

A BARON VON DEK HORN ADVENTURE

### BARIL DE SINGES

(Barrel of Monkeys)

by

### RICK STINEHOUR

Copyright MMXII

Zackmorton Publishing, LLC

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Smashwords Edition

This story is a work of fiction, meaning all characters, incidents and names are the imaginary creation of the author. Any resemblance to commercial establishments,

events, and/or actual persons [living or deceased] is purely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed solely for your personal enjoyment.

Please do not resell it or give it away.

If you would like to share it, please purchase an additional copy.

Thank you so much for respecting the author's livelihood.

With grateful appreciation

and many thanks to

Allison, Ben, Debra, Sarah,

Sean, Via, Xanto & Zack

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE ..... Barrymore Interrupted

CHAPTER TWO ..... Terror at 8.5344 Kilometers

CHAPTER THREE ..... The Miracle Leaf of Antoine

CHAPTER FOUR ..... Ola Hodaka, Old Friend

CHAPTER FIVE ..... Llama of Rectitude

CHAPTER SIX ..... Dashing Skeet Burnisher

CHAPTER SEVEN ..... What April Après Brought

CHAPTER EIGHT ..... The Angry Squid

CHAPTER NINE ..... Outside Looking Out

CHAPTER TEN ..... Naked One in the Pool

CHAPTER ELEVEN ..... Domestic VIOLENCE

CHAPTER TWELVE ..... Class Act All the Way

CHAPTER THIRTEEN ..... Ride of the Brilliant Chicken

CHAPTER FOURTEEN ..... Yardage to the Green

CHAPTER FIFTEEN ..... Manet, Monet & Mamonet

CHAPTER SIXTEEN ..... AFdCB & BvdH

CHAPTER ONE

_Barrymore Interrupted_

Post-dinner discussions at Tumultuous Manor are pleasurable affairs for several reasons, foremost the soothing intellectual comfort they bring to my lifelong home and private dominion. Here rests the splendid memories of my busy and enjoyable childhood, one spent exploring the expansive gardens and grounds when not racing throughout the multitude of ornately appointed rooms forming the three-story brickwork structure.

An extensive library of art and architecture books, procured and perused by my parents and grandparents over several decades, serves as the heart of the main floor. The large and welcoming room hosts a majority of the Manor's social events, its very grandeur reinforcing the tone of civil and knowledgeable discourse. Selectively displayed alongside the numerous tomes are my expansive collections of vintage automobile license plates and rarities from the Golden Era of Hollywood I have acquired over the years.

The historic and comfortable estate also serves as headquarters for my thriving livelihood as global analyst and consultant, author and lecturer, and passionate theatre enthusiast. From my personal living quarters on the third floor, I conduct a myriad of business on a daily basis with clients and friends the world over. The modest suite, consisting of my study and reading room as well as a separate bed and bath, is a secure refuge from an all-to-often chaotic, selfish and vile world. Ironically, the space doubles as my springboard for launching into the exact sordid affairs capable of mincing the human soul.

Thus, the welcomed respite provided by after-meal discussions with my friends.

The success of dinner parties, of course, relied upon the standards and practices of a first-rate staff. In this regard, I was prideful that Tumultuous Manor marched as the vanguard in delivering personal attention, care and service. After a wonderful refection prepared by the most capable Mrs. Potsdam and graciously served by the unflappable Smudgely, I felt obligated in continuing the stellar hospitality toward my invited companions by initiating the evening's dialogue. Whether circumstance dictated it be held before the rippling flames of the library's fireplace on a chilly winter night or on the front veranda at the cusp of a summer evening's rising mist, I viewed seriously my status as topical toastmaster.

For certain guests and their escorts, such behavior cast me as a conversational dominative when, in reality, I merely guided my visitors -- knowingly or not -- to compelling and stimulating issues of our time. The depth of subject matter varied according to the tastes and background of attendees, and this particular evening proved a bit overwhelming as we finished the last bites of _clafoutis aux cerises_ [without pits, as is Mrs. Potsdam's prerogative]. Try as I might, striking a pedantic pose in front of the wall-length oak mantle in the dining room, I made little headway engaging and holding the interest of my company.

"Come on, Stinky! Think man." I urged my now-grown boyhood friend to employ his now-graying but mostly bald noggin and follow me along the mathematical path I enthusiastically started.

Germany "Stinky" Kornblatt and I met at the start of our first year at prep school, a dismal alcove of private education known as Trotters-on-Funk. Nestled deep at the end of a dirt drive in the remote reed-and-toad infested wetlands of New England, its intellectually oppressive atmosphere, drafty and dilapidated dormitories and artery-clogging dietary offerings only hastened our firm and lasting friendship amid decaying volumes of books, splintered desks and exceptionally refined bullying of upper classmen.

"What did Old Man O'Toole's final lecture encompass at the end of every semester?" I pressed my query.

"Maintain a stiff upper lip?" Stinky shrugged, compressing his prominent dewlap into the base of his lower jaw so his head wobbled on a ring of bulging flesh. "Keeping our chins up?"

"Wasn't O'Toole the instructor who told you to run like the wind in the face of danger?" The question was posed by Stinky's wife, the lovely and dowdyish Conestoga Kornblatt, an only-child who suffered the misfortune of being a direct descendant of the esteemed nineteenth century wagon-builder. With piles of meaningless stock certificates tucked away in her family attic, Conestoga had been selected by birth as the public face for the once prosperous vehicle manufacturer. "Or was it to assume the fetal position and hope for the best?"

"Neither, actually," Stinky answered indignantly, "he believed --"

"Stinky!" I clapped my hands as a performing seal would his flippers when begging a handler for a fresh halibut carcass. "Think Fibonacci numbers!"

"Or geodesic domes!" Froggy Rottweiller, Stinky's cousin five years his junior, shouted in rather close proximity to my ears. Froggy also claimed Trotters-on-Funk alum status, but was fortunate to have graduated under the succeeding administration installed by the state attorney general's office. "Old Man O'Toole wouldn't stray far from Fibonacci numbers and geodesic domes."

"Precisely, Froggy, precisely." Frankly, I was disappointed with Stinky's lapse of memory and made a point of telling him so. "Frankly, Stinky, I'm disappointed with your lapse of memory."

"I blame it on my obsession with Sudoku," Stinky groaned, chagrined by my admonishment. "It's ruined my ability to think clearly. Lately, I've wanted to fit every detail of my being into a numerically designated cube."

"Our parakeet cages are lined with finished Sudoku puzzles," Conestoga lamented. "The ability of the birds to count sequentially has been horribly altered."

"Speaking in a sort of code now, they are," Stinky agreed, the nod of his head sending fleshy ripples around his neck.

"Be that as it may," I continued, "it's best we remain focused on what Fibonacci can do for you and not your parakeets."

"Is this like one of them pyramid schemes we all hear tell about?" The question was put forth by Goofy Eddy White, the local auto repairman whom I had tucked under my wing in order to develop his, as they were, social skills.

Goofy Eddy was accompanied by his bride, Edwina, whose smile showed a row of prominently displayed upper teeth matching those of her husband. Using the time-tested and nearly reliable method of judging a book by its cover, the couple was neatly categorized as thoroughbred hillbillies. Relishing their mountain-way lifestyle, they fought mightily against inclusion into the modern world of takeout convenience and indoor plumbing.

Goofy Eddy, for all his effort put into such primitive habitation, nevertheless possessed a genius in keeping roadworthy my modest fleet of mechanized conveyance: A 1930 Whippet Coach, the 1933 Duesenberg J and a temperamental 1939 Packard Touring Sedan. Hence my devoted interest in having Goofy Eddy successfully assimilated into my world or, at the very least, tinkering away beneath the hood of it.

"I'm afraid, Goofy Eddy, Fibonacci would not be considered a pyramid scheme in the finer sense of its definition and application, but it would indeed be useful in assembling a triangular structure, would it not?"

Both Goofy Eddy and Edwina wore their best expressions of tabula rasa, dragging me into the epistemological minefield of John Locke's dreaded nature versus nurture debate. Afraid their jaws would become permanently frozen in a fixed pose of stunned amazement, I quickly suggested a change of venue.

"Perhaps some fresh air will allow our thoughts to flow more freely. Would you all care to join me on the veranda?" I raised an eyebrow at Smudgely, indicating the coffee station should be wheeled through the nearest open French door and into the cool of the eve. "There we have it. Everyone out into the still of the night. Watch your step, Edwina. There you are."

"Now, it seems to me," Froggy said thoughtfully while pulling a pipe and lighter from his jacket pocket, "that Old Man O'Toole's fervor for numerology peaked just as the school's supervision was transferred to Yalemouth on Rye."

I winced with the mention of Yalemouth, bristling at Froggy for even thinking the name while in my presence. In a cathartic effort to clear my thoughts, I allowed the undeniable superiority of Yalemouth-on-Rye to bubble on the surface of my conscious mind. "You know, I was accepted and wait listed at Yalemouth. Forced to matriculate at Trotters."

"So they say." Froggy, with great smugness, dug his invisible needle deeper.

"They?"

"Yes, them."

"Them. Again." I could see Froggy was determined to hold his ground, refusing to divulge the source of his long-held information. "Their obsession with my success, despite being a Trotters on Funk alumnus, has certainly served as a renewable source of humor."

"Very much so. Quite greenish you are." Froggy broke into fits of laughter, snickering as he moved to the farthest corner of the terrace to light his pipe. "Ever so much," his voice trailed off into the thick growth of ivy woven within the nearby trellis.

"Shrug it off, Baron," Stinky said, wrapping a sympathetic arm around my shoulder. "None of us wanted to be at Trotters, but look how it all turned out. And you, my friend, chairman of the alumni committee for the seventh straight year. You're the glue binding us together."

Such would have been an inspirational thought but for the unruly ruckus which occurred at the school's annual reunions. Upper classmen retained their position in the pecking order and, through the years, Stinky and I served as the anvil for their crushing hammer blows. "You don't suppose the no contact rule will pass before this year's gathering, do you?"

"Not a chance," Stinky replied, gulping down the last of his martini. "The returns are running six to one for upholding the status quo."

I rubbed my bicep, painfully reminded of the resounding sting inflicted upon it during the previous year's foray into the beer tent. "Well, we shall simply move at a quicker pace this year."

"And bring bottled water?"

"I'd perish first. It is our divine right as class officers to imbibe at will, and at will we shall imbibe, indeed." I tossed back the last of my drink. "At our own peril, should fate warrant it."

"Bold, old boy, bold." Stinky's emotions ran sincere to a fault, his eyes welling up as he quickly turned away.

"Baron!" Conestoga summoned from her perch on the opposite side of the patio tables, each supporting a dark blue umbrella emblazed with the stately silver _von dek Horn_ crest. "Goofy Eddy is holding forth on the Fibonacci effect as it applies to the Whippet."

"That's my boy," I said, pleased the seedling had taken root and begun to sprout. I skirted the various tables and chairs, arriving at the rim of the threesome with a broad smile plastered over my somewhat regal face. "There is much to be said for that particular power plant."

"That there is, Mr. Baron," Goofy Eddy, perhaps out of nervousness double-clutched my name. "The proper bore, stroke and compression produces the maximum output from its forty horsepower engine. With its shortened wheelbase configuration and manual transmission consisting of three forward gears, it produces optimum speeds without compromising basic roadway handling."

"As you spoke a hundred times, Baron," Edwina said with unbridled praise, "Goofy Eddy may be an idiot savant, but he's your idiot savant."

I cringed at her untimely remark, as if she just faced the choir and lifted her blouse during the ten o'clock Sunday service. Recovering as quickly as I could, I ventured a weak rebuttal. "What I meant by that expression --"

"Don't bother, Mr. Baron. I am truly humbled by your words."

"Please believe me when I say 'tis meant as a compliment," I said, passing the back of my hand across my brow.

"An idiot savant, eh?" Conestoga raised an eyebrow.

"It was a common phrase at Trotters on Funk, often used by lavatory poets," I shrugged. "It's lingered in my mind through the years. Savant is, after all, a difficult word to place in metered rhyme."

"The engine's timed in the Fibonacci tradition," Goofy Eddy continued, the whiteness of his sizeable upper teeth gleaming in the gathering dusk, "so the cylinders beat a one, one, two, three sequence. With a timing light, I've actually recorded the higher the speed, the closer the car runs to the golden ratio in terms of circumferential displacement."

Edwina squeezed her husband's oil-stained fingers in her hand. "Ain't he just something else?"

"Indeed," I remarked, noting a staged cough from several feet away.

"Baron?" It was Stinky, striking a pose reminiscent of his diplomatic fence-mending stance. "A moment?"

"Baron, if the mention of Yalemouth on Rye \--"

"Quite, quite, friend," I said, raising a palm to Froggy in an attempt to assuage his discomfort while grimacing at Stinky. "I'll have no more of it."

"Stinky was explaining to me your final treatise --"

"My review of Gadsby," I said, smiling with pride at the mention of a paper which consumed the better part of a youthful year.

"Is yet housed at the Groobbester Library. Imagine that." Froggy looked at us both, his brow expanding with amazement. "Revered to this very day."

"And, I might boldly add, written without using the letter 'x'."

"'X'?" Froggy shot his question at Stinky. "I thought you said the work was void of the letter 'e'?"

Stinky's head retreated turtle-like into his neck, along with his effort to bridge the gap of manners between Froggy and myself. "The book itself was written without using the letter 'e'," he offered, his soft tone parallel to the one he employed when explaining the 1960s television phenomenon _Flipper_ to a puzzled Japanese emissary representing that island's tuna industry. "Baron's paper was authored sans the letter 'x'."

"Oh," Froggy nodded while drawing his razor-sharp sword of criticism. "Well, where in bloody hell is the challenge in that?"

That was it. Family relation to Stinky or not, Froggy's impudent inquiry snapped my goodwill like a wet towel in summer camp changing room. "The challenge, my young Rottweiller, is apparent to everyone but you," my voice started gently, rising to a crescendo with the final word. So effective was the dramatic quality, I chose to employ the technique again. "Think of it. Unable to use an 'x' meant I could not call the book 'exciting' or 'exceptional' or even 'execrable' had I found it so, which I did not!"

Froggy attempted a draw on his pipe yet had the misfortune, stemming from my outburst, to blow instead, creating a Vesuvius-like eruption of sparks and smoke between us.

"I couldn't have an 'ax' to grind with a character nor could I compare any character in the narrative to 'Ixion' from Greek mythology."

Stinky scratched his head. "Would such a parallel been appropriate?"

"It wouldn't have mattered!" The mixture for the evening's dinner guest list was, beyond doubt, not as balanced as I had hoped.

"It would have mattered to a Yalemouth man," Froggy observed in his best judgmental croaking voice. "And therein lies the difference."

"Frog, perhaps it's best you join Conestoga and the Goofy Whites," Stinky said, issuing a strong shove to his cousin before turning to me. "Wait for the clinch to leave your jaw and fists before responding."

"Grrr," I replied in agreement.

"Baron, you really must get over this Trotters v Yalemouth conflict. It's not serving a solid purpose."

Growling once more, I nodded my head.

"I say this as a friend and someone who has cared for your welfare these past nigh years."

"Arrrgghh," I muttered, rubbing my temples in a circular fashion while lowering my voice. "As you well know, Stinky, the only disappointment my parents suffered greater than my acceptance at Trotters on Funk was the day I received a diploma from that poison ivied institution."

"A single shoot gains traction and thrives on the old stonework," Stinky added supportively, "becoming the school symbol. Who could have predicted that?"

"I am well aware, Stinky. The old Trotters reputation has engulfed me like the odor of a stale cigar wafting in an afternoon's summer breeze at Fenway Park."

"I always liked that smell myself."

"The soles of one's shoes stuck in a pool of dried beer beneath a hard wooden seat," I continued, expunging the memories of visiting the historic ball yard in days gone by, ignoring the dreamy look presently conquering Stinky's face. "The ushers, a bunch of old curmudgeons with buzz cuts, screaming at us kids to get away from the edge of the dugout during pregame warm ups. Pigeons flying free overhead, dropping their indiscriminate loads upon the unsuspecting below. An inebriated college student vomiting on a urinal cake in the washroom wall trough."

"Good times, good times."

"So many wasted trips to that decrepit diamond," I remarked with a sigh. "I'd like nothing better than to travel back in time and clock one of those obese, flat topped ticket takers in the mouth."

"Might have given you a leg up with the registrar at Yalemouth, if that's your angle."

"No," I moaned, "no, Stinky, I'm not so sure where I'm headed with my anger these days."

My lamentation was abbreviated by Smudgely's entrance onto the veranda with the evening's coffee and tea offering. Little did I know that in his wake, standing inside the shadow of the dining room floor-to-ceiling curtains, waited the voucher for my escape from the humdrum doldrums boring into the core of my being, presently manifested in Mrs. Potsdam's particularly feisty curry chicken served earlier at dinner.

Stinky reacted first, uttering in a voice low as though speaking to himself, "Oh yes, I was hoping she would appear."

I beamed with a certain measure of breathless pride as Mia Kolpaux, my personal assistant, stepped out onto the terrace. A stunning balance of French and Japanese ancestry, Mia's long black hair -- cascading straight and true to the top of her waist -- lined her thin mystical face. Her petite frame, wrapped in a full-length gold lamé evening gown, moved with an elegance which bespoke of a European model expertly navigating an intensely watched couture runway deep in the thick of Paris.

Without applying a great deal of reflection upon the issue, I concluded regardless of Mia's attire -- be her donned head-to-toe in down-filled thermal skiwear on a chilly snow-covered hillside or found almost buff, draped only in the simplest of lace-edged undergarments covering but naught of her delicate attributes while preparing a spring morning's bath with scented lavender water beneath a window open wide to the dawn's rising sun -- I would have found her amazingly attractive.

If I had given the matter additional consideration, I would have found myself emoting a love for Mia that pushed the borders of worship and devotion. For now, Mia Kolpaux endured a probationary status as a prospective employee of Tumultuous Manor and I would not permit my egocentric longings to interfere with an established and stringent hiring process.

"Good evening, my Baron," Mia cooed as gentle as a soft breeze rustling a patch of lakeside reeds. Her diction was of continental brevity, refined yet clipped, respectful but with an edge. She drew me in with her words and repelled me at the wall she constructed with them, leaving me as flat as a beached jellyfish under a blazing sun. "These two messages arrived for you, sir. One hand delivered. One electronically mailed. I deemed them both important."

"Well then, Miss Kolpaux, if you've deemed them as such, then they must be so." I looked at Stinky, who poured his rather large frame -- shaking as though it was hastily assembled using the contents of a jam jar -- into a nearby chair. "Which shall be first?"

"The hand delivered letter is rather urgent, my Baron." Mia waited, watching obediently as I slit open the cream-colored envelope with my pocketknife. It was sent by Agnes deMaelstrom, matriarch and chief arrow-slinger of the _Faithful Hill Art Recital Theatre Company_.

"From Aggie," I said with a pleasing smile. "'My dear Baron. Our fall season begins in a few short months and I write with all hope our passionate FHART group shall persuade you to join our forthcoming production. We would like you to star in a one-man performance --'".

Here I paused, allowing the significance of the invitation to rest upon Mia herself. "For me to star in a one man performance? What shall we make of that?"

"It's an honor befitting you, my Baron," Mia answered without hesitation. "Please continue."

I rattled the letter in my hand, found my spot and with a final look into her sparkling eyes resumed its up-buttering content. "'In a one man performance of _King to Rook's Three: The True Story of Chessmen John Barrymore and Basil Rathbone_. Given your love for the stage and your uncanny resemblance to both The Great Profile and old Ratters, I have written this play with the mind of casting you in each role. I am certain your talent is great enough to fulfill my request. Please consider, blah, blah, blah.'" I could not help but preen while reciting the blah reverb. "And what shall we make of that, I say again?"

"A one man show about two men?" Stinky asked incredulously.

"I'm up to the task," I replied defiantly, turning slightly to expose my leonine silhouette for the benefit of Mia. "You may or may not recall the internal monologue I delivered in the lead role of last winter's production, _The Salted Nuts of Zbigniew Brzezinski_ , Russian dialect and all."

"Barrymore and Rathbone chess players? Highly doubtful." Stinky's stately cranium was now laden in an outbreak of small beady sweat, making him appear similar to a bulging garden tomato that had been hosed off and left out in the afternoon sunshine. His eyes remained riveted on the subtle parallel curvature of Mia's backside.

"I would most likely believe, my good man, that the story is highly allegorical," I observed, permitting myself to deliver a dashing wink at Mia. It was difficult to ascertain whether she was mesmerized or simply staging a mesmerization to humor me. "Chess merely serves as a symbolic representation of creative interaction between these two marquee thespians. What sayeth you, Mia?" Almost twice her age, it was expected of me to discharge nearly twice her wisdom. I viewed this responsibility as though life itself dangled high in the balance.

"Perform, my Baron," Mia requested in a respectful tone, "perform."

I cleared my throat and, with a tight grip, shook the base of my memory tree in an attempt to ring free Barrymore's _Richard III_. "Now arrives our winter of discontent," I began in a deep voice, raising my hand upward before me as though clutching an unseen orb. "Made glorious summer by this sun of New York, and all the clouds that landed upon my house, in your deep bosom is my notion buried."

"Bravo," Mia said, bringing her hands together in a pattering of applause, "bravo, my Baron."

Maintaining my solemn stance and expression, I turned in the opposite direction, metamorphosing into Rathbone. "Dr. Watson! Come quickly! I need you!" I barked in a sharp West End cadence. The effect chilled those who witnessed my summoning forth the legendary detective as portrayed in film.

"I say there is no other for this role, my Baron."

"So you do, so you do. Well then, send my acceptance to Miss deMaelstrom post haste!" Foregoing any revelry glorifying the stage, I immediately cast my eyes upon the e-mail protruding from her delicate feminine hand. The name upon it froze the blood circulating in my veins, seized my mind in mid-thought and ground the remainder of my bodily functions to a complete and utter standstill.

"Sondheim!" I uttered, locking eyes with Mia beneath the rising moon. I cast away the spirits of Barrymore and Rathbone, whispering the name once more. "Sondheim."

***

Excusing myself from the dinner party proved an easy task. Goofy Eddy, on the coattails of my stage preview, enthralled the gathering by recounting the varied intricacies found within the exhaust manifold of the 1939 Packard Touring Sedan. Mia made certain everyone was served a warm after-dinner drink and, with Stinky still focused upon her in his quivering repose, held open the door as I slipped away. The guests, recharged by Goofy Eddy's descriptive mechanical travelogue, scarcely noted my departure.

Through the wide halls of Tumultuous Manor I raced, grossly stretching the limit of the no-running rule. Entering the massive grand staircase, I was greeted by an assortment of chimes striking the nine o'clock hour while taking the thickly padded steps two at a time, quickly reaching the expanse of my living quarters on the third floor.

The study was blanketed in darkness save for the modest glow of a banker's lamp, setting atop the expansive oak desk, alit with an eco-friendly bulb beneath its green shade. I eased the padded chair forward on its casters and, with one hand upon my forehead, began studying Sondheim's message in order to comprehend its gist and urgency.

Included were the three obligatory code words [ _bookworm_ , _hookworm_ and _wormwood_ ] which served to authenticate the origin of the document and the details contained therein [a security feature added after the dreadful _Cri de Minuit du Bébé_ affair]. The assignment outline was sketchy out of necessity, but provided enough information for me to know I needed to pack a travel bag and prepare to leave the Manor within a matter of hours. I barely acknowledged Smudgely's arrival with a pot of Earl Grey and a creamer of milk.

"Send Mia upon your return downstairs," I requested, remaining engrossed with the notes I scribbled in the margins of the printed document. "Advise her to bring all her communication devices."

"Sir," Smudgely nodded from across the paneled room.

I picked up the landline receiver and, scanning my notations one final time, dialed the encoded number listed beneath Sondheim's name.

"You're prompt this evening," the familiar voice toasted me from the other end of the connection.

"Thank you," I chuckled. "I had to tear myself away from a lovely dinner gathering after receiving your summons. Swaying the masses with impersonations of Hollywood's finest legends, wouldn't you know."

"Too bad I wasn't invited," Sondheim's voice blew coolly, "I could have witnessed your mimicry firsthand."

I stammered momentarily, recalling Sondheim could be frustratingly void of thick skin. "Well, I, um, Mrs. Potsdam hadn't scheduled your favorite on the evening's bill of fare, so I thought perhaps you should be spared the indignity of it all."

"My favorite?" Sondheim's thought process listed off course. "What precisely did you have?"

"Tripe," I replied instantly, belching up another bubble of Mrs. Potdam's fiery curry, "plain tripe topped with kelp sauce mixed with a wee bit of raw plankton."

"I love tripe," came his bitter response, "and plankton, too."

"Damn!" I proclaimed, merging together in my mind a heated, unified reaction as delivered simultaneously by both Barrymore and Rathbone. "Damn and forsooth, damn!"

Sondheim was silent for several seconds before responding. "Chaplin?"

"You know me only too well, dear Sondheim," I said, disappointed with his inability to identify my dramatic output yet amenable to slipping the hook of an angry would-be tablemate.

"What I have for you this evening is no comedic matter, old squash."

"I never laugh when it comes to business between us." I paused to consider the ambiguity of my statement. "Or anyone else."

"Laughter will be the furthest thing from your mind when I recount the details as they are known."

"Laughter and intelligence make for strange bedfellows." I confidently tacked myself back into the race. "Repelling one another beneath the sheets, fighting over the comforter, never sharing the common feather pillow."

"There won't be any pillow talk involved in this travail, I can assure you, old bean."

"I've never been one to sleep on the job." Not that I was compelled to inflate my abilities for Sondheim. Yet, it was always good form to place a shine on the spokes of one's transport. "I prefer to sparkle when going round and round."

"What's that you say?" Sondheim figuratively scratched his head. "I don't comprehend the reference to being circularly brilliant."

"What's that, then? Just pointing out one's reputation should ever be polished and ready for parading past a colleague's review stand." Dodging this bullet, I opted for Sondheim to lead our conversation from here on out. "We seem to be twice removed from the purpose of your contact."

"Indeed. I'm afraid I have a rather tricky one for you, old radish."

"And serious, too."

"Indeed, serious. Are you familiar with global financier Wayland Bridgework?"

I ran a sweep of my memory bank and, in less than a second, came back empty-minded. "The name sets off a distant chime, yes."

"Of course you have. He's a Yalemouth boy \--"

The gritting of my teeth generated a distinct level of static on the line.

"Who went onto Dartmouth while I pursued my calling at Yale." Sondheim guffawed at the irony before continuing. "I must say we Yalemouth boys took no great pleasure challenging the unpredictable squad you fellows at Trotters mushed together each rugby season."

"That would be Germany Kornblatt's bailiwick," I said, wondering if my humiliation involving prep school matriculation would in some strange way reach its zenith that evening. "He helmed the team when we lost our two hundredth consecutive game."

"A landmark which garnered Trotters special mention in _Sports Illustrated_ , I might add. Good old Stinky. Sorry to learn the Greenland affair led to his departure from the diplomacy trade. Hell of a rugby captain, though."

The opportunity for further discussion of preparatory school passed when Mia entered the room. Glancing at her figure as she floated through the darkness served to remove the irritant from Sondheim's reminiscence. "Go on about your boy, Wayland Bridgework."

"Indeed. Sorry, old cuke, caught up in a gob of nostalgia there. It was Yalemouth who toppled you in that record setting game, wasn't it? We'll save that for the next serving of tripe at Tumultuous Manor, what say?"

"Wayland." I gestured for Mia to sit, which she did ever so gracefully while crossing her slender legs beneath the flicker of gold fabric.

"Bridgework. A distant chum of mine, found his fortune in international banking and finance. Seated on the board of several multinational corporations, staked his claim and then some by age thirty. There are, however, problems when one clambers up the ladder of success so astutely."

"What's that, then? Too much money? Not enough?" I studied Mia's face in the dim light, the personification of feminine mystique and beauty.

"You, old cob, are nothing less than just shy of brilliant! How you grasp and deduce a problem so quickly is a tribute to --"

"My having attended the finest state university. Now, on with it." My father, both a Rhodes Scholar and thirty-third degree Scottish Rite Mason, never suffered such inflictions. Where his intellect commanded the respect and subordination of his fellow man, mine was continually placed in a position of having to deny the alleged stasis of its reasoning. "Bridgework."

"My client chooses to remain anonymous on this one, Baron. No identification shall be supplied, per our agreement." Such was Sondheim's standard disclaimer, the official disguise he draped over a tongue-tied foreign government, vertically integrated international corporation or weaseling member of Congress. In the equation of any assignment, it was not my business to know who was footing the bill, picking up the tab or paying the freight.

"I fully understand our terms of business, Sondheim. Always have, never laughed." This machoism caught in Mia's ear, prompting me to sharpen and repeat the statement. "Never ... laughed."

"Be that as it may, old carrot, my client is frightfully afraid Bridgework is coming undone at the seams. That cannot, and will not, be tolerated. He is too much a leading economic indicator in the global financial markets to have going off the deep end, particularly at this stage of the game. Am I making myself clear to you?"

"By all means, my good man." I could tell from the seriousness in Sondheim's tone that our insignificant chatter had come to an end. I stared at the bridge of Mia's slight nose as a wave of testosterone unleash through my loins. "Never ... laughed."

"For Christ's sake, the occasional bout of levity is permissible, Baron. Lighten up, will you?"

I cleared my throat and studied Mia anew. Her eyes flickered upward once to meet mine, then returned to the machinations of her laptop keyboard. "Quite."

"We need to have Bridgework reined in, old tater. We need him in a calm state of mind, to have him stop his racing about and reduce the havoc in his personal life. When Bridgework is turbulent, the international monetary framework follows suit."

"Perhaps you'd consider hiring him a life coach?" I raised my eyebrows in wonder of having a high-powered consultant such as myself called in for what was seemingly a case of one jettisoning his marbles. "How about a local parish minister offering pastoral counsel?"

"He's agnostic and diagnostically challenged."

"Meaning he believes in nothing except that he, himself, has no problems."

"Your grasp of the obvious amazes me, old yam."

"Amazement is my job." I leaned back in my seat. "Why not have him placed in an institution? Subtly done, of course."

"Under no circumstance should Bridgework be seen as mentally deficient or intellectually derailed," Sondheim said adamantly. "If he's placed into an asylum right now, do you realize what would happen to the world's financial markets?"

"Global recession? Countries suffering record high unemployment? Bank failures knowing no bounds?" I rattled off a series of headlines that appeared in the _Journal_ during the past week.

"Precisely. And we -- my client and myself -- cannot abide by that. Nor," Sondheim added, a tinge of drama entering his presentation, "can our fellow citizens."

"Sondheim, I see this as being the proverbial piece of blackbird pie, baked with the windows open and served warm at the kitchen table by grandmother's own hands. All that is required is a good, firm collaring of Bridgework, followed by relocating him to the nearest golf course. I'll cure him through an intensive treatment of links therapy."

"Splendid, old cabbage, but it may be a bit more complicated than that. Bridgework has himself surrounded by an entourage that includes his wife, daughter and son-in-law. Cracking this cabal will prove formidable, even for a specialist of your caliber."

"Cracking cabals is my nature. I shall not fail."

"I'm counting on you, Baron."

"My regular fee applies."

"A bargain, old pea. I will forward the dossier via e mail momentarily. Make arrangements to depart for Ochos Rios, Jamaica. Bridgework presently resides there in a secluded villa. We're unsure how long he might remain put. I'll send out a feeler to him advising of your imminent arrival."

"Ah, Jamaica. It's been too long since my feet touched her soil."

"Pack lightly and remember this. Things are not what they seem."

"Are they ever?"

"Quite, old rutabaga. However, you see only the tip of the iceberg."

"With the knowledge that still waters run deep."

"They run silent and deep." Sondheim's voice grew shaky, betraying his emotion. "Be safe, old gourd."

***

"You realized Sondheim was on the phone, yes?"

Mia nodded her head affirmatively.

"He is, for your edification, what I term a shadowy legal gadfly." I hated using the word _edification_ , a painful reminder of the chant sung to a well-known rock anthem by the Yalemouth rugby team while slamming us about on the pitch [ _We will, we will, edify you!_ ]. "He's connected at all levels of governments, both domestic and foreign, and considers the United Nations his personal fruit market when shopping for customers."

Mia cocked her head in what I wished was a playful way. "He's a spy?"

"Well, ahem, I'm not so sure what he is. He's just," I searched for a word that would remind me neither of Yalemouth or rugby, "essential."

"To whom, my Baron?"

