent. "Go, you make ze money. Do what you have to do. I 'a take care of ze kids. Soon you will find a husband," she said, "and you won't have 'a to go to work with drunk men no more."

Maxine looked at Mrs. Lasky and wondered what she meant. Mrs. Lasky must have picked up on the slip because she said immediately, "I know how it is 'a to be a cocktail waitress. You have 'a to be nice even when you don't feel like in order to make 'a ze the money. The men they like it when you are nice, ya?"

"Yes," Maxine said, "they like it." She kissed the girls and walked out the door, getting the feeling that somehow Mrs. Lasky knew what it was like to be nice to men.

It was almost 7:30 before she made it to the club. Jerry scowled and pointed to his watch, but she ignored him and whizzed into the dressing room to change into her costume and do her makeup.

It wasn't unusual to see a new girl in there. They came and went faster than anyone could keep up with. A few came for the thrill of exhibitionism, and all of them came for the money, but only the lookers made money consistently without doing private dances in the back. As her eyes adjusted to the bright makeup lights, Maxine checked out the new girl in the red bikini and wondered how long this one would last. A brief look was enough for her to know this girl could make a ton of money, maybe two tons. Most of the girls got jealous when an eyeful like this showed up, thinking she'd scarf up all the tips, but Maxine knew it usually worked in reverse. This girl would get the crowd excited, and whenever the crowd got excited, the money flowed. The new girl looked over and eyed her cautiously.

"Hi," they both said at the same time.

"My name's Brandy," said Maxine. She always used her stage name at the club—always.

"Angela, I mean Angel," Angela corrected quickly.

"First night?"

"Yeah," Angela replied.

"Nervous?"

"A little," Angela admitted. "I've never done this before."

"Just think of the money," Maxine said, "and try to have a good time with it. Watch their hands, though. They tend to travel sometimes."

"You sound like you know what you're talking about. Have you been doing this long?"

Maxine put a curling iron to her hair, then applied some rouge and some frosty pink lipstick. "Long in this business seems to be measured in hours. I've been here about four months." She dabbed a couple of drops of perfume behind each ear and another at the base of her neck.

"Do you mind if I borrow some of that?" Angela asked. "I didn't think to bring any."

"Help yourself. It's called Night Musk. Actually I hate it, but the guys like it, and when they like you..." Maxine rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. They both laughed as Angela put a dab behind each ear and on her wrists.

Maxine pulled a douche bag out of her bag and said, "Be right back."

Angela hadn't thought of that either, but she wasn't about to ask if she could borrow that. Maxine returned shortly. "Who do you follow?" she asked.

"One more girl, then me," said Angela, adding, "I'm so nervous. I don't know if I can do this."

"Just concentrate on the music and let your body follow along. Listen, would you like to trade with me? I'll go on first and you can watch what I do, okay?"

"That would be great," Angela said gratefully.

"Let's go work the crowd then. You stay with me. These guys are gonna love you."

They left the dressing room and Maxine noticed that everyone in the place—customers, waitresses, bartenders, other dancers, everyone—got a good look at the new girl.

"Who is that?" several of them asked.

"Hey, give us another round," a guy at one table called to his waitress. "We ain't goin' no place now, are we boys?" They all whooped and soul slapped in watery anticipation.

Ten minutes later, Maxine got up, leaving Angela in the company of a plaid suit with a stack of bills on the table. "I'm up," she said. "Just watch what I do, okay?"

Moments later, Maxine was promenading around the stage, and little by little pieces of her costume came off. Angela took note of how it was done, turning to see her tablemate's eyes burning a hole into her cleavage.

"That Brandy is really something, ain't she?" the plaid suit said, trying to make small talk.

Angela had to agree. Maxine danced her way along the rail, collecting money as she went. She smiled and let the guys get a good look as she picked up each tip, but she didn't put on any lewd displays like some of the other dancers had done. There was no need. The money came forth effortlessly. Angela felt a hand from the plaid suit edging over onto her knee.

"Where'd they find you, baby?" the suit asked. "You up for a private dance later?"

Angela wasn't sure what he meant, exactly, but thought she could venture a pretty good guess. Her immediate reaction was to spill a drink on the guy's crotch, but, remembering her mission, she thought better of it. She needed to find Dandy Don, and this guy could be him for all she knew. But she'd never know if she didn't start asking a few questions and finding out what was what.

"Maybe later, big guy," she said all sugary-sweet. "It's my turn on stage in a couple of minutes. Keep my seat warm, okay dreamboat?" Had she really said dreamboat? He ate it up like a cat ate up milk. She went to an empty table and tried to psyche herself up. It was time. She made her way to the stage.

"Remember, just listen to the music," Maxine said, handing her a garter. "Good luck."

The crowd was ready, and several men came up from the back tables and filled seats up close on the railing. Fresh drinks made their way to the tables as the first song of Angela's set came on. It was on the slow side, dramatic, from a group called Buffalo Springfield, and she recognized the guitar notes as the song kicked off. There's something happening here... What it is ain't exactly clear.... She was glad it was slow and that she didn't have to dance to some screaming psychedelic stuff. Adjusting the garter high up on her thigh, she decided to move slowly, and she closed her eyes momentarily in order to get her body moving in sync to the music. Oddly, she thought this would be a lot like public speaking—it would be nerve-wracking at first, but the jitters would fade away after a bit, especially if she was doing a good job. And she was, all right. She could tell already. She inched her way to the first guy on the rail, hands gliding, her body undulating in waves, stopping right in front of him. She got a little closer, then closer still, watching his eyes. They traveled up her body, absorbing all of it, then down, settling on the red bikini top. Hey now, watch that sound, everybody look what's goin' round...." He stuffed a buck into her garter.

"What's your name?" he asked, talking to her breasts.

"Angel," she said, her finger clipping his chin so that his eyes would move. "What yours?" Then it hit her. That was the way to find him! Her plan had been to find Maxine—the dancer Jessica had described—and ask her about this Dandy Don character, but so far none of the other six girls she'd met were named Maxine. She'd simply learn the guys' names herself. All she had to do was ask!

She moved to the next gawking patron, her body undulating ever so slowly. She concentrated on the music, just as Brandy had instructed, moving her hands, up here, down there, turning; spotlights illuminating the tiny blond fuzz of her abdomen; bending, closer, closer; another buck. Battle lines being drawn... Nobody's right if everybody's wrong....

"What's your name baby?" she cooed from the stage.

"Bobby," the stubble-faced construction worker said. It worked, and she did it again.

"Ramon," the next one answered.

She smiled appreciatively. "Nice to see you Ramon." He smiled as if he'd just had sex with her. She moved to the next dude. This time, she untied the red bikini top from the back, and she cupped her hands over her breasts, holding the top in place. Then, slipping her hands between the top and her bare skin, she kept herself covered.

"All the way baby," someone called.

Finally, she let go, hearing a couple of whoas come from the rail. Hey now, watch that sound... everybody look what's goin' round...." Another buck, then another, then two. Then guys from the tables began to come up. They stood close and she let them get a good look, each guy caressing her body with his eyes. Another buck, then a five. With each tip she asked, "What's your name baby?" None of them said Don, or Dandy, or anything close.

The set lasted eight more minutes, and she concentrated on the music just as Brandy had instructed. She managed to get through it without taking off her bikini bottom, and she came off the stage amid thunderous applause. She'd done it. The original anxiety was gone, replaced by another sort of feeling, strange but thrilling at the same time. She grabbed her bag and went directly to the dressing room.