I did my best to strike a pensive mood and respond thoughtfully. "To those who supply fresh fruit during global intercourse."

"I see." Mia stared at me for several moments while I practiced a brooding expression. In the few short weeks since her hiring I was pleased at how quickly she adapted to the routine of the household and the frenetic pace of my lifestyle. More to the point, I was startled at how rapidly I fell in love with her. "What shall we do now, my Baron?"

"What else is there to do? Book me first class, one way, on the earliest morning flight to Montego Bay."

"From where?"

"We'll take our time and drive to Florida."

"Logan Airport is much closer, my Baron. Three hours away."

"Logan it is, then."

The remainder of the evening was spent printing and gathering the electronic documents Sondheim e-mailed. Mia, under my watchful gaze, bound the portfolio, carefully placing it within a manila folder discreetly labeled _Import/Export/Import Again_. She then departed to finalize travel arrangements, leaving me to retreat to the master bedroom where I packed my traveling valise with a slim assortment of polo shirts and cargo shorts.

In my mind's eye the trip more resembled a safari than a roundup. Certainly I had to rope Bridgework into a state of physical stagnation, but my intuition advised that great lengths would be required to do so. The man was a contemporary Midas, all powerful and self-funded. Jamaica would be the starting point of what could be an enduring rodeo. At the very least, it was wise to travel lightly. The less luggage to contend with would ease the burden in determining what to do with Bridgework once gaining possession of him. I set aside Sondheim's dossier for in-flight reading and climbed into bed for a brief night's rest.

It was a shade past four when Smudgely drew back the awning, permitting the soft light of the night lamp to greet me. "You need to leave the Manor within the hour, sir."

"Fine, Smudgely. Bring the Duesy around. One large cup of tea to go. My gear is stowed by the door. I'll be at the portico in forty-five minutes."

"Sir."

"Oh, and Smudgely, be sure Mia's prepared for the trip. She'll be returning the Duesy to home after dropping me off."

"Yes, sir. I believe she's waiting at the portico for you as we speak, enjoying a Gauloises." The studious valet nodded before leaving me my privacy. Grooming myself in my usual orderly and efficient manner, I was fully dressed and bounding down the main staircase well within the allotted time.

"Your valise is on the backseat, sir," Smudgely said, handing me my attaché case containing my laptop, notepad, pens and various traveling medicines. "And you'll need this," he added, propping my favorite porkpie hat atop my head. "Success be yours, sir."

"I certainly hope so, Smudgely. I don't believe either of us could withstand a repeat of the Bostwick affair."

"No sir. We shan't even dwell on the possibility."

"Fair enough." I shook hands with my able man. "Tumultuous Manor is in your capable care."

Pausing momentarily at the top step of the staircase I could not help but admire the view. The Duesy, with Mia in the passenger seat, idled in the cul-de-sac facing points south. Smudgely left the cloth top in the up position, it being a cool yet refreshing summer dawn, and Mia had wrapped her hair in a bonnet of flashing silver. She stared straight ahead through a pair of fashionable sunglasses, her elbow resting gracefully upon the top of the open window. I was entranced with the vision and, adjusting the porkpie to better cover my noggin, stepped slowly into the arcing rays of the new day.

Beyond my beloved Duesy and the fair Mia within her stood an ornate marble fountain in the center of the grass turnabout, its water bubbling softly over and down the multiple tiers to its base, which had come to serve as a wishing well for a plethora of regional charities. Beyond this aquatic sculpture ran one of the many stonewalls crisscrossing the estate, rising from the hilly grounds like massive spines of half-buried skeletal sauropods. Hayfields, soon to yield their crop to the shears of local farmers, were the next barrier of seclusion surrounding my storied domicile, ringing the property outward and pushing up against the thick forest mixture of deciduous and evergreen trees. From there, the view was limited solely to the conditions set forth by Mother Nature.

To the west lay the Green Mountains of Vermont. Eastward, the Rangeley-Stratton peaks of Maine would become clearer once the valley fog lifted. To the north, past the undulating acreage devoted to apple orchards, the gentle ruggedness and outstanding breweries of _mes grands amis du Québec_ awaited my occasional pilgrimage. Finally, points south brought one into contact -- whether desired or not -- with the unsympathetic realities of our modern age. Redeeming itself as a portal to world travel and culture, one took seriously southbound forays to Boston and New York, quite cognizant that the simplicities of life in Faithful Hill were quickly erased on the large and complex metropolitan blackboards.

Departure from Tumultuous Manor brought with it a case of the vapors, and this morning's dose of ironic sadness was no different from those previously afflicting me. Still, I walked to the driver's side of the purring Duesy with chin held high and a leaping rhythm in my heart. For as much as I enjoyed my hermitage here in the White Mountains of northern New England, the call of Sondheim served as a reminder that, indeed, I was yet a vital part of the world's rotation. In spite of my best efforts to attain invisibility, I remained intricately connected with humankind. How could I not be cheered by the draw of a new adventure? I was alive and mobile, on yet another quest which would be recorded in my journals upon returning to the rock I knew as home.

"Take my pulse," I said, extending my right arm to Mia after slipping the car in gear.

"Oh, my Baron!" It would be the only words spoken until reaching our destination.

We coasted off the mountainside, navigating the broad winding gravel drive as it passed from the verdant fields touching and forming its shoulders, and into the forest below. The thundering engine of the Duesenberg J -- 420 cubic-inches pounding forth 265 horsepower -- rumbled through the burgeoning trees as if the voice of an unseen massif god calling from upon high:

I am here! Baron von dek Horn! Deciphering and correcting a random civilization once more!

The eight cylinders fired hard that morning, sluing down the interstate at a comfortable rate of travel as I thoroughly enjoyed the mug of tea Smudgely thoughtfully prepared. In the glint of the morning sun I caught a vision of Mia beside me, her bonnet rippling in the breeze from the partially-open window, her gaze forward as if she were peering into the future to see what it held for her.

Perhaps it is me she hopes to spy there!

With that thought, I rallied another few clicks of acceleration out of the old beast and seized the moment with a great joy. The prospect of splicing myself into the fiber of excitement and intrigue once again -- and all the unforeseen, unanticipated delights which it might hold -- quelled my fear of leaving the terra firma of Tumultuous Manor.

We traversed the byzantine entrance to Logan shortly after eight and, with the frantic gesturing of Mia's delicate hands, I guided the front end of the Duesy to the edge of the curb beneath the towering concrete overhang fronting the Slipstream Green kiosk.

"Slipstream Green?" I raised my voice amid the screeching of tires, horn-honking and odd rumbling of jets taking off for the heavens above.

"It is the most environmentally sensitive airline company in business today, my Baron." Mia slipped out the passenger door, removing my attaché and valise from the backseat. "You should be proud in doing your part to save our planet."

"I am indeed doing such already, Miss Kolpaux, by sorting out Bridgework's dysgenic behavior." I exited the pride of Indianapolis, long ago the site of Duesenberg manufacturing, and shook my fist at a taxi which passed marginally close. "As long as its first class is no different from the others, I'm all well and good, I suppose."

Mia gave me a numinous smile and carefully slipped the handles of my luggage onto my fingertips. "You should be proud, my Baron."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to accompany me?"

"I'm sure, my Baron."

An older man approached from my right, sporting long gray hair in a ponytail and hiding the majority of his wrinkly forehead beneath a worn-out tie-dyed bandanna. Studying me for a few moments, he stroked the lengthy portions of his whitish goatee as if in deep thought. I believed by ignoring him I would be spared contact, but that was not to be. "Say," he said in a gravelly voice, as though bearing a gullet full of pebbles, "ain't you that there Keith Richards guitarist fella?"

"No," I replied firmly, "you must have me mistaken for someone else. Perhaps Keith Richards circa nineteen seventy, for example." I turned back to Mia, wanting to approach her on an emotional level once more.

"No, no," the older man protested, "you're him, alright. You're that stoned British invasion fella, for sure."

"No, my good man, I assure you I'm not. Now be on your way."

"See? You not only look like 'im, but you speak British like too, all proper and polite."

I drew a deep breath and quickly checked my watch. "I'm American as George Washington, Edgar Allen Poe and Estes Kefauver. My accent is what it is. Unfortunately for you, I'm not your Keith Richards fellow. Do you note a skull ring on my finger?"

The old man inspected my extended digits. "Hey, everyone," he called out to passersby, "it's that stoned guitarist fella! Right here!"

"Oh my," I gasped and turned back to Mia. "Are you sure you won't reconsider?"

"I'm sure."

"Well, then, may we exchange pecks on the cheek?"

"No, I'm afraid we may not, my Baron."

"A handshake? Air kiss? High five? Fist bump?"

"A handshake will be sufficient." She gave me a one-time pump and circled the front of the vehicle. "I wish you luck on your travels, my Baron. I will stay in touch."

A forlorn tide swept over my mind when she pulled away, the Duesy shooting an almighty roar from its manifold as it disappeared around the concrete bend into a mixture of autos, cabs and shuttles. Mia had been in my employ for only two-and-a-half weeks, and I was clearly in love with her. "Onward once again, shattered heart," I whispered to myself.

"So, can I have your autograph, guitar fella?"

"Why not?" I shrugged, removing the fountain pen from my breast pocket. "Paper?"

The graybeard presented an airline envelope containing a crinkled boarding pass. On its outer panel, I carefully wrote _To a devoted fan, faithfully yours, Charles Necktie_.

Yes, it was good to be a small leaf in the tossed salad bowl of life once again.

CHAPTER TWO

_Terror at 8.5344 Kilometers_

My flight to Montego Bay on Slipstream Green was unremarkable except, of course, for everything that went wrong.

A harbinger of the difficult passage ahead arrived when, attempting to embark with my fellow first-class passengers, my boarding pass stated I was assigned to seat 50F. My protestations, as civil as they were, that 50F was diametrically opposite my on-line check-in seat of 1A drew only scornful catcalls from the impatient throng gathered behind me. I was escorted from the gate by a humorless Homeland Security gent who advised it was either seat 50F or a minimum forty-eight hour stay in the Mulligatawny Memorial airport lockup. For the briefest of moments I failed to discern a difference between the two and was about to relay my opinion as such when I saw her.

She was a tall, thin almond-skinned beauty. Her braided hair, with its colorful cloth interweaves, dripped over her slim shoulders and down to her nimble waist. The expression she wore portrayed her, if not quite a cool operator, then perhaps a lukewarm one. I was immediately beholden to her for many insights, foremost my impulsive utterance of cooperation.

"Fifty F it is then, my good fellow," I beamed with a smile. "Sorry for the confusion. A bit of premature jetlag on my part, one supposes, yes?"

The stoic guard straightened his tie and escorted me to the end of the line with firm instructions I would be the final passenger to board. By this time, I lost sight of the striking looker but remained content in the knowledge she was somewhere ahead in the funnel that would ultimately lead us both to the warmth of the Caribbean. After several agonizing moments of the outbound line stepping forward then side-to-side, like band members playing a somber dirge at a New Orleans jazz funeral, I finally ducked my head and entered the tubular fuselage. There she was, seated in 1C.

And seat One A is still vacant!

"Ma'am," I politely inquired of the attendant who was effectively blocking the lavatory door, "may I --"

"You're fifty F, aren't you?"

"Well, yes, but I was originally one A." I looked down at my potential flight mate and flashed a winning smile. "If you would look at the --"

"This way," she responded, taking my left arm and twisting it behind my back, "move along now, chop, chop! We've got a schedule to keep."

"But I --"

"Chop, chop! Chop, chop!"

And so I ran the gauntlet formed by fellow travelers, some still housing bitter resentment from my initial stance at the gate. Subjected to having my ribs jabbed with pointy fingers and rolled up magazines, many colorful invectives -- delivered in the delightful melody of the native Jamaican patois -- were hurled at my very being. The top of my dome collided violently with the ancient metal ceiling several times and the attendant, pound-for-pound a most powerful woman given her petite stature, drove me on as though her résumé included years of experience as a lead cow puncher on a Texas cattle ranch.

"Alright, fair maiden, I've got fifty F in my sightline!"

"Not speedy enough, mister," she insisted, throttling me faster through the masses and into what appeared to be a field trip organized by a well-populated daycare. "You're to sit in fifty F and not to move. Not once!"

I stepped gingerly past the rows of little people, all seemingly content in their seats, buckled and ready for wheels up. The immediacy of my plight was such that I was unable to estimate the number of Tolkienish hobbits surrounding me or rather, as time bore out, hemming me in.

"Now, get in there," the attendant ordered, giving me a final shove as I fell across two tiny travelers and rammed my beaten head into the drawn window shade. "One word out of you, fancy pants, and I'll personally throw you into the Gulf of Mexico from twenty eight thousand feet." Emphasizing her point she drilled a sharp fingernail into my chest, spurring my compliance to be seated. "Alright," she said above the din, "out of my way! Preparing for a kickass crosscheck!"

It took a moment to gain my bearings, adjusting myself in the cramped corner of the last row. The color scheme of the plane's interior -- a bright orange contrasted against neon green -- did nothing to alleviate my disorientation and simmering temper. Threatened with incarceration and being tossed five-plus miles into the warm waters of the briny did not equate to sensible customer service in my book, not at all. Mia Kolpaux would certainly be hearing about this upon my return, up to and including the possibility of her employment at Tumultuous Manor being terminated directly.

"Would you like to see my peanuts?"

The inquiry snapped me from roaming the barnyard of morose and I stared at the tiny features of the face -- visible only from the nostrils up -- peering over the seat in front of me.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Would you like to see my peanuts?" The sound of snickering came from beyond.

"Heavens, no!"

What type of mad greenhouse have I been planted in?

Looking around, I realized this was no ordinary daycare. Indeed, it was not a daycare at all, but instead a large group of midgets. And no ordinary large group of midgets, as it turned out, but the _Carnaval Du Diminutif_ \-- the Carnival of the Diminutive, a peripatetic caravan of performance artists who contorted and wove themselves into various convolutions, while strains of classical music and flashes of color strobe lights served to sedate and blind the paying audience. The group's calling card was its practical joking, e.g., putting lit cigars out on their heads, re-enacting violent carjackings using Shriner mini-cars, and playing Taser-tag while running amok through general admission seating. "Are you --"

"A two week engagement," the seatmate next to me piped up before I could finish asking. "Montego Bay, Ocho Rios, a bat mitzvah, a housewarming, then closing out at the Kingston Smokefest."

"Dear Lord."

"Would you like to see my peanuts?" The voice of the half-face in front of me asked again.

I rummaged through my valise for the folder containing the Bridgework dossier, numbed by the situation in which fate had placed me. Marshalling every ounce of mental discipline, I willed myself to survive the flight and ingest all of the data Sondheim supplied. The plane lurched and began its reversal out onto the tarmac.

"Really nice peanuts, in a red-striped bag."

"Turn around, sit down and buckle up!" the attendant shrieked before leveling the unsuspecting little fellow with a judo chop to the back of his neck. I peered upward and saw a small body slump between the cracks of the seat, followed by the sound of a metallic click. In a moment of error I made eye contact with the attendant as she stood victorious over her foe. "Pretty good for an old bag, yeah?"

Not knowing if I should agree with her, I returned to the sheaf of papers and immersed myself into Sondheim's new assignment.

***

The interior of the folder included several photographs and multiple biographies of my target, each acquired from a range of sources. Wayland Bridgework, in his late forties, reigned as king of the international financial market.

_Or did he? Time to color outside of the lines, old boy._ I jogged the papers into a neat bundle and prepared to spend the next several hours reading Sondheim's complex and wordy analysis of the wealthiest man walking the face of the earth.

In a sort of perverse proctologic application, the role of global financier was thrust into the seat of his being without his permission. Bridgework could be perceived as the world's most influential banker or conceivably the mere front man for a silent, deep running ocean-spanning cabal. I was obligated to consider all angles at the outset, as my work required open-minded and multifaceted techniques, particularly when it involved someone as well-connected and wealthy as Mr. Bridgework.

Bridgework married Ethelene Cartier, the daughter of a renowned bilingual, illiterate Montreal furrier. The ship of their marital union hit rough shoals in a short amount of time after the issuing of _I dos_ , sinking immediately into divorce. Without explanation, they married anew less than a year later and from that point on -- at an early age -- his career propelled straight upward into the complex stratosphere of high stakes arbitrage and its pecuniary recompense. That is to say, by age twenty-seven Bridgework was a multimillionaire several times over and a certified celebrity among the innermost circles of the celebrity crowd.

Serenaded by politicos the world over, Bridgework held open invitations to call upon the Kremlin, stroll the Great Wall of China, make snowmen on Mount Fuji, visit his good friends in the _Majilis Al-Uma_ of Kuwait, drink tea at Number Ten Downing Street and use the hand towels during weeknight stays in the Lincoln Bedroom at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

He kept estates on all seven continents, with the most prominent being an Escher-esque version of Frank Lloyd Wright's _Falling Water_ , constructed on the outskirts of Lourdes, France. This particular domicile befuddled structural engineers since the night of Bridgework's housewarming party, when several partygoers became terribly ill with a severe case of the grippe due to the dampness pervading all quarters of the structure.

Domestically, Bridgework thrived in a web of overexposure. Among his many interests, he held the strings to the purse which floated Hollywood's heavy hitters. Bridgework's signature on a production contract immediately elevated the most tentative script to blockbuster standing, and time and again he demonstrated his ability to artistically mold a cluster of refuse into a box office smash. As a result, he was courted, lauded and venerated by those in-the-know on both coasts -- and pursued by everyone else in-between.

Bridgework appeared on _Oprah_ , wrote op-eds for the _Washington Post_ and penned two self-help bestsellers: _Ditzing That Moldy Cheese_ and _Only Self-Conscious Musicians Get the Blues_. Restaurants threw open their doors when Bridgework and his associates were in town, hoping to seat him and allow his vibrations of success to materialize into a perpetual buzz. _"Wayland's in the house! It's gotta be good!"_ While most of the drachma-counting industry hibernated on or about the equator during the winter months, Bridgework's public visibility was heightened with courtside seats at Celtic, Knick and Laker home games. He was the ubiquitous basketball fanatic, offering his good-natured insight on regional television networks in which he held a controlling stake.

To the casual observer, Wayland Bridgework was likable and popular, a man of the people and lord of an omnipresent kingdom. His gilded existence was made possible through a tide of cash crashing ashore each morning from the investment firm he started two days after his remarriage to Ethelene: The Woolamaloo Gang Hedge Fund.

"The Loo", as it became known throughout the industry, was flush with return investors and prospective clients alike, to the point that the processing of newly-infused purchases would clog its system. Popularity proved no difficulty for the exuberant and energetic CEO. Bridgework simply plunged like a madman all the way to his membership-by-invitation Swiss bank.

So then, what problems could a man of his wealth, power and fame possibly have?

Pausing to consider the question, I lifted my head from the array of papers spread out before me and rubbed my eyes, staring out the window at the crystal blue Caribbean waters far below. It was during my cursory glance of the exterior world when I heard the inboard engines sputter and churn, catching a glimpse of the portside propeller blade as it hiccupped and feathered to a standstill.

"This is Captain Cadieux from the flight deck," a tinny Cajun-accented voice came over the public address system, cutting off the cabin sing-along of Bob Marley's _Buffalo Soldiers._ "While you're enjoying the Slipstream Green flight and hospitality, please note we are now conserving half of our fuel usage by shutting down engines two and three. From here into Montego Bay, we'll make like a giant glider. When we're a few hundred feet off the frothy deck, by the grace of God almighty you'll hear these big boys fire to life again and deliver us a dry landing. Till then, enjoy!"

A knot expanded and rose in my stomach as the _Carnaval Du Diminutif_ troupe broke into its trademark chant, a singsong expressing their plaintive desire to immediately escape a hot, stuffy, claustrophobic box in which they were crammed. Verse upon verse crossed the lips of their down-turned faces as they sang of freedom from their fellow entertainers' inadvertent finger-gouges, uninhibited groping and stale flatulence pervading such a tightly confined quarter. As the baleful tune progressed I struggled against being brainwashed into their cult, particularly when exposed to the requiem-like refrain:

So it's just a lark that we're in the dark,

Hey! Your knee is crushing my coccyx,

Move it now or risk starting a row,

By the way, your innards be toxic.

Try as I might, the words would not vacate my head during our gradual freefall earthward. "It wouldn't be possible to change that number, would it?" I asked the man sitting next to me. "Maybe something a bit more upbeat and forward thinking?" He looked me in the eye and continued singing as though I had not spoken, his corpulent little body wrapped inside a multicolored lederhosen which served as the group's distinctive uniform.

"Would you care for his peanuts?" The flight attendant hovered over our row, her smile spread thinly from ear to ear. Without warning she flung a bag of the salted seeds, striking me squarely in the forehead. "Enjoy, bookworm!"

I held the flimsy bag up in my left hand and tried to comprehend the shambolic behavior around me. The back of the airplane resembled a high school outing gone terribly awry and I sought reason -- even the slightest, most remote -- for God to keep us aloft. The song continued its pattering bleakness as the bag of peanuts was removed from my hand by my neighbor. Without missing a syllable, the little fellow devoured the complementary packet, foil wrapping and all, while holding my gaze. Raising the white flag I retreated to the manila folder once more, selecting the final piece of information Sondheim hand marked "Most Confidential". Beneath it was typed a personal note:

Perhaps I can interest you in an afternoon at Fenway one of these days. Why not fetch Stinky and we'll make an outing of it? What fun! Much like when we were kids. Remember the time Mulch Doonberry hit that foul pop and it came straight down, striking you square on top of your head? You babbled that the place was a 'melodic miniature of an accessorized athletic field'. Nice catch, Baron! Bravo!

My stomach heaved at the thought of that day \-- specifically, Doonberry's inability to keep the ball in play coupled with my poor fielding skills -- but, with tremendous esophageal determination, I was able to keep all ingested content in place. Onward I continued, gleaning intelligence from the dossier's most sensitive passage, placing a querying toe into the deepest and coldest current of Wayland Bridgework's pool of intimate concerns. This was precisely where Sondheim desired me to swim.

Bridgework's complicated and redundant relationship with Ethelene was dutifully recorded amid and between the lines of media gossip columnists the world over. Very publicly the twosome often morphed into an ephemeral threesome before, in good time, returning to their ostensible marital bliss. _But what scars did such behavior inflict on them?_ They appeared happy and inseparable even when a third wheel temporarily attached itself to their bicycle built for two. Were they harnessed together as a team, slogging in unison through the fields of moral infidelity? Or was it a competitive sport where outdoing one's partner lit up a rueful scoreboard?

That Ethelene Cartier Bridgework was glamorously attractive served only as a partial explanation in her rise from Quebec's icy obscurity to wife of the world's foremost financier. From her multiple appearances on the covers of various tabloid publications, scanned while I waited in line to purchase a bottle of brown ale at Shadrack's Market in Faithful Hill Square, I also knew that Ethelene fancied herself as a world-class benefactress and fundraiser. There was not a cause in existence she ignored and afforded her opportunities to wear the latest evening gown from Paris and her best Winston diamonds before large contingencies of salivating paparazzi. Her extroverted persona meshed perfectly with her command of the nearest available speaker podium, which in turn emphasized her beauty and magnified her towering intellect. One could see where Wayland would be enticed by Ethelene's qualities and grace, particularly at a young and impressionable age.

But why, out of all the choices available to him, Ethelene? And why twice?

The answer was found pages later. According to Sondheim's sources, Bridgework journeyed through what was described as his "Pelt Stage", leading him to make several trips to the Beaver Club located in Montreal's Queen Elizabeth Hotel. One spring weekend adventure to the chilly city on the St. Lawrence, Bridgework by chance met and by nature fell in love with Ethelene over a dinner of poached salmon and terrine of duckling at the famed culinary establishment. All of his selections that night, including his dinner companion, proved of the highest order.

Their courtship was quick and painless, paced to the altar as like sprinters representing their respective genders at a nuptial track meet. Upon completion of their vows and a catching of their breath, they rejoined the race in the opposite direction, this time leading to the molded archways and appointed anterooms of well-established divorce attorneys. After the successful and hasty conclusion of this event, both parties enjoyed a brief respite in the locker room of mixed feelings before charging back onto the marriage field and hurdling themselves hand-in-hand over the threshold of bliss a second time. All accomplished in less than twelve months. This transitory tale of love required further exploration under a stronger illumination, yet I found my thought train derailed by the strains of my immediate company.

Across the equator and beyond to Peru,

Where Incan moon-orbiting cows learn to moo,

We study calculations at the feet of Archimedes,

All the whilst planting gardens of sugar diabetes.

Though growing fond of his strong baritone inflection with its vibrant melodic intonation, I ignored the little fellow next to me and plowed ahead into Bridgework's next pile of wash. The largest clump of soiled laundry involved Ethelene's passion for dancing and the inexplicable deaths of Bridgework's business associates, proving problematic on several levels.

Over the past year Ethelene took the floor with four different Loo employees and, in each case, a funeral for the latter was held soon after the music stopped. Neither the foxtrot, rumba nor tango was deemed a factor in the demise of Ethelene's rhythmic partners, as all were determined to have passed due to natural or accidental causes. I glanced out at the feathered prop as our flight path continued its descent and wondered how four individuals left the planet in such a common yet mysterious manner.

The first in line was Senior Daskines, Jr., who served for many years as Bridgework's right-hand stick in the Loo. Daskines was tasked with putting into play Bridgework's directives and executing them upon the corporate battlefield. He was a big time roller, one who accumulated an abundance of enemies as a result of bringing to life Bridgework's hammer and anvil tactics. Daskines had his finger on the pulse of both Bridgework and the Woolamaloo Gang, thoroughly submerged in every aspect of the financial conglomerate.

Might he also have spared one hand to clutch their collective throats and make inappropriate demands?

His final dance with Ethelene, it was noted, was the Cha-cha-cha at a ribbon cutting ceremony held at the corporation's new upscale spa.

The elder Daskines' demise was followed one month later by that of his nephew, Junior Daskine, Sr., the Loo's director of marketing. Junior's planetary orientation, according to Sondheim's inside sources, was closely and unsurprisingly aligned with Senior's objectives in the Loo corporate milieu. It was reported that whenever Senior uttered the word "jump", Junior inquired from which ledge and whether he should take the elevator or stairs upon his return. Junior and Ethelene had barely concluded a waltz at the memorial service for Senior when Junior reached for both his chest and back pocket, meekly requested the contents of his wallet and keeled over into a serving tray of fresh crème brûlée.

All forms of dancing, as well as any custard-based desserts, were tastefully omitted at the more lugubrious commemorative held for Junior days later.

Ethelene was distraught. A lover of music and dance, she raged at the nickname taking form behind her back: The Hipshaker Widowmaker. Eventually, such talk peaked and was on the decline by midsummer, when the Loo's annual barbeque popped up on the employee schedule. Bridgework was not one to spare when treating his troops to an outing. Held on the shores of Lake Tahotukmikash, the three-day weekend featured every variety of water sport and grilled food known in the western world. Loo workers were encouraged -- browbeaten, actually, during a series of departmental meetings leading up to the joyous occasion -- to bring family members in order to create an atmosphere of madcap fun. Ethelene, as the CEO's spouse, was expected to lead the charge into the wet and smoky good times.

To the profound miscalculation of one Al Ziemer, Ethelene took a bounding leap onto the dance floor, landing in his immediate proximity.

Ziemer was the Loo's IT expert, the company computer guru who made the show flicker and run from his magic bag of gigabytes, passwords, compressed data and defrag strategies. Reputed to be the leading free spirit of upper management, Ziemer stormed the halls of Loo headquarters with loose necktie and bushy red tousled hair, his hand wrapped around an ever-present recycled paper cup of steaming latte. A man hampered with tunnel vision after years of mouse-handling and virus-disposal, Ziemer thought nothing of taking on Ethelene as a partner while the band riffed off a medley of '60s surfing music. By all accounts, including a reference to a video recorded at the party, Ethelene and Al owned the parquet and were schooling their amazed compatriots with steps not seen in decades.

Their interpretation of the _Topanga Banga Tango_ segued smoothly into a raucous rendition of the _Idaho Mashed, Baked & Stuffed Potato_ and -- with a tip of the hat to rock 'n' roll pioneer Chubby Checker -- they slew the audience by twisting at double-time, gyrating on an eight beat to the band's four. The musicians then cut to an echoing guitar selection of Dick Dale and the Del-Tones, prompting Ethelene to convert her motions into the _Hopi Rain Dance Hop_ [first seen on national television in 1957] while Al dropped to the floor to perform what everyone believed was his signature spasmodic finale, the _Worm_. Ziemer was indeed giving his last performance, convulsing to death as the crowd cheered and urged him to flail on.

The narrative had shaken me and I paused to wipe my brow on the inside of my shirt cuff. _Oh, how the Worm turned on Ziemer_. I continued to the next page of the report, containing the details of the final Loo victim of Ethelene's danse macabre.

In what was seemingly an innocuous encounter, Ethelene hastily entered the expansive lobby of Loo corporate headquarters several weeks after Ziemer's _Worm_ concluded and was serenaded by the sultry tones of Muzak filling the marble-floored rotunda. Nearing the glittering and polished bank of elevators along the opposite wall, she crossed paths with Jerzy Kracken, the company's estimable custodian. Kracken, pushing his service cart of mops, buckets, rags and cleaning supplies, did his best to avoid the onrushing twig of a woman. He moved left as she moved right. He reversed his step, leaning to his right, just as Ethelene swerved left. Blocking her once more, the perplexed janitor shuffled to his left once again only to be met with Ethelene's mirroring move. In a final attempt to break free of her orbit, Kracken double-stepped to the right precisely as Ethelene made her move into his space. They whirled about counterclockwise before the poor fellow, a heartily fit quinquagenarian dizzied by Ethelene's persistent blitzing, tumbled backwards striking his head upon a yellow "Caution: Wet Floor" sign tucked in the rear of his dolly. He lingered for three days in a hospital bed before succumbing to the forceful blow.

I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes. _So there it was, the dilemma of Sondheim and his client._ Four deaths in the realm of the Loo, all occurring in a public arena, each embroiling Bridgework's wife. With all due respect given to Jerzy Kracken's necessary profession, three of the mishaps bore a high profile in the financial world. International monetary institutions, investment firms and insurance companies were lathered in sweat over the run of wretched events involving the Loo. Markets and sub-markets teetered and swayed upon their very foundations, anxiously bearing witness to Bridgework's every move as their stability was pinned to the man's next action and proclamation. _And his judgment and whim._

As went Bridgework, so followed the Loo. Should the Loo go down the drain with its multiple fiduciary tentacles entangled in the defining value of fiat money, the domino-toppling effect would be felt in even the most modest thatched-roof hut in central Africa. Indeed, Bridgework had to be tamed and brought aboard the ship of sanity.

_All done under the radar and inconspicuously so, old boy!_ I reminded myself.

At this point our altitude was such that, upon glancing out the window past the inoperable prop, I spotted a pair of Coast Guard vessels giving chase northward in pursuit of a sleek looking pearl-colored yacht. The zig-zagging trail of their wake etched into the iridescent blue waters of the Caribbean brought to mind another case of mine, _Le Bourgeon de la Folie [or The Bud of Folly]_ , which I had cut my teeth on so many years past. That memory shattered when the idled engines spit and grumbled, issuing a roar of discontent along with a continuous posset of thick, black smoke. The plane began a disorienting pattern of violent bucking which caused several of the little people to grab their wee tummies and wretch upon the cabin's carpet-worn aisle. I grimaced and gritted my teeth, determined to finish the final page of Sondheim's brief.

The ultimate complication to Bridgework's personal life arrived in two fast moving, kinetic, youthful forms: His daughter and son-in-law.

Angelina Formica de Corcoran Bridgework Shumway was in her mid-twenties and, though there was no photo available, I concocted a vision of her in my mind's eye: Flowing blond hair, tall and thin like her mother. Leggy, most likely. Blue eyes, fair complexion. Known as Angel, years after the family-forced nickname "Formula" fell by the wayside, she blossomed under the quintessential proper upbringing of the privileged elite. Nannies, private schooling, horses, stamp collecting, tutors, tennis, travel and skydiving lessons. Upon her graduation from Smith, where she majored in modern economic sociology, Angel entered the Loo and served in a nebulous role as general advisor to low-level corporate personnel. Her undefined function provided her with an open run of the company until Bridgework himself leveraged her into a forced marriage, aiming to see his daughter domesticated and with family as quickly as possible.

_That would make for one less slice of pie to dole out._ I silently complimented myself for so hastily identifying motivation.

One serving Bridgework was not required to dish out was to Angel's husband, Stockwell Silicon Shumway, heir to the Shumway silicon fortune. Predictably, as if I would not have guessed, Shumway was an alum of Yalemouth yet curiously never pursued furthering his education beyond his degree from that bloated institution. In fact, it appears he had not pursued much of anything in his young life, other than the contrived offer to marry Angel.

"Chip" to his family and "Silly" to his friends, Shumway doddered about SoCal for a few years prior to falling in what the metro L.A. papers labeled was "a cauldron of unspecified trouble". Sondheim's report indicated the tribulation involved one surfboard, a pillowcase of feathers and unauthorized access to the La Brea tar pits. After much fussing about in the juvenile court system -- Chip/Silly was twenty-three years of age at the time -- Shumway family connections arranged for the young man's employment at a federally funded think tank specializing in advanced cerebral connotations located in the remote foothills of eastern Virginia. It was from here Chip/Silly was plucked by Bridgework, hand selected to clip the wings of and marry the yet single Angel.

The post-matrimonial relationship between Bridgework and Shumway suffered rapidly due to -- according to an anonymous source -- Chip/Silly's inability to instantly impregnate Angel, coupled with his attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder affliction. Bridgework desired an heir and was frustrated by Chip/Silly's lack of concentration. Certainly the attached photo of Chip/Silly, a mug shot from the La Brea incident, did not manufacture a confidence in the lad's intellectual or social development. Beneath a webbing of haphazardly attached feathers, the curly-topped think-tanker was crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. This added credence to the theory Chip/Silly's behavior was a key factor in driving Bridgework to extremes, in attempting to both deal directly with Chip/Silly and avoid him at all costs.

Note to myself: Is ADHD contagious?

The realization I had my hands full landed upon me at the precise moment the rubber tires of Slipstream Green caught their squealing purchase on the Sangster International runway. There was no looking back now.

"Pershing Cantilever."

"What went wrong?" I asked over the growl of the props as the pilot fought to avoid overshooting the end of the runway.

"Pershing Cantilever's the name," the squat man next to me repeated, handing me a calling card while curling a smile within his blockish facial features. His title identified him as the director of the _Carnaval Du Diminutif_. "One never knows if we'll meet again or under what circumstances such an occurrence might take place."

"Indeed." I foraged for a card of my own and passed it along to his waiting hand. "Good luck with all your performances here in the tropics, Mr. Cantilever."

In due time the plane emptied its human cargo. I was amazed to behold the sight of the troupe exiting the aircraft in an intricate series of cartwheels, rolls, tumbles and seat-jumps perfectly executed. I hoisted my travel stricken body from the seat well and hunched my way to the now deserted aisle.

"And don't muck about in the vomit!" A sharp crack to my lower spine accompanied the surly flight attendant's final instruction. It was then, with great hope and much humility, that I looked forward to being processed in-country through the stifling heat of the sweltering concrete customs building.

Welcome back to Jamaica indeed, von dek Horn.

CHAPTER THREE

_The Miracle Leaf of Antoine_

Through This Gate Enters and Departs the World's Most Astute Financial Investor.

So the inscription stated on the gold leaf hand-carved signage positioned directly above the wrought iron entrance of the fenced-in Ocho Rios compound. The Bridgework estate teetered amid a small clearing of thick hillside growth off Milford Road, where the landscaping had been slashed wide enough to afford a commanding view of Mallards Bay some several hundred feet below. The view was best enjoyed while floating in the large multilayered pool, with its swim-to bar positioned between color infused waterfalls dominating the verdant backyard gardens.

It was here I found myself after wrestling my way into my favorite orange swimsuit, often mistaken for an abandoned airport windsock, sipping an Appleton rum and soda concoction. "Thank you so much," I said to the young mermaid who crossed the vast watery depths utilizing a one-handed breaststroke, carrying my drink on a silver serving tray high above her head. "I appreciate your efforts and, I must add, I will be happy to doggy paddle over for a refill when necessary."

"Not to worry, Baron von dek Horn," she replied with a smile that sparkled in the hot afternoon sun. "Mr. Bridgework said we're to consider you family."

My left eyebrow involuntarily arced with askance at the suggestion I enter the dysfunctional clan. In reality, my life was quite capable of reaching its own troubled heights without escalating assistance from Wayland, Ethelene, Angel or Chip/Silly. Contemplating my present predicament, I waded slow-motion to the nearest scallop shell seat and, once my buttocks were comfortably positioned in the geometrically proportioned lounger and warm pool water circled my neck and shoulders, I commenced to enjoy the luscious scenery below.

Slivers of white sails, filled by the abundant ocean breeze, scampered along the coastline, while farther out a caravan of cruise ships took turns arriving and departing from the popular tourist port. The distant din of busy thoroughfares could barely be discerned over the natural orchestration provided by the native fauna, including an active family of coneys fluttering among the crickets and frogs in the creeping beggarweed along the west side of the property. Aloft and gliding amid jackfruit trees, loggerhead kingbirds flew side by side with red-billed streamertails. I smiled at the beauty of it all. The paradisaic surroundings were certainly doing their part to remove what remained of the sharp and resounding sting inflicted on the morning aero trip. My euphoria was, regretfully, short-lived.

"Von dek Horn, you prying middle aged bastard!"

Summoning me out of a half-sleep, I was disinclined to answer such a troika of descriptive terms.

"Baron!" The male voice called out again, this time the moniker was more to my liking. I placed his presence somewhere near the embossed archway leading to the living room entrance of the mansion and rotated my seat to face this point. In the shadows, behind a large potted palm tree, stood a figure.

"Bridgework? Show yourself!" I sloshed about on the seat, easing my footing onto the tiled flooring below. "Come out here for a chat."

At that instance a tar-and-featherless Chip/Silly moved forward through the doorway, attired in a sports jacket, a pair of khaki jungle shorts and penny loafers and armed with a badminton racket. He marched straight from the house, across the carefully clipped lawn and directly into the pool -- not bothering to use the steps, but rather jumping feet first into the water. I watched in silence as, without care one in the world, he continued his trajectory to the in-pool pub where he picked up a freshly mixed daiquiri and exited the water by lifting himself airborne via the lower diving board, disappearing onto the lawn beyond. All the while maintaining his grip on the racket. It was truly an impressive accomplishment which almost wrung a round of applause from my hands.

"See? See what I mean?" Bridgework called out from his refuge.

"He appeared focused," I offered cheerfully, "and it was no easy trick."

"Bah!" Bridgework waved an arm of disgust through the branches of the flourishing palmetto. "Besides, he knew he had an audience. For the record, he's off to capture butterflies. How in the hell is a badminton racket going to help him do that?"

"It would depend on the size of the butterfly, one supposes."

"No, that's where you're wrong!" Bridgework uttered a long groan before collecting himself and changing the subject. "I know Sondheim sent you, not that you would dare admit it."

"There, you are wrong, I'm afraid. In spite of your nebbish remark, I would most wholeheartedly admit it."

"Nebbish? Who's being nebbish now?"

I chuckled at Bridgework's echo and sought to restore a diplomatic tone to our conversation. "Should we say we jaunted off on the wrong foot then, what? Sondheim requested I visit you, this we both know. Otherwise, how would such a warm reception and considerate host have awaited me?" I angled my way across the pool in hope of gaining a better view of the man.

"He said you'd bring counsel to me."

"Of the many things I am, consulting would rank high on the list." I accidentally crossed into the deeper end of the pool and now battled the running tide of a nearby waterfall. "I thought I might help calm the waters of the Loo."

"The Loo is running fine," Bridgework shot back. "Look at me. How could it be any finer?"

"Part of my present immediate problem is I can't see you clearly," I replied, neglecting to mention that in the twisting and turning rush of water the orange windsock of a swimsuit had bound tight my lower extremities in the most delicate of ways, posing a larger discomfort for me than any Bridgework himself might be experiencing. "Too, I believe it would be reassuring to us both if we knew the Loo was free of any rapacious conduct that might adversely effect Joe and Josephine Piggybank."

"Who?"

"The average savers of the world, the poor sweats who know nothing but a hard day's work and the profuse challenge of placing a few coins in one's own coffers at nightfall."

"I have very little in common with the Piggybanks of the world," Bridgework scoffed, "and less interest in their few coins."

"Precisely where I believe exists the error, sir."

"I don't have time for your altruistic philosophy, particularly when it arrives at my station in life. What's mine is mine. So what if ninety-nine percent of the world has less than I do. Someone is always at the top and that someone, for now, is me."

I took measure of his fetid words, repulsed by Bridgework's natural state of self-centeredness. "Your position being a temporary one serves as a truism. Beyond that, your words sound like those of a spoiled rapscallion."

"If you've traveled all this way to insult me, you could have spared yourself the trip. You're welcome to dinner here this evening and a night's rest, but you will be on your way out the gate tomorrow." He emerged from behind the thicket of sprouting palms startling me with his frowzy appearance. "Tell Sondheim your mission fizzled to a halt on day one."

The prospect of failure so early on in the game did not seat itself well with me. For Sondheim, it would be intolerable. "Perhaps we might share the table together, then, and at the very least know one another better before I depart."

"That might be possible," Bridgework replied tugging at the edge of his frayed T-shirt, his gaze redolent of a man's thoughts being processed faraway. "Someone will fetch you for seven p.m."

"Sounds delightful. I'm ever appreciative."

"The Loo is in its finest shape ever," he added faintly, withdrawing into the shadows of the porch. All fell silent. As I stood in the pool, making final adjustments to improve the comfort within my swimsuit, a rain of shuttlecocks descended upon the surface of the water. Every few seconds a new birdie cleared the straw roof of the poolside bar, plopping in and around me. The source of the red-nosed plastic objects was clearly the ostensive butterfly procurer, Chip/Silly.

_Even in a blazer, there is something familiar about Shumway. Familiar in a loutish way, that is._ I checked my suspicions and, in full agreement with the grumblings of my stomach, looked forward to the meal ahead.

***

"Grilled rock lobster salad," Bridgework said from the opposite end of the table, "is the finest way to begin a meal. Would you agree, Baron, or would you prefer an argument?"

We sat on the patio and, in the simmering rays of the setting sun, Bridgework looked much improved in contrast to his afternoon debut. "You, sir, will receive no quarrel from this quarter. Quite delicious."

"I think it's the touch of balsamic mixed with the olive oil," he said, stabbing a fork at his plate as though spear-fishing, shaking the catch in the air before him. "Naturally, the success of this dish rests on the freshness of the greens, especially the peppers."

"Agreed." The appetizer revived my energy and verve, shifting me into a pleasing mood. Too, Bridgework arranged our settings at a comfortable distance and I was able to observe the entire surroundings with ease. "The quality of such nourishment and the pleasantry of these grounds surely brings together even the most hostile points of view."

Bridgework laughed, taking the opportunity to wipe his distinguished facial features with a silk napkin. "And all along I thought Stinky Kornblatt was the only low level diplomat Trotters was capable of producing. Look at you, poking an olive branch into a hornet's nest."

"Surely it beats a sharpened branch of olives in one's eye," I countered. Dining with a cynic guaranteed a most miserable gastronomic experience. "Still, you must agree this offers an opportunity to discuss what investors can expect from Woolamaloo, yes?"

"If you were an investor, which you are not, you could find such information in our quarterly reports. Better yet, our website's information is updated daily. I expect better of you, von dek Horn. You're reputation is such that you're not considered some garden variety lotus-eater. At least, not yet."

I chuckled in an attempt to deflate the hot air balloon Bridgework guided my way. "I believe the same assessment can be applied to you, sport. The data appearing in your mailings, as well as digital press releases spun by your P.R. department, amounts to less than the odious goop found in the proverbial barnyard crock. And, I can assure you, it's not butter that's being churned out."

"An interesting observation. Permit me to focus the picture for you. My private life is entirely separate from the business I perform in the Loo." He stopped to savor a piece of the tender crustacean. "Pass that along to Sondheim like a good errand boy, will you?"

"Again, we differ in opinion. The general perception, Mr. Bridgework, is that you are the Loo. All your money, influence and ownership make the Loo what it is today. When the Piggybanks of the world look at the Loo, it's your face they see."

"And if I were to suddenly retire? Disappear from view?"

Stymied for a moment, I prodded around a few leaves of lettuce before unearthing another succulent piece of sea meat. _Retirement was an action only briefly considered in my analysis. Tread carefully, old lad._ "You would still remain reigning over the Loo, if only with the titular standing of president emeritus. What you do in retirement would have a greater effect on the Loo's global financial impact, even more so than that of your present active role."

"Perhaps not, Baron."

As our salad bowls were whisked away by servers, Chip/Silly skimmed across the yard swinging a pair of ski poles as though schussing in the Alps. Clad only in the khaki shorts he wore earlier he continued his pseudo-skiing up onto the patio, narrowly avoiding the table as he would a rogue mogul. I nodded my approval as he entered the open doors, the final gate in a long run.

"See what I put up with? See?"

"Well executed, too, I might add."

"He's driving me crazy! The single most reason why I itch all over. There's not a nerve pill in the universe that can cure the illness he brings on."

"For instance?"

"Refrigerator doors left open. Cars parked sideways in the drive. Golf clubs left in the bathtub. Conversations interrupted. Obsession with fire. A compulsion to constantly purchase plaid clothing."

"Helpful if he's buying off season."

"That's not helpful at all! His attire constantly clashes with the simple dignity of my tuxedos or the cool tones of a Monte Carlo casino." Bridgework sighed. "Up north, in winter, it's doors left open during subzero weather, lights left on in every room and the television volume turned up to earsplitting levels."

"Surely of little economic inconvenience to you."

"Worse than that. It's an imposition on my sanity. Von dek Horn, you're in over your head. Your level of comprehension on this matter stopped far short of the runway."

"That being the case, why don't you take matters into your own hands and rid yourself of the irritant?" A server placed a dish of jerked pork, steamed cabbage and ackee in front me that was absolutely mouthwatering, my veneration of Mrs. Potsdam's talents notwithstanding. "Surely a man of your station determines his associates."

"Unfortunately, he's family."

"By extension, yes. But still, isn't there an assignment you could send him on? Such as the collection and cataloging of endangered butterflies in the Australian outback?"

"He's to provide me with an heir, a continuance of the Bridgework dynasty."

I tried to strike a positive chord. "Have your daughter accompany him. I understand the aboriginal fertility dances are terrifically original and highly effective."

"She wouldn't last three minutes past the final rest station."

"These dances are considered quite short in duration. It wouldn't take much."

"You bring no solutions at all," Bridgework scoffed. "Exactly as I told Sondheim. What could be expected of a Trotters --"

His issuance of uncalled for judgment was truncated by the entrance of a young woman who appeared to have stepped out of a freshly opened time capsule sealed in the summer months of 1959. Her blond hair was gathered into prominent pigtails, each sporting a red ribbon, accentuating her round and innocent looking face. She wore a white blouse underneath a blue sweater, the latter emblazed with the felt patch letter "B" on the left breast. Below the ruffled hem of her red plaid skirt rose a pair of knee-high white bobbysox covered at the very bottom by shiny black buckle shoes. I instantly stood up, realizing her presence offered new ground to be plowed between Bridgework and myself.

"Ah," I said cordially, taking her hand and applying a brief kiss to it while tapping one heel to the polished flooring, "it is my pleasure to greet you, Miss Angelica Formica de Corcoran Bridgework Shumway. Or may I call you Angel?"

She fluttered her blue eyes at me and giggled before inflating an enormous pink bubble of chewing gum between her ruby red lips. Bridgework's grimace was, from the corner of my eye, plainly obvious.

"This is my personal assistant, you fool."

"April Après," the young lady offered, popping the bubble and allowing its remnants to disappear behind her smile. "Please to meet you, Mr. Horn."

"Miss Après," I said, attempting to extract myself from the clumsiness of my initial introduction. "And the name's von dek Horn. Baron von dek Horn."

"Do you know what I bring?"

"I can well imagine," I replied, not wanting to blindly wade into yet another social mud puddle.

"Mrs. Bridgework for the main course."

As if cued for her grand entrance, Ethelene Cartier Bridgework floated through the door, her brilliant presence sweeping away the detritus of my conversation with her husband and the clumsy encounter with his personal assistant.

"Well, my, my, if it isn't the esteemed Baron von dek Horn."

"Ah," I said cordially, taking her hand and applying a brief kiss to it while tapping one heel to the polished flooring, "it is my pleasure to greet you, Mrs. Bridgework. Or shall I call you Ethelene?"

"And who said gentlemanly manners were lost to the days of yore?"

"I'm not sure, Mrs. B., but I can Google it to see what comes up."

"Not necessary, April," she responded with a brief smile, "the source is my husband."

"Really, Ethelene," Bridgework said with disgust, balling up his napkin only to unfold it again onto his lap. "Shall we save the sniping until after dinner?"

"So, Baron," Ethelene continued, ignoring his remark, "you've been hired to save our family."

"Not necessarily, Mrs. Bridgework. I've \--"

"He's an overpriced errand boy, Ethelene," Bridgework interrupted. "Contracted to consult on a regular basis by that seedy old feather pillow Sondheim. No surprise there."

"Consulting? Really?" Ethelene used her fork to reorganize the food on her plate. "On what topic, may I ask?"

"I'm hired to," I started, before switching course, "my purpose is to process information, formulate a plan of action and, ultimately, bring my assignment to a successful conclusion."

"Really? Conclusions? Bringing closure to people sounds like a rather trite business. A modern day Good Samaritan who might actually break the law to fulfill his duty."

"I can assure you, Mrs. Bridgework, that I \--"

"Couldn't find a law to break," Bridgework once more tread upon my line. "Tell us your old motto, Baron, the one used for years on your calling card."

"I was fresh out of university then," I mildly protested, caught off-guard by Bridgework's knowledge of a small and prickly skeleton in my closet. "Young and keen on my new venture. The intent of that particular saying meant I would endeavor to locate whatever required finding, is all."

"Speak the words to us, dear Baron," he demanded. "You splashed them on your business papers, letterhead and envelopes. You even reproduced the expression in the foreword of your first book."

"Yes, please Baron. I'm itching to know, really I am." Ethelene stared at me with all the innocence of a fair maiden as April popped her gum loudly.

"It was this," I offered with a degree of timidity. "'Both hands and a flashlight.'"

"Both hands and a flashlight!" Bridgework roared, eliciting a burst of giggles from April, her pigtails dangling back and forth like errant participles typed within a high school essay.

I lifted my chin with a certain pride. "I take comfort in Shaw's belief that the more a man has to be ashamed of, the more respectable he is."

"In your case, let's hope it is so." Bridgework laughed once again, appearing to finally be enjoying the evening's company.

A silence followed, allowing me to retreat within my psychological fortress in order to rejuvenate the supply of energy required to continue wrestling with my host and hostess. Though I had not anticipated this venture would be an easy task, neither had I expected to be repeatedly dunked in an onrushing tsunami of vileness. The thought of an a.m. flight back to the mainland grew in its appeal, though I was unwilling to give up the jug right at this particular juncture. Maintain, old fella, maintain. And maintain I would.

"Do you believe in immortality, Baron?" Ethelene asked mid-bite of steaming cabbage.

"To live forever in one sense or another? Of course, I do."

"I meant being eternal in human form right here on earth." She adjusted her gaze to Bridgework. "Living forever on this planet."

"I would say the probability is low, given it has yet to be accomplished. Besides, there might be other sights proving more interesting to see and experience."

"Wayland's pursuing the concept of everlasting human life. In fact, it's all he has left to conquer."

My overt surprise at learning this heretofore unknown enhanced Bridgework's snarling at his wife. "It's a subject few can grasp, least of all our unexpected guest. For the sake of lucidity, please don't pursue the topic."

"I was only offering up your latest hobby and obsession."

"Offer something else."

Without missing a beat, Ethelene broadcast her message using a different frequency. "Baron, isn't your brother the head of the new union of churches in the States?"

"I thank you for asking, Mrs. Bridgework. Actually, I'm an only child. It's my cousin Brother von dek Horn who has been in the theological spotlight of late."

"Do you attend services, Baron, if I may inquire?"

"Naturally."

"Gosh," Ethelene snapped her fingers twice, "the name of the church doesn't come to mind right away. It's, it's \--"

"Google it, Mrs. B?"

"It's, it's, it's," Ethelene continued, not heeding April's offer of help with the guessing game.

I drew a deep breath. "It's the Cascopalic Church, madam. An attempt at setting right the centuries old asunder between Henry the Eighth and Pope Clement the Seventh. At the time, you see, England narrowly outscored Rome."

"How fascinating, wouldn't you say, dear?"

Bridgework grunted and continued pulling his pork.

"And do Cascopalic's believe in eternal life?"

"We do. The Cascopalic's hold a semiannual meeting you may have knowledge of. It's a gregariously verbal affair known as the Lambaste Conference. I chair the Council of Prayerful Unified Laity and Teaching Ecclesiastics. Our agenda is filled with a variety of topics, most of which seek to draw the best ideals from both the Catholic and Anglican churches --"

"Oh my word! Now he's a spiritual seamstress, stitching together two warring factions in the name of a faceless supreme being!" As Bridgework leaned back, a small oblong medallion attached to a necklace emerged from inside his collar.

His outburst chastened my ebullition to discuss the state of the ongoing Cascopalic reformation. "I apologize for raising the issue of my religion so obliquely and I do not intend to instigate a ruction over such a personal topic. Mrs. Bridgework's initial inquiry was on the religion's belief in eternal life. My answer is yes."

"You'll no more find eternal life going into a building once a week than you'd find it tucked beneath a seashell on the beach." Bridgework shoved himself back from the table and drew up to a full measure. "I, on the other hand, am willed to discover what has eluded mankind since the inception of practical science. And this right here," he added forcefully while tugging at what appeared to be a cheap piece of plastic, "contains more value than any religious icon produced over the centuries."

"Humankind," I suggested. "Women haven't found the source of eternal human life, either." I had another quick glimpse of the befuddling medallion before Bridgework shoved it back beneath the fabric of his shirt.

"Regardless. April, I'm ready to provide dictation in the lower bungalow. Make sure your steno pad is prepared." Bridgework strode across the open foyer to an ornate humidor placed upon the top of a bookcase and rummaged for a cigar. "Von dek Horn, enjoy your abridged stay. Begone tomorrow, there's a good fellow." Igniting his smoke with a single match, he departed down the steps and disappeared into the jumble of hedges below.

"Well."

"Don't take it personally, Baron. He's working on his memoir."

"For someone who's planning to live forever? It must be appearing in serialized form." I sipped my water and pondered this new information, unmentioned in any material Sondheim supplied. _Bridgework aims to defy the natural order at the cost to those invested in the Loo._ Seeking a cure to avoid the inevitable was truly a red flag flying aloft one's madness. "Mrs. Bridgework, would you say your husband's fear of death has become obsessive? More so, has his behavior been excessive in this department?"

"Baron," she replied, tipping her wine glass and draining the final drop, "life is too short and unpredictable to give a rat's ass about Wayland's activities, whether they be investing in a permanent life bubble or orating in April's lower bungalow. What I do find imperative, though, is that tonight you and I go dancing!" She leapt from the table, snapping her fingers in the air above her head while scuffling her shoes along the stonework.

I gulped hard at the news. Mortality, simmering gently on the back burner all evening, suddenly became the hottest dish being served.

***

Ethelene, flowing hair pinned under a straw bonnet, drove the old Jeep in and around Ocho Rios with the ferocious courage and deft touch of a metropolitan-trained cabby. Zipping along narrow streets inches from the small hovels lining either side, I clutched the base of the passenger seat and hoped she was not bent on a death wish of her own in the grotty neighborhoods of the island's working class citizens. When I thought we would be unable to get up any additional speed, Ethelene punched the accelerator with her high-heeled toe and threw her head back in laughter, sending us careening between the fruitstands and markets and thresholds and barrels scattered among the brightly painted domiciles. Hurtling down a one-way alley, I ducked my head toward the dashboard as we burst through a thick woven undergrowth of vines and branches, shooting out onto the coastal road of Route Four.

"Don't worry, Baron, this is my regular shortcut," Ethelene cried out over the roar of the whining engine. "A way for me to release anxiety."

I offered a reassuring grin, effectively masking the whiteness of my knuckles, and hunched forward in the padded seat like the family dog enjoying an open-air Sunday ride. After several minutes of admiring the rising moon along the shoreline and breathing deep the scent of the ocean, Ethelene cut the steering wheel hard to the left, downshifted and executed a tight turn into the Dunn's River Falls parking lot. Loose pebbles flew in all directions, sparking the glares and waves of several water- and rum-soaked tourists before Ethelene pointed the nose of the vehicle back towards town.

"Ever gone up the Falls?" she called out.

"Years ago, yes."

I joyfully recalled my first spring break trip made with the gang from university. Our entire curling team decided to have its hair braided in the traditional Jamaican dreadlock style. How we could not wait to push out of the hack with our newfound looks, confident we would steal girls from the varsity hockey team vacationing alongside us. [The latter group showed up to pass critique on our appearance as we were about to indulge in pizza with the three coeds who accepted our invitation. It ended badly for us curlers.]

"I scampered up the climb with some of my mates back in the day. Cold water!"

"I know another short cut, four wheeling up through the forest," she hollered back, "but not tonight. Not if we're going to get some dancing in!"

My sphincter constricted tightly at the mention of musical gamboling with Ethelene and frankly, in comparison, the off-road jungle-run held a certain appeal. "Fine. Another day, then," I replied in an unsteady voice.

Within minutes we rolled into a crowded, poorly illuminated dirt parking lot outside a sizeable circular straw hut. Vehicles of all makes and sizes were parked haphazardly in every direction, as though they would magically sort themselves out in a reasonable fashion as the night wore on. Ethelene brought the Jeep to a skidding halt in a cloud of dust and dirt. "This, my friend, is my favorite spot!"

Above the doorway, some thirty feet away, hung a narrow strip of a multicolor neon light flashing _Badana Pagana Cabana_ , which I loosely translated to "Sheepskin Pagan Cabin". I thought about using the old knee injury from my curling days as an excuse to avoid the bump-and-grind with Ethelene, but -- as I followed her up the wooden steps into the bar's entrance, my eyes spellbound by the delightful swaying motion beneath her form-fitting dress -- I knew fate planned to override my imaginary joint pain. _You might end up meeting your maker, old stone, but what a way to travel._ Stepping inside the colorful, smoke-filled arena, we were greeted by Stephan, the bar manager.

"Lady Bridgework! It has been oh so too long!" He gave her a passing hug, flashing a smile of sincere friendliness. "Let me escort you to your table. Your man can follow us, yes?"

"Yes, I can follow." I ducked my head beneath the ribbons and banners hanging from the ceiling, dodging black, green and yellow balloons floating above the many centerpieces. Stephan seated us overlooking the dance floor, where at the opposite end, DJ Master Gator played a selection of scratchy, squeaky bass-throbbing numbers. Ethelene and I took our seats against the wide bamboo rails circling the entire bar area.

"You know," she said over the din of the music while inserting an unfiltered cigarette into an ivory holder carved with a flowery design, "he's trying to pin everything on me, right?"

"Who's trying to attach what to you?"

"Don't use Trotters in such a way to play stupid with me, Baron," she snapped, borrowing the table candle to serve as her lighter. "Wayland is making it appear I'm the one responsible for eliminating personnel vital to keeping the Loo running."

I feigned a distant interest and chose the role of skeptic. "Even poor old Jerzy Kracken? How could a lowly janitor figure in the mix of corporate skullduggery?"

"When you've finished your doltish moment, feel free to keep up with me."

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bridgework. I was uncertain --"

"Well, don't be! If you're going to be of any help to me and my daughter, you'll have to be sure about what you see, what you're told and what you know. Wayland Bridgework is trying to frame me as a murderess. A serial killer dancer. Don't deny your knowledge of what's happened over the last year."

Our conversation paused as a waiter brought two house specials to the table. _Mrs. Bridgework is known only too well here, for certain._ I sipped the drink, guessing that it contained a combination of rum and possibly tea, but definitely a good deal more of the former. "I didn't mean to insult your intellect, Mrs. Bridgework --"

"Ethelene, please call me Ethelene," she said, exhaling a long stream of smoke.

"Ethelene. I simply can't violate any perception of neutrality. The fact that you danced with four men and those four men passed away --"

"Makes me a murderess, yes?"

"No. And, technically, defining your interaction with Jerzy as a 'dance' would be farfetched, even by the most lackadaisical of jurists."

"It was actually the intro to _Hootchy Kootchy Diamond Broochie_. Quite a popular number in the twenties. I was surprised Mr. Kracken knew of it." She kept scanning the open-air room as we spoke. "Regardless, all fingers point at me on this one, Baron."

"What would motivate you to get Kracken?"

A look of irony overtook the elegant features of her face. "Who do you think was responsible for shredding Wayland's private correspondence? And corporate papers? And handwritten notes from meetings? Telephone messages? Printed e mails? Desktop calendar doodles? Wayland himself decided he'd better get Kracken!"

"And so he did," I murmured, working a bit more on my drink before plunging off the deep end of the pier. "Tell me, Ethelene, why would Wayland want to delete the Daskines, both Senior, Junior and Junior, Senior, Al Ziemer and Mr. Kracken? Presuming he did it, of course."

"The Loo was in the midst of corporate downsizing."

"A rather draconian method, wouldn't you agree?"

"The company lost tens of millions of dollars in a short amount of time," she laughed softly and tapped the cigarette ashes into the fluid wax of the candle. "Lost it wasn't. Certain people knew where the money went, and it wasn't the small change that ten or fifteen million dollars here or there amounted to. It was hundreds of millions of dollars and it went beyond just the Loo's assets."

"Into the accounts of insurance companies, international banks, individual investors?"

She nodded her head. "It was a digital sleight of hand, a global cyber pickpocket completing his work before the mark even knew he had be victimized."

I emitted a loud sigh. This was Ethelene's side of the story, her take of events. Since the forecast did not call for Bridgework himself to open up to me, I was finding her interpretation of the situation more than interesting and it was time to sharpen my game. "How many people know about this?"

"Baron!" she laughed heartily. "Please. You're natural ability to affect naivety is really quite attractive. It is also becoming very annoying!" Her voice lowered and she puffed a cloud of smoke into my face with each word. "Why do you think one financial institution after another keeps collapsing? Do you imagine why certain countries cannot reinvigorate their economies?"

I rubbed my chin and batted my fingers, trying to look thoughtful while clearing the air between us. I had no clue how to answer her questions. "I could hazard a theory or two, one supposes."

"Wayland now controls portions of the world's major currencies. What was once on paper, safe in his investment firm and bank, he's made disappear. When one group tries to bolster another, he receives a cut of the transaction. Governments rely on the Loo to dictate the terms of loans, set the credit rating of nations in question, and gauge the liquidity and solvency of businesses around the globe." She shook her head and exhaled, making like a fog machine running on full at a Halloween party. "I used to ask him how much was too much. He'd say that all of it wasn't ever going to be enough."

"Where the Daskines, Ziemer and Kracken blocked his way."

"Oh, yes, they did. And it sent a clear message to others, while making me look like a death dealing, foot stomping floozy."

"Why you?"

"I'm in his way, as well. And, I'm a great diversion for Interpol, the FBI and Scotland Yard to focus on while Wayland's at play." The glint in her eye was sincere and there existed a genuineness in her tone, but my mental jury was still deliberating the degree of her truthfulness. "It'd be perfect for him if I were made the scapegoat of the Loo's mess. He'd turn the keys over to some poor sap and retire into a vacuum of invisibility."

"A simple solution would be for you to leave him, divvy up the accumulated wealth and call it good," I said, tossing the obvious stone into the solution pond. "Wash your hands of the entire matter, and Bridgework, once and for all."

"I wish I could, Baron. Truly I do."

I waited her out for an additional explanation and, when none was forthcoming, finished my drink and took her forearm in my hand. "It's quite simple, Ethelene. You just walk away. Return to your family in Montreal, gather up the strings to your life and begin making new music."

"You know more than you let on."

"Sometimes I keep the cards I'm dealt inside my vest so no one sees them. Not even me." I smiled at her reassuringly. "They may someday be put into play."

"I appreciate that strategy, Baron. I do the same. Except my cards are tucked in my bra cup," she said, standing up rapidly and reversing the grip onto my arm so I rose with her. "I remain with Wayland for reasons of no concern to you." She pulled me closer into her. "Then again, maybe they are. You'll learn of them someday, if you do your job correctly. For now, let's dance!"

I sheepishly followed her onto the dance floor, bolstering myself with the knowledge I was not a Loo employee and thereby disqualified for expiring while shuffling with Ethelene. As a reggae number blared through the speakers, she stepped right into the _Jersey Turnpike Breakdown Lane_ and was astonished when I matched her step-for-step, anticipating her air-drumming and elbow-snapping gyrations.