"No more lessons for you," Maxine said. "Otherwise you're gonna get all the money instead of just part of it." A third girl stubbed out her cigarette and walked out. Angela thought she detected a slight huff as she went by. "Is she mad?" she asked innocently.

"Count your money," said Maxine, pointing to the wad of bills Angela was holding.

Angela counted. It was over sixty bucks! Even she was surprised.

"That's why she's mad," Maxine said.

Angela would do seven more sets before the night was over, and would take in $370 dollars, figuring she could have made another thousand if she'd gone into the back room with any of the twenty or so guys who'd asked her if she did private dances. But there had been no Dandy Don. She didn't consider the evening a total loss, however. The waitresses knew him pretty well; he came in a lot, just hadn't shown up. She'd have to try again the next night, she determined. Counting her money inside the dressing room at the end of the night, she didn't understand the catty comments from the other girls. Finally, she erupted with a, "Hey, fuck you, bitch," when one of them made a particularly nasty remark.

"They're not all like that," Maxine said. "Most of them are pretty nice actually."

"How many other girls dance here?" Angela asked casually.

"Twenty-five or thirty, on and off," Maxine answered just as casually.

"There wouldn't be one among them named Maxine, would there?"

Maxine flinched. When she asked why, Angela said, "Oh, nothing. She and I know some of the same people, is all."

* * * * *

Brownie listened to the argument, but didn't enter an opinion. It was about how good the previous year's Heisman Trophy winner, O.J. Simpson, would be in the NFL. Having no interest in the matter, he gathered his books and left for the public solitude of his library office. There, he slouched in his leather chair and stared at the ceiling, confused and frustrated about what to do about Badge's situation. L. Dean had cornered him and asked what the hell was going on with Badge. Brownie had told him almost a week earlier that Badge had a death in the family and that he'd be gone for a few days.

"Geez, right in the middle of midterms," L. Dean had said, but he'd accepted the excuse. Then, over the weekend, L. Dean mentioned that five days was a long time to be gone for a funeral. Now, L. Dean knew something was definitely amiss when he showed Brownie the phone message that had been taped to their door. Whoever had taken the message wrote succinctly: Wednesday, Nov. 5, Badge: folks called. Said they haven't heard from you in a long time. Please call home soon.

Brownie's leather-bound pocket calendar—the one his mother had given him just weeks earlier—slipped off his stack of books and dropped to the floor. He stooped to pick it up, remembering the sermon that accompanied the calendar: We want you to stand for something son. It's up to you what to stand for, but stand for something. Do what's right in your life. Then, he recalled his father's addendum. Those words pertained to affairs of the heart, but they applied here just as well: Only your best friend will do right by you every time. It's a lot harder to do it all alone.

Brownie got up and immediately went to the pay phones in the library vestibule, dropping a dime and dialing 0. "Collect call from Brownie," he said to the operator.

When Evelyn Brown's voice came on, she readily accepted the charges and asked immediately, "Is everything all right, Wallace?"

"Mom, what do you think Dad would say if I wanted to borrow two thousand dollars but didn't want to tell him why?"

"I think he'd say something about pigs flying, is what I think he would say."

"Yeah, that's what I thought too."

"There's a problem, isn't there Wallace? I can tell."

"It's about Badge."

"Tell me what it is and I'll see if I can help."

Brownie swallowed hard.

* * * * *

Jessica ran all the way to Lambda Theta Nu and pounded the brass doorknocker. She wanted to make sure someone came to the door right away.

"Did you really do it?" she asked Angela moments later.

"I sure as hell did," Angela answered proudly.

"Oh my God, I don't believe it. You really did it?"

"Yes, and I'm doing it again tonight."

"Again? But why?"

"Because he didn't show up. I have to try again."

"What if he doesn't show up again? How long are you going to do this? Oh my God, I can't believe you really did it! I can't believe I dressed up the way I did and went with you to that perverted place! Oh my God!"

"Stop saying 'Oh my God', will you? You make it sound like I screwed the Pope or something. All I did was show my boobs, for crying out loud."

"You didn't get naked? I mean, you didn't show your... you know, down there too?"

"Well, I tried not to, but the manager got all over me for it so I took it off at the end of the night. Only once, though, and I didn't do anything raunchy. I raked in almost four hundred bucks! Can you believe it?"

"It's not worth the risk," Jessica shot back.

"Don't worry, tonight's the last night—for sure."

"How do you know? What if he doesn't show up again tonight?"

"He will. I've seeded the clouds."

"What do you mean?"

"I met Maxine last night."

"You did!"

"Yes, and she's not at all what we thought. I was up with her until four in the morning at her apartment. That's where I slept last night. She's got two of the most beautiful little girls. She told me the whole story of how she got involved with that place, and about how your cousin got into in the entire mess. She really feels guilty. Anyway, she said she could get Dandy Don there any time she wanted, and she's going to set it up for tonight."

"She should feel guilty," Jessica said scornfully.

"I told you, she's not what you think. You should come to the club tonight and meet her. Maybe it would make you feel better."

Jessica thought about it for a moment. "I don't know if I could do that, I mean, me, going there alone—to that place."

"That would be kind of strange," Angela admitted. "But you could dance there! Do you remember what that ugly manager said to you? He'd hire you in a second. All you have to do is—"

"You don't have to explain," Jessica interrupted. "I think I know what you have to do." Still, she couldn't believe she actually thought about it for a second, then, "No, I couldn't do it, I just couldn't." Yet, she wanted to talk with this Maxine, to explain to her what kind of guy Mark was, what he was going through to protect her. Maybe Brownie would take her.

"Would you drop me off at Alliance on your way to the club?" she asked.

* * * * *

Maxine snuggled up to Dandy Don as he put his arm around her. He'd had six beers and two shots in an hour and was getting good and drunk, but so was she. Three or four more and he'd be putty.

"You know, it wasn't my fault the kid got caught," Maxine said. "The way he told it, it was the asshole at the other end who blew the fucking deal. The cops were watching him like fucking hawks. You should really watch who you do business with, big guy." She drank and cursed like a sailor while Dandy Don fiddled with the skinny little ties on her costume.

Head dipping, "Hey, I didn't know the fuckin' cops were watchin' 'im," he slurred. "How was I supposed to fuckin' know? Huh? Fuckin' spear chucker." He slurped his beer, spilling some down his grease-stained shirt.

"Let's have another shot," Maxine said as she moved his hand away from her crotch, "...if you think you can handle it."

"Don't worry 'bout me, sweet cakes."

Maxine held up two fingers when the waitress came by. "Two more Jack Blacks over here, sweetie." The shots came quickly, and Maxine lifted her glass to make a toast. His hand weaving, Dandy Don did the same. "Here's to business," she said. "To money... more and more money." Dandy Don shot the liquor into the back of his throat while she sipped hers. Still, it burned like a flame-thrower all the way down into her already queasy stomach. "How soon can you get us set up to run some more?" she asked, barely getting the words out coherently.

Dandy Don didn't answer. He was watching the new dancer glide by in her high-heeled go-go boots and her flimsy little pink halter top. She flashed him a smile on her way to the jukebox and dropped a look on Maxine. How are you doing? the look asked.