"Say, you're pretty good for an oldie," she laughed, ducking her head into the extended pecking motif at the tune's conclusion.

I took her hand and spun her around, sweeping us into the Americanized version of _Traipsin' the Bomb Crater_ as the next round of music ramped up. "Tell me about April Après," I inquired, aiming to gather if the young soubrette served as motive for Ethelene's blind adherence to Bridgework, warts and all.

"Wayland's mistress du jour," Ethelene responded casually, sans contempt in her voice, "though she's shown an unexpected staying power."

"How long?"

"Over a year now. I thought he'd become bored with her sock hop schtick, but I've underestimated his obsession with that era since we first attended _Grease_."

So, April Après was in the Loo before the untimely deaths began.

I took Ethelene's waist in my right arm and began the jerking, swaying motion as though we were about to teeter into a make-believe cavity to our left. Guiding her carefully around the outer perimeter of the crowded floor, we bobbed and weaved in counterclockwise fashion, raising our movements to a frenzy amid the heat of so many grinding bodies. Opposite the entrance, I spotted a man looking entirely foppish as though he had attired himself in a carnival house of mirrors. "Look! It's Shumway!"

Ethelene adjusted her rhythm and lifted her gaze. "So it is."

It was one of those defining moments when the seldom-seen other shoe dropped directly on my nodding head. A woman followed directly behind the vexing son-in-law -- she being the very beauty on the Slipstream Green flight, the goddess destined to be my companion in the first row, the stunning African-American wearing the colorful ribbons throughout her hair when boarding the plane. _What are the odds of this, right?_ So compelling was her grace that I could not remove my eyes from her. "Why in the world with him?" I asked rhetorically.

"Marriage."

"What?"

"That's Angel."

I turned so sharply as to almost drag Ethelene and myself into the middle of a ganga rage held at the nearest table. "Hey, mon! Keep it straight and able, Charlie!" "Hold your woman, mon, balance your life." Several hands drenched in sweet scented smoke pushed us back onto the scuffled flooring.

"One more, Baron, before we sit down! Come on, you must know this one!"

She barreled into the _Plank Me, Plank You_ enchufla followed by the obligatory do-si-do and I, being still alive and on my two feet -- in addition to having witnessed this number several times while chaperoning dances at Faithful Hill Regional High School -- opted to give it a go while contemplating the union of Angel and Chip/Silly. Ethelene executed a perfect rond with her left toe before yanking me by the lapels and bringing us face-to-face. "What's the matter, Baron? You've grown distant and thoughtful."

Stammering in an attempt to cover my shock at Angel and Chip/Silly, I nodded my head in concurrence.

"Troubled that Angel's black, while Wayland and I are white?"

"A factor I hadn't considered. Yet."

"She's adopted, Baron. I'm hoping you're more adept in discovering other facts less apparent." Ethelene pushed me away and revived the enchulfa again, followed by both of us nailing a flawless do-si-do. "You'd do well to keep a watchful eye on Shumway. He's not a fan of yours."

"Really? I'm sincerely sorry to learn of that."

"His employer has the reputation for being unscrupulous at times."

"Bridgework? The Loo?"

"Heavens, no, Baron," Ethelene lost her step in the midst of her laughter, "the government. He's supposedly some sort of super secret _Federale_ , except a domestic one."

"Illegal immigration in reverse? Perhaps you shouldn't say that so loud here."

"Why not?" Ethelene stopped dancing and took my hand, leading me back through the crowd. "He's not a big fan of me, either."

I rehearsed my line along the way to our table, glad for the dry run earlier in the evening.

"Angel!" Ethelene called out to her daughter sitting next to Chip/Silly. Four fresh drinks anchored each seat. "This is Baron von dek Horn, our visitor from the States."

"Ah," I said cordially, taking the young woman's hand and applying a brief kiss to it while tapping one heel to the rough wood below, "it is my pleasure to greet you, Miss Angelica Formica de Corcoran Bridgework Shumway. Or may I call you Angel?"

"Angel is fine, thank you." Her voice struck me as having the quality of fine crystal, light and gleaming upon entering my ears. "How was your flight?"

"It was," I said, for a fleeting moment feeling like a tongue-tied schoolboy, "a culturally enlightening experience."

"How about the Yankees this year?" Chip/Silly asked the table in general. "Anyone seen the bowl of nuts that's supposed to be here?"

"Angel and I are going to refresh ourselves," Ethelene said to me, offering a hand to the younger woman, "while you and this one visit. Or talk to yourself, whichever holds greater appeal." They quickly disappeared into the rapidly growing crowd.

"Got you a drink, old man." Chip/Silly shoved the glass of house mix across the table to me. "Here's to the past."

"And to our future," I added, hoisting the cocktail.

"You went broke pretending to be a yachtsman, is that correct?"

"No, actually." I was amazed at the degree of awkwardness Chip/Silly brought upon me in the opening moment of our tête-à-tête. The cowering steps taken with Lady Bridgework during _Plank Me, Plank You_ paled in comparison to the discomfort I now felt. "I'm more into vintage automobiles and such."

"What a gratuitous bastard."

"Come again?"

"Have you noticed how candle wax melts here in Jamaica?"

"I haven't invested time in that study, no."

"I've developed a rash running from my left ankle up to my testicles and down to my right toes, then back again."

"Dear me."

"How's your drink?"

I selected the moment to sample a slug of the liquid in question. "Moving."

"Whatdya think of my wife?"

I chose not to answer the question and, instead, used my old stage trick of taking an additional tug upon the drink in hand when forgetting my line.

"Trotters was coed, wasn't it?"

"It was and is." Here was a ball thrown in unexpectedly from left field. It was not so much the question, but the shift of tone in his voice. _Chip/Silly was perhaps not so random as he portrayed himself to be._ Defying my thought just as it ended, the young man abruptly stood up and hopped up and down while rotating in a circle. He finished mid-turn, taking his seat as though casually sitting down for Sunday morning breakfast.

"Where'd they get off to, anyway?"

"The 'loo," I replied and, with it, hitting every sensitive nerve in his body. _His synapses are firing just fine._

"The Loo," he sneered, "how I can't stand what goes on in there. Terrible business."

"Is that right?" I rested my chin in the cup of my right hand, preparing to engage in an in-depth mental game of chess with my opposite number.

"Monkey business. A business for monkeys." He grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl being set down by our waitress.

"Would your assessment include its founder and CEO, Wayland Bridgework?"

"What do you think? Why should I tell you?" Chip/Silly was openly defiant, his features reminiscent of the photo taken years ago upon his extraction from the tar pits. "He's the biggest baboon of them all."

"If you promulgate this belief so openly, why bother to stick around?"

"I'm his sales and customer service contact for my company. I have no choice but to be onsite with him."

"Let me surmise," I said slowly, opting to go for a three-pointer early in the game. "The permanent life bubble."

"Technically, it's called _Eternus Spiritus_." He lofted three successive peanuts into the air, catching the first in his mouth as the other two struck him in the corner of the left eye. "Ouch! Salt stings! You're one to lay out your best hand first, eh Baron?"

"I play the cards I'm dealt when the dealer is done dispensing them. There's no reason to leave an ace up my sleeve." I displayed a honcho boldness that Chip/Silly would feel compelled to match and thereby freely offer up more information. "So, your company -- the conceptual think tank -- developed _Eternus Spiritus_ and you're arranging for old Baboon Bridgework's purchase of it."

"Are you always this dull when connecting the dots?" He flung a peanut out onto the dance floor and watched silently as it was crushed by the plethora of grinding feet. "The only item my company develops is unimaginable concepts. Such theoretical research requires our assembling elite expertise. And a monster amount of financing."

"As well as racing against time."

"That's the grand motivator for us all, isn't it." Chip/Silly erupted with laughter. "What's the average mean annual rainfall in Jamaica?"

I ignored his meteorological inquiry and pressed forward. "Do we hear Angel's biological clock ticking, too?"

"It rains here almost every night. Some sort of oceanic effect, most probably."

"My understanding is that Bridgework expects delivery of a successor sooner than later."

The music picked up to a pulsating beat, sending Chip/Silly's fingers into the air signaling for another round of drinks. "No one should hold their breath on such issues."

"Not even Angel?"

"Angel's secretly given birth control," he smirked. "She doesn't even know it."

"You've been slipping her a prescription without her knowledge?" I was aghast and beyond being able to conceal it. "Yet you dare tell me."

"Why not? Where are you going with it?"

"To Angel herself," I replied indignantly. "If true, you are totally repulsive."

"Keep your shirt on, Baron. This isn't a topless bar, you know. Besides, she'd never believe it coming from you."

"I wouldn't --"

"Look!" Chip/Silly pointed toward the overcrowded parking lot behind me.

I twisted about to see a group of partiers passing what appeared to be a glowing log to one another. "They're just enjoying an extra large blunt in the shadows."

"Sometimes," his voice lowered to an animalistic threatening tone, "it's best for certain people to remain in the dark." He shoved my drink over to me and offered a toast. "Here's to a better future for those who are wise enough to make it there."

I accepted his words and, as I placed my empty glass back on the table, Ethelene and Angel reappeared to join us. The moment turned out to be the last clear memory I held of socializing at _Badana Pagana Cabana_ that night.

***

My urge to groan was circumvented by my uncooperative tongue having glued itself to the roof of my mouth. _Cleaving_ , my thoughts wandered, _somewhere it once was called cleaving_. The pounding in my temples, in perfect synch with my heartbeat, provided proof I was still alive though barely able to move my head in either direction. Adding to my discomfort was the realization my arms and legs were severely constricted beneath what felt like a contemporary form of mummification. Try as I might to move my limbs, I had neither the energy to budge the wrapping nor the strength to break its bond. Blinking my eyes made no difference to the opacity of the engulfing darkness, as my surroundings were void of light altogether.

I renewed my attempt to generate saliva in my mouth by envisioning the dining room table at Tumultuous Manor in full Thanksgiving Day spread, courtesy of Mrs. Potsdam's culinary artistry. It was her homemade gravy drizzled atop the hand-mashed garlic potatoes that proved the most effective water bearer.

"Nee-yug," I uttered, slowly peeling my tongue -- adhered to my palate with the consistency of a strip of duct tape -- back to its rightful position.

"Shhh!" a soft voice whispered, close enough to my right ear so I felt the heat from the utterance. "Remain calm, Baron. The bastard poisoned you. Tried to kill you."

"Newg!"

"Shhh, now. We're safe here together. I'll get you a bit of water."

"Nenna." I felt a cup touch my lips and welcomed the fluid as it came forth, spreading into the arid crevices of my mouth.

"Drink slowly. A little at a time, okay?"

"Yes," I managed to croak, "every five seconds or so."

"If it's the mixture I think he used --"

"Who --"

"The headache you're suffering will begin to fade with the ingestion of the water --"

"Are --"

"Followed soon after by recovery from the temporary paralysis."

"You?"

"Angel. It's me, Angelica Formica de Corcoran Bridgework."

"Yes," I said as she tipped the cup once again. I did not care that some of the liquid dribbled down my chin and onto the bedding. "You are an angel."

"Slowly. Move it around in your mouth before swallowing."

"Where --"

"Shumway had plans to bury you alive in this state."

"Are --"

"Wanting you to go mad before dying. His idea of the ultimate practical joke."

"We?"

"In my private bungalow on the edge of the compound. Don't worry, we're entirely safe here. The doors and windows are secured. My bodyguard Antoine and his men are hiding outside and have the house covered."

"How --"

"You've put the hex on them, Baron. I'm told they're moving out at dawn and I'm going with them."

"Did --"

"You'll completely mend within hours after we've left."

"I --"

"You should consider packing your bag and heading back to the safety of your home."

"Get --"

"Understand that it might be a one way trip for some of us."

"Here?"

"I brought you back. Shumway spiked your drink at the table. I saw the effects right away. The zombie like appearance growing on your face, your glassy eyes and rigid movement. The uncontrollable drool. Stephane and I grabbed you off the dance floor when mother and Shumway left to bring his car to the doorway."

"I --"

"We walked you down the road to and tied you to a tree until I could bring a vehicle to get you."

"Owe --"

"You were quite a scary sight until you passed out."

"You --"

"Anyway, if you choose to follow us, I will be grateful."

"My --"

"I can't explain everything now, but I'm going to need a lot of help before this is over."

"Life."

"Just don't feel obligated, alright?"

"Repeat --"

"It's going to be dangerous, but this time it will come to a head."

"I --"

"A finality, I'm sure of it. I pray I'll survive whatever fate is in store for me."

"Owe --"

"Should you care to follow, we're traveling to Machu Picchu."

"You --"

"Wayland has a flash drive hidden in the ruins there. Planted on a previous trip."

"My --"

"If you follow, come as quickly as you can. I'll be looking for you."

"Life."

"I know I can count on you, Baron." She allowed a bit more water to enter through my lips then reached across me and placed the glass on the nightstand. There was nothing else for me to do but remain immobile as she nestled onto my shoulder and draped an arm across my chest. "Rest now. No matter your decision, you'll need all the energy you can rally." Angel drifted off to sleep.

As still as an archeological museum piece laid out on public display, I strove to calibrate my mind and order my thoughts on all that had happened. Foremost, the arrogant and cavalier Chip/Silly was placed in my Jerk Category. He had one owed from me, which I planned to deliver in a fireworks display of spades.

Indeed, Chip/Silly despised both Bridgework and Angel, yet had a peculiar alliance with Ethelene. Here was a case. Ethelene loathed Bridgework as well, then warned me of Chip/Silly's anathematization toward me in spite of the yet-undefined concord they shared. She acted indifferent toward Angel, while at the same time inclined to ask me for help in sorting out and settling the dysfunction so thoroughly infecting her family. Was this a cry for normalcy or an effort to assign me to futility?

Bridgework himself had no qualms about his dislike for everyone, omitting Miss Après, of course. His zealous obsession for a successful conception between Chip/Silly and Angel was, in my estimation, both unnatural and distasteful. Equally as bizarre and troubling, from my temporary inert perspective, was his fixation with and dogged pursuit of _Eternus Spiritus_. Who determined the price tag of such an indulgence? More to the point, who would foot the bill?

For certain, I did not care for the man and my disinterest toward him doubled my intention to bring him in line. Yes, Sondheim knew I would accept the most squalid of exploits, aware I was capable of being mean, quick and nasty when circumstances necessitated such traits. Yet for this show, that consideration would be taken to new heights for, indeed, I had defined my endgame: I would personally deliver Bridgework to Sondheim and allow the former to sort out the latter. What better solution to this task's goal? Offender meet corrector, eliminating the middle man.

Finally, there was Angel, presently a-snooze and snoring softly upon my clavicle. She presented herself as honest and decent, proof of which was offered when rescuing me from what could only be imagined as a horrible death. Adding to her credibility, she was biologically incapable of carrying her parents' hereditary nuttiness. Aloof from her family, she had in my presence minimized her interaction with them -- except for her trip to the washroom at _Badana Pagana Cabana_ with Ethelene, which had clearly been a ruse. _Didn't the old lady suggest they go together?_ There could be no other explanation: Ethelene removed Angel in order to create the opportunity for Chip/Silly to doctor my drink.

Further, had not Angel salvaged me from the dance floor and tethered me to a tree for my own safety? I had no recollection of such, but here I was alive and stolid, dutifully informed of the quartet's impending departure to the ancient Incan site in the Andes with a request by Angel to follow. Yet Angel traveled in the penumbra enveloping the entire Bridgework clan. She could choose to leave at any time, yet she elected to stay while they chased down a hidden flash drive, herself more as a flickering shadow than a member of the family.

Both repelled by and drawn to them.

The thought repeatedly rumbled through my mind with the authority of a summer thunderstorm, driving me into a sleep without fathom.

***

"Come, mon, time to move."

"Nee-yug," I greeted a large muscular man whom I supposed was Antoine, grateful for his firm hand supporting my back as he lifted upward and swung my legs to the floor. I felt sluggish movement enter my arms, as though attempting to lift weights in an underwater health club.

"Come now, you are about to be violently ill." Antoine bounced me pogo-stick style to the bathroom opposite the bed and dresser, aiming my head toward the open john upon our arrival. "The delivery will be on its way in a flash, mon."

Sure enough, with great predictability, the contents of a garbage scow rose up in my throat, exiting via my mouth and nostrils.

"See? Didn't Antoine tell you the truth?" He laughed and tipped me forward, rolling me gently from side to side until I finished off the final dispensation of offal. "That is some nasty output, my friend."

"Nee-yuk," I agreed.

"I give you some water. Rinse, then come see me."

Moments later, shaken but on the uptick, I stumbled out to the patio where Antoine waited. "Thank you," I whispered, wobbling my way to take a grip on the back of a chair.

"Steady yourself, mon. No food for quite some time for you, right?" He smiled and laughed mildly. "But here, this is for you. Chew this leaf like a stick of gum for three hours. Swallow the juices. I give you ten more leaves, then you feel fine." He held out what resembled a fistful of iris leaves about six inches long and, following the prescription that accompanied them, popped one into my mouth.

"Rather enjoyable, actually."

Antoine's smile remained in place. "Will bring you good health, you'll see."

"Spearminty."

"Miss Angel said to take you to airport. You choose your own path."

"I've already chosen it, my good man," I rallied, tucking the fresh leaves into the front section of my valise which sat upon the table next to my attaché. "To the airport it is, then."

CHAPTER FOUR

_Ola Hodaka, Old Friend_

Completely befuddled, I confirmed the name on the scrap of paper handed to me by the strange woman, dressed as a giant corndog, at the Astete International Airport in Cuzco. Holding it aloft for comparison to the battered wooden sign above the sorrowful looking tavern's doorway, I blinked my eyes in the light drizzle enveloping the rickety old street. The writing, indeed, matched: _Parrilla de la Roca del Buho_ or, approximately, The Owl Rock Grill.

A rough wooden door was attached unevenly to the stone facade by two wrought-iron hinges, resting uneasily atop a well-trodden threshold. The windows on each side of the imposing entrance were of a greenish hue, much like a decades-old soda bottle found in an abandoned garage, hopelessly opaque with the accumulation of dust, grime and oil. I cast a final look in the direction of the Plaza de Armas at the far end of the street before entering the mysterious _taberna_.

If the outside of the building was foreboding in appearance, its interior took the definition to an even greater level of intimidation. Faceless silhouettes sat in darkness along the walls, the orange glow of their burning cigarettes like signal beacons lining an airport runway at night. The low ceiling, with narrow strips of exposed beams, added to the crushing sense of claustrophobic panic as I stepped down onto the uneven floor. At the end of the room stood the bar, glimmering yellow from the light cast by multiple candles lining its arch facade and shelves. There, in the midst of alcoholic dispensation, a pocket-size rail of an ancient woman moved back and forth like a haggard high priestess making holy at her altar. Not a word had been issued with my appearance. Instead, I was being read like a chapter on the human reproduction system in a high school anatomy textbook.

" _Ola_ ," I hailed, holding firm my stance amid the uncertainty of the hostile atmosphere, " _mi perro se_." My mind stumbled and snagged on itself while searching for the correct words in my rust-encrusted Spanish vocabulary, " _mi perro se nombra_ Baron von dek Horn."

The ensuing laughter grew exponentially like a chorus of frogs croaking at the perimeter of a bog pond, leaving me in a derisory fog compounded by a nagging urge of having to urinate. "So, your dog is Baron von dek Horn, _señor_ ," a male voice inquired from behind me, " _por favor_ , who are you?"

"I am Baron von dek Horn," I repeated, realizing the error made. "Sent here by --"

"So, you are a _perro_?"

"In some respects, yes," I chuckled, opting to accept good-naturedly my blunder. "When in dogged pursuit of my quarry. I was sent here by," I paused, not quite achieving a good look at the woman wearing the brightly colored _pollera_ , her face hidden beneath a large _montera_. "Actually, I'm not so sure who sent me."

"Divine intervention, maybe?" The speaker translated the exchange for the benefit of those non-English conversant in the room, bringing another charge of laughter. "The hand of God must be upon you."

"And also upon you," I grinned, hoping to establish a civil affinity with my anonymous cohort. Choosing my words carefully, I elected to speak in a water-downed missionary chatter which I hoped sounded both amiable and harmless. "I am tired from my journey, having just traveled twenty four hours in order to arrive in your fair city. Too, I am lightheaded from the altitude, for my Caucasian lungs know only the thick air of the low lying forest floor. Might I gain a seat and partake in a mug of good cheer?"

"You sound Medieval, _señor_ knight." More translation followed, echoed by more laughter. The unseen converser spoke rapidly to the old woman behind the counter, who placed a clay cup under a nearby tap. "Sit down, _amigo_. You have five minutes to rest your weary bones. Then we leave."

"Five minutes? Leave?" I lurched toward one of the two vacant stools visible in the dim light. Any hope of grabbing an empty berth for a short amount of uninterrupted sleep faded into the blackness around me. "I told you, man, I just arrived in Cuzco after a lengthy and complicated effort."

" _Entiendo, señor_. Hard of hearing I am not. But your friend said you would be soon to follow up the hill, so it is up the hill we will go. Soon."

"Friend? The message indicated I was to come here."

" _Si_. And so you have." His tone took on a nastiness. "Now drink and we leave to meet your _amigo_."

I placed my valise on the floor and eased onto the wobbly stool, positioning my attaché strap so it slung across my shoulder and chest bandoleer-style. This particular pouch \-- containing my papers, mobile, notebook, passport and the remaining all-important medicinal leaves Antoine had kindly given me -- I could not afford to lose. The old woman pushed the earthen cup across the rough top of the bar, resting against my fingers.

" _Cerveza de raíz. ¡Bébala!_ " she commanded, lifting her hand into the air as if pouring the liquid in her mouth.

I raised the cup and sniffed its rim.

"A and W root beer, my friend. From my mother's special collection. You should feel honored."

" _Gracias_ ," I replied, nodding my head to the woman. She scowled and crossed her arms, retreating back against a musty wooden column. "Quite refreshing, indeed. Say, my good fellow, will we be taking the same train to Machu Picchu as my friend?"

"¿Tren? ¡El tren está para las mariquitas!" The room erupted into laughter, permitting me to count at least a half-dozen various individuals present. "No train! Real men make their own ride to the ruins. You are tough guy Yankee, yes? You join us to ride and meet your friend. You feel better about yourself doing so."

"Will we rendezvous with my friend at the ruins?"

"So many questions, _amigo_. Drink your drink and do not worry."

Yes, I was full of query, served alongside a healthy dollop of trepidation. _The identity of the friend who arranged this contact and transportation? Was it Angel? Why not take the train to Machu Picchu? To avoid confrontation with Bridgework?_ I tipped up my porkpie and rubbed my brow, thankful I phoned Tumultuous Manor from the airport to advise of my present destination. I hoped to reach Miss Kolpeaux and discuss the sad state of my travel arrangements, but instead I interrupted Smudgely as he diligently waxed the Whippet. Mia, it seemed, was busying herself sunbathing next to the upper pool. What I would have given to be standing over her, _mojita_ in hand, addressing the proper protocol of von dek Horn migration. _We fly first-class, Mia, ever and always._

"It is time."

"What's that?" The vision of a bikinied Mia, smiling and waving at me, vanished.

"Move, _gringo_. Up and move."

I gulped the last of the root beer and wearily reached for my valise.

"No, no, no. Your luggage remains. No bag."

"Certainly, my good man. Will it be safe here?"

A flurry of _Español_ flew about the room, followed by the rattle of metallic clicking. The barrel of an ancient rifle rose out from the shadows to my left, accompanied by a voice filled with indignation and hurt. "My mother is not trustworthy? _¿Usted está insultando a mi madre?_ "

"Untrustworthy, heavens no," I replied laughing off my remark, flush with perspiration from grateful respect of the firepower directed my way. "It's just, well, it's full of soiled laundry and I wouldn't wish to place such a burden upon a woman as dear and sweet as your _madre_." My smile was also insincere but just as convincing.

"My apologies, _señor_. I appreciate your concern for _mi madre_." The rifle barrel rammed sharply against my kneecap. "Now move!"

Prodded by the weapon, I was directed through an open door next to the bar itself and propelled down a dank, debris-strewn hallway. _Which "friend" of mine would have arranged for such treatment? Certainly not Angel!_ That was, at least, my hope.

" _Izquierdo, gringo_."

As my spine filled the gun sight belonging to my nameless guide, I willingly entered the small exterior courtyard filled with mud-spattered motocross dirt bikes, all crudely rigged and haphazardly painted. Strands of rusty barbwire curled along the top of a ten-foot high concrete wall, negating any thought of a quick successful escape. An ample sized adolescent boy, grinning broadly, stood guard next to the latch of the wooden gate located at the opposite end of the rectangular enclosure.

"Our transport," my guide said, remaining directly behind me. "You are the lucky one who rides the scrappy Hodaka."

For a few moments all my distress evaporated and I traveled back to my early teens, when many a summer day was spent traversing the trails surrounding Tumultuous Manor on my very own Hodaka Ace 90. With its fire engine red frame contrasting smartly against the chrome handlebars and gas tank, I proudly sat astride its thick black cushion seat when comporting myself to the outermost hinterlands of the family property. Over time, I became a proficient operator of the early motorized trail bike while acquiring intimate and valuable knowledge of the estate grounds. "An Ace Ninety," I remarked, more to myself than the audience of kerchief-wearing roughnecks who now drifted to their own rides. "I'll be jiggered."

"A Yankee know it all, too," the leader said, facing me for the first time. He was tall and gaunt and, even with the red bandanna covering all but his eyes, I knew he was most definitely not a native of Cuzco. Indeed, his accent and use of colloquial urban expressions led me to believe he was raised somewhere near a metropolis in Central America. "Well, know this, _gringo_. Try to leave us and you will be met with great disappointment and severe punishment."

"I'll comply with your wishes." Selfishly, I wanted to see how this old beauty handled before committing myself to any alternative plans.

"Of course you will, gringo," he laughed. "I'm behind you with two more riders. Any upset from our ride and this!" He ripped the tip of his finger from one side of his throat to the other.

"There will be no need for that, now. I assure you I want to get to the ruins just as badly as you do."

"We will see, Yankee. Follow the pack."

Within seconds the courtyard was filled with such a roar of engines it was difficult to tell if the Hodaka had accepted my kick start until I spotted the telltale stream of blue exhaust spurting in rhythm with my gunning the throttle. The power plant housed a tight compression, impressive after leaving the assembly line so many years ago. With a full fuel tank, at forty miles per gallon, I could make Machu Picchu non-stop. The ruins were -- according to the Slipstream Green in-flight publication _Why Are You Here?_ \-- roughly fifty miles from where I sat idling. The formation of cycles took shape with the drivers lowering goggles over their eyes and tugging at the tight chaps covering their pants. In a bumper-car maneuver, the leader wheeled his front tire into the Hodaka's exhaust, nudging my conveyance sideways.

"You've ridden before, yes, Mr. Yankee know it all?" he challenged above the thundering noise.

"A little," I replied, flashing a smile and twisting the throttle once more so a plume of acrid blue smoke shot back in his direction. "I'll go slow."

Planting his feet on the ground and pulling back on the handlebars, he lifted the front wheel to within inches of my face. "We'll see who returns for root beer," he said, patting the strap of the carbine slung over his shoulder.

The portly teen shot the bolt and threw open the gate, allowing the trio of cyclists ahead of me to filter through the narrow passage. I gathered the clutch in, pumped the throttle and slung gravel on my way into the chasms of alleys ahead. Riding in single file, I had no choice but to chase the bumper of the bike ahead. A dizzying series of rights, lefts and switchbacks became innumerable to memorize or count. At one point, we u-turned and double-backed, traveling down a side street we barely covered moments before. If the strategy was meant to confuse me, I reluctantly admitted it succeeded. I had no idea where I was, other than riding smack in the middle of a pistol and machete toting gang who did not have my best interest at heart.

Jamming third gear with a burst of acceleration, our buzzing caravan punched through the final veil of the city and launched itself onto an ancient deserted roadway slashing in jumbled fashion through the abundant greenery of the countryside. The scream of our engines sawed into the air like so many cries of agonized banshees as we fought to keep traction in the rutted dirt, all the while ducking low-lying branches and occasionally tasting the moldy remnants of dying leaves smacking our faces. To the west I spied glimpses of the rail bed, void of any train, but a welcomed sight nonetheless.

Keep it in view and you will reach Machu Picchu.

We rumbled through small assemblies of humble homes and ramshackle huts, our cacophony turning out rural observers to what was a most incongruous sight barging its way through their pastoral farmland. It was apparent my escorts were well-versed in the path we traveled and my intuition sounded every alarm this trip would not end well for the outsider.

My fellow riders proved proficient, if not above-average, operators given their advantage of knowing the route. Any escape attempt would rely upon the Hodaka's ability to outperform the machines surrounding it -- and my courage to make it do so when the opportunity presented itself. Toward that end, I purposefully rode at a slow speed, exaggerating incompetence to control the bike on even the most gradual of turns while demonstrating a lack of confidence when permitted to step it up along straightaways. By camouflaging my skill, I aimed to lull my escorts to complacency, thereby creating an exploitable fracture in their rolling security.

The thought disappeared when wrestling the bike on a downhill pitch consisting of severe washout. Pebbles and stones piled beneath the front tire, knocking it sideways so the wheel pointed toward the gully on the right. I leaned hard to my left bringing the frame and its weight with me, releasing the foot brake and popping the clutch in a timed maneuver. With the forward wheel slightly airborne I dug my heel into the rocky gravel and pivoted the Hodaka as it slid into a blind turn, nearly tipping the rig over when coming to an abrupt halt against the blockade created by the bikers ahead of me.

"What the hell are you doing?" I shouted in anger, which doubled when the leader rounded the corner and drove his front tire into my dangling leg, pinning it to the frame of my bike. I wriggled it back and forth frantically, trying to avoid the searing heat of the engine. "Hey!"

Two more bikes swung in behind the leader, followed by much bantering back and forth. In my struggle to avoid an unwanted scar, I barely caught the directive that we would circle north around the village of Zurite and stop for refueling somewhere beyond the settlement.

"Haul ass, _gringo_ ," the leader said, pushing the tire tighter against my leg. "No let up now. No funny business. Follow the _hombres_."

I scowled at him and shook my leg free, believing more than ever the balance and value of my life was inextricably connected to my trail riding proficiency. The gradual descent into the valley coincided with our passing east of the village. Above and to the right rose a dramatic series of angular cliffs, placid and serene with the occasional stone jutting from its verdant vegetation. Our pathway wound in a broad circular fashion around the outer edges of the settlement where the train tracks came into view through the sparse treetops. After a half-mile of exceptionally rough terrain, we stopped on a small plateau overlooking the railway.

"Shut down your motor. Sit still." The leader pulled his bike back on its kickstand and stepped to the edge of the brush to relieve himself. "We stay here until the train passes."

"And when she passes?"

"We cross the river and tracks. Head north," he said, laughing. "You should be glad we supplied transportation. Otherwise, a long day for your feet."

"I wouldn't have complained." If I could turn the bike around quickly, I felt confident I could outrun this lot back to Cuzco. _But to what?_

"No," he said, zipping up his business, "you're right _señor_. You wouldn't."

" _¡El tren!_ "

"Take a good look, _amigo_. Smile and say 'cheeseburger' to the _turistas_."

If I did not feel so mortally threatened -- and frustrated with myself for having carelessly ambled into this ensnarement -- I would have thoroughly relished the lush panoramic scene unfolding out into the valley. Through the tips of the trees I watched the glass-enclosed train, four cars long, clank and squeal its way down the gentle gradient like a reluctant caterpillar inching along a plant's drooping stem. The train rumbled slowly past at a short distance of twenty yards away, its occupants pressed against the large windows like captive members of a mobile ant farm with their large black telescopic camera lenses serving as probing antennae pointing in every direction.

Suddenly there was Angel, her face to the glass with an expression of alarm that contrasted sharply against her bright yellow wool sweater. Our eyes met for the briefest of seconds, intensifying my sensation of worry before my gaze fell to the rear of the car and directly upon the ponytailed graybeard who accosted me two days earlier at Logan Airport. With no attempt to mask his glee, he waved and proceeded to take a series of pictures through an impressively sized camera. My astonishment was such I was unable to compose myself in a respectable manner -- which would be dutifully apparent to me at a future date -- and compounded by the sight of Wayland and Ethelene Bridgework sharing a juice box while sitting comfortably together on the padded bench seat in the last row.