Maxine caught it and nodded ever so slightly. Angela punched in some music and came over, making a fat Dandy Don sandwich. "Is this the stud you were telling me about?" she asked brashly, letting his hand settle on her thigh as she shoved her boobs into him. "How you doin' big boy? You wanna buy a girl a drink?"

"Anything you want, sweet cakes."

"I'll have one of those," Angela said, pointing to the empty shot glasses on the table, "...and a beer chaser."

Dandy Don signaled for the waitress and, to Maxine's dismay, he held up three fingers. Her head swirling, she didn't know if she could hold down another shot. The drinks came and Angela held up her glass. "Over the lips, over the gums, look out stomach...." They all downed the liquor simultaneously and Angela clinked her beer to Dandy Don's, taking a long swallow. Reeling, Dandy Don tried to match her, motion for motion. "Brandy says you got connections."

"I got all kinds of fuckin' connections," he boasted.

"Well, why don't we talk about them when I get done with my set, big fella? Meantime, why don't you come up to the rail? I'll make sure you get a real good show." She dragged her finger teasingly under his flabby chin.

He took the bait and found a seat up on the bamboo railing while Maxine sailed toward the bathroom. The music boomed, and, just like her previous sets, Angela was inundated with attention, propositions, and money. She made her way over to Dandy Don and lingered there for almost an entire song, making sure he got as good a look as anyone could get. Her smile frozen to her face, she forced herself to not run away. When the set was over, she kissed his sweaty cheek and said, "Be right back, honey buns."

In the bathroom, she looked at herself in the mirror. "What in God's name are you doing?" she asked her own reflection. She wiped away a couple of gathering tears and steeled herself with the knowledge that she was on the verge of accomplishing her goal. She had his head in the guillotine, and now she was about to let the blade fall. She thought of poor Stu, thinking theirs had been a quick love affair, but it felt right. It was right. She had come this far; she might as well complete the journey.

She came out of the bathroom and saw Maxine staggering across the stage. Poor girl. She didn't look so good. Angela hoped that she had half the inner fortitude of that woman. She prepared herself for the final phase of the plan. Just one more step. Plopping herself down next to Dandy Don again, she held up two fingers toward one of the waitresses.

"How'd you like the show, sweet stuff?"

"I could look at those knockers all night," Dandy Don slurred.

What a charmer. "Maybe you could get a better look at them a later. In the back maybe?"

Dandy Don's face lit up. "I just might take you up on that."

Don't do me any fucking favors, Angela thought as the two shots came over.

Dandy Don looked at the waitress. "I didn't order those."

"These are on me," Angela said, handing the waitress a five. "Least a girl can do is buy a little drink for the man who's going to help her out." He smelled like a racehorse that had just run the Kentucky Derby, she thought, maybe worse, but she snuggled closer, holding up her shot glass. She downed it and Dandy Don did the same, almost falling out of his chair as he tipped his head back.

"Help you out, how?" he slurred.

"Brandy says you can score some shit for me."

"What kind of shit you want?" he asked, his tongue a foot thick.

"What you got?"

"You just name it, sweet cakes, and I can get it."

Angela pressed further. "How much can you get?" She held up two more fingers.

"How much you fuckin' want?"

"I got some friends, rich friends, and their connection's gone south. These are some pretty big players. You think you can handle it?" She handed the waitress another five and clinked his glass. "Bottoms up!" she toasted, and she slugged it down. Dandy Don did the same.

"I... can... fuckin' handle... anything you fuckin' got... is... what you... want. How... much? I can... get... it, okay?... No fuckin' problem. Just... tell me. What you want? Pound? Two... pounds?"

"Yeah, I'll take a couple. Can you get us some coke?"

"S-s-sure, I... can. How... much?"

"Fifty thousand worth."

Dandy Don's head jerked up, wobbling like a spring-head doll. "You... got the fuckin'... money?"

"I'll bring the fucking money, when you bring the fucking stuff."

"Money... first."

He needed a little more convincing. Angela held up two more fingers and signaled for two more beer chasers. She looked around. No one was looking. Reaching inside her robe, she untied the ties on her halter top and let it fall into his lap. The drinks came and she chugged down another shot, chasing it with the beer. He did the same. Then, while he was on the verge of passing out, she parted the front of the robe and revealed herself, knowing full well what would happen. He squeezed and played and flicked like a puppy with a new toy.

"I'll bring the money when you bring the stuff. If it makes you feel better, I'll hand over the money first when we trade." She looked down, nauseated. "You like them, big guy?" The answer was obvious. She pushed them together as he squeezed. She was going to be sick. "Do we have a deal, or what?"

"Deal," he slobbered.

"How much... total?" she asked, hoping he could figure it out, which he couldn't. "Give me your phone number," she said. "I'll call you tomorrow to find out how much." As soon as she got the number, she got up from the table and went into the ladies' room and washed herself.

* * * * *

"You went to that club and did what?" Brownie yelled. "Are you nuts?"

"You can't stop us now!" Jessica yelled back. "It's already done, and she's there now. I have to get there."

"It's dangerous. You heard what the detective said. People have been dying around this Dandy Don guy."

"I want to go... now!"

"You're not going to go in there, are you?"

"I've already been there, remember? Besides, if I don't go in, you can. We need to know if it happened."

"Now?"

"Now. Let's go."

Brownie thought he'd done enough. Earlier in the day he'd finally told his mom about the whole mess, even the part about the disciplinary probation. Surely Badge's parents would be in Schenectady the next day, he figured, and Badge would be out of jail. As for his own predicament, his mom said they'd talk about it later.

Brownie checked his watch. The fact that it was well after dinner time and his father hadn't called meant one of two things: either his mother hadn't told him yet, or she'd explained it so that he, Brownie, was in the clear—but he doubted it. His dad would have called if he knew. The suspense hung on him like a lead shirt, and he thought about what would happen if he got into trouble again, good intentions or not. These girls were going too far!

"This is nuts," he barked as he grabbed his coat.

An image flashed through his head of him at Morrison's Lumberyard, stacking pallets next to Popsie. It was an odd image though, as Popsie was much older, and so was he; and old man Morrison wasn't old man Morrison anymore. It was his son Roger, who was three years younger than Brownie, but he looked older too, and he was driving the forklift now.

CHAPTER 35 Northgate Mall

The bathroom door slammed shut and young Jennifer thought: gosh, what was that? She heard her mom coughing or something, and that sounded really loud too. Her mom came out after a while, but she didn't look too good. Her eyes were all red and her hair was, like, glued to her face.

"Mom, are you okay? You look kind of yellow."

"I'm all right, sweetheart. I just need some rest. Mommy had a long night."

"Mom, is that Angela lady going to have breakfast with us again?"

"I'm not sure dear. She might sleep for a while. Don't make any noise, okay? She needs to rest too."

"Why is she sleeping with us?" Jennifer asked, not remembering a stranger ever having stayed with them before.

"She needed a place to stay for a couple of nights... uh... until her landlord finishes painting her apartment."

"Does she work with you at the cocktail lounge?"

"Yes!... yes, she does," Maxine answered. "Don't you have to get ready for school now, sweetheart? Did Mrs. Lasky go over your homework with you?"

Hearing their voices, Angela struggled from the living room sofa and managed to sit up. Noticing that Jennifer's eyes were all over her, she issued a coarse, "Good morning Jennifer," as she covered herself up and staggered painfully to the bathroom.

She didn't look too good either, Jennifer thought. Her eyes were worse than her mom's, and it seemed like she had a hard time walking. Jennifer just ate her breakfast. What happened to make her mom and that Angela lady act really goofy like that?