"Jesús, Maria and José," I whispered to myself. The Bridgeworks must have made the arrangement for me to join this ghoul ride, assisted by the confused autograph hunter turned photographer. _How is it Angel's trapped with them in the same car? And where's Chip/Silly?_

"You say what, _señor_?"

"Stifling a sneeze, is all."

All six member of the posse were in various stages of enjoying smokes, seemingly in no rush to pursue the train. Indeed, they had collapsed into a state of euphoria, as though the hometown football team had taken a two-goal lead with just minutes remaining. The clock was indeed ticking down and I made the decision to exit the pitch before the final whistle. I bit my lower lip amid the casual small talk, watching as the group lit another round of fresh smokes and tinkered with their bikes. The clacking of the train vanished and an uneasy serenity returned to the remote country trail. Feigning a yawn and a stretch, I brought my heel down on the kick-starter and gunned the throttle, popping the clutch while holding on tightly as the Hodaka ripped into the soft dirt, spraying a rain of debris behind me. Veering to the right, I avoided a halfhearted attempt by one of the belligerent thugs to grab me and worked my way through the gears until hitting fourth at maximum RPM. The real contest of the day was now officially on.

Not possessing much of a plan but for putting distance between myself and the gang, I raced at a dangerous speed over the unpredictable and irregular terrain. Jamming the gears from fourth through second and back up the scale again, I leaned into turns ducking limbs and leaves, bracing a leg against the ground on tight corners over loose gravel, coaxing the old machine to rocket-like responses when and where the pathway permitted. There was no need to look behind for the pursuers I knew were there. Several rounds from a firearm framed my space in rapid succession, evidenced by the rustling of foliage around my head and the small explosions of earth just beyond my front tire. The attack increased my motivation to abscond from these ruffians, as being shot in the back while motor-biking in South America was not an aspiration I sought to achieve.

The trail leveled off, narrowing into a dried out sluice canopied by thick growth creating the appearance of a tunnel. Seizing the chance to loose the horses, I twisted the throttle, drew the clutch and boldly stepped the cycle into fourth gear. The Hodaka responded with a verve reminiscent of my youthful riding days, casting a jubilance within me just as the planks of a wooden bridge came into view. _The river!_ Once across it, I would overtake the train and meet it entering Ollantaytambo, ridding myself of the outlaws and reuniting with Angel.

The recognition of impending disaster arrived within a breath when I realized there was no extension on the bridge beyond the rise of six weathered planks forming a quasi springboard. Beyond the point of reconsidering my trajectory, and inside a tick of the sweep hand on my watch, I arced into flight over the Rio Pomatales, soaring as free and unencumbered as a bird \-- except, of course, for the Hodaka beneath me. I made the quick and painful decision to jettison the bike, as it was clear both of us would not be successful in making the crossing. I released the handlebars and focused upon the approaching lip of the gorge, debating which diving position -- jack knife or front pike -- would be most conducive to a safe landing. Time ran out on my deliberation and I was flung heels-over-teakettle cannonball style into the puckerbrush lining the edge of the drop off, where I tumbled into a pocket of small boulders and dead limbs, coming to rest in the fetal position against a crumbling ancient Spanish cairn.

In the silence following, excited voices and the whine of revving motorbikes echoed from across the divide. Laying still in the patch of overgrown weeds, hidden from view, I took inventory of my general banged-up being while resting my head against the handiwork of stone constructed so long ago. Eventually moving my extremities in a clockwise manner, I was thankful for an aching feeling in the tips of all fingers and toes. With the exception of two very sore knees, a skinned right palm and a throbbing back, I considered myself in top shape and -- even at this excessive elevation -- ready to face the world once more.

The riders on the opposing side of the gorge departed one by one , fading away toward Cuzco and leaving me in Hillarian contemplation as to how I would make my ascension up Machu Picchu.

CHAPTER FIVE

_Llama of Rectitude_

"Get out of here! Shoo!"

Convinced the persistent llama was a robotic life form programmed to track and attack me, I doffed the inexpensive sombrero from my head and swatted the beast's nose several times.

"Get away from me! Crikey!"

It let out a plaintive bleat, lurched forward and again nudged my arm forcefully. I resisted the temptation to raise my voice and kick the thing in the shins, given the crowd milling inside the impressive historic ruins. My troubles had been many in arriving at the site. To be greeted and tailed by a large bushy creature was a devastating infringement upon my undercover reconnoitering as I circled the outer perimeter in search of Angel, Mr. and Mrs. Bridgework and the ponytailed graybeard.

"Be off with you," I hissed at the llama, batting its nose with my sombrero while waving the braids of my poncho in its face, only to be drilled in the solar plexus by its formidable snout. "Ugh!"

My garb of disguise, acquired from a youthful sartorial sales representative upon disembarking the _tren turístico_ , was covered in snot and spit. Thankfully, the sombrero fit snugly over my porkpie while the poncho -- a bit garish with its bold pattern resembling that which might be selected when in the midst of a prodigious Mardi Gras bender -- draped to the tops of my shoes, now mud-encrusted beyond any point of recognition. If pressed, I decided I would pass myself off as a visiting foreign dignitary conducting medical research. Satisfied with my cover, I turned my attention toward the historic locale and was promptly rammed in the buttocks by the llama.

"Damn you, I say!"

A group of sightseers, ranging from grandparents to toddlers led by a guide, cast their gaze upon me. I hastily adopted an accent, mixing a Malaysian pitch with a southern American twang. "A damn fine day to feel plentiful rejuvenation atop such a sacred piece of land trust, I say." The onlookers nodded in agreement and returned to the portion of the official guidebook their tour leader was referencing. I waved politely and, with the belligerent llama in tow a step behind, began in earnest my pursuit of the Loo insiders.

Stalking away from the group was easy. Following the myriad of pathways posed a higher degree of difficulty. Machu Picchu was laid out, as I found, like a centuries-old hedgerow maze designed and cultivated by an enthusiastically inebriated English gardener who most likely smoked a pipe. The exception to this comparison was, of course, the fact the Incans constructed their maze from rock and layered it terrace-upon-terrace. One could roam for a considerable distance along a particular walkway, then look back with the sensation that nil had been gained or lost.

Did I go up a level or down?

Nearly six-hundred years old, the common contemporary belief held that the edifice was originally built for fifteenth century Incan emperor Pachacuti. This particular leader was a force without equal in his day, a charismatic strategist who personally structured a hierarchical society of concentric circles formed around the wealthiest member -- himself -- reigning from its focal point. Status was defined, sought and achieved by being an intimate neighbor in the Pachacuti 'hood. Added to Pachacuti's sociocultural skill was his military ruthlessness. As a tactician, he had no equal. Foes were cheerfully confronted and destroyed, while the weak and faint-of-heart simply ran off or were delivered into submission. Bridgework's selection of Machu Picchu to hide his flash drive proved no coincidence. Pachacuti was precisely the type of man worthy of Wayland's admiration and trust.

My paucity of progression while walking was compounded by the lack of discovering my objectives. Surely Bridgework had traveled here and, just as surely, he had dragged his betrothed and offspring along, either by coercion or curiosity. I moved as stealthily as the trailing llama permitted, accepting its repeated blows with a silent anger toward all creatures, great, small and shaggy.

My thoughts were diverted by the fairway quality cut of the turf, prompting me to envision how a challenging Incan nine-holer might best suit itself to enhancing Peruvian tourism. I rounded a bend while practice-swinging an imaginary mashie and walked straight into the estimable backside of Ethelene as she struggled to use a rather uncomplicated disposable camera.

"I beg of your pardon," I offered in a deep, raspy eastern European monotone before realizing who it was the aggressive llama had shoved me into twice-fold, the second jolt being much harsher than the first. "Shiraz ravine," I continued apologetically, gesticulating wildly with my hand while dropping my chin toward the ground in hope Ethelene would not recognize me.

"Baron, you amaze me."

"Ewe moist bee mystiquing, madam my zell."

"Mistaken? Hell, no. It's you alright." She lifted the lid of my sombrero just as the llama drove itself heartily into my thigh.

"Bastard!" I conked the loathsome creature in its saliva-laden snout. It, in return, let loose a low hiss, then proceeded to urinate on my ankles.

"How in the world did you end up here?"

"Are you surprised to see me?" I responded in kind. Her query was interesting, one indicating collusion. "More startled than your erstwhile husband and ne'er do wellish son in law will be?"

"Your tenacity is boundless."

"Perhaps. But I'm not sure I'd be so fanatical about dancing with you again."

"Oh, that little thing the other night? Where did you end up, anyway? Silly and I were preparing to take good care of you."

"So I learned. Being tranquilized isn't a tenet of my health doctrine."

"You shouldn't drink so, dear Baron."

"And you shouldn't insist on putting my mortality to the test."

"Whatever are you talking about?" She tugged and stroked the edge of her hair innocently. "We were out having a good time."

"A matter of perception, one supposes. I found your nihilistic attitude toward my wellbeing both perilous and frightening," I said, redressing her indifference without expecting her to accept the slightest degree of culpability. "Poisoning a man when he least expects it. Your lack of urbanity while dispatching an opponent is astounding."

"Say it ain't so."

"I'm saying it is." Grabbing her elbow, I guided her along the stonework to a quieter corner of the Incan empire, all the while followed by the moppish four-footer who drove me once more in the ribs. "Ugh!"

"Who's your pet?"

"Ethelene," I said, ignoring her question, "you intended to kill me. And from what I was told, you aided Shumway in planning to dispose of what would have been my mortal remains."

"Aided Shumway? I warned you about him. The high altitude here is affecting your reasoning." She rolled out her lower lip into a classic pout position. "And I gave you very exclusive information about the workings of the Loo. I led Shumway out of the bar, taking him away from you, getting you out of immediate danger. Has your memory failed you on that, too?"

I flipped the sodden end of the poncho so it covered the llama's face and raised a scolding finger to Ethelene. "Listen, you. Here I am fortunate enough to be alive and you're pleading a specious case to me? Save it for a grand jury, dear woman. Now, where's your husband? And who's the summer of love ponytailed throwback following me?"

Ethelene inched away, moving toward the north end of the plateau as the llama made a bold bid to taste my extended digit. "If I hadn't left the _Badana Pagana Cabana_ at that very moment," she called out in a trembling voice, "you would have most certainly met your demise."

"How? By landing on the lit end of a stoked blunt?"

"No, you damned fool! At the hands of Angel." She tossed back her thick mane of hair, wet from mist shrouding the peak, and repeatedly kicked her toe against the mushy turf. "Don't you see she's the one who wanted you here?"

***

We formed a curious parade circling the old terraces in search of Bridgework and company. Try as I might to lose my shadow, the llama kept pace with us and had taken to chewing on my sombrero each time we stopped to survey our surroundings. Ethelene kept to herself for the most part, perking up only when I told her of my race through the countryside on the Hodaka and the machine's miserable end in the river at the base of the gorge.

"Did you walk the entire way? From there?"

"I was prepared to," I said, yanking the saliva-laden cloth from the llama's mouth for the umpteenth time. "Yet, I had the good sense to keep to the railway and fortune smiled upon me when I leapt aboard the tailgate of a passing train."

"You outran a train," she replied, doubtful of my exploit. "The backpacker's train, at that."

"Hardly. I happened to be trailblazing along an upgrade and simply strolled onto its back steps. My presence went undiscovered and I gratefully enjoyed the balance of the trip."

She at least had the decency to acknowledge my improvised disguise, now complemented by using a mixture of wet sod to darken my facial features. "Your resourcefulness comes as a tremendous disappointment, Baron."

"Disappointment?"

"You allowed yourself to be taken captive by thugs, didn't you?"

"More or less. However, I was following \--"

"More."

"Instructions, believing them to be of valid usefulness in helping sort out this intractable mess." A sudden weariness flooded my body and the thought of returning to a peaceful, warm and dry Tumultuous Manor gained footing on the ladder of priority. _Perhaps Goofy Eddy would help me resurrect the old Hodaka. I could reinstitute motocross riding into my daily regimen once again._

"There!" Ethelene reefed on the front of my poncho precisely at the identical instance the llama chose to retreat with the rear half in its mouth. I could not help but think I was being violently strangled while seated in a salon chair at the Faithful Hill Unisex Headshop. "The bastards are right there!"

Through shaky vision I caught a fleeting glimpse of Bridgework and the hippie stranger in heated discussion several terraces above us. Ethelene's decision to let go of the poncho and climb the stonework for a better view proved a boon to the llama's efforts, as I quickly found myself akimbo before tumbling face first down a hardened stretch of Machu Picchu real estate. The llama's resolve in yarding me along the beaten pathway entangled me in the poncho, which was now serving as a makeshift straightjacket around my arms. In a process which unfolded painfully slow, I coursed over a steep embankment and barrel-rolled numerous times before my lower back kindly halted the proceedings against an imposing boulder. Motionless in the solitude of the poncho, I searched for the proper curse words applicable to the wretched four-legged creature and, finding none, worked furiously to extricate myself from the filthy woolen cocoon.

"Baron!" The faint call of a distressed Ethelene reached me as I tossed the balled up poncho aside and fit the sombrero anew over my now well-dented porkpie. Her second cry faded with a gust of wind blowing into the chasm perilously close to the stone which broke my slide. I drew a deep breath and mounted the steep hillside with a fervor that, llamas be damned, the situation was going to be resolved.

Reaching the peak of the hillside proved fruitless. Ethelene was nowhere to be found and Bridgework had vanished along with the antediluvian hipster. Neither Angel nor Chip/Silly were to be seen. Even the llama had gone missing, leaving me alone in my torment. Given my state of personal disrepair -- clothing torn and dirty, grime-splattered pants and footwear, a crumpled sombrero pitched at an angle over my soiled face -- I experienced a number of unsuccessful encounters while making inquiries with fellow visitors. The closest I came to obtaining useful information was via a newlywed couple from Chagrin Falls, Ohio, who were kind enough to approach within a range of twenty feet while we conversed.

"A mature woman," I called out as I leaned against the retaining wall of rock. "Quite distinguished looking, possibly with two older men, one of whom resembles a roadie employed by the Grateful Dead."

"The Dead are no longer," the fresh bride answered ruefully. "Garcia died years ago."

"Well," I responded, intending to correct my reference, "should Garcia had lived and the Dead still be touring, this particular fellow would fit right in with the bunch. Grayish beard and ponytail, right?"

"Bob Weir still tours," the young man offered. "We saw him play a few months ago at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame."

"That was last year, honey."

"Whenever, sugar tits. It was a mean jam."

"That's terrific," I said, nodding my head in an agreeable fashion. "Did you happen to gain a glimpse of Weir's roadies?" I waited patiently as the couple engaged in a long, passionate embrace.

"What's that?" The man, now de-clinched, had eyes solely for his bride.

"Not a one," the woman said. "We spent the entire night grooving."

"And now we gotta catch the last train to Cuzco," he said, nuzzling the woman's neck, "back to our little hostel love nest."

"The last train?" Up to that point I had been blissfully unaware of transportation schedules restricting travel from the archaeological site. "Have there been others?"

"For the beautiful people who want to leave first. We chose the no frills choo choo."

My heart dropped when understanding why I could not find Ethelene and the Bridgework crew: They had already departed the mountaintop, returning to civilization on the train for the well-to-dos. "Would you be so kind as to guide me back to the depot?"

In full view, and much to my astonishment, the man playfully squeezed his wife's buttocks. "Surely," he said, a note of jealousy creeping into his tone, "just stay about twenty or so paces behind us and stop ogling my wife."

"But I --". My protestation ended there as the couple hastened off at a quick gait. Sore, lame and tired, I dutifully trod behind them painfully aware of the stares created by my now conspicuous appearance. The Bridgeworks, it would seem, had slipped through my porous grasp. And they were not all that escaped from me, for as we arrived at the crowded departure platform, the Buckeye lovebirds gave me the slip too. Just as well, as I felt a slight tinge of anger over the husband's suggestion I coveted his wife when, in reality, I had merely visually assessed her. My dismal emotion translated itself into the expression I wore which, along with my South American-weary facade, effectively cleared a wide passage for me to reach the _Amo del Boleto_ booth.

"Bonjour, monsieur," I greeted the attendant, momentarily forgetting which language to employ as I slapped down a credit card. _Perhaps the blow to the old bean was more pronounced than I first thought._ I rubbed the base of my skull and felt multiple knots egging forth.

" _Señor_ Baron," the man said, smiling as he rattled a battered white envelope in the air. "What took you so long?"

"A legitimate inquiry, _amigo_ , and one that I have no answer for."

"Hmm. A _señorita_ asked to leave this for you when you come for your ticket home." He flipped the envelope back and forth beyond my reach. "She said you would provide a non-refundable deposit to acquire it."

"Describe the _senorita_ in question."

"A woman," he said laughing, "long hair. Demanding."

"Young or old?"

"I could not say."

"White or black?"

"I am not sure."

"Well, then. Was she accompanied by anyone?"

"That was not clear." He scratched his scalp in demonstration of his cogitative ability. "You _turistas_ all look alike to me. This, however, is a most valuable letter."

"How much then?" I sighed, riled to the gills by his off-putting.

"No credit cards. Only forty seven US dollars." He looked past me as the train bell rang out. "Which includes your transport back to Cuzco."

"Forty seven!" I unzipped my battered attaché, noting my laptop thankfully remained in one piece. "Here, all I have are twenties. Sixty total."

"That is generous of you, _señor_. I will remember your kindness as standing out from the usual tightfisted _turistas_."

"The envelope, please," I said, gritting my teeth.

"Similar in excitement to your Oscar program on television, yes?"

" _Merci_ ," I snatched the sealed message from his hand and stepped to the side of the ticket kiosk to peruse it. In faded ballpoint ink, shaky penmanship spelled out the following:

Baron. Most urgent you follow. Lima port. Bridgework private cruise ship MS Gangrene. I need you!

The letter was signed with a single initial, scribbled at such an angle in pronounced loops I was unable to discern if it was an "A" or "E". _Angel or Ethelene?_ Or, perhaps, neither. I rotated the sheet several times in the hope of deconstructing the inkblot, but could not reach a satisfactory conclusion.

"All on," the conductor called out, "all on!"

Following the swarm of visitors to the last car of the train, I reached for the service handle and was instantly struck by a forceful blow to my ribcage, the impact driving me into the wooden exterior of the conveyance. "I say, what the --"

Another sharp jab was delivered to my middle of my back and I turned to grab my assailant, whereupon my hand immediately filled with fur.

"You again!"

Much to the horror of the lingering passengers waiting to board, I pummeled the llama's beak with a series of left jabs, forcing it away from me. Naturally, I did not foresee my action enraging the surefooted beast, but it did provide me enough time to sprint the few remaining yards to the rear steps of the car, where I joined the conductor -- a wiry old man, a denim cap skewed atop his head -- in backpedaling from the charging animal.

"It's harassed me the entire day," I said, chuckling as the train eased its way down the tracks. "Inexplicable, really."

"No, _señor_ ," the conductor replied, watching the llama pace back and forth shaking its head. "It just does not like you."

"At least it possesses the honesty to openly act on its hostility."

" _Si, señor_. Llamas always do."

CHAPTER SIX

_Dashing Skeet Burnisher_

The docks of Callao were no different from those I had passed through in Portland, Marseilles or Southampton: Ships, boats and yachts of various sizes, shapes and nationalities berthed next to coils of rope, metal cargo containers, stacks of wooden crates and carelessly parked rusty forklifts. Rows of creaky piers stretched into the ocean, filled with dead fish, drunken sailors and cursing stevedores. Such constituted the best waterfronts around the globe: Vast fertile dumping grounds for those leaving on and returning from briny-laden adventures.

As disturbing as the thought was, I felt at home amid this troublesome water-meet-land gala. The transience of cargo, both human and commercial, provided a vindication for life's endless state of mutability and randomness. As the ocean whimsically tossed travelers upon its surface, so too were landlubbers unpredictably heaved by the affairs of humanity, seen and unseen. I considered this indiscriminate fickleness while standing near the entrance of a dank alleyway on Wharf Number Fifteen-and-one-half, making the final alterations to my ingenious disguise.

In order to reach Lima quickly, I graciously pledged a sizeable donation to Catholic Charities in Cuzco and in return managed to finagle my way onto a local charter flight. My fellow passengers, two-score in number, were members of the musically gifted Order of Saint Cecilia. While delayed on the tarmac, a fortuitous agreement was reached where I agreed to play the available Fender Dreadnought acoustic guitar and sing bass harmonies and, in turn, the sisters availed to me their collection of used clothing upon touchdown in Lima. In a truly mutually satisfying arrangement, I led a rousing set of spiritual rockabilly including Bach's "Sheep May Safely Graze", "Thou Art the Potter, I am the Clay", and -- as the encore piece -- a stirring belt down of Cash's "Burning Ring of Fire".

The pickings at the nunnery were, as anticipated, slim. Yet filled with gratitude for their kind assistance, and cheered by my melodic collaboration with these pious servants of humankind, I cobbled together a set of overalls, flannel shirt and a burlap bag to replace my plundered valise. Now, at least, I possessed two sets of clothing and the ability to blend in with common working folk.

Indeed, I roamed the oceanfront as a mid-western roughneck, my swagger evolving into that of a world-weary nomad seeking no more than his next mug of stale grog set beside a platter of cold grub. Sea salt filled the night air and thick banks of milky fog rolled in and over the dim wharf lights, as if challenging me to locate the precise quay of the _MS Gangrene_.

Beneath my convincing facade of foolery, I nervously wrestled with the concern I had missed the ship's departure altogether. After all, the note indicated neither time nor date, just the simple instruction to find Bridgework's cruise ship where I would be needed. Approaching a gathering of pea-coated swabbies out enjoying a smoke break presented me the opportunity to engage my newly designed persona.

"Ahoy there, mateys," My call that of a seasoned Oklahoman rigger at the end of his long gas-filled day. "Where can I find me a vessel known in Trident's world as _Gangrene_? She'd be a large rust bucket filled with the wealthiest passengers afloat under the Southern Cross this eve."

"You want 'em _Gangrene_?" a thin, jumpy member of the group stammered.

"The answer's 'aye', matey, and you should avast ye of your smoking habit."

"No time for litanies from ye, stranger, if it's knowledge ye seek." A burly, heavyset man wearing a dark blue knit cap stepped forward, his eyes jutting in different directions as he stroked his scraggily beard. "The _Gangrene_ sits parked yonder and it's none of us who dare approach the cursed thing."

"'Parked'? I doffed the cowboy hat, my porkpie encased within, respectfully to him. "Don't you mean 'tied up'?"

"Parked is an apt description for what she is," he lamented, "and no barnacle in the briny deep desires to attach itself to her blighted hull."

"No salt soaked, steel kissing arthropod be me. I'm interested in inhabiting her topside."

"Aye, I suppose. It's a fate reversed, ye walking up the plank, then." He spat dramatically toward the pier, miscalculating the size of his belly. "Better one's back be driven by the point of a sword, till thee drops into the still waters of the Sargasso Sea."

"It's my good fortune, by the moons of Neptune, here lies the Pacific." We stared at one another as he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and performed additional saliva-removal from the front of his shirt. "Have you read much Coleridge, then?"

"Aye, I reckon. I keep the 'Rime' right here," he said, tapping a finger against the bridge of his nose.

"Indeed. Well, you were saying the _Gangrene_ is located where?"

"That's her rear, yonder."

"Her aft."

"Aye, I suppose. 'Twould be that, too."

"I'll just be on me way," I said, shuffling my feet past the now morose group and tipping my hat once more, "Cheer up, now, y'all hear? Rumor has it a flock of albatross are headed this very way. Soon."

"Stranger," the burly man called out after me. "Consider ye warned about the perils of broaching the deck of _Gangrene_. It may not be an albatross ye finds about ye's neck." A tone of misgiving dominated the group's muttering a collective assent.

"Ye is grateful for thee's concern," I nautically replied.

Actually, I was neither thankful nor heeding his words as my focus shifted to the pier where the _Gangrene_ subtly rocked with the moving tide. Near the entrance of the dock I hefted a bundle of discarded rope and, tucking it in the crook of my elbow, moved parallel along the opposite side of the lengthy wharf, slowing my pace to observe the activity surrounding the impressively turned-out cruise ship. At the base of its wide gangplank, three well-dressed, sizeable men stood under a dim light referencing the contents of a clipboard.

I stopped ten yards away, setting down my burlap sack and prop rope, pretending to tighten the lace of the ill-fitting boot on my right foot. The old theatre ruse provided a perfect vantage point to witness the arrival of two limousines, their brilliant headlights burning through the fog at the end of the dock. On the heels of the limos, three coach buses -- airbrakes blowing like agitated bulls in an overflowing arena -- ground their way into the narrow passage, blocking the entire entrance to the wharf.

Through the swirling mist came what first appeared like a parade of penguins waddling in formal attire and full-length evening gowns. I shifted my position, rolling back on my haunches behind a large porous crate containing fresh-caught, yet-flopping Pacific croaker. Wave after wave of partiers funneled onto the pier, some holding champagne glasses at a slant while others twirled their scarves playfully in the air. Some attempted a group sing-along of Broadway show tunes but, given the level of intoxication, their warbling medley came across more like a collective wheezing for medical assistance. At the head of the meandering procession crooning in an alarmingly off-key baritone was Bridgework himself, draped against Ethelene. Her woozy appearance indicated she was guilelessly mouthing lyrics.

I counted in excess of one hundred couples passing within feet of my clandestine post -- not including the occasional singleton jumbled among them -- but nowhere to be seen was Chip/Silly or the mysterious gray beard ponytailed man.

Nor Angel.

The darkness was instantly vanquished with the sudden illumination from the _Gangrene's_ deck and cabin spotlights coming to life. I shut my eyes and slid back into the shadows of the croaker crate, listening as the mingling crowd guffawed and clucked over the now radiant ship.

"Listen up, friends and associates, listen up," Bridgework's voice carried over the clamor. I crept to the opposite side of the crate, leaning out far enough for a glimpse of the man himself in sharp profile as his breath plumed out into the damp night air. His pose was regal and his stance sure. "We'll have you all boarded in a matter of moments. The staff will see to your room assignments where you'll find your luggage waiting. Let me remind you of the champagne reception --"

"Hear, hear!" a voice shouted from deep within the pack.

"Being held immediately in the upper forward lounge. I expect to see all of you there. We'll be shoving off as quickly as possible, once a few minor housekeeping details have been addressed."

"Cheers for Wayland," Ethelene shouted in a boisterous voice. "Give him a hoot and a holler!" The crowd erupted into lengthy applause and shrill whistles, patting Bridgework's shoulder and shaking his hand as the celebrants formed a slow-moving conga line snaking itself onboard. Several moments passed until the final reveler gained a grip on the rope handrail and began his way up on deck. Bridgework turned to face the three stewards.

"This is a direct order, not to be fouled up! I want that signal system fixed immediately so we are underway within the hour. Understood? _Capito_? _¿Entendido?_ "

"Sir, _si_ , sir!"

"Advise the captain we're shoving off at the first available opportunity."

"Yes, sir!"

Two of the assistants followed Bridgework onto the Gangrene leaving behind the largest one, clipboard in hand, as gatekeeper. Slouching back into the darkness and rubbing my chin, it was time to assess the situation and formulate a plan to access the vessel. Calming my pressing sense of urgency, my choices were limited to two options: Leap the divide from pier-to-ship and hope to go undetected in the process; or march straight up the gangplank with confidence I would readily meld into life aboard Bridgework's private flagship. After brief consideration, as the seasonsed swabby predicted, fate prodded me to walk the plank and take a plunge into the unctuous culture of _Gangrene_.

I mustered to my feet, gathering up the bag and rope, and prepared to confront the guard when luck shone upon me again. There, less than a foot away, lay both a rubber mallet and medium-size pry bar, two useful props providing an advantage to my makeshift deception. I heaved to and casually strutted onto the wooden walkway, whistling a benign tune as though enjoying an evening stroll to the corner pub.

" _Guten Abend_ ," I smiled, greeting the muscular specimen wrapped tightly in his black sports coat.

"Move on, vagrant."

"Danke, mein guter Mann." With that, I started up the gangplank only to feel a crunching grip form around my bicep.

"Where you go, vagrant?"

"Why, I'm here to fix the communication problems," I replied, reverting to a friendly and non-threatening mid-western accent. The mixture of German and English, coupled with my cowboy manifestation, overwhelmed any misgivings he held about my assertion. I smile unpretentiously and maintained a workman's attitude. "The sooner I finish, the quicker you leave. The faster I'm home, the happier your boss."

He grunted, silently looking over the articles I carried and giving me a head-to-toe scan. "Who called you?"

"The boss sent me. _Das höchste hohe_!"

His entire face screwed itself into a small mass, as though he had consumed several pieces of freshly cut lemon. "Who?"

"My big boss," I replied emphatically while nodding my head toward the ship, "like your big boss."

"That's no good." He pulled me from the gangplank and shoved me backward. "You get outta here!"

"Okay, okay, back off, you big salami." I retreated a step and straightened the fabric on the front of my overalls. "I'll head home. When the phone rings asking why the job wasn't done, I'll say, 'Not sure, boss. Ask the big palooka guarding the gangplank. He had his reasons.'"

"Who called you again?"

"My boss."

"And who called him?"

"How should I know? Someone on this gimcracking tub!" I adjusted my grip on the rope and hoisted the bag higher up on my shoulder as though preparing to leave. "You'll receive a bill for my time. _Guten Auben_ once more."

"Hold on, vagrant." The palooka drew out his cellular and, speaking in what I immediately identified as an inter-generational variation of a southern Czechoslovakian dialect, contacted someone in security. After a brief exchange, comprised mostly of grunting from his end, the guard clicked his phone shut and trained his gaze upon me. "You got identification, vagrant?"

Without hesitation, I delved into the burlap sack and produced my passport, flipping it open to my photo. "Company ID, my friend."

"Let's see," he said, reaching for the small booklet.

"Not so fast! That's corporate property. You can read the business name while I hold it."

"Bar On Von Deck Horn." He sounded out my name in oafish syllables as a foghorn let loose in the distance. "What is that?"

"A German company. You know, 'baronvon' means 'to maintain' or 'be in good health'. Sort of, roughly translated." I issued another friendly smile as he slowly agreed. "We also do a lot of work on ocean oil rigs, you see. Pump palaces, I call 'em. I'm based out of the United States headquarters in Oklahoma, hence the roughneck uniform."

"Aha," he said, his portly cranium signaling his agreement. "Tulsa?"

"Broken Arrow, actually. Beautiful country, lovely community, great people." I nonchalantly closed the passport and tucked it back within the folds of my attaché. There ensued a moment of uncomfortable silence as the big fellow appeared to be conjuring a mental image of the far-off city. "Fabulous Chinese takeout there."

"So, vagrant, you get a phone call in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, United States. Here you are fifteen minutes later?"

"Oh, if only that were so. I was actually in Lima for a conference, guest speaking, you know. 'The Top Ten Signs of Heliocentric Parallax Disorder'. Quite fascinating, really. Jeb Stuart, my supervisor, flagged me down and sent me out here. Post haste."

"From what hotel?"

"The conference is at the Ritz, of course." I was indignant at his suggestion that I would lecture anywhere else.

He raised the clipboard, balancing its base on his prominent abdomen, and clicked a ballpoint pen several times. "Your name?"

"Raleigh. Walter Raleigh." Just then the boisterous crowd broke into a glorious rendition of _Oklahoma!_ that would have made both Rodgers and Hammerstein weep. "See? They're piping me aboard."

"You get on deck, you do your job, you don't speak to no one. When you're done, you come to me and say, 'The ship is ready'. Understood?"

I snapped off a smart salute and, containing my gratification at yet again slipping another security checkpoint, unhurriedly made my way up to topside.

***

"It's called a klatterbell injunction," I said, beating the rubber mallet against the side of the large air intake tube located forward on the bow. "They're prone to clogging with sea air, which in turn forces the wiring below decks to suffer salt oxidization. That, my friend, is fouling the _Gangrene_."

My overseer remained expressionless looking in every direction but mine, seemingly bored by my analysis. "I'll feed the business end of this Irish pennant down the opening, then go below to the commo deck -- the communication center to you, friend -- and see if we can crosswire the radium nodules. If so, the job will be finished faster than a spring jaunt through Saint James's Park."

"Whatever, cowboy. Do your job and shut up."

"Alright, then, you can help. Hold this end," I said, handing him what remained of the coiled piece of rope, its balance now dangling down the open air intake. "If I run into trouble, I'll tug on it three times. If after ten minutes you've felt nothing, that means the problem is fixed and I'm on my way home. Understood?"

"Whatever, cowboy. Do your job and shut up."

"Very well, sir. I'll be below deck then," I replied, touching the brow of my hat and skirting the swimming pool and hot tubs. Above on the balcony, a group of revelers enjoyed cigars and champagne in the crisp night air. Spying me, one of them let out a roaring "Yee haw!" I coolly acknowledged his greeting with a wave before disappearing through the portside main door.

To label the private ocean liner luxurious would be woefully selling short its ample comforts. The interior was bright and cheery, its walls glowing in a soft yellow shade beneath miniature chandeliers. Oil paintings hanging at strategic intervals invited passersby to stop for an artistic respite while enjoying the plush thick carpet beneath one's feet. Open doors on the right led to a large lounge and bar area, presently occupied by half-dozen guests focused on their drinks and a soccer match playing out on a large plasma screen. To my left a hallway arced in concordance with the ship's bow, heading to an indoor spa. The hired help -- young men and women wrapped in tight-fitting white tuxedos -- moved swiftly in all directions, carrying silver trays of drinks and food, polishing the ship's oak features with soft dusters, adjusting their white service gloves, and smartly snapping the heels of their black shoes when dutifully answering any and all new requests.

Clearly this was no place for me to linger.

I stepped through the nearest bulkhead and descended a narrow stairwell leading to the lower deck. Given its opulent and carefully kept appearance, I was obviously on the guest quarter level and, by quick calculation, surmised Bridgework's stateroom would be in this vicinity, farthest from the engine room. Precisely as the thought flashed to mind, a door latch clicked open and the sound of Bridgework's voice emanated from beyond the corner. Ducking underneath the stairwell, I drew out the pry bar and worked the edge of an access panel which, once opened, contained enough looping wire to qualify as a token smorgasbord of spaghetti.

"I want those people contained, understood?" Bridgework rounded the bend. Crouched down and with my back to him I was unable to see who he was addressing. "It isn't enough I've changed my plans countless times. No more!"

"I understand, sir," came the reply. I peered through the opening under my right armpit and spotted a second pair of legs. "Their final destination is Los Angeles. I'll make sure that's where they remain. Permanently."

"Who's this? Who are you?"

" _El repairo communicado systematico_ ," I responded gruffly. "Must make steam now! Go away!" Bridgework stooped to inspect my handiwork, prompting me to let loose a string of garbled Latin as I fiddled with the wires.

"That's the first intelligent thing I've heard all goddammed day."

"If I might suggest, Wayland, we should not keep Captain Harbuckle waiting."

"Of course. One stop in Acapulco, then onto L.A. And I don't want to see sight or sound of them." Bridgework's voice pinched off in the distant hallway and I loosed a sigh of relief as the close encounter. Thinking the better of my position given the potential amount of traffic, I replaced the metal panel and opted to drop down to the next level to make my way aft, aiming to locate the communication center. It was vital I remain on the ship by whatever means necessary.

The third deck proved not as glamorous as the one above but elegant, nevertheless. Stepping from the stairwell, I was relieved the passageway was void of guests. The bulkhead at the far end of the hall bore a bright red sign stating _GANGRENE STAFF ONLY_ , lifting my spirits. Surely this held the servants' quarters, galley, sick bay and engine room. _And perhaps the commo center_. Advancing as though I was engrossed in tracing out a series of unseen electrical connections, I slowly paced one finger along the corridor wall while my eyes locked on the goal ahead. Such concentration, in retrospect, proved the critical error as I never heard the cabin door open behind me.

Being keelhauled when least expected leaves little chance to ward off one's aggressor and this instance proved no different. Off-balance and pulled backward into the darkness of a portside room, I struggled mightily against the cloth placed over my mouth before succumbing to a rapid unconsciousness which, given my predicament, proved not the least uncomfortable. A well-deserved and much needed deep, long sleep had found me at last.

***

"Newg!"

In total darkness, overheated and laying on my side in a cramped fetal position, my intentions of being bushytailed upon awakening were direly curtailed. Several seconds passed before I grasped the fact that the metrical pounding in my head did not originate in my body, but instead echoed like a recurring beat from a mechanized engine.

Have I indeed, this time, been buried alive?

In jigsaw puzzle style, my mind forced together my final memories: Spit on a swabby's belly ... Bridgework at the gangplank ... A rubber mallet ... My cowboy hat ... The Irish pennant ... Bridgework in the passageway ... Fabric smothering my lips.

"Neeyug!"

There was no question I was encased in something both silky and soft.

Inside a casket? Was Chip/Silly planning to bury me at sea?

The rascal would have his sadistic wish fulfilled and the satisfaction of knowing my demise was untraceable, particularly should my remains be recycled through the nearest great white. I was not, however, going down a shark's hatch without first contesting my standing in the food chain. A jolt of energy shot through my torso and into my lower extremities. The instinctual urge to either fight or flee were both, for once, in agreement with one another. I rocketed upward expecting to hit the lid of the makeshift coffin, instead finding myself crouching in the velvety ductile clouds of heaven itself, accompanied by the distant jangling of cymbals. At once I began beating the sides of the sarcophagus with my forearms and elbows, while inhaling the dry and tasteless velvety ductile clouds enveloping me.

"Nenna! Neeyuk!"

Responding as though I had spoken a magic incantation, the wall before me rolled back and I fell prostrate into bright light, fresh air and a finite amount of freedom.

"For Christ's sake, hold the noise down!" The command came from somewhere above me. "And look what you've done to my dresses!"

"Newg," I replied, spitting out the shoulder strap of an expensive Christine Dior evening gown, and followed up with a feeble plea. "Drink, please?"

"I should give you bilge water for all the trouble you cause me." She moved to the small refrigerator located next to the writing desk on the opposite wall.

"The trouble I've caused you?" I croaked with the small amount of dignity left at my arid disposal. "Pardon me, Miss Angel, but you haven't a clue of the troubles I've seen since we last reposed together." I pushed myself up to a kneeling position, brushing a Versace leather back dress from my shoulder. "Besides, how much difficulty can one be when perfumed into a comatose slumber and shoehorned into an undersized closet stocked with the latest fashions?"

"A tremendous amount. Tailing us in such a clumsy fashion --"

"Clumsy? I thought my motocross skills were on the high side of adept --"

"And baiting a llama into believing it was a mountain goat, ramming you at every turn." Angel lofted an ice-cold plastic bottle of water to me.

"The four legged interaction was unsolicited!"

"It certainly drew attention to your presence. Now I'm not sure how Wayland retrieved the flash drive from or, more importantly, where he put it!"

"Thankfully, I'm here to explain." I took a few generous gulps before initiating a refreshing and prolonged gargling. "My word, your launderer uses a lot of starch."

"One of many inconveniences when traveling in the tropics."

"Where's Chip/Silly?"

"Is he part of your explanation? I'm more interested in obtaining one of the flash drives, Baron."

"And I'm concerned about being unexpectedly mugged again."

"Don't worry," she sighed, stepping before the bathroom mirror to work her hair and dab at her make-up. "Just you and I will share this cabin. And I have the only key."

"I'm not so sure I find any relief in that news."

"Look," she said, slamming a heel on the floor, "are you going to help me or not?"

"I'm not so sure I can, Miss Angel." I stood up and stretched my arms and legs as though limbering up to take the mound for the local nine. The resulting crepitation was embarrassingly loud and, I feared, betrayed my age. "I feel as though I'm the lion tamer in a traveling circus where all the other performers and acts are intent on killing me. More to the point, I'm not so sure you can be trusted."

"I've hidden you from certain death on this ship. Don't you think that demonstrates a level of loyalty?"

I begrudgingly conceded her point. "The mugging part was, however, an aggravating factor. There's still a lot of explaining to do. I require clarification if I'm to act in an effective manner. And it would help immensely if you and your family would cease drugging me every other day." I must have hit the correct note of treacle for she was overcome with a look of painful disgrace.

"It was the only way I knew to keep you quiet. Otherwise, you would have gone on snooping around the entire ship and no doubt been caught in the process." She turned from the mirror and looked directly at me. "Since we got underway, the entire staff has hunted for a wayward cowboy electrician. If found, the orders are to toss him overboard. Then where would you be?"

I resisted the temptation to answer such speculation, but the thought of being nutritionally processed through the gooey belly of a large and nasty fish did enter my mind as the leading response. "Right, then. Let's get down to business. You're certain Bridgework secured the flash drive at Machu Picchu?"

"Positive. He was excited and happy in that respect, but angry when he spotted you and Ethelene together."

"At least the hostile llama was on his side. How is it you weren't with Bridgework on his errand of excavation?"

"I was occupied by his, by the," her words trailed off and she covered her eyes with her hands. "His hired bodyguard took me forcefully."

"There? In public? At Machu Picchu?"

"He's a very strong man, deceptive in appearance. He had a tight grip on my wrist and forced me into the gift shop. I couldn't get away." She dabbed her tears with a tissue. "He said he was going to kill you then kill the banditos who messed up trying to kill you. Then he would double check to make sure you were dead so he wouldn't make the mistake the banditos did. I figured if I kept him busy picking out T-shirts and postcards, you might stand a chance of escaping. Again."

"Does he also consult for Bridgework?" My synapses were now firing on full and the scent of rodent rose from deep within my memory. _Logan Airport. The son of a bitch did look familiar! And not in a Keith Richards way._

"A majordomo. A capodecina. The puppet master. Bossy the cow. He scares me, really. He has the resolve of steel, severe halitosis and a terrible taste in choosing refrigerator magnets."

I hesitated to proceed further, yet found myself drawn to the inquiry like a large moth to an even larger flame. "Would he presently be sporting a grayish ponytail?"

"Yes, yes," Angel sputtered through a series of sniffles, "and I'm loathe to speak his very name. Osborne Moeziz."

"So that's it, then. Bridgework's trying to get to me through Oz Moeziz."

The notorious hired gun and I were well known to one another, having first met while involved an escapade I later entitled _The Bathetic Stranger_. In subsequent reprints, my publisher chose to re-title the work _A Pathetic Stranger_ without my agent's knowledge or my permission. Regardless, the book remained on the bestseller list for over a year and, through sheer popularity, drove Moeziz into a hasty and uncomfortable life on the run. "He's cleverly adapted an entirely new appearance, I must say."

"Yes," Angel sniffled again in agreement, "gone is the carefree innovative Parisian hairstylist he once portrayed."

"He was certainly cutting edge. Worming himself into his victim's personality and bringing out the best in one's hair before extermination."

"He's been retained to take you out."

"As if I was but a piece of crab in an order of rangoons."

"With a side of white rice."

I sat down on the bed, contemplating my predicament. "It would've been wiser if I hadn't followed you into the lair of my hunters."

"But then you wouldn't be here to help me."

"Angel," I lifted my porkpie and gave my itchy scalp a good going over, "I'm not sure who should receive my assistance or what that assistance might be. I've been requested to rein in Bridgework. Contradictorily, his plans don't include donning a harness."

"But --"

"Two things I know for certain, young miss. One, Bridgework doesn't like me. Two, Oz Moeziz and I share a bitter adversarial history, carefully documented both in print and digital format."

"Understood."

"Ethelene remains a parlor game puzzle to me, an older one at that, which surely has its missing pieces. Yet, my intuition asserts she wants me launched into the great unknown, as well."

"No arguments here."

"As for Chip/Silly, well, if we aligned his figurine upon a chessboard, your husband would without a doubt fit snugly between Moeziz and Ethelene. There is no question I should expect another inelegant attempt on my life from one or the other."

"Again, I agree."

"Finally, there's you. Hmmm," I said in mock introspection, "should I or should I not trust Angel? She who beseeches me for help while remaining nested with her cantankerous clan. Oh, she would like me to deem her honorable, having me believe she and I are yoked to the same plow. Given my feeble position of being seaborne and surrounded by those wishing me harm, what choice do I have?"

Angel frowned at my contemptuous presentation. "Precisely. What choice do you have? Your logic is astounding, Baron." She picked up an emery board and worked her nails. "If I wished you harm, how easy it would be to phone for a gang of stewards. But that hasn't happened."

"Not yet."

"If you cooperate and help me, it never will."

I took another swig of the water and surrendered to the obvious. "What's your plan, then? And please provide factual information this time. The old Baron is feeling rather dulled by misguided guesswork, dirt bikes, singing nuns and dark closets."

"First, Bridgework has the Machu Picchu flash drive. Otherwise, he'd still be there searching for it, yes?"

"It's chained to his neck with the Mount Rushmore unit."

"How do you know where it is?" Angel was astonished. "Did you see it?"

"Your father is a creature of habits, most of them nasty. Given the value he places on these storage devices who, other than himself, would he entrust them to?" I gyrated my middle-aged back in both directions, eliciting an audible pop upon centering myself again.

"You're guessing it's on his necklace."

"Perhaps you could distract him long enough for me to give his quarters a thorough tossing?"

"Baron, don't be such a looby. I've already been through his room twice without results."

"Then you've given yourself the answer I just offered, dear girl." I felt sorry for her as her frustration was clearly evident.

"Wayland's following the code of his R Four organization," Angel offered with a degree of detached enlightenment as though speaking to an unseen audience. "He's keeping both drives on his person at all times, on a lanyard around his neck."

"R Four? I thought he was only interested with happenings in the Loo."

R Four was whispered to be an ultra-secretive society purportedly consisting of an elite cluster of former "Bohos", e.g. one-time active members of the private Bohemian Grove men's club located in northern California. In contrast to the "Grovers" benign two-week summer retreat held in a dense forest setting -- by all accounts a glorified fraternity romp consisting of alcohol, cigars, off-key campfire sing-a-longs and unlimited outdoor urination -- the R Four membership placed a premium on members bringing their game face to its winter gatherings held at a remote mountain retreat in the Black Hills. What transpired between the dozen or so men and women in attendance was merely conjecture, but conspiracy theorists and amok-running journalists were adamant in their belief that R Four lorded over and controlled the basic quadrature of humankind existence: Armaments, economics, politics and theology.

"One would believe Bridgework and the Loo lead R Four around by the nose," I remarked in a thoughtful whisper.

"You dream. R Four is a selective crew. Maybe not equals in Wayland's mind, but they spur him on in pursuing what he values most."

"Eternal life?"

"Eternal wealth, more to the point."

"Yet another moving target."

"He's getting closer to it, Baron. Don't fool yourself. The flash drives he's collected? They hold the codes to unlocking and combining over three quarters of the world's currencies. He alone would control them! On the ancient pharaohs' best day, even they didn't possess such power. Do you have any idea? Don't you understand what's happening here?"

"Well," I said, thinking of Sondheim ensconced in his padded study sipping a dry martini, "my man avoided going into dire specific details. He simply wants Bridgework filed back inside the cabinet, stateside. I presume Uncle Sam's grab boys will take over once we touch foot on U.S. soil."

"Neither the IRS nor the FBI will lay a finger on Wayland. Trust me. I don't know who your man has in mind to detain him. Wayland's too well connected to be touched by the known system. Besides, where do you think his wealth is going to be concentrated?"

"Presumably Chip/Silly's _Eternus Spiritus_. After all, eternal life will prove to be a costly affair requiring a substantial reserve, if financial planners are to be believed. Think of the amount due in weekly payroll taxes alone."

" _Eternus Spiritus_ bullshit! The money will be funneled directly into Chip/Silly's think tank! Nothing more than a rogue government operation funding itself and manipulating economies, just waiting to take complete control of the world's financial and natural resources one country at a time."

"And someone as savvy as Bridgework can't see that? Why, he devoted an entire chapter to various deceptive managerial practices in _Only Self Conscious Musicians Get the Blues_."

"Don't be so skeptical, Baron. Wayland believes he's buying an everlasting existence. Price is not a factor. In his obsessive state, Wayland thinks Chip/Silly is a genius. An eccentric software programmer and a whacky dolt who has picked the lock to infinity. Hence, Wayland's focus on Chip/Silly impregnating me."

"Hold on. If Bridgework's going to live forever, why the need for an heir? I'd think it a bit awkward visiting one's doddering grandchild residing in a geriatric home, don't you?"

"Chip/Silly's not going to live forever. He's not a passenger on Wayland's perpetual ride."

"Are you?"

"Of course not," she replied, exasperated. "It's this way. Wayland believes an offspring from our union will serve as the insurance policy for the next generation. If something goes awry with this version of _Eternus Spiritus_ , Chip/Silly and I have already produced a genius safeguarding Wayland for the next sixty years at least. A blood genius at that, one obligated to maintain Wayland's life."

"And?" I felt an odd tinge of jealousy, induced by my fleeting and inexcusable thought of Angel coupling with Chip/Silly.

"Though I'm a woman with needs and desires, I have no interest indulging in procreation with my husband." There was a sadness in her face as she turned away. "Change of subject, please."

"Would you be surprised to learn Chip/Silly's been slipping you birth control?"

"Nothing surprises me anymore," she answered bitterly. "Leave it there."

"I think we both know Chip/Silly is fleecing Bridgework," I said after a few moments of reflection. "No one is going to live forever, no matter the promises made or the technology presented. We agree on that, yes?"

Angel sniffled and nodded her head while holding a tissue to her nose.

"This is a battle waged far removed from the public eye, Angel. Regardless, it's disturbing." I mentally pieced together the facts as I knew them, arranging them in what was considered the Sondheim school of orderly fashion. "Good versus evil. Age old opponents are at work here. Chip/Silly is one, having lassoed onto Bridgework's vast financial empire. My guess is once Bridgework provides the final flash drive to Chip/Silly, Bridgework's eternal life will begin immediately somewhere other than here on earth."

"You're deeming Chip/Silly evil, which casts you as the virtuous hero, correct?"

As much as I liked the ring of being a moral champion, strict professional modesty would not permit my to assume the mantle. "For the sake of our discussion, let's say my employer serves as Chip/Silly's adversary. I am merely his representative. My instructions are simple and straightforward. Bring Bridgework home. I was not directed to take Bridgework's life or money."

"Wayland was a good father to me. Loving, kind, harmless. No one would believe that, probably. Not even Wayland himself anymore. Through the years he's been demonized by his critics, exploited by the tabloids and lampooned by comedians. It's like all the negative things said and written about him came true, as though he believes them. He reached a point of hating and distrusting his oldest friends a long time ago. His charm for life soured and he turned on his family. If only we could somehow strip all that away and show him where it was he started out."

"The same could be said for any of us, Angel."

And right there, Angel answered a question lingering in my mind: Sondheim needed me to pry Bridgework off the exulted seat in the Loo and deliver him to a stable environment where he could reconnect to a system of realistic values. After such rehabilitation, what would Bridgework's future hold?

Does immeasurable wealth permanently erode ethical beliefs?

As a byproduct of Bridgework's forced sabbatical, seventy-five percent of the global economy would be protected from nefarious behavior with Chip/Silly & Company shorted several gazillion dollars. An easy trick for any available righteous hero, accomplished without disturbing the sensitive settings and delicate workings of the pallid international economic apparatus.

"Let's talk flash drives."

"There are four total," Angel said, holding up the fingers on one hand. "Each encoded with a series of passwords and formulas. When put together, they open the vaults to thousands of financial reserves belonging to governments, banks, insurance companies, corporations and the like. In a matter of moments, the person possessing them commands the course of global order."

"The encoding, passwords and formulas originating from the Loo's security data."

"Of course. Information received, stored and collected from each client. Do you think a bank in Hong Kong is concerned about the security of a government's holdings in South Africa? Or vice versa? How about an insurance company in North America losing sleep over a password breach in an Amsterdam realty investment firm? It's all off the radar as long as everyone believes their money's good."

"Everyone around the world slept well thinking their accounts were untouchable."

"The good old days, right?" Angel rubbed her eyes before continuing. "In the past, this critical information was kept in separate locations using different encryption methods. There was never a reason to worry. Soon after I was married off, Wayland started consolidating confidential files. He refined what he needed, plugging the essentials into four flash drives. When one was finished, he'd take what appeared to be a vacation --"

"Hiding the flash drive outside of any banking system."

"And plant the drive where it could be retrieved when needed. I must add that Ethelene and Chip/Silly encouraged him all the way."

"Now Bridgework is out to assemble the flash drives himself, correct?"

"He started last month," Angel nodded, "before heading to Jamaica. The first one was stashed under rocks behind Thomas Jefferson's head on Mount Rushmore."

"What?"

"Wayland personally chose the hiding spots associated with icons he admired."

"Jefferson, then Pachacuti."

"Exactly."

"That makes no sense," I shook my head. "Why not a vault or safe deposit box in one of his institutions or homes? Just from a standpoint of accessibility alone."

"Baron, you don't get it. He doesn't trust anyone anymore. No one."

"Except Chip/Silly."

"Even Chip/Silly. You can bet there are safeguards preventing Chip/Silly from accessing to the data."

"For now. Who knows how reliable they might be."

"And that's the point. It's only a matter of time before Chip/Silly has the passwords to open all the flash drive accounts and ultimately gain the funds themselves."

"What about the remaining two flash drives?"

"I don't know yet. All I can do is follow Wayland, stick with him and see where he goes." She sighed and pushed her hair back over her shoulders. "I've gone this far to keep things under control and I've taken quite a few risks along the way. Everything's been a nightmare from the minute Chip/Silly proposed to me."

"Why did you accept?"

"I had no choice, Baron. My dad was traveling down a path, growing distant from me. Walking away from what he knew was right, being drawn into a realm of darkness. It was the only way I saw that I might be able to keep in touch with him, to save him." She sniffed and fought back tears.

"The Rushmore and Machu drives are on a lanyard hanging from his neck," I said confidently, not knowing if this was so yet feeling compelled to bring some form of comfort to the young woman. "He keeps them on his person at all times."

"Will you help me?"

"I'm not certain I have a choice." The truth was at this point I did not have any options but to assist Angel. "In this case, Wayland prefers a prosaic hiding spot for the flash drives he's garnered. You might end up requiring the skill of a surgeon to complete the procedure, eh?"

"That's where your talents enter the picture," Angel replied hopefully, obviously having roughed out the makings of a plan. "I can arrange for you to fill two vacant staff positions here onboard. House magician and recreational firearms instructor."

"Say again?"

"I need a cover name for your ship ID card, though," Angel continued, indifferent to my alarm. "Quickly, engage that creative mind of yours so we're mobile."

Flattered by her sideways compliment, I blurted out the first combination that came to mind. "Skeet Burnisher, conjurer and clay pigeon eradicator, at your service, ma'am."

"Well done, Skeet," she said, hoisting the phone and instructing the call's recipient to issue the appropriate ID and a size forty-four regular male steward's staff suit in the form of a white tuxedo jacket and matching shorts. "I also took the liberty of borrowing a makeup kit from the entertainers' dressing room," she said upon hanging up. "You'll have to come up with a convincing disguise that will fly for the next forty eight hours."

"And when I do?" I was infused with a dose of pre-performance jitters typically reserved for curtain risings. "How best to obtain the flash drives?"

"I'll leave that up to you. Count on Bridgework swimming tomorrow once we near the equator. He'll have to hand them off to Moeziz or April Après before he enters the water."

"Perhaps a poolside magic show is in order, then."

"Substitute one of the real ones with this," Angel affirmed, holding forth a small blue CerebStix. "It's loaded with files of random data. By the time Bridgework realizes the content is useless, we'll be far away."

"We?"

Angel winked and smiled.

"And you're sure this is an identical match?" I turned the flash drive over and again between my fingers. "He won't notice?"

"Chip/Silly owns the CerebStix company. It's the only brand Wayland trusts to use."

"Ah, that word again," I chuckled. "Assuming I pluck one of Bridgework's almighty CerebStix, whom do I entrust it to?"

"Me, of course."

"Just like that. To you. Hmmm," I rose to look out the porthole at the setting sun, "and then what becomes of me, you and Mr. Bridgework?"

"You won't have to search for Wayland once he finds out a flash drive is missing," Angel said, her brow furling with concern. "He'll be chasing you at that point. You'll round him up easier than a bum steer at an indoor cattle show. Deliver him to your handler. Job done."

"And you walk away controlling the family fortune."

"Which thwarts Chip/Silly's plan for raping the global economy under the guise of Eternus Spiritus."

"Whereby you become the wealthiest person on the planet. A billionaire squared."

"Minor collateral damage for calming the financial waters, wouldn't you agree?" Angel bent forward and fished around underneath the Murphy bed, pulling out my battered rucksack and a spanking new magician's kit. "I'll guide money toward solving world problems instead of creating them. Or would you rather see Chip/Silly pushing one economy after another off a financial cliff while funding a farcical plan that promises Bridgework to live forever?"

I silently accepted my belongings and the kit while considering her precatory statement regarding Bridgework's mound of wealth. "What alternative do I have but to side with you?"

"And that's why we work well together, Skeet Burnisher. Your logical mind and my pure conscience. You'll finish your assignment and I'll disappear into the mesh of life, helping those who want to help themselves." She adjusted her clinging dress so it properly accentuated her highlights. "There's a reward in it for you, too."

I opted for not biting at the carrot she dangled and instead inspected my badly beaten laptop and cellular mobile, neither of which held a charge. "Would it be permissible for me to ring the home front at some point?"

"Absolutely not! Bridgework's electronic surveillance will detect your signal instantly, then record every word said. It's trips like these when he sorts out his employees by doing just that, you know."

I felt both sorted out as well as isolated, unable to contact Mia Kolpaux or Smudgely to advise them of my movements. As for Angel, I was at her mercy. What would keep her from making me shark chum at some future point? "We best make our play, then. Allow me to prepare myself."

"There's a dinner dance in the top forward lounge tonight. Work the room, get a lay of the land and allow yourself to be seen by Bridgework and Moeziz. Entertain at various tables, enjoy yourself, get the guests laughing. Make everyone comfortable with the magician and plan to meet me back here at eleven o'clock sharp."

"The _Gangrene_ is heading north to where?" I was curious to learn if Angel's response would match what I already knew.

"According to my source, Acapulco then Los Angeles. Tomorrow will be our only chance to go for the flash drive."

"Our single opportunity? Surely we'll have more than one shot at it."

"We'll be in Acapulco in less than forty-eight hours. My goal is to disembark there with the flash drive. I would recommend you plan to do the same."

"With just my burlap sack."

"Naturally."

"And go home with my burlap sack in hand."

"Unless you care to stay for some cliff diving."

"Thank you, no. I believe I'd simply rather go home and prepare for wrathful Wayland Bridgework arriving at my threshold."

"The best defense is a great defense. He'll walk right into your web."

Deep inside I knew it would not be so easy or play out in such a simplistic way. "Right. So, entertain at the dinner dance and meet back here at eleven. Sharp."

"You got it," Angel said, surprising me with a quick peck on the cheek. "Good luck tonight, Skeet Burnisher."

***

Skeet Burnisher, in my mind, had to be more than a glib club lounge prestidigitator or a showoff deckhand doubling as trick shot artist. His callings warranted a larger presentation and I was determined to bring a life to the role that not only obfuscated my true identity, but would leave behind an indelible impression of Skeet the person. In retrospect, a low key approach would perhaps have better served the situation and myself.

"He's a hoot and a half, isn't he?" The large woman, jolly and convivial in her gray baggy frock, whooped herself into another round of staccato guffaws while nudging her dinner partners with the business ends of her flabby elbows. "I say, he's a hoot and a half!"

"Thank you, madam," I replied, offering a half bow to her and her companions. In order to create Skeet's swarthy appearance, I doused my face and neck with what I believed was an ochre pigment foundation from the makeup kit. Unfortunately, in the dim lights of the large dining hall, its effect made me look quite orange. The skin dye would not have been so tragic had I chosen to forego wearing the silver colored eye contacts, which when coupled with my incandescent face and neck brought me to the edge of appearing possessed and a tad demonic. The ersatz handlebar mustache -- spun to a fine and curly twist on either end -- completed what I originally intended to be the picture of mysteriousness. Instead, my carroty aura negated any preternatural presentation.

"And for my next trick, watch me make this oyster disappear in front of your very eyes." Before the guests had time to react, I reached down and collected the sizeable hors d'oeuvre from the plate of the gentleman to my right and dropped it in my mouth, swallowing the delectable saltwater resident in one gulp.

"Hey, you bastard, I was about to eat that!" the man protested. "Rude son of a bitch."

"Slight of hand, mind over matter," I said, suffering his protestation while enjoying the laughter of his fellow diners. "Sir, have you ever seen the Invisible Sheboygan Bratwurst trick?"

"I'd rather have my oysters left alone!"

"I'll take that as a no, then. Young man, young man," I said, summoning a lad of about eleven from the far side of the table, "come here for a moment. I need your assistance. Come on, now, it's fine."

Reluctantly, the boy slunk from his seat and rounded the table to stand by my side. "Now, to make this work, follow my instructions carefully." I bent down and whispered into his ear, evoking a wide grin from the now eager volunteer. "Here, ladies and gents, we have a regular kerchief taken from my very own breast pocket. I will unfold this normal item of men's wear like so." I unfurled the cloth gripping both corners so it took the shape of a large square, holding it as a partition between the man and boy. "Now, you all can view this gentleman and my able assistant, but they cannot see what the other is doing, correct?"

Anticipation built as the table murmured its consent to my premise, nodding and watching intently. The large, jolly woman slurped the remainder of her champagne and propped her many chins in a cupped hand.

"Three, two, one," I counted down, adding dramatically, "presto!" With that, the lad walloped the man's shin with the point of his shiny dress shoe, then turned tail and circled back to his seat.

"My Christ! What the hell was that for?" The man rocked back and forth, groaning and rubbing his leg. "The little bastard!"

"Well," I said, winking at the awestruck onlookers while refolding the kerchief to its original form, "have you ever seen such a brat worse than that? Didn't think so. And now he's disappeared. He must be invisible!"

"He's a hoot and a half, I tell you!" The small crowd broke into a smattering of applause except, of course, the aggrieved party.

"Get the hell out of here you piece of crap!"

"Abracadabra, friends. Enjoy your meal." I noted my roving enchantment had captured the attention of those at the oblong-shaped head table, where Bridgework, April Après, Ethelene, Oz Moeziz, Angel and Chip/Silly -- _yes, Chip/Silly_ \-- were strung out in a row of padded seats as would be the court at a royal gathering. They were joined by two officers of the ship and two additional couples whom I did not recognize.

"Sir, the master would like a word with you." Before I could respond, an austere steward took me by the elbow and forcefully guided to the head table, directly opposite from Bridgework himself.

"Well, well, if it isn't," Bridgework said, reaching over an array of food and condiments to grasp the identification tag hanging from my neck, "good old Burnisher the magician."

"Good evening, good evening," I said, smiling delightfully while mindful to keep my accent sharp and consistent. In deference to Sheboygan, I opted to employ a punctuated Wisconsinite inflection. "How do you do?"

"I know you," Bridgework said, squinting his eyes while leaning back. "Don't I know you, Mr. Burnisher? I'd swear we've met before."

"Perhaps, sir. I've worked some of your functions in the past. The Woolamaloo Gang jamboree at Lake Tahotukmikash three or four years ago," I said, hoping the bluff would put him off. "As I recall, the waterskiing pyramid stayed intact for several laps around the entire lake that day." A fresh round of perspiration showered my armpits as Bridgework appeared seconds away from unmasking me.

"I don't recall that particular detail, Mr. Skitch Burnisher."

"Skeet. Burnisher. Magician. Marksman." I fumbled for the deck of cards in my jacket pocket, avoiding a waitress as she placed a dish of hot honey-glazed carrots on the table. _Time to put the spotlight on someone else._ Sidestepping the server so that I stood across from Oz Moeziz, I picked up a slice of the sticky vegetable. "What have we here? Now, what in the world could be behind that scraggily old ear of yours?"

"Hey, what are ya doing?" Moeziz pulled away from me as I feigned drawing the glutinous carrot from the back of his ear.

"Well, well, sir. You've been hiding a little bite of supper from everyone, haven't you?"

"What? You just picked that out of the dish!"

"Did I?" I looked at him, then to the dripping divot of carrot and back again. "Or do you think that I did?"

"I know you did!"

"Know? Or do you perceive?"

"I friggin' watched you do it!"

"Then I proudly award you the Monaco Monocle prize," I said, placing my thumb against the flat side of the carrot and plunging it into his left eye. "Congratulations!"

"Why you mother --"

Bridgework's laughter buried the forthcoming slur precisely as heaps of coleslaw arrived. "Fantastic!" His overt appreciation allowed me an abbreviated glance at Angel who, in meeting my eyes, stroked the necklace resting within her delicately attractive bosom.

Sure enough, turning back to Bridgework, directly below his crimson bowtie dangled the sought-after flash drives. "Ah, unfortunately we're reaching the conclusion of my preprandial excursion into the world of artifice and perception."