"Time to go Jennifer! Give Mommy a kiss. Bye now."

Trying to regain some sense of balance through the alcohol blur, Maxine closed her eyes as Angela dragged in from the bathroom. "I've never said this about my own child," she said, "but I'm glad she's gone. Are you okay?"

"I'm still drunk," Angela replied, holding on to the furniture. "And my stomach feels like it's in my throat."

"Join the club. I've already hugged johnny twice this morning. You want some aspirin or something?"

"How about a gun? It's the only thing that could put me out of this misery." Angela turned and ran for the bathroom. "Excuse me, I have to puke now."

When Angela returned Maxine pointed and said, "You splashed some on your foot."

Angela pulled a sheet off the sofa and wiped her foot. "Gross!"

"Do we go ahead with the plan?"

"Absolutely," Angela said. "We didn't go through all this for nothing."

* * * * *

It was past ten, he was late, and he only had an hour-and-a-half to prepare lunch for the brothers. It would have to be something simple. Soup and sandwiches; he could handle that, but barely. The guys wouldn't mind, and if they did, well, fuck 'em. He couldn't remember if he had any soup on the shelves. Hell, he couldn't remember anything except the amazing pair of squeeze toys he'd played with the night before. Had he made a deal with that new broad? Right: two pounds of grass and fifty thousand in cocaine. That was it. She must have some heavy hitters for friends, he guessed, but that didn't surprise him. A girl like her got to know people, especially guys, rich guys, who'd do anything to get a piece of that tail.

Dandy Don fixed himself a Bromo-Seltzer and wondered for no apparent reason how the girls were doing. He couldn't remember ever seeing two women drink like that. That Brandy bitch pounded them down like there was no tomorrow, and he felt sorry now that he'd roughed her up outside her apartment. And the new bitch stayed right with her. Speaking of the new bitch, didn't she say she was going to call? That's right. He remembered giving her a phone number. Was it this phone number? He needed to get hold of Patsy. Fifty grand in cocaine! He'd chalk up a few points for a score this big; yes he would. He went to the pay phone and called the answering service.

* * * * *

"Where the hell is Nat? The cop at the desk said he'd be back in half an hour. We've waited twice that long." Anxious to move about, Brownie added, "I'm going down to the machine and get some coffee. You want some?"

Jessica said, "No thanks."

Coming back into squad room with the coffee, he saw Nat sitting behind the desk. About time, he thought, but Nat quickly scrawled something on a notepad and left.

"Where'd he go now?"

"To get that other detective," Jessica replied, "the one with the long Polish name."

Sure enough, Gravachevsky came over. "What's going down with our friend from the fraternity house?" he asked directly.

"Well," Brownie began, "we're not quite sure about all the details yet, but we're pretty sure a big drug deal is going to happen sometime soon."

Gravachevsky looked at him sideways. "And you know this... how?"

"A friend told us."

* * * * *

"When did you hear from him?" Il padrone asked.

"About a half an hour ago," Patsy replied.

"Do we have enough product on hand?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm calling you."

"Call Paulo and arrange it with him directly." Il padrone was late for his eleven o'clock salon appointment. He hated screwing around with these trivial everyday matters. If he had to do everything himself, what the hell did he need all these other people running around for? "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Things look good on the charter. The professor called the fat man and said it should be no problem. As it stands right now, it'll either be Air Colombia or Pan Am."

"Make it Air Colombia. Got it?"

Patsy said, "How the fuck am I supposed to do that?"

"That's your problem to figure out. Just make it happen."

"Anything else?" Patsy snapped back sarcastically.

"Yeah. Don't fuck this up. Anything goes wrong, it's on you. You got that Patsy?" He needed to be clear. The idiots never seemed to get it unless he was bluntly clear.

"Yeah, I got it," Patsy said with a little less respect and a little more attitude than Il padrone would have liked.

* * * * *

Having forgotten the blue books containing Mister Mosbacher's exam answers, Professor Phelan doubled back to his office after having walked all the way down the stairs. Hopefully Mister Mosbacher would make the afternoon class and he'd be able to tell him that the intercom episode had been nothing but a big mistake. Picking up the blue books, he saw the pink message note that Mrs. Keefer must have just put on his desk: Omega Travel—1:47 p.m.—Air Colombia charter verified—all okay. Phelan felt relieved. Finally, everything was going his way.

* * * * *

"When you gonna have the stuff, big man?" Angela asked as sweetly as she could, given the fact that she'd had the heaves all morning. She willed herself to perform, struggling to prevent the meanness from coming out in her voice. It would have been a pleasure to pummel the pig into a bloody pulp. She shifted the phone to her other ear and said matter-of-factly, "Fine, I'll have the money today. Fifty or sixty grand is chump change for these guys. It'll be no problem." She kept listening. "No way... I put you in touch with them, and what's in it for me? I get to let them bang me for my trouble? This way, I pay you fifty, and I charge them sixty... Hey, well, that's the way the cookie crumbles... You got the stuff or not? I need to get this over with... 'Cause I need the money, asshole. Why the fuck do you think I'm dancing at that club, for the clean air?... Yeah, well that's tough shit. It'll be just you and me. You bring the stuff, I'll bring the money... Yeah, I'll bring them too... Hey, you score this for me and you can play with them all you want... Where and when?... No way. It has to be out in the open." She listened, then said, "Fine," and hung up.

Angela smiled a triumphant smile. "It's set."

"I hope nothing goes wrong," Maxine responded.

Ignoring her, Angela said, "We have one more call to make." Dialing the number Jessica had given her—the number to the pay phone on Brownie's floor at the dorm—she looked at her watch anxiously. It was already 2:30 and they didn't have much time to make everything happen. She waited for someone to pick up.

Finally, "Fenway Park, third base," a voice said, trying to be funny.

"Is Jessica there?"

"I think you have a wrong number."

Then Angela remembered where she was calling. "Brownie... Is Brownie there? It's very important."

"Hold on."

An anxious minute, then two, then seemingly an hour went by. Finally, "Hello."

"Brownie, this is Angela. Let me talk to Jessica."

Jessica came on and said quickly, "We've been waiting to hear from you. Where the hell are you?"

"I'm at Maxine's place. Did you guys go to the police station?"

"Yeah, we were there this morning. They're waiting to hear from us as soon as we know something. Is it set?"

"It's set," Angela responded.

"When?"

"Tonight."

"Oh my God! Tonight? Where?"

"Never mind that. We have to get back to the police station. Meet us outside the dorm. We'll be there in twenty minutes."

Hearing the words come from the phone, Maxine said, "I'll get Mrs. Lasky to take care of Amanda."

* * * * *

"Who's the kid with the three babes?" one of the uniforms asked as Brownie, Jessica, Angela, and Maxine followed each other into the detectives' room. Neither Gravachevsky nor Nat were in, they were told, but they'd be back somewhere around four. They said they'd wait. In the hallway outside the squad room, the women gravitated toward each other and Brownie sat on a bench opposite them, wondering if this was really going to happen. It sure seemed like it, especially if Angela had anything to say about it. She was on a mission. He couldn't help but picture her as he'd seen her the previous night inside the Bamboo Club. Her silky robe flying open as she walked toward him, she was almost naked underneath and he remembered how his eyes glued themselves to her body.