"You won't be missed, asshole." Moeziz steamed while working to clear his eye of sticky orange-colored remnants.

"I, too, feel we have met in another world, Mr. Burnisher," Ethlene suggested in a loud voice, "you seem so naggingly familiar."

"I've seen him tricking Letterman," April offered, twirling slaw onto her fork. "Google will tell me when he's been on the _Tonight Show_."

"Your spiky grayish hair and ginger complexion are distinctive, Mr. Burnisher." Ethelene, too, appeared to be teetering on the brink of unmasking my charade. "Just where does a man of your talent come from?"

"France, ma'am," I said, clearing my throat while trying to strike an unconcerned down home note, "descendent from the dauphin, actually. My ancestors established the first public quadrille dance studio after all that guillotine nastiness during the Revolution. I'm sure you understand."

"Mr. Burnisher --", Ethelene started again.

"Please. Skeet."

"A real magician could explain to us the difference between the Chinese Water Torture and government water boarding," Chip/Silly suddenly blurted out, spraying me with a spoonful of freshly buttered peas launched catapult-style. "A legitimate magician. Not a fraud."

"And so would a diplomat, historian and politician possess said knowledge. A genuine magician, however, never reveals any aspect of his trade. That's UMAC rule number one."

"UMAC?"

"Union of Magicians and Conjurers." I successfully dodged the next volley of peas. "'Be it involving surfboards, water boards, blackboards or mortarboards, to utter such secrets is deemed untowards'. That's straight from the UMAC handbook."

"Hey," April called through a tongue brimming with shredded cabbage, "weren't you in those Harry Wizard movies, too?"

"Maybe it's time for Mr. Burnisher to perform a vanishing act," Angel said in a loud voice laden with disgust, "and see about organizing his target range on the starboard bow."

"Poof!" I commanded, waving a trick wand toward the distinguished ship owner and his guests. Much to everyone's amazement, mine included, instead of transforming into a bouquet of paper mâché flowers [as indicated in the magic kit manual] the wand took the form of a rather long and droopy pink phallus. The audience erupted in laughter and applause and, without missing a beat, I tossed the serpentine object at a wide-eyed Chip/Silly who made a remarkable catch just above his tropical blue turtle soup bowl.

I departed, humbly so, amid a hail of applause as those in the room rose to join in a standing ovation.

CHAPTER SEVEN

_What April Après Brought_

_Gangrene_ security impressively blended the leading characteristics of wild gorillas with the peculiar qualities of square-headed behemoths enrolled at the University of Muscle Bound Bouncers. This formidable marriage of seam-popping brawn and economy-sized frontal lobes resulted in their notable ability to comprehend simple instructions and focus intensely on a given task. Regrettably, at this point in time, the target of this highly attentive group's obsession was me.

I was tailed relentlessly during the evening by brutish palookas wearing oversized shoes. They matched my steps from the main dining room to the ship's casino and even into the men's lavatory outside Coconuts, the ship's primary club. This stop was disconcerting, as the orange dye on my skin was intensifying at an exponential rate. Indeed, remarking to the magilla observing me from a distance of two feet, I bore an uncanny resemblance to a walking cigarette, what with my white tux, glowing face and ashen-colored hair. My commentary, not surprisingly, elicited no response.

One-half hour before rendezvousing with Angel at her cabin door, I made my way out onto the forward deck to reconnoiter the target shooting station. The survey of this area proved quite satisfactory: The platform for participants was adjacent to the swimming pool by no more than twenty feet. Should Bridgework decide to spend the day on deck enjoying the tropical clime, I would be able to circulate in and around his entourage with little difficulty. Hopefully, blue skies and a baking hot sun would bring out a bevy of frolicking swimmers and allow me to improvise a plan for exchanging an authentic Bridgework flash drive with Angel's faux version containing gobbledygook. For right now, the night air supplied a soothing calm to my dilemma of how to shake the two oversized loads hitched to my star as they tracked my orbit around the ship.

"Well, I guess it's time to turn in," I said, stifling a yawn with the back of my hand. "A long day of trickery saps the strength, you know. Frankly, I haven't the foggiest how Houdini was able to accomplish what he did."

Silence and stares.

"I'll be off now." For big men they moved swiftly, pinning me between them before I managed a step. "This is rather cumbersome," I protested.

"Hey! Magician! Burnisher!" My little shin-kicking assistant appeared with a flock of diners exiting onto the deck for a post-dinner breath of salt air. "Do a trick for us, will you? One more!"

"Surely." Like a drowsy dog coaxed from of a sleepy sprawl, I hoisted myself upright and straightened my tie. "Say, young man, have you ever been on a whale watch trip?"

"Why, no sir, I never have." The young fellow, much to my pleasure, played his role to perfection.

In a maneuver taught to me by a retired SAS major during my first training visit to the Midlands, in an affair I ultimately entitled _The Brassiest Bearings in Birmingham_ , I crossed both arms over my chest and narrowed my eyes in concentration, building the crowd's anticipation while focusing on what was to be a quick and definitive move. Timing it with at the conclusion of a slow exhale, my arms leapt out like coiled snakes going for the strike and grasped the brutes' ties. In a scissor action, I yanked mightily on each while bringing my arms back across my chest, causing my two guardians to wallop their heads together like award-winning pumpkins rolling free in the back of an empty haywagon. Stunned and seeing stars, both gentlemen stalled in the initial stages of disorientation as I deftly double-knotted their ties together and gave them a hearty shove into the deep end of the pool, creating a copious splash to the delight of those gathered.

"That, ladies and gents, is the UK version of an inland whale watch. Enjoy!"

"What a clever fellow!" The applause grew thunderous as I made my escape along the portside rail. "He's first rate!" "One of a kind, I say!"

I raced to the nearest bulkhead and rapidly descended to the third deck, my clown clodhoppers skimming the steps as I slid down the handrails. Heading aft, I entered the swinging doors to the galley and crossed through the kitchen area, much to the surprise of the staff who later reported seeing nothing but an orange streak grace their midst. Doubling back along the portside passageway, I slowed my pace while seeking out the door to Angel's quarters, cursing myself for not having remembered its precise location. My sense of confusion heightened when the lights in the wall sconces flickered, dimmed and went out, leaving the walkway in utter blackness. I paused and remained still, listening as the hinges of a door creaked and a sliver of light illuminated the carpet just beyond to my left.

"In here!" a voice hissed.

I stepped toward the opening. "What? No knockout solution this time?"

In an instant a tight grip was placed around my wrist and I was drawn off-balance into Angel's cabin and flung across her bed. There, in the muted glow of the bathroom lamp, I gasped at the sight of her beauty covered with but a sheer powder blue negligee. She stood over me, the hint of a smile raising the cheeks of her face.

"Perhaps this is a bad time," I managed to croak. "It would appear you were asleep."

"Hardly." She placed one knee on the edge of the comforter and crouched down. "I was wide awake. Waiting for you to return."

"I'll come back later, after you've had a rest, then." I propped myself up on my elbows, attempting to find the floor with my feet before she shoved me back into the pillows.

"Wrong again, Baron. You'll remain here where it's safe. For the both of us."

"That being the case," I said, nodding in agreement, "I fancy the closet as good a resting place as any for these old bones." I rolled to my side and was surprised by Angel's strength and agility as she forcefully brought me back to my original locked and supine position.

"It's the bed tonight."

"I couldn't, honestly Angel. Force you to sleep in that cramped closet? Put out of your own mattress? Granted, your wardrobe is top of the line and a joy to behold from any angle, but never would a gentleman dream of such --"

My objection was cut short by one of the most memorable kisses I ever received, which was immediately followed by yet another most memorable one. And then a third. "Angel," I lamented when permitted to draw a breath, "I think we --"

"Shhh. I've been wanting you since I first saw you at the airport. Your distinctive good looks. Your dignified regal bearing." She applied herself once more, firmly fastening me to the pillow in the process.

"But I'm orange now," I countered, my will to dissent rapidly dwindling as the reality of a scabrous encounter rose to the fore, "nothing but an animated tangerine."

"Mmm. My favorite fruit."

With that my service tuxedo was removed in due order and, once neatly folded for wear the next day, I cheerfully yielded to the obligation of prevailing duty.

***

During the night, below decks, the engine pulsed steadily while the ship's bow repeatedly plunged into wave after wave of churning brine. A superior level of safety and contentment filled our cabin, temporarily displacing the anxiety felt over the possibilities the coming day held. Angel and I silently reciprocated the highest emotion for one another which, though undefined and corporeally expressed, took root and grew in a field revered the world over. When sleep released its grip and the sun in full glory prompted us to wake, we were at peace with our setting, entirely content with our actions and deeds.

"Good morning." I caressed the nape of Angel's neck as she lay against my chest while I frantically searched my mind for a romantic articulation to offer.

"Morning, Baron," Angel murmured, still half asleep.

"I want to thank you," I whispered while holding her close, "and express to you my enjoyment of your vibrant vaginal oscillation this evening past."

"Just when I thought the science in lovemaking had disappeared," she snickered before drawing herself up and placing a finger to my lips. "And as far as tangerines go, you're not so bad yourself."

"Please, such panegyric remarks make me blush. I'm about as red as I can be."

"Actually, you're purple now."

"What!" In my immodest state, I scrambled from the bed and raced to the bathroom mirror. Sure enough, a chemical transition had taken place during the hours of pleasure and darkness, one shifting my appearance from membership in a fruit basket to enrollment in the vegetable genus, specifically the radish family. "And a garden variety one at that! Rats!"

"It's not that bad, Baron," Angel pleaded, rising from the bed and squeezing into the tiny confined area next to me. "I think you're more like a fine amethyst stone, polished and strong. Not a soiled, unwashed root plant."

"Thank you, my dear." I was aghast with my aubergine shading and worked to supplant my disgust with a longing for a renewed bout of affection with Angel. "Allow me a moment to expound upon how your support is ever appreciated and --"

A loud knock on the door interrupted what I aimed would become yet another session of intimate isometrics, this one taking place directly where we stood. "I'll get it," Angel whispered, flashing an expression of concern as she switched off the mirror light and slid the pocket door closed. "You stay in here."

I watched through the narrow crevice as she hurriedly tossed the bed comforter over my tuxedo and pulled the underlying blanket around herself. Again the rapid pounding commenced from the opposite side of the door. "Who is it?" Angel called out in an unconcerned tone.

"Security, Miss Angel. Please open up."

"I'm busy right now," Angel replied, her voice gathering a sharpness. "What's this about?"

"We need to search your quarters. Captain's orders."

"I'm afraid that isn't possible right now."

"Please stand away from the door. We're coming in."

"I protest this invasion!" Angel stepped back at the click of the lock. "I'm calling my father this moment!"

"There's no need for that," came the voice of Wayland Bridgework as the door swung wide, rebounding off the interior wall. "I'm right here." An unmistakable electrified tension filled the room, its intensity matched by the pounding of my heart. "My darling daughter. So surprised by our visit."

"Obviously," Angel responded indignantly. "If you'd given me a half a minute more, I'd been able to pull on a robe!"

"Search the room, stewards." Bridgework's command was followed by the sound of multiple footsteps scuffling about.

"And just what is it you're looking for?"

"A potential stowaway, darling dear. The magician," Bridgework said, snapping his fingers twice, "Skiff Barrister --"

"Skeet Burnisher," Angel corrected him.

"Whoever. It seems he disappeared again last night. This time in plain sight of his escorts."

"He does seem extremely talented." A shadow filled the slit of light as Angel's voice came from directly outside the bathroom door, her movement backwards followed by the clatter of clothes hangers. "Hey! Those are mine! Be careful of those dresses!"

"Check the overhead storage, boys."

"Daddy, how could you? This is my cabin, my private quarters!"

"And what he if had broken in here and taken you hostage," Bridgework countered. "I'm only concerned for your safety."

"Well, maybe Burnisher's out on deck entertaining the guests. Exactly where you should be right now."

"Just the bathroom left, sir."

"No, no," Angel said, her fingers slipping through the opening. "This is my private place."

"Stand aside, Angel!"

"I can't. I'm not clothed!"

At her words, I silently forced myself into the minuscule corner between the tiled wall and commode, ramming my head against an overhanging towel rod as I curled one leg under and around the porcelain tank.

Time to grow very, very small, my lad. Very small.

And thus I did. Angel shoved the door open and stepped backwards toward my hiding spot, pressing her warm and supple bottom firmly against my radishesque face.

"Go ahead and look then," she said angrily, her voice shaking. "It's only a bathroom!" She adjusted the blanket so I was completely encased in it and, with the exception of the unseen gorilla pawing his way through the shower stall and vanity cabinet, no other sound could be heard while Angel and I held our collective breath.

"All clear, sir," the gorilla grunted upon exiting the narrow wash space.

"There. Not so painful after all, for any of us."

"Did you expect otherwise?" Angel advanced to the open door, her fury genuine and -- she would admit later -- borne out of dreadful fear of her father and his plans.

"I'm not sure what to expect from you these days, Angel. Let's start with the mystery of why you choose to room alone and not with your husband."

"That's none of your business."

"Isn't it all of my business?" Bridgework could be heard moving to the cabin's entrance. "I expect to see you on deck soon, sunbathing and visiting with the guests, Enjoying the day where I can keep an eye on you. You'd be wise to fulfill my wishes." The slamming of the door created a much welcomed vacuum of silence.

"Here, let me help you," Angel whispered, reappearing and extending her hand. I uncoiled my legs from the tight maze of plumbing and rose unsteadily to hug her. She brushed away my affection, angrily locking the door instead. "This isn't rolling the way we want."

"Leave such worrisome predictions to soothsayers." I spun her gently in the blanket and landed her softly on the bed, where a lustful good fortune overtook and entwined us together once again. "Consign passion to us."

***

About an hour before noon, the _Gangrene_ transformed itself from a libraryesque atmosphere of scholarly dullness into a lively and colorful festival of swimming, barbequing and drinking. A mix of dance music and rock classics pumped through stereo speakers located at the corners of each exterior level, prompting spontaneous sing-a-longs and dancing in and around the pool and hot tubs. It was a gorgeous day to be out in the warm temperature, enjoying the mild breeze generated by the steady pace of the ship as it passed into the equatorial zone. A school of dolphins made an appearance as food and provided most of an hour's worth of oceangoing amusement for those gathered at the handrails.

I had manned the shooting range since midday, scattering birdshot out over the ocean in unison with the waves. Keeping my pate well protected from the scalding sun under a generous Panama straw, I cheerfully taught curious novices the finer points of handling a shotgun. More than a few moments of anxiety arose during the slaying of so many clay pigeons, the most heartfelt being my infrequent glimpses of Angel sunning herself next to the pool. She was a stunning spectacle to behold, alluringly more desirable when untouchable and placed at a distance. The pale pink Gauze String Bikini worked much to her favor, allowing the maximum amount of her physical beauty to shine while retaining the minimum amount of modesty required by public etiquette. I knew for certain, through the tinted lenses of my Ray-Ban Wayfarers, she was returning my look of fondness behind her Osaka Tortoise Vera Wang Runways. It was one more connection, albeit minor and product-driven, serving as a foundation block in our budding soulmate relationship.

Of less interest, I was alarmed to discover my pigment covered skin contained the amazing ability to change colors. Noting when I stood in close proximity to the pool water, within minutes my upper torso, arms and face became an appealing shade of soft aqua blue. Further evidence of this fascinating phenomena presented itself upon completing a session of shooting. After the stock of the gun had rested against my face and shoulder, I acquired an unmistakable -- and yet not unpleasant -- wood grain appearance. The majority of my time, however, was spent as a manifestation of the lime-green diamond pattern found in the all-weather carpeting and bunting covering the forward deck. Naturally, my chameleonic state only added to my burgeoning reputation as a dexterous magician to the guests witnessing my ever-evolving mien.

I was, dare I say, the center of attention until Bridgework arrived with his heavily-populated entourage, the two flash drives glinting in the sun at an angle across his lobster-red, gray-haired chest. His group, even when garbed in brightly colored Speedo swimsuits, promoted their unique brand of intimidation.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Flubbs, full of tricks. Or full of something else." Bridgework, with Ethelene present, allowed April Après -- her regalia consisting of a brilliant red string bikini fabricated primarily out of red string \-- to drape from the crook of his arm.

"Actually, it's Mr. Burnisher, Way Way," April offered in her sugar squeaky voice. "He's just a different color now."

"How do you do today?" I held a shotgun across my chest, the barrel for now safely pointed out to sea.

"We missed you last night, Mr. Burnisher." Bridgework's tone was more than a forceful inquiry. It was downright threatening. As he spoke, I noticed Angel sitting up in her chair and adjusting the towel behind her head. "Looked all over the ship for you, we did."

I chuckled. "Darned nice of you, I must say. I was feeling a bit poorly, actually. Voluntarily put myself on the binnacle list."

"How odd. We visited sick bay several times thinking you might be there."

"I thought I might be contagious," I replied, sidestepping his observation and downshifting my response a gear, "and opted to ride it out in the aft side lifeboat. Better there alone than spreading misery to the guests and crew."

"Gee, that's a great hiding spot!" April blurted. "You never checked there."

Bridgework flashed her an unappreciative sideways glance. "If you were that sick, Burnisher, you should have summoned the captain."

"My error. It shan't happen again."

He moved to a perspiration-inducing uncomfortable proximity. "You are very familiar. I can't quite place you, but when I do," he backed off a bit, the flash drives begging to be snared from his neck, "you'll be dealt with appropriately enough."

"I apologize if my act disappointed the _Gangrene_."

"I'm not sure everyone's been let down by your performance," Bridgework looked over at Angel as she ruffled the pages of her magazine, pretending to ignore the encounter taking place, "wherever you've been waving your magic wand."

Quelling a rise of bravado, I allowed a slight smirk to emerge.

"I do hope you consider yourself a strong swimmer, Burnisher. You'd do well to familiarize yourself with the prevailing ocean currents."

***

At the time of Bridgework's aquatic pronouncement I was blissfully unaware I had only eight hours left aboard the _Gangrene_ , and much of what happened during that time set the stage for my closest brush ever with mortality.

Bridgework stormed off to the largest hot tub, obviously reserved for him by the fact that two of his grand Easter Island look-a-likes stood a vigil over it, cracking their chiseled physiques to shoo away anyone foolish enough to venture near. I discreetly watched as before entering the bubbling cauldron of chlorine, he removed his flash drive necklace and draped it securely around the neck of April Après.

This may be the only chance!

A round of drinks was ordered and April, excluded from entering the water, pouted her way over to a nearby padded chaise longue, sprawling out like a weary Gold Rush miner just finishing her strenuous twenty-five hour day. I nonchalantly brought my gaze upon Angel who, sharing my recognition of the shining opportunity, placed her hands together to form at "T" before stretching her arms to her sides.

"And so we shall take our time," I announced in a loud voice to no one in particular. "Time being both of the essence and least of all critical."

"You're a hoot and a half, mister magic!" The large jolly woman from the previous night's entertainment appeared to my left, dressed in a two-piece bathing suit, its design and pattern leaving her upper half resembling a village bodega's unfurled overhang. She was, indeed, a large woman with laughter to match. "You're just a hoot and half!"

"All part of giving one hundred and ten percent to everything which I apply --"

"Lemme see that peashooter!" She lunged for the shotgun I was cradling, moving more quickly than one would expect from a woman bearing her displacement.

"This, my dear," I said, stepping away with the grace of Valentino during his Mineralava Tour, "is more a hog leg than a peashooter. That is to say, don't view it as a toy."

"Don't you get sassy with me, mister green face," she replied, waving a chubby forefinger under the tip of my nose. "I'm a huntress from way back, I tell ya, way back. In fact, the motto in my home is 'kill it 'n' grill it' and I don't give a damn what 'it' is!"

"I trust this doesn't affect my standing on the hoot and a half list."

"All I want to do," she said, slurping at some grayish food substance from her flabby fingers on her non-waving hand, "is to shoot skeet right now."

"Join the club." I checked the status of Bridgework who, along with Ethelene, sipped a glass of champagne while receiving a foot shiatsu from a small cadre of barely-clad masseuses. Keeping the Mossberg twenty gauge in my possession, I offered the portly gunner a well-used Remington over/under. "Cheers."

"We're going to make this a competition, mister charm, and I'm going first." She loaded the weapon as would a pro and waddled her way onto the shooting platform. "American or international pigeons?"

"Not sure," I replied, "I neglected to check their genitalia."

"What do you know about it?" she growled as though her patience had been extracted like a tooth gone bad. "I got half a mind to speak to someone about your peculiar behavior, magician."

"Please, madam, I've already been hooted at for that very reason," I said as my body began to affect Mossberg wood grain before her very eyes.

"Which house is the bird coming out of first, high or low?"

"How about if we just wing it," I replied. Up to now, my shooting instruction had simply consisted of stepping on a foot pedal and blasting the first Frisbee-like object that appeared to be fleeing the ship. "Two experienced shooters such as ourselves. Indeed, I propose we set a bit of a wager. Otherwise, what's the point?" I signaled to a waiter passing by with a tray of champagne cocktails.

"And no trickery on your part?" She slugged down the contents of the glass and quickly grabbed another. "No witchcraft?"

"My solemn vow, ma'am. All will be on the up and up."

"It better be or else."

"Or else I'll be grilled?"

She looked at me with a blank stare, then burst into her chug-a-lug song of laughter. "He's a hoot and a half, I tell ya, a hoot and a half!"

"I'm willing to put up this. If I lose, I'll show you the secret to my levitation trick, how's that?"

She quaffed the second glass quickly and emitted a lively belch. "And I'll put up this here golf visor," she said, tugging at her headwear. "It's personally signed by Colin Montgomerie."

"Agreed." We shook hands. "Would you care for a warm up round?"

"I don't need no stinkin' warm up! Get me another round and we'll get it on!"

As the _Gangrene_ pushed north and the sun drooped toward the port horizon, I engaged in a practice which typically abhors me: Performing less than my best. Alternating shots with my oversized opponent, I stayed close enough with her to nip at her flabby heels, forcing pressure upon her saggy arms to produce during crunch time. At the very least, I calculated, winning the contest would positively enhance her self-esteem. Approximately forty minutes and several glasses of champagne punch later, the big gal found herself nine clay pigeons ahead of me.

"Well, mister hocus pocus, it looks like youse owe me the secrets to the ang-chant Egyptian art of raising some bodies up in the air. Time to pay up, magic boy!"

"A bet is a bet, my dear woman, and you won this shootout fair and square. I must say it was gracious of you allowing me to count the errant seagull as a hit."

"The sch-tupid little buzzard guts rights in your way!" She was feeling the wash of the bubbly, snickering and swaying while gesturing with the barrel. "Ka-blam! Bye, bye birdie."

Her words harkened forth footlights of the stage and Agnes de Maelstrom's production _King to Rook's Three: The True Story of Chessmen John Barrymore and Basil Rathbone_ awaiting me at Tumultuous Manor upon my return. As time grew short on the glowing deck, soon Bridgework, his entourage and the flash drives would disappear indoors, removing any opportunity of acquiring one of the portable storage devices. The thought of a similar curtain closing on the two fine actors -- one uniquely American, the other devotedly British -- brought forth a spiritual energy for my flagging mettle to harness itself upon.

Remember, old man, the only single recognition these two gentlemen of the stage received was a star on the Walk of Fame. No Oscars, no Emmys, no Tonys, no Peabodys, no Hasty Puddings or Kennedy Center Honors for them!

It was then I contrived a plan I believed both Barrymore and Rathbone would have heartily approved. "The name of this trick is 'King to Rook's Three' and we'll need an anonymous, unsuspecting volunteer." I tapped my lips while scanning the deck, then snapped my fingers upon spying April. "There. That girl, right there."

"Perfect!" my jolly partner agreed.

"Perhaps you'd care for a refill before we begin," I said, rocking my empty glass back and forth. "I'll take a moment to stow my gear and heighten my concentration for the event."

Without waiting for her reply, I grabbed the Mossberg and a bag of extra ammunition, making my way aft on the promenade deck. The last of the six lifeboats lining the hull hung from a modest pair of metal davits, suspending the tarp-covered vessel to the _Gangrene_ by two half-inch ropes, all conveniently within arms' reach. Without fanfare I turned to scan the deck and, confident those within view were occupied in their own worlds, I lifted the seam of the heavy cloth cover and slid the shotgun and shells down into the safety of the lifeboat's beam. Dusting off my hands as though I just emptied the kitchen rubbish, I ambled my way along the rail to the forecastle.

"U'n zone?" my student of levitation asked upon my return, her voice tipsy as she rode the waves of fizzy grapes circulating throughout her corpulent system.

"Am I in a zone? If that is your question, then my answer is yes. I am in that zone."

The large gal hiccupped and swayed. "Then, let's lever rate her, mister ma jazz schtick."

We crossed the deck, pinballing our way through scattered chairs and tables partially filled with guests enjoying late afternoon drinks and snacks, and picked up a small group of followers -- including my youthful apprentice -- along the way. Reaching April, who lay on her back with arms outstretched as though floating on water, I ordered the gathering to form a semicircle around her, their backs to the hot tub a mere few yards away. Even with my stout target-shooting friend between us, I could see Bridgework lean forward, his expression betraying alarm.

"Say, what's going on there?" He waved his two baboons forward so that they, too, joined the arc of onlookers. "What're you doing to her?"

"Were doin' nuthin', Wayward. Just gonner lever rate her up."

I cut short her rambling commentary, aiming to divert any suspicion away from my true goal. "This, my friends, is called 'King to Rook's Three', a daring do defiance of gravity I learned from the masters in India, who in turn were taught by the splendidly elevated gurus of Tibet, prior to the Chinese embargo placed on the exportation of such knowledge."

"Whatcha goin' to do, Mr. Burnisher?" the boy asked inquisitively while contemplating a pair of pineapples set out on an adjoining drink stand.

"He's gonna show me a schtrick, shunny."

"I'm no trick," April protested, coming out of her sleep.

"Indeed, you're not," I said reassuringly. "You are, however, the perfect specimen for participating in this ancient ritual of floatation. My apologies for not seeking your permission beforehand --"

"You can do whatever you want to me, mister. You're a TV star."

"Why, I thank you, miss. Now, I'll require you to lie very still, as I need to release a series of sonic vibrations over and into your being."

"Wherish you keep 'um?"

I brushed my hand over the right pocket of my shorts, ensuring the decoy CerebStix flash drive was at the ready. "I have to generate them internally and then emit them."

"Like a fart?" the boy asked, his gaze fixed on the perfectly matched twosome before him.

"Watch yer mouf, shun!"

"I don't want her touched, you hear me?" Bridgework paddled over to the edge of the tub, craning his neck in every direction attempting to peer around the behemoth posterior of my unsteady student. "April! You know what I'm concerned about. Watch him, boys!"

"Hummm," I intoned, lowering my eyes behind the Ray-Bans and spotting the two authentic CerebStix resting soundly in April's cleavage like whitewater rafts anchored motionless within a canyon. "Hummm." Both of my hands trembled as would those of an alcoholic's staring through the barred windows of a closed liquor store. "Hummm."

"'Ummmmm ... ummm ... ummm," the large one joined in, shoving her empty glass at one of the bodyguards before thrusting her hands in front of herself as though she were sleepwalking. "'Ummmmmm."

"Hummm."

"'Ummmmmm ... mmmmmm."

"Hummm."

"Ummmmmm ... mmm ... mmm." She swayed as one would expect the Tower of Pisa to sway should a vigorous earthquake ever strike the Tuscany district. Mimicking my tone and posture, she stooped forward seconds after I did and thereby -- via the simple laws of physics and a particularly energetic wave -- opened the vault of propitiousness.

A large dark cloud momentarily covered April before the crushing weight of feminine humanity slammed her into the towel-enshrouded plastic lounger. In the instant following there was an audible exhalation from April that provided perfect sound quality to the frothy discharge foaming from the mouth of her oppressor.

"Rico! Get her off April!" Bridgework shrieked, slapping his open palms on the surface of the water. "Get her off now!"

The two beefy lifeguards pushed their way forward and, each applying a grip onto the flabby arms of my erstwhile apprentice, hoisted her up as though she were a frat house refrigerator accidentally tipped over during an exceptionally busy rush party. Two curious things happened in the righting of the off-kilter colossus that played in my favor.

The first, during the process of being lifted upright, was her inexplicable grasp on April's bikini top, which now no longer belonged to April. Tightly enmeshed within her flattener's hammy fingers, April lay immobile and entirely exposed north of the navel.

"Aunt Flabby!" the boy called out, standing at April's feet, his eyes transfixed not upon his backpedaling relative but instead zeroed on the windless sunbather. He possessed, I thought, the shining glint in his eye Hillary must have exhibited upon his first view of Everest and K2. "Aunt Flabby! Look out!"

The second stroke of fortune arrived when Aunt Flabby could do nothing but fall backward into the hot tub, submerging a terrified Bridgework and both bodyguards who held on for all their worth. The resulting splash of water was of geyser quality, a resounding wall of rising liquid obscuring the forecastle.

Seizing what few seconds had been gifted me, I immediately dropped to my knees and pulled a towel over April's symbolic mountain range.

"You asshole!" the boy protested, his taunt of desperation falling deaf upon my ears.

With the objective obscured, the act of trading the flash drives proved relatively uncomplicated and -- though I am not one to endorse artificial fabrications altering that which is rightfully nature's creation -- rather agreeable. I slid the braided cord around April's neck until the clasp rested directly above her divide, unfastened it and swapped out one genuine for the faux. Tucking the real one under the sole of my bare foot in my left Docksider, I hitched the lanyard together again and adjusted my position so I appeared to be examining April's ribs. So intent was I in playing the role of first responder, I neglected to see the blow coming.

Thwap!

It was Bridgework's fist connecting squarely against my right eye, shattering the stylish sunglasses against my face. I tumbled back onto the carpeted deck, instantly beset by shock and attempting to absorb the pain when a series of barefoot kicks resounded against my ribcage.

"Dad! Stop it!" Angel shrieked, her Gauze-covered pink bikini bottom suddenly appearing in my myopic line of sight, standing astride above me. "There's no need for this!"

"Get out of my way!" Bridgework pulled Angel aside. "Now, search him."

I was rudely sprung onto my feet by one of the resident orangutans while the other, proficiently skilled in the art of pick-pocketing, thoroughly rummaged my shirt and shorts. I brushed my fingers in the warm rivulet of blood splashing from my eyebrow, wincing at the tenderness of the gash, humiliated as my shorts fell to my ankles and my underwear pulled about to allow inspection from every angle.

"He's clean, sir."

Bridgework stepped forward and slapped my face harshly with an open palm. "Don't you ever touch her again!"

"I have no intention to --"

_Slap!_ He undoubtedly also possessed a smashing backhand on the tennis court.

"Dad! Enough!"

Actually, it was not. As a final send off, Bridgework sucker-punched me in the midsection, driving the air from my lungs and dropping me speechless to my knees. "There! Now you qualify for the binnacle list! Take him downstairs, Rico!"

***

My stay in sickbay was forgettable, barring the fact Rico retained a death grip around the back of my neck as the doctor numbed my brow and inserted stitches where Bridgework unzipped me.

_Not to be forgotten_ , I vowed to myself. _And I'm the proud possessor of the much heralded CerebStix._

Mindful of my original mission to kennel Bridgework, I now owned the most powerful bait for a trap I would lay upon our arrival in Los Angeles. There would be, too, a moment of retribution factored in, an accounting for Bridgework's reckless and cowardly treatment of me on the deck above.

"It took only four to close," the ship's medic remarked with a touch of surprise in his voice. "Must not have been wearing his ring today."

"Ring or no, it stings enough. Now, would you kindly amputate the guerilla from my spine?" My skin tone had run a gamut from the flesh color of April's ample bosom to the olive drab of Rico's suntanned hide, with a brief layover in the shade matching the stitcher's white cotton medical garment.

"Sorry. My instructions were to stop your leakage. In that respect, I just patched a rusty pipeline, old man."

It was not the 'old man' reference which drew my ire, but instead 'rusty pipeline'. To this day, I am not certain why, but the phrase struck a match to my inner bonfire in such a blazing manner I immediately lunged for the syringe of pentobarbital the steadfast physician had prepared for application to me. "Take that, Hippocrates!" I decreed, finding his fleshy bicep with the needle and plunging the sedative into his system.

"Why, you!" A weakness had already entered into his thinning voice.