His eyes settled on Maxine, and suddenly he felt anger toward her despite the fact that Badge had explained everything, including how it had been his idea to deliver the dope, not hers. She must have sensed it because she came over and took his arm, coaxing him into the hallway.

"I was only trying to do what was right, you know, for my children. I didn't mean for this to happen. I'm sorry," she sobbed. A piece of her soul seemed to spill out with the words.

Brownie choked back his own feelings and tried to soften her grief as she stepped into his arms and cried. "Everything's gonna be all right," he said wondering if he meant it. He looked at his watch. It was almost four o'clock. Nat and Detective Gravachevsky would be back soon.

* * * * *

Outside the station, Gravachevsky waved goodbye to Nat and walked back into the squad room at 6:09. Finally, after five weeks, Nat's hard cast had been converted to a soft cast. As soon as he got there, he saw the envelope sitting in the middle of his desk and he tore into it, wondering who it could be from. He knew instantly as soon as he started reading: We waited as long as we could. The deal I talked to you about this morning is happening tonight—seven o'clock. In front of the Korvette's department store in Northgate Mall. Two pounds of grass and fifty thousand dollars' worth of cocaine. We had to leave...Wallace Brown. "Jesus Christ!" Gravachevsky hollered out loud. He looked at the clock. Ten minutes later, he was burning gas up Central Avenue and he couldn't believe that after all this time it was coming down like this. Two pounds of grass and fifty thousand dollars' worth of cocaine! Where the hell were they going to get that kind of money? Those idiot kids had no idea what type of people they were dealing with. Seeing the entrance to Northgate Mall, Gravachevsky gunned the engine and looked at his watch. It was ten-to-seven and he needed to get there soon before someone got themselves killed. Taking a right into the parking lot in front of the Korvette's store, he looked down one row, up another, then down next, thinking: this would be easier if he knew what he was looking for.

* * * * *

"Maybe the detectives didn't get the message," Maxine said. "What the hell are we going to do now?"

"I don't know," Angela replied, more than a little jittery. "We could simply not show up."

"What do you think that fat bastard would do then?"

"I don't know," Angela said again. "He'd probably go looking for me at the club." Already, the plan was falling apart.

"You're right, and he'll be madder than hell if you're not there either." Maxine looked Angela in the eye. "I don't want him showing up at my apartment again."

"Cover for me," Angela said. "We'll drop you off at your place and you go to the club like you normally do. If he shows up, tell him that as far as you know, I was supposed to be there too. Meanwhile, I'll head up to the mall. If everything looks okay, maybe I'll meet with him and tell him I didn't get the money. I'll just ask him to hang on to the stuff until tomorrow." She turned to Brownie and Jessica in the back seat. "You guys go back to the college."

Brownie said, "Are you nuts? This isn't like returning a pair of slippers at the K-Mart, you know. You can't go up there alone. It's too dangerous. Let's call the police station again."

"It's too late," Angela said. "I'm going. You guys do whatever you want."

"We're going with you," Jessica said before Brownie could get it out. "Even if it's just to make sure nothing happens to you."

* * * * *

Patsy pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket. "This car is fucking disgusting," he said, spreading it underneath him so he wouldn't soil his suit.

Pulling into the parking lot at Northgate Mall, Dandy Don said, "It does the job." He took a lap around the lot as darkness was quickly taking over.

"What's she driving?"

"I don't know. I told her we'd be parked in the lot in front of the store and for her to look for my car. She'll find us," Dandy Don said confidently.

Patsy said, "Listen fatso, don't fuck this up."

When they got to the edge of the lot closest to Central Avenue, Dandy Don backed the Bonneville into a parking space so that they commanded a view of the lot. They paid no attention to the dark Chevy meandering through the rows until it came around for the third time and took a left into the row right in front of them. It parked in the middle of the row, and they watched as the driver got out and headed toward the entrance to the Korvette's store.

"Lazy fuck," said Patsy. "Spends half an hour looking for a parking space so he can save five steps. I hate lazy people." He turned to Dandy Don and said, "Tell me about her tits again."

* * * * *

As soon as he was behind a van, Gravachevsky ducked down and scooted through three rows of cars, making his way back to the middle of the lot. It was well lit, perhaps too well lit to conceal him as well as he would have liked. Stationing himself next to a pickup, he had a view of the entire lot. He scanned the lot through the pickup's windows, pretending to search for his keys as a nearby couple walked arm-in-arm to their car only a few spaces away. He looked around. It wasn't busy, and only a few people walked to or from the entrance, which looked to be about sixty yards away. He stayed alert, attentive to the casual nuances of people who were perhaps doing a little early Christmas shopping. Every instinct told him something was going to happen, but he was like a duck in a carnival shooting gallery: he didn't know when or where the shot would come from. Seeing no one close to him at the moment, he pulled the Colt .38 from his shoulder holster and checked the tumbler to be sure it was full. When he put it back, the safety was off.

* * * * *

"Do you see anything?" Jessica asked.

"What does a Bonneville look like?" Angela responded.

"Jesus," Brownie muttered. "Are you saying you have no idea what a Bonneville looks like? Please tell me that's not true. It's a big car," he went on. "A Pontiac."

"Damn it, is it a Bonneville, or a Pontiac? Which one is it?"

"They're the same Angela. It's a Pontiac... Bonneville, you know, like Ford... Falcon?

"Oh, okay. That still doesn't tell me what it looks like."

The windows of Angela's old Ford Falcon fogged repeatedly and she had to start the engine to run the defroster. Brownie was with her in the front seat; Jessica was in back. The entrance road for the mall came off Central Avenue, dividing the parking lots. The lot for the Korvette's store was directly across from them, on the other side of the entrance road, and they had a good view of it, enabling them to stay low in their seats.

"He said to look for a tan Bonneville, parked at the edge of the parking lot in front of the Korvette's store. That's the Korvette's store, and there's the lot. I guess that would be the edge over there." Angela pointed to where the lot bordered the main thoroughfare. Neatly cut flat-topped bushes lined the edge of the lot along the road, in front of which a few cars were parked intermittently down the line.

Pointing, Brownie said, "That could be a Bonneville over there—fifth one in from the entrance road. The color looks right, but I can't tell the make or model from here."

Jessica craned her neck, trying to see through the foggy windshield. "Then how do we know if it's him?"

Angela pulled up on the door handle. "Only one way to find out."

"No!" Brownie yelled, grabbing her arm.

"Let go of me!" she snarled. "I'm gonna—"

Brownie squeezed harder. "He knows what you look like. If he recognizes you, it'll kill everything. Besides, it could be dangerous. We have to wait."

"But—"

"Don't be stupid. You have no idea what you're walking into." He pulled up on his door handle and stepped into the night. "Stay here until I come back."

"Brownie!" Jessica called from the back seat. Seeing that further protest would be useless, she rolled down her window. "Be careful Brownie... I love you!"

Brownie closed the door softly and walked to the edge of the lot along Central Avenue. I love you? Did he hear that right? Focusing, he saw his target clearly. The car was parked about fifty yards away on the other side of the entrance road. Squeezing through the bushes so that he was off the lot and on the sidewalk bordering the highway, he pulled his collar up and his neck down. He walked to the entrance road, crossing it, and proceeded casually down the sidewalk while three lanes of traffic whipped by on his right. Closing in on the car, he glanced through the bushes and read the nameplate on the back: Bonneville, clear as day; color was kind of tan, two heads inside, facing the lot. His heart raced to double its normal pace. Continuing all the way to the next intersection, he crossed the highway and doubled back on the other side, passing the mouth of the entrance road as he made his way back to the Falcon.

"It's them!" he said, sweating despite the fact that it was below fifty degrees. "It's a Bonneville, it looked tan, and there were two heads inside, just sitting there."

"Are you sure?" Angela asked. "He didn't say anything about bringing someone else."

"Did you?" Brownie shot back.

"Shit," said Angela. She could handle Dandy Don.

* * * * *

Patsy said, "It's fuckin' past 7:30 already. Is the bitch gonna show, or what?" He couldn't believe he'd spent half the day on this, running all the way into Albany to get the coke from Paulo, who didn't even hand it over in person. And now, he was stuck in this disgusting piece-of-shit car next to this fat prick, who smelled like bad meat. This was definitely beneath him. Stewing, he figured Dal Maso was probably snacking on caviar and sipping martinis by now—the fuck—but still, Il padrone was right: if the bitch didn't show, it was better that he be here personally rather than have fifty grand worth of coke floating around with the fat fuck behind the wheel.

"Let's give it another fifteen minutes," said Dandy Don. "Maybe she's lost or something."

"Yeah, right," Patsy sneered.

They waited, then waited some more until finally Patsy said, "She ain't gonna show, lard ass. Let's get the fuck outta here. This is the last time I fuckin' listen to you, you big, fat, ugly fuckin' jerk."

From across the entrance road, Angela knew immediately what was happening when the lights on the Bonneville came to life and the car began to crawl forward. She sprang from the Falcon, determined not to blow the setup.

"No!" Brownie screamed, but it was too late. She was out, running across the entrance road toward the Bonneville, reaching it just as it started to pick up speed. Seeing her pound on the car's hood, Brownie jumped from the Falcon, thinking: Jesus Christ! What the hell did she think she was doing?

Inside the Bonneville, Dandy Don stomped on the brake pedal as she pounded on the hood and came around to his driver side window.

"About fuckin' time," said Patsy.

Dandy Don backed the Bonneville back into the parking space and rolled down his window.

Playing it as cocky as she could, Angela said, "Where do you think you're going, big man? Mind if I get in?"

"Hop in, sweet cakes."

She slid into the back seat and Dandy Don said, "We thought you wasn't gonna show."

Talking the way she thought a drug dealer would talk, Angela pointed a thumb at Patsy and said, "Who the fuck is this? You didn't fucking say anything about bringing anybody else. We can't take any fucking chances."

Patsy liked that: a smart bitch, smarter than the fucking moron behind the wheel. He made no attempt to hide his visual examination. "Relax, good lookin'. Ain't no sense in gettin' all hot and bothered. You got the money?"

"We've got a little problem."

Patsy looked her square in the eye. "Tell me about it."

"They didn't show up with the money." She looked back and forth between Dandy Don and the little guy, noticing that the little guy didn't seem to take the news too well.

"Why am I not fuckin' surprised?" Patsy snarled. "So what the fuck do you expect us to do with fifty grand worth of coke?"

Angela pulled up on the door handle. "I guess I expect you to stick it up your ass."

Thought lines creased Patsy's compact face, his thin lips stretching into a skewed grin. Ballsy chick, he thought. A ballsy chick with a bod. "Wait," he called. "Maybe you and me can make a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"You do me a little favor, and maybe I'll do you a little favor. What d'ya say?"

"What kind of favor?" Angela asked, waiting for the next move.

"Let's say I forget about this little fuck up if you and me... you know." Patsy made a ring with his left hand and inserted his right index finger.

Angela hawked a spit wad into Patsy's face and jumped from the car. "I'd rather fuck a blind pig!" she called through Dandy Don's open window.

"You fuckin' cunt!" Patsy yelled out. "Get that bitch!"

Angela stepped back, but it was too late. Dandy Don's door smashed into her legs, knocking her to the pavement. Despite his bulk, he was out of the car and on her in a second.

* * * * *

Gravachevsky saw her go down, recognizing Dandy Don immediately as he emerged from the car and trudged toward her as she lay writhing on the asphalt. If the deal was going down now, it didn't look like it was going well. Detecting motion out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the kid from the college, Wallace Brown, chugging across the parking lot toward the Bonneville at full steam. Seconds later the kid became a human cannonball, driving the fat man clean off his feet and slamming him into the car. That was some shot, thought Gravachevsky as he pulled his weapon. The situation didn't look good.

* * * * *

Brownie's neck telescoped onto itself as he hit the four-hundred-pound blob. His head hit something hard and he ricocheted into the asphalt, tearing away skin and bone as if he'd landed on a belt sander. He lay dazed on the pavement, seeing Angela only a few feet away, her leg bent back on itself at the point where the bone had been broken. It was covered in blood. He was barely conscious, but Jessica's cry penetrated his fog.

"Brownie, he's got a gun!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. She was running towards him, still some thirty yards away. "Behind you!" she screamed.

He thought she was talking about the fat man, Dandy Don, but he looked to be unconscious, or close to it, looking like a downed hippo on the parking lot. Brownie looked the other way, suddenly spotting some short guy in a shiny suit with the gun Jessica had just warned him about. Then, he spotted someone else running across the lot, behind the short guy, out of his line of vision. It was Nat's partner, Detective Gravachevsky, and he had a gun too.

"Freeze! Police!" Gravachevsky called as he collapsed to one knee, his weapon leveled.

Patsy turned and fired without warning, and the bullets from his automatic plinked off the pavement in front of Gravachevsky. The reports echoed off the facade of the Korvette's store as Gravachevsky went down, his thigh a sudden mass of red.

Brownie staggered to his feet and stumbled toward Angela. Arriving first, Jessica grabbed Angela's coat with both hands and dragged her toward the nearest parked car, which was six spaces away. Angela screamed obscenities the whole time, the rage within her like an electrical current arcing into the night. From the parking lot, the deep boom of Gravachevsky's .38 covered any other sound; a slug cratered into one of the Bonneville's headlights. Who was the short guy? Brownie asked himself, remembering suddenly that he'd seen two heads inside the Bonneville. Then, he heard the boom again, then again and again as the sound echoed off the buildings. He felt the pingy thud of metal against metal as heavy bullets impacted into the front of the car, one of them into the bumper not two feet away from him. Staggering toward Jessica, Brownie tried to get himself away from the Bonneville before he got himself shot, but a huge forearm bashed into the back of his neck, dropping him like a stone. Dandy Don picked him up, sending him flying toward the Bonneville where the side mirror caught him like a metal fist, carving a slice above his right eyebrow. Warm blood flooded his eyes instantly. Brownie tried to stand as Dandy Don's huge form thundered toward him, but he couldn't move fast enough. A massive fist plowed into his face, smashing his head into the door. A heavy boot found his rib cage and he heard his ribs crack as every molecule of air spewed from his lungs; pain was everywhere. Dandy Don's foot cocked itself for another devastating blow, but before it could land, with every ounce of strength he had left, Brownie propelled his own sneaker-clad foot skyward, catching its target. He mashed Dandy Don's testicles like grapes under a rolling pin. Screaming, the fat man fell backward, spinning into the side of the Bonneville and onto the pavement.

Brownie struggled to one knee, watching as Gravachevsky tried to burrow into the asphalt. Rolling, diving, spinning, he was caught in the open lot, trying to avoid the bullets blasting from Patsy's automatic, but he couldn't go forward and he couldn't go backward. It was suicide, or murder—same result—as he wasn't able to move fast enough to get away from the rapid fire of Patsy's automatic.

The staccato echoed in Brownie's ears as the little guy tried to pump five more shots into Gravachevsky's squirming figure. Gravachevsky's head banged into the asphalt as he rolled, tearing scalp and skin while bullets strafed the ground all around him. Patsy stood there like John Wayne, legs spread, fearless, and calmly pulled another eleven-shot clip from his shoulder holster. He ejected the spent clip and slammed in the new one, popping four more rounds before Gravachevsky could crawl away. One of them lashed into his body, crumpling him.

It was all happening in seconds. Brownie forced himself to move as the shooter walked toward the downed cop. Jessica's scream filled the night. Brownie turned toward her and saw Dandy Don pull a black pistol from his jacket with one hand, while he held his crushed testicles with the other.

Momentarily distracted, Patsy stopped walking, taking a split second to absorb the source of the scream. The cop wasn't going anywhere.

Dandy Don was facing the other way, focused on Jessica. With his last ounce of effort, Brownie pushed himself from the ground, pain knifing through his body, every sinew strung tight as cable wire. His face a mask of streaming blood, he stumbled over to Dandy Don, and, expending an energy he'd never known, he plowed a fist into Dandy Don's head. Dandy Don staggered but didn't go down, and as he staggered Brownie launched another right, this one hitting Dandy Dan squarely on the mouth and shattering the three teeth it came into contact with. Again he reached back, throwing his fist as if he were throwing his best fastball. He hammered into Dandy Don's nose, breaking bone and mashing cartilage as if it were boiled potatoes. He reached back with his other hand, and another tooth tinkled to the pavement. It all happened in seconds. Teetering, Dandy Don went down like a bag of rocks, and Brownie fell on his disgusting body, pounding his fleshy face into a bloody pulp.

Suddenly, hard metal slammed into his temple and he reeled to the pavement while Dandy Don's black automatic skidded across the pavement in front of him. He turned, barely focusing, prepared for more pain, but it didn't matter, for he was beyond it. He thought for a split second that his time had come, thinking oddly that his parents would be pissed, but there was no Dandy Don coming at him. He searched: Jessica and Angela were huddled in a tearful mass a few feet away; Dandy Don was crawling toward the Bonneville, his face a mass of mangled tissue; the gunman, laughing, enjoying it, turning his way; the cop down, unmoving, dead maybe, would be if he wasn't; soon they would all be dead.

But the cop wasn't dead! His right arm was functionless, a bullet having ripped through it. Brownie watched him sweep the ground for the .38, finding it with his left hand. The shooter saw it as well and raised his weapon. Gravachevsky fired wildly, in desperation, his shot coming nowhere near its intended target. Then, click.

Patsy smiled and resumed his walk. Pointing his automatic at Gravachevsky's head the whole time, his face was contorted into a leer, eyes wide with anticipation, motions deliberate.

* * * * *

Gravachevsky closed his eyes, wondering if he'd even hear the blast before he died. The blast came, but from too far away, and it sounded different—and he wasn't dead! He looked up: blood! Then more of it, dripping onto the pavement just a foot in front of his face. The feet: tangling themselves. He made a final lunge and rolled away, the ground like broken glass sticking into him with every movement. The reports continued, rapid and determined. As he spotted the source, Gravachevsky knew he'd never forget what he saw for the rest of his life.

Doubled over in pain, one arm bent like a pretzel, the other straight as an arrow with pistol in hand, Brownie limped toward Patsy, firing shot after shot from Dandy Don's automatic. Instinctively, he took aim, walking on spent shells as they tinkled to the ground. He fired repeatedly, the blasts reverberating off the front of the Korvette's store. He moved forward mercilessly as bullet after bullet ripped into Patsy's gyrating body, the automatic recoiling in his shaky hand. When the clip was empty, Brownie looked down and spat into the shiny pool of blood that oozed from the huge holes in Patsy Salvano's head.

EPILOGUE

Defense lawyers: there had to be need for them, Gravachevsky speculated, but this was ridiculous. He didn't understand what there was to argue about. The cook had squealed like the pig that he was; Dal Maso and Salinas were scum; the good guys caught the bad guys: it was that simple. All that was left was for the judge to throw the book at them so everyone could go home and have a beer. Gravachevsky shifted in his seat. The wounds still bothered him, and sitting in one position for too long was difficult. Ignoring the meaningless dribble from the defense attorney, his thoughts drifted to Sue and how happy she was now that they'd finally set a date. It wouldn't be long before Miss Lombardi would become Mrs. Gravachevsky—if she agreed to change her name. A lot of women didn't these days.

Nat poked him in the ribs. "Hey, they just called your name."

Prepared to be bombarded with more stupid questions, Gravachevsky got up and took the stand for the fifth time.

"May I remind the court that the ledger to which Detective Gravachevsky refers cannot be used as evidence. It was obtained illegally, without a search warrant, and therefore...."

Gravachevsky thought: enough bullshit already. "Listen Mister Finkel, we had the ledger examined and we proved the entries were made by Dal Maso himself—in his own handwriting! What do you think, we went on vacation to Brooklyn and stumbled across a freighter with three tons of marijuana on it?"

"That's irrelevant, your honor! Please instruct the detective that there will be no editorializing on the stand. I demand that his testimony be stricken!"

"Detective, please! Just answer the questions as they are—"

Gravachevsky held up his hand and sniped, "Yeah, I know... as they're asked." He couldn't help but smile when Nat gave him a thumbs-up sign, however. Stricken or not stricken, the jury had heard it, and you couldn't strike what was in their minds.

The judge said, "You may step down, Detective. Mister Prosecutor, you may call your first witness."

"I call Mister Bernard Phelan to the stand, your honor."

From the back of the court, a uniformed officer came forward, handed a note to the bailiff, and whispered something in his ear. The bailiff came forward and handed the note to the prosecutor. "May I approach the bench, your honor?" the prosecutor asked urgently.

The judge nodded and indicated that both lawyers should approach. "What's up?" he asked, nodding at the note.

"I'm afraid Professor Phelan won't be testifying this morning. He was found hanging from a bridge in Menands."

"Suicide?" the judge inquired.

"Hard to tell, your honor. The police are investigating."

* * * * *

Badge plopped himself into a chair and thumbed through the Albany Times Union, noting the date: July 19th. The summer was flying by. Yawning, he checked the time and saw that he had a couple of hours to catch up on some z's. He'd just gotten home from his morning job as a bageleer, Maxine called it, delivering fresh made bagels from a dilapidated old truck. In at four, out by noon, and another eight hour shift went into the record books. After that, he was off to the GE plant every day for job number two: the swing shift, assembly line four, two-to-eleven. It was a tough grind, but he didn't mind. It was the only way he and Maxine could keep up on Amanda's dialysis treatments.

He knew that Maxine's job wouldn't start paying well for another two or three months, but pushing her into commission sales for an industrial supply company had been his idea. She sold everything from industrial chemicals to specialized tools and equipment.

"I don't know the first thing about industrial tools, or manufacturing, or anything like that," she'd said before she took the job. "And I don't want to feel like a piece of meat again."

"What's to know?" Badge had argued. "The customers will tell you what they need. All you have to do is get in the door. Believe me, if you get in, they'll buy from you. As far as being a piece of meat, you can play that tune all the way to the bank if you're smart about it. Use it to your advantage—and just think of Amanda the whole time. It's up to you. I'll support whatever decision you make."

She sighed. "Maybe you're right."

"Remember the formula: big smile, blonde hair, piece of cake."

He was right. Industrial supplies: there wasn't anything more boring and mundane, and the men who normally sold such products were equally so. But once those plant superintendents and purchasing agents got a look at their new sales rep from Mohawk Industrial Supplies, Badge knew it would be impossible for them to forget her line of products. "And don't call them on the phone," he kept telling her, contradicting her boss's instructions. "Just show up at their door. Trust me, they'll see you." Finally, after a couple of hundred, "No, I'm afraid I'm too busy," excuses on the phone, she took Badge's advice and just started knocking on doors. The secretaries didn't like it much, but the purchasing agents always seemed to make time for her when she showed up in her frilly blouses and high heels. She always made sure she smelled good too. She left with a stack of approved orders every time.

Remembering her story from the night before, Badge recalled her embarrassment as she quoted one of the purchasing agents she'd seen during the day. "You look familiar," he'd said to her. "Didn't I see you at the Bam.... Naw, it couldn't be."

Badge laughed it off. "Don't worry about it. Tease him with it. He'll visualize you that way every time you walk in; and while he's fantasizing, you'll be filling out purchase orders."

"That's no way to make a living," she'd protested, until he reminded her of the not too distant past.

He thought he'd check the mail before showering up and heading off to the GE plant. There was a letter from his parents, and another with a return address marked City of Schenectady. Excitedly, he tore it open.

"Congratulations," it began. He'd made it! His heart skipped a beat. Nat was right when he said that he'd make a good cop, and now it was going to happen! "Officer Badger," he said to himself. It had a nice ring to it. He knew Maxine and the kids would be excited; then, looking at the letter from his parents, he wondered if they'd be happy too. He tore it open.

"Dear son," it began, "Your mother and I want you to know the house seems empty without you. We were happy to read that you are happy and that Maxine has found a new job, one where... well, you know. Your mother and I would like to offer all the help we can, but like you said, you need to work things out on your own. You're right, we can't make your decisions for you. We just want you to know that we love you and we're here for you. We always have been." It was signed Arthur and Margaret rather than Mom and Dad as all the previous letters had been. Badge knew the significance of that subtle change.

* * * * *

The D-train rocked and groaned into another station, and Stu gripped the bar trying to keep his newspaper from being crushed by the fat guy who smelled like a Caesar salad. Ah, New York. The ride from his apartment on West 14th Street into the Bronx took a while. Damn those Orioles, he thought as he studied the paper. The Mets had beaten them in the World Series last year, but that was a fluke. The Os were tough, and he wouldn't be surprised if they made it to the series again this year.

Glancing over the edge of the newspaper, he noticed a female rider reading the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. Smiling, he knew there wasn't a guy on the train who wouldn't trade places with him in a minute. The models on the cover of Cosmo always showed cleavage, he'd noticed since Angela had told him about posing for the picture back in May, but they were always skinny as cigarettes. That was hardly the case on this cover. Angela wore a beaded black mini-dress, high on the leg and low in the neckline, and she carried just the faintest trace of a smile. Sensual confidence: even in the picture it came across. ERA, the cover read, It's Coming, So Get Out of the Way. Then underneath: What Happened at Kent State?

Getting off at the stadium stop at 161st Street, he waited momentarily to let the crowd pass. The leg still gave him problems, especially on stairs. The doctors said the pain would go away someday, but he didn't believe it.

As he made his way to the street, he felt the butterflies in his stomach start flying again, just as if he were in some big game. Now, however, the game was different. They—the Yankees marketing office—were going after Rheingold Beer, a major advertiser. The stuff was moose piss, but what the hell, a sponsor was a sponsor, and he was looking forward to his first solo negotiation. He was sure the beer would taste better if he landed the deal.

Schmoozing with ad folks and sounding complex in front of reporters was easy—although he certainly wouldn't have admitted it to anyone. He was good at it, and soon he'd be starting his biggest assignment yet: to find a player on the team to endorse a drug rehab facility. The spots would air on every TV station in the city, maybe even as far north as Albany.

His sights were set, and they aimed high. Just one day at a time, he kept telling himself as he walked up the subway stairs. He might never own the team, but he could certainly run it. Just one day at a time.

* * * * *

"You want another beer?" Billy Badger asked.

"Billy!" Nancy Badger warned. "The drinking age in Massachusetts is twenty-one."

Billy brushed it off. "Yeah, like that makes a difference. Right Brownie?"

Jessica just shook her head. "They're all the same, Mom. Drinking beer and acting disgusting must be a guy thing that goes on forever." She watched her dad puff on a stinky cigar and yank the cap off another Piels wide-mouth. He'd been talking baseball with Brownie for two hours now, first about Brownie's more-than-respectable year at Alliance, then about his Cape League team. Now, they were talking about the local Pittsfield AA club which had just become part of the Senators farm system and no longer part of the Red Sox.

"They had a couple of good ones out there last year when they were still a Sox club," Billy said. "They had this kid named Fisk who looked like he might have a future."

They were all supposed to head to the minor league game at Wahconah Park after dinner, but Jessica had half a mind to do something else, despite the fact that it was Brownie's only weekend off from the Cape League summer schedule. It was going to be that kind of night. "You guys want to go by yourselves?" she asked.

Brownie and Billy looked at each other, and Billy said, "You mean we could watch a game in peace and not have to listen to you two talk about dresses all night? Gee, I don't know."

"Brownie, why don't you call your parents," Jessica suggested. "You three guys can go to the game, and we three girls can go to that new M.A.S.H. movie everyone is talking about."

Nancy Badger said, "I think that's a marvelous idea."

Shooting Brownie a look, Billy said, "Let's go for it, kid. It may never happen again."

Brownie called, and his parents thought it was a marvelous idea too. An hour later Jessica watched her dad and Phil Brown shake hands for the first time. They gave each other a measured look, and her dad asked, "Can I get you something, Phil? Beer, soda?"

"How about one of those?" Phil replied, pointing to Billy's wide-mouth. "You having one, Son?"

"Actually, I've already had two," Brownie answered.

"Well, it's up to you, Son. You know your limits."

"I think I'll pass," said Brownie. "Someone has to drive."

Looking at his son, then over at Billy who was heaping charcoal on the grill, an infectious grin creased Phil Brown's face. "Yeah... the last one standing!" he roared uncharacteristically.

Evelyn Brown looked up when the men started howling. "Something sure was funny."

"They're probably telling dirty jokes," Jessica noted. "I can tell by just looking at them."

"Yeah," Nancy chimed in, "and if we ask about it one will have to go to the bathroom and the other two will go look at tools or something."

The women started laughing, and now the men turned. Obviously, the joke was on them.

After dinner, the women kissed their respective mates, piled into the Browns' Safari station wagon, and headed off to the Capital Theater on North Street. It was warm, a nice night in the Berkshires.

"You guys wanna get going?" Billy asked. "We'll be early, but we can catch some batting practice."

"Sure, let's go," said Phil Brown.

Walking through the back yard, Brownie spotted a tennis ball lying in the grass. He tossed it to Billy and said, "Your lawn mower will have all kinds of problems if it tries to digest this porchball."

Billy Badger and Phil Brown looked at each other. "Porchball?" said Billy. "What the hell is a porchball?