Like a sturdy and reliable tower clock sitting high above the town square, Rico's hammer came down to ring my bell, driving me from my perch on the examination table and into the path of the fading doctor. It was a worthy punch delivered from behind, serving to free me from the goliath's grip while toppling me to the tight confines of the floor. Already in a heightened state of vexation, Rico launched the table into the wall and bore down upon me like a maddened lobster, presumably this time to snap my neck with his crusher claw.

Keenly aware of protecting the CerebStix flash drive in my shoe, the option of kicking him in the groin fleeted in and out of my defensive strategy portfolio. Instead, I grabbed blindly at the items shelved in an open dispensary while scrambling to my feet, finding the bedpan I was now holding served perfectly as a makeshift helmet. Mounting it to my brow, I lowered my head and, like many generations of desperate warriors before me, initiated a desperate charge at my opponent's solar plexus. The resulting collision sent us into the now staggering doctor who unwillingly became an active and useful participant in the scrum.

Rico swung wildly, landing blows upon the medic as I managed to stay covered up within the safety of his mammoth barrel chest. Stepping on the big man's foot, I heaved to and sent the ruckus we had become plummeting to the floor with a loud clang, which turned out to be Rico's cranium striking the rim of my bedpan helmet. The metal receptacle was, regrettably, badly dented and Rico quite thankfully out cold.

I immediately dusted off and located a roll of elastic bandaging, which proved highly effective in gagging Rico when wrapped around his head and intertwined with the doctor's considerably smaller frame. Once completed, the two formed an uncanny resemblance to ancient conjoined twins having been ritualistically mummified.

"Sleep well, formidable adversaries," I said, admiring my handiwork before slipping a master key from the belt clip of Rico's pants. Shutting off the room lights, I checked the passageway before exiting and securing the deadbolt door lock. There were only two places onboard offering me sheltered protection and it was imperative I choose the correct one.

CHAPTER EIGHT

_The Angry Squid_

I purposefully left the lights off in Angel's quarters, yet even in the muted darkness it was apparent she had not returned to change out of her swimsuit. This alone was disconcerting and combined with the now-soon-to-wakey-wakey Rico, who most probably carried a key to her door, left me pondering the wisdom of returning to my lover's abode. Reaching under the bed, I located my gear-laden rucksack against the headboard wall and extracted my Walter Raleigh getup. Regardless of my future movements aboard the _Gangrene_ , Skeet Burnisher's facade was a liability and in need of retirement. Resurrecting Walter would enable me to purchase time, even if it translated to but a few extra seconds.

Once outfitted in the comfort of flannel and overalls, I hastily stuffed Skeet's _Gangrene_ uniform, handlebar mustache and silver eye contacts out the porthole opening, casting them afloat in the broad expanse of the Pacific. A systematic search of the room followed, indicating in eerie fashion to me that everything was in place. From the orderly array of perfume bottles on the bathroom shelf to the fashion publication arrangement in the commode magazine rack, housekeeping was to be commended for its thorough janitorial work in cleaning up and reconstructing the room after Bridgework's ham-handed monkeys hardy handiwork. Flipping through Angel's necklaces and neck ware, I selected a thin but resilient leather choker displaying a silver rising moon medallion and slipped the flash drive onto the thong, securing it tightly around my neck. At this point it was game on and, if caught, the discovery of the Cerebstix would prove the least of my worries. To that end, under the right circumstance it might prove the most valuable bargaining chip available to wager.

I adjusted my collar to better hide the pilfered storage device while spinning the pieces of the Bridgework mosaic through my mind: Aloft with little people. Jamaica. _Eternus Spiritus_. Chip/Silly's absence of fecundity. Ethelene's treachery. Motocross riding. Machu Picchu. Aloft with nuns. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Sir Walter Raleigh. The wiring of the _Gangrene_. An obese lady with a jolly laugh. Angelina Formica de Corcoran Bridgework Shumway. R4. Skeet Burnisher. The topless April. The obliged boy. Being publicly waylaid by Wayland. I grimaced at the final thought, readily slamming fist-into-palm to drive the shameful humiliation from my mind.

My eyes fell upon a sealed envelope, of pink hue, on the corner of the bathroom vanity just as the sound of approaching footsteps clopped along the hallway outside the door. I snatched the letter and tore open the flap.

Final drive! Carthage links. Tunis.

I had but a scant moment to consider the meaning of the message before the door handle and latch apparatus initiated its tumbling process. Without a second thought, I crossed the room in one bound and dove into the familiar confines of Angel's closet, curling up ball-like and burying myself deep within the fluffy barriers of full-length evening gowns and assorted high heels.

"You take there and I'll take here."

_Two intruders_.

I drew my knees tighter to my chest and pulled a saucy red Garavani over my head and torso. In a matter of seconds the pocket door slid open and a menacing presence filled the small cubicle, underscored by the raspy grunt of labored breathing reverberating within the enclosed walls.

"There ain't nothing in here, Bones."

"Nothin' in here, either."

"Boss said to search the place and don't come back."

"No, he said to come back if we found sumthin'."

There was a momentary lull in the conversation. "What if we don't find nuthin'?"

"Then we stay here until we hear sumthin'."

"And what if we don't find sumthin' or hear nuthin'?"

Another moment of contemplation filled the air. "If we don't find nuthin' and don't hear sumthin', we stay here. I brought the deck of cards."

I inwardly groaned at the prospect of being holed up for hours on end.

"Crazy Eights this time?"

"How 'bout Acey Ducey?"

Regrettably, the sound of the desk chair being dragged across the carpet reached my ears.

"Sure, sure. Pick 'em up if we hear sumthin'."

"Why don't the boss just throw that magician overboard?"

"He don't want nobody findin' no body. The way the boss figures it, a body leads to questions that ain't needed to be asked."

"Smart guy, the boss."

"And we're anchorin' in Acapulco soon. The boss wants Pablo to do the askin' of important questions before the magician becomes all deceased."

"The boss is a genius, I'se tell ya."

"Pablo will have the magician perform a disappearin' act in his pit of scorpions."

"I bet ya could sell it on pay per view."

"For sure. Now deal 'em out."

It was impossible to determine how much time passed as Bones and his partner, who came to be called Smitty, engaged in their marathon Acey-Ducey duel. At various points during the mindless game, I actually nodded off listening to the boys discuss international political infrastructures, various immigration reform scenarios and which caliber of handgun was preferred when capping a target's ass. Indeed, quantifying my stay in the closet soon transformed from the passing of minutes to gauging the intense pressure on my capacious bladder. My thoughts wandered to the magnificent fete performed by those engineers who tamed the Colorado River when constructing the Hoover Dam during the Great Depression.

How was it possible to remain dry while containing a free flowing force of several hundreds of millions of gallons of water?

I could not dismiss the question from my mind and, further, had a difficult time concentrating upon it while the hull of the Gangrene slithered and splashed through the wave after wave of ocean water.

"Did ya hear sumthin?" Bones' inquiry startled me from my hydro-retentive speculation.

"Na, I heard nuthin'."

"You didn't hear nuthin'? Because I heard sumthin'." His words barely left his mouth when Bones, reacting with the grace of wounded tree sloth, took the full force of the cabin door against both knees. "Hey! What the hell --"

"Move, you big oaf!" The voice belonged to Chip/Silly. "What else should I expect from you two when we're in crisis? A card game!"

"With me winning," Smitty added with pride.

"By a little. Hardly by nuthin'."

"I don't care! I told you to toss this place and find Burnisher!" The fluttering sound I heard was the deck of cards scattering throughout the cabin. "You were to report straight back to me!"

"Well, we didn't find nuthin' --"

"I know! I can see that!"

"And we stayed here and set a trap in case he showed up --"

"But he didn't!"

"Ain't that sumthin'?"

"You idiots! He isn't going to come back here. It'd be the first place we'd look. Only a complete and total moron, knowing he's being hunted, would hide in here."

"More stupider than us?"

"Yes, Bones. Much more."

"Then it was smart for us to stay here, protecting the room like."

"So it seems." Chip/Silly's anger ratcheted downward and, though sounding preoccupied, he possessed more of a functioning attention span than previously displayed. "The princess Angel's restrained and secured in a forward cabin. You two join Rico topside for a new search. We have got to find Burnisher before we reach Acapulco. Now move!"

I waited several agonizing moments after the cabin door slammed shut until thoroughly convinced the room had been vacated. Rolling out the closet opening and painfully unfurling myself on the cabin floor, I crawled to the bathroom on three limbs while undoing my pants with my free hand. The relief was both indescribable and terrifying, akin to the excitement a surfer feels when rolling up the barrel and A-framing the most bitchin' wave ever recorded -- and just prior to spotting the opaque shape of a giant great white riding the same inches beneath his board. The volume retained within me was such that, in the course of drawing it down, I had occasion to closely examine my plight.

The CerebStix was pilfered on behalf of Angel and, in my eyes, rightfully her property. However, as I held ownership of it now and was presently unhitched from Bridgework's direct attention, it stood a test of reason I should assume stewardship of the flash drive's fate. Yet I had no inherent interest in the CerebStix itself, but of its original owner and creator, Wayland Bridgework. Further complicating my exercise in due diligence, the object was purloined under the guise of Skeet Burnisher -- since disappeared -- and was now in the possession of handyman Walter Raleigh.

What obligation does Raleigh bear Angel?

I allowed the thought to resonate in synch with the residual drops from below, concluding it would be best for the CerebStix to leave the ship by any available method, with or without Angel.

"I knew someone was in here!" Chip/Silly shouted, throwing the door wide open, "I just freakin' knew it!"

Gathering myself in a swift motion, I immediately stepped into character. "Of course I'm in here, you damned fool, where else did you think I would be?" I moved to the sink and meticulously washed my hands, watching the agitated son-in-law's reflection in the mirror from the corner of my eye.

"You were in here all along!"

"For about the past half hour, yes. Your two associates were kind enough to allow me in when I knocked."

"Associates? You knocked? For what?"

"Listen, son," I grabbed the hand towel and flattened my voice to the tone of a confident roughneck, "I don't ask questions around here. Neither should you. I take orders, follow instructions and get the job done."

"And just what job would it be that you're doing, mister --"

"Raleigh. Walter Raleigh. Presently, I am repairing a leak."

"More like you were creating one," Chip/Silly replied sharply, kicking the door shut behind him. "Where's your identification card?"

"Why, it's right here," I feigned looking down at my chest and instantly tossed the towel in Chip/Silly's face, following up with a stunning right cross to his unsuspecting chin. "That one's for Angel. This one's for me." The left hook I threw connected firmly and flawlessly against his right temple, buckling his knees and dropping him faster than a tech stock in a bear market. I grabbed a pair of Angel's hosiery and bound Chip/Silly's hands and feet in hogtied fashion, finishing as the ship gave a sudden lurch to starboard and the engine thrust diminished. Three blasts from ship's horn signaled we were inbound to the port of Acapulco.

Not wasting a moment, I fetched the makeup kit from beneath Angel's vanity and smeared Chip/Silly's face and arms with the ochre-colored cream. As he began to turn a slight shade of auburn, I spiked his hair with a combination of gel and gray dye, pleased with the reasonable facsimile of Skeet Burnisher taking form before my eyes. For the final touch, I penciled in a thick grandiose mustache swirling up and about his cheeks.

"One more thing, my friend, before I take leave." The cotton belt from Angel's bathrobe made the perfect gag. With it tied in place, I dragged the big lump off the bed propped him up against the wall opposite the cabin door. "You'll make a rather frightening sight and, I trust, a confusing source of misinformation when discovered."

***

To say that a full security force had been stationed at the fore of the vessel would be a disservice to Bridgework's pack of thugs. Given the combined amount of beef, muscle and sinew packed onto various outer decks and clogging every square foot of passageway, it was remarkable the _Gangrene's_ bow managed to stay above the waterline. Above and beyond the glistening squashes of the brutes shone the lights of Acapulco, distant and flickering along the dark coast, but nevertheless offering hope of continuing life once I jettisoned the rollicking and foreboding party ship. Reversing direction, I casually sauntered down the starboard rail toward the stern, believing the best chance of survival would be found by staying in the open.

By gumbo! Maybe even spend some time in the wheelhouse itself!

My optimism, tangible and tasty in the pleasant predawn air, quickly faded upon realizing I was walking directly toward Rico and a half-dozen of his steroidal hoods.

"Oh, I went a fishin' in the crick the other day," I began in singsong, hoping the spontaneous tune would serve as an innocent diversion, "and caught a catfish using an old bale of hay."

"You!" Rico grabbed the front of my overalls, his grip perilously close to the CerebStix. "What are you doing here?"

"Say, friend, what's with the shuttle service?" I politely removed his hand and continued with my solo. "Pulled that catfish from the water and without a doubt, smacked it on the head then caught me a trout!"

"You were supposed to be off the _Gangrene_!"

"Tell me about it, brother. It's like I've been working on the railroad around here, trying to keep this train running straight down the expressway track. That's despite the fact it's a ship we're on." I shifted my weight and started around him. "I appreciate all your help and the helping hands of your staff, I do, I do. I most certainly do."

"Halt." This time Rico leveraged my shoulder, squashing me against the rail. "What is your name again?"

"Raleigh," I replied, eyeballing him and his posse, who by now had closed around me. "Walter Raleigh."

Suspicion spread across Rico's forehead like lines of old ladies forming up for bingo night at the local auxiliary. "You were supposed to be all done _before_ we left. But you stayed on." The formula slowly wrote itself out on the chalkboard in his mind. "You went against my orders. And then came the word of a stowaway. A threat to the boss. Who could that be, now?"

"Beats the dustbowl right out of me," I answered with a shrug of my shoulders. "I was just singing my song on my way to another repair assignment. The macro blades are malfunctioning on the fantail and I was hoping it'd be a quick fix, one that wouldn't hold up my leave in Acapulco, if you know know what I mean mean." I winked at the Cro-Magnon on my left, who broke into a smile.

"I want to hear more about your fishing trip."

"So you do. Well," I started up the tune once again, "I tugged on that trout and bit it square in the eye, finding out it tasted just like a bowl of caustic lye."

"Gross!"

"Shut up," Rico was in no mood for either fish stories or songs. "You're coming with me, Raleigh."

"What in the devil for? And, please, I insist you call me Walter."

"Shut up! Move!"

"What about the macro blades?"

Rico reefed on my elbow and shoulder. "Shut up and move already." The entourage clustered inward like a herd of steer escorting the farm's sole lamb to slaughter. "You're going to explain yourself to Mr. Moeziz."

"Mr. Moeziz?" My cover would be lifted within a minute's time spent with him. "Why, I just saw him down below. A very busy man. Perhaps this could wait for a bit, say after our call in Acapulco."

"Never." The herd trundled forward.

"I actually tried to speak with him, but he ignored me. Far too busy."

"You won't have that problem after my introduction," Rico smiled.

"Well, maybe I could save everyone some time, then. After all, I am Mr. Fix It."

"Okay, then, Walter Fix It." Rico halted the mini-stampede jusst short of the fore's security station. "How are you gonna save us time?"

"I was working down below, see? And this guy Burnisher, the magician, he was like trying to show me a trick. Personally, I think the son of a bitch was after my wallet --"

"He almost got mine last night," the Cro-Magnon chimed in. "The 'Sydney Opera House' trick, he called it."

"Shut up!"

"And I told him, 'Hey, I'm only here to manage a leak, see?'. And he says something about having this new Houdini trick, whereas he's all tied up and whatnot, and he's going to free his mind and body."

"Yeah? And?"

"Strange stuff coming from a man of orange, wouldn't you say? I mean, from him, you'd be thinking he'd talk about carrots or shallots or some other vegetables."

"Rutabagas. God, could my grandmother cook rutabagas," Cro-Magnon said, looking dreamily skyward.

"Where was the magician?" Rico applied a healthy grip to my windpipe.

"Down under," I squawked. "The second or third level. He said he needed to get his props from one of the cabins. I don't know --"

Rico let up a bit, allowing me to clear my throat.

"I don't know which one. I tried telling Mr. Moeziz, but he wouldn't stop long enough to hear the news. I know you're all looking for the magician, and that's where I'm at, too. Listen, pal, I'm just a working man, punching the clock. I want to sing me song and fix me fantail. Then off to the nearest panty shanty for a couple of cold grogs and a look see, no touch with the local talent. What'dya say, then, sport? Your turn to shine in front of Mr. Moeziz, not mine."

Again Rico's chalk met the board, carefully summing up the equation in his mind. "What level was he on?"

"Two! Wait, maybe three. It was three, I think. Could have been, I've been working in nearly every cabin on both levels. They sure do look alike. Two or three. Not sure." I smiled earnestly at the big suit before me, hoping my uncertainty would cost time. "But I'm sure if you search every room, he'll turn up in one of them. One of the middle ones. On the starboard side. Maybe start there. Won't Burnisher's apprehension please Mr. Bridgework to no end?"

"And what do you get out of it?"

"A chance to do my job and the opportunity for a night on the town." I peered anxiously over his shoulder, smiling at the thought of an imaginary mad bar scene in crazy Acapulco. A departing cruise liner, several hundred yards to our starboard, blasted a series of signals from its horn. "Bridgework and Moeziz are going to take a real fond liking to the person who makes the magician reappear."

"True that. Staple, escort Mr. Fix It to his job on the aft. Don't let him out of your sight. When you're done, bring him to me. We'll renew our conversation then, cowboy."

"Yee haw," I replied flatly. "Come on, Staple, we've got a tail to fan!"

Bidding the herd farewell, we reached the rear of the ship where the deck was deserted but for a few couples socializing with pre-sunrise cocktails in hand. The large holiday ship, lights ablaze and full of revelers, pushed slowly past to our left on its way into the Pacific. A smattering of larger, privately owned sailboats appeared in silhouette against the dark water, anchored in a sporadic pattern near the outer opening of the harbor.

"Here, hold this," I said, fishing out the rubber mallet and handing the burlap bag to Staple. "You may want to stand back a hair in case I hit the Errant Rivet. It's been known to happen with disastrous results."

Staple complied with my directive and, in a strange coincidence, as I brought the mallet down upon the stern's rail the _Gangrene_ dropped a notch in speed. I strained myself looking into the darkness as the resulting wake swelled and splashed square on against the aft. "See, Staple? Look at that, will you?"

My abundantly sized escort tentatively crept up to the rail, keeping himself at arm's length from the overhang. "That's not good, is it?"

"Very clever, my jumbo chum. Now, I must hurry and get down there to do the proper repairs. Banging on things up here is only going to slow our rate of travel. Do you understand?"

"Completely," Staple nodded in agreement.

"What we need," I said in a contemplative manner, "is right there. I'll lower myself down on that halyard with you holding the other end, right? Make sure to have tight grip, I don't want to become chopper meat in the propellers. Not to mention how mad the captain and Mr. Bridgework would be having created such a mess."

Staple looked from me to the thick cable coiled in the corner of the afterdeck. "You think I'm going to keep you in one place holding onto that?"

"Right again, oh thick one. Hmmm. And it'd be damned difficult to access my work tools, swinging around at the end of that vine. What if we?" I tipped my cowboy hat back and put a finger to my chin. "No, no, no."

"What's your idea, Mr. Fix It? I'll tell you if it's no good or not." Staple's confidence in his own logic soared.

"Well, I was thinking," I said, stringing out my words in hope Staple would seize the occasion to buttress them. "If we took that halyard and tied one end to the stern rail. Then," I paused as though envisioning a three-dimensional blueprint, "the other end is secured to that lifeboat over there, and we lower the lifeboat into the water --"

"Then you could reach the ship standing up with your tools right next to you."

"Dry as a bone. No danger of becoming saltwater soaked propeller pâté. And when I'm done," I stuck an open hand in the air indicating the initiation of a high-five celebration, "you pull me around to the port side, we attach the hooks and -- bingo! -- back up topside I come. Job done, boss happy, beer to drink. After we see Rico, of course."

"I will buy the beer," Staple said, grinning as he hoisted the rucksack and slipped it under the tarpaulin covering the auxiliary boat. I grimaced as he stood terrifyingly close the same location I did earlier when depositing the shotgun and ammunition.

"Listen, Stapes old fellow, why don't you secure the end of the cable to that cleat over yonder. I'll hitch it to the bow of the lifeboat before we let it down off the davits. The cable should stay taut as I work my way around to the back, so if you could make sure the knot doesn't slip --"

"Gone with the tide, otherwise."

"Precisely, my studious steward. It would be some time before I caught up with the _Gangrene_ again." As pleasant as Staple's company had become, I could not afford to idle away time on the lido deck any longer. Loosening the tie down, I climbed into the middle of the lifeboat and gestured for the loose end of the cable. "Let's get 'er done, bucko."

Accompanied by the lonesome tolling from the clanging bell of a harbor buoy, Staple proved of great assistance in ratcheting me -- astride the beam ends -- and the life boat gently toward the water's surface. I estimated the _Gangrene_ was making six knots and, by my best calculations, would reach Acapulco landfall within the hour.

"Don't forget to tie it to the bow!"

"Roger, that," I called up to the big man. With no intention of tying my ride to anything, I braced my legs firmly against the base of the bench seat in front of me. Wrapping the cable around my left forearm, I took hold of the modest tiller with my right hand and steadied myself for the impact of touchdown. The hull dragged across the top of the ocean bringing an instant tension to the tiller and causing the lifeboat to skew toward the large ship. I fought back, pulling on the handle with all my weight while keeping in mind not to overcorrect the direction of the small craft. The spray of saltwater shot over me and, like the blade of a farm plow sunk into soft soil, the lifeboat bifurcated the ocean beneath it. "Release the davit lines!"

The slack on the cable immediately became taut, squeezing my arm like a jungle python and pulling me forward so my knee rammed the bench. Watching as the _Gangrene_ steamed by on my left, I carefully angled the tiller so the bow of the lifeboat fell in line with the big ship's aft.

Now if only I can bear the pressure of acting as a human tow hitch.

I drafted into the ship's wake, finding a pocket of surf surprisingly placid a few yards from the massive hull in front of me. It was here at this very location I would ride the _Gangrene_ as far shoreward as she would take me, not knowing when I would be forced to sever the piggyback union. That answer came swifter than I would have liked.

Movement from the deck two stories above caught my eye and, at first, I thought the darkened shadow of Staple was waving to me. I smiled and waved in return, as though working diligently to bring the small raft within spitting distance of the _Gangrene_ aft. The outline of another figure appeared, immediately joined by a third. I hastily concluded Chip/Silly had been discovered and in the process, against prodigious odds, sensibly explained his predicament. My suspicion was confirmed by the first muzzle flash, suspending any internal debate over the timing and conditions of setting the lifeboat adrift.

Allowing the rope to slip from my arm, I dropped to the hull and kicked the rudder hard to port, holding it in place with one foot. Two rounds pinged off the opposite side of the craft in quick succession, encouraging me to reduce the radius of my being and pray the swell of the waves would help foul future marksmanship. Another two shots found the bow, barely inches from the top of my head, prompting a brief contemplation that either my prayers were highly effective or about to fail miserably. My heart pounded furiously with hope the momentum of the _Gangrene_ would be great enough to open a chasm between us so I might make good my exodus. To my dismay, the lifeboat suddenly lit up as though hosting the opening act of Faithful Hill's amateur talent night.

"Dammit!" As much as I warmed to Staple in our brief partnership, a line of respect had been crossed and it was time to lower the heads of those using me as a target. In one precise move, I reached into the next bay and grabbed the shotgun. Rolling onto my back, I braced my feet against the side of the hull and racked off four shots in rapid sequence, spraying the _Gangrene_ rail. I patiently aimed the next volley, accounting for the roll and speed of the receding ship, and extinguished the offending spotlight as if it were an ordinary fifteen-hundred watt clay pigeon. "Curtain closed!"

Without waiting for an answer from the crew, I fumbled in the darkness on unsteady feet and managed to drop the oars into the tholes on my first attempt. Between verses of _Row, Row, Row Your Boat_ and a somber rendition of _Michael, Row the Boat Ashore_ [inserting my name accordingly], I put my back and arms into the business of retreating to safety.

Over the caps of the waves I could see the _Gangrene_ holding its course straight and true. It would be a matter of moments before word reached the bridge and action taken to circle back. Permission would be sought and granted from the harbor master for the ship to alter its present course and search for its "lost" lifeboat, which posed a hazard to navigation in the busy shipping lanes. I pulled on the oars all the harder and kept a firm gaze on my former conveyance, noting I was at a distinct disadvantage in both the horsepower and ballast divisions.

So intense was my concentration on the _Gangrene_ increasing its distance from me, I neglected to realize I had inadvertently crossed into the outbound seagoing lane. Like an errant jaywalker tempting rush hour traffic on Amsterdam Avenue, my perpendicular path plotted the lifeboat at the perfect intersect for what turned out to be the Cullion Line's _Queen Albert II_ , reputedly the largest luxury ocean liner ever constructed.

I became aware of the _QA II_ bearing down on me when noting a sound similar to the terrace pool being filled at Tumultuous Manor. In what has evolved into a delightful rite of springtime passage, Smudgely takes great pride in opening the favored swimming hole and -- in distinct contrast with his customary formal demeanor -- entertains the household staff for hours on end with a variety of tricks involving a common garden hose. The pleasant dalliance in picturing a warm afternoon in May where my pseudo-batman splashes water for the amusement of all was quickly shattered by multiple stimuli overburdening my central nervous system.

Foremost was the sense of physical disorientation. In the matter of a breath, I went from an approximate north-by-northeast heading to becoming nothing more than a spinning needle in the vortex of a whirlpool. This discombobulating gyration was followed by a series of eardrum-shattering blasts from a horn, one which seemed to suck the air from my body, leaving my soul attached to my earthly remains by a most brittle tether. Again and again the horn sounded, a thousand times louder than my screams as the little dory spun clockwise on the rise of a wave, smashing countless times against the dark barnacle-covered steel which appeared angry for not having severed me in two. I watched in horror as both oars snapped and shattered like twigs in a windstorm, becoming useless fragments of wood and leaving me holding their simple remnants in my paralyzed hands.

My mind is infected by few traumatic nightmares, but there are those which -- as a child -- haunted me so severely psychotherapy was ultimately deployed to subdue potentially lifelong debilitations. In the present calamitous circumstance unfolding in the _Bahia De Acapulco_ , I stared down my greatest phobia: The irrational dread of being rammed by a mammoth sea vessel, forced helplessly into unwanted contact with its cold hull [complete with resident jellyfish, starfish, seaweed and sea spiders], and vacuumed against my will beneath the metallic monstrosity where spinning propellers -- their fins the size of country barn doors -- rotated systemically, yearning to pulverize me into a mangled mash of unidentifiable flesh and bone. For several years during my childhood and youth, when dabbling in the concept of reincarnation, I held forth a firm belief I had been ticketed aboard the ill-fated maiden voyage of the _Titanic_ , for there was no plausible explanation as to how or why a young, landlocked New England boy would come to suffer such an inexplicable affliction. And, now, here I was -- as if foretold so many years ago while posturing in fright on a therapist's couch -- grappling with the reality of a fate most terrifying.

With little left to do, I summoned forth the watchwords given to me in counseling those years past -- _sino testis protelo_ \-- and allowed the fortitude located at the junction of my legs to dictate my behavior. Standing amidship in the lifeboat, I straddled the center bench and gripped the broken oar handles tightly in both hands, pushing against the steel beast determined to crush me. Slowly the lifeboat spun clockwise, its bow now heading toward shore while the stern rattled and cracked against the passing giant hull. Trembling in the face of all unholy to me, I stepped awkwardly to the rear of the craft and pushed again, sensing the weight of untold tons bearing down upon my very soul. Suddenly, the little skiff broke the suction of its behemoth cousin and rode the crest of the surf. I teetered from exhaustion and quickly squatted down on the last bench as we parted company, ten then fifteen then twenty feet away from the _QA II_. I timidly looked up the side of the passing monstrosity as though observing a skyscraper skimming the ocean's surface. There was no question, should I survive, I would face several months of intensive therapy at Dr. Hahmennum's practice upon my return to Faithful Hill.

The volume of water put forth by the titan pushed me farther outward from its cavernous pull. In a fit of enervation, I collapsed backward onto the seat and with a certain degree of self-pity, held myself tightly as the superstructure steamed by high above. Inertia took hold and I cared not for who was after me, what I possessed nor the fact I might be killed for it. All I could do at the moment was sit and breathe, short simple breaths signifying the basic essence of life yet in my body. Aloft in the night sky, tiny cabin lights twinkled against the blackness and another five short blasts from the _QA II_ served notice I was no longer tangled in my worst subconscious web. The broad aft steamed by, with the discernible chop-chop-chop of the ship's propellers sending a final and lasting shiver up my spine. The lifeboat swelled and rocked in the wake of the _QA II_ , prompting me to brace its sides.

Downrange, near the jutting point defining the dogleg in the bay, I spotted the unmistakable darkened shape of the _Gangrene_ circling counterclockwise for its return run. It would only be a matter of minutes now and ironically, even with the _QA II_ safely past, my sinking feeling returned. With no alternative available, I feebly stuck one arm in the water and desperately paddled. The swells being what they were, it quickly became apparent I would not make any headway in such a fashion. Another look at the distant _Gangrene_ sent me scurrying toward the bow hoping to find something which would propel the boat. As a final alternative, I had to consider donning a lifejacket and taking the chance I could swim ashore without being detected by an enraged Rico, a surly Staple and a homicidal Moeziz. Such action would mean, of course, scuttling the hard-won flash drive, my laptop and cell phone.

"Neeyuk!" A beam of blistering white light blinded me. Shading my eyes allowed me to see the lifeboat about to collide bow-to-bow with another vessel mere feet from my face. "Not again!"

" _¿Es usted ilegal, lleno de mala suerte o de llano estúpido?_ " a male voice called out with an offering of choices. The two boats walloped against one another, without any apparent damage to his weathered fishing craft, half-again the size of my skiff.

"I would say the middle one, I guess," I replied, attempting to translate in my now-addled mind.

"Ah, a _gringo_. With bad luck."

"Perhaps a touch of stupidity as well." I flashed my best stage smile into the glaring spotlight, unable to make out the face of its operator. "I apologize if I have invaded your fishing grounds."

" _Que?"_

"Soy un perro para conseguir de su manera."

"You are a dog, eh? Stranded in a boat?"

"So it would seem in some respects, yes. And I'm in your way." I glanced in the direction of the _Gangrene_ , estimating it would be upon us in five to seven minutes.

"Those are your friends who come?" The beam of light swung toward the port entrance.

"Not necessarily. We had a bit of a falling out, you see."

"I know. I watch. Your night shot is good. But your steering is not."

"Well, I didn't actually see the _Queen Albert_ coming." I let my words trail off and listened for a moment as the two boats bounced and clunked off one another. "Fortunately, I've some childhood experience in dodging oceangoing vessels."

"But you not juke this one, yes? No oars no more."

"I am at a bit of a disadvantage now, speaking in practical terms. Yes."

"And you want to get to shore. Set foot on land."

"Both feet, preferably. Indeed." There fell an awkward silence in which I suppose I might have filled by begging for a lift.

"You have money?"

"Not as such, per se. However, my good fellow, I can arrange to pay you once I am safely on terra firma and make a phone call. A single call." The image of Mia Kolpaux floating aloft in a white robe over my desk in the upstairs study filled my mind's eye like a religious icon. "Whatever your fee, I will meet it, double it and add a fifty percent gratuity. Post haste."

The man chuckled, causing the light to bounce up and down. "College boy, no?"

"State university, actually." The persecution continued to trail me, even while hunted on the high seas. " _Summa cum laude_."

"My son, he go to Cornell. Animal school."

"Go Big Red!" I offered enthusiastically, despite my preference for never spending a winter on East Hill in Ithaca. "Beat Big Green."

"Tuition is expensive in the Ivy League," his tone saddened. "And you have no financial aid on your person."

"That can be corrected quickly, my good man. I'm a firm believer in higher education, I am." I straightened my legs, steadying myself against the continuing roll of the waves.

"That may be so. But summer recess is here now. You offer me nothing but your good nature."

"It's all I packed," I replied, looking about the lifeboat sheepishly, "but I'll meet your price given a bit of time, a phone call and an ATM machine."

"So you say. Chirp, chirp, chirp. Hand me the gun," he said, snapping his fingers. "Be quick! Your friends approach."

"The shotgun?" It was idiotic of me to ask, as there was no other weapon near me. "This one?"

"Hand it here."

"It's the only one I've got!"

"You want to get to shore? You hand over the gun."

Averse to all my good sense and instincts, I reluctantly offered the shotgun barrel-first to the extended hand reaching down from the deck above. "I'll just gather my gear and be right --"

"Not so quick. Release the lifejackets."

"I beg your pardon, but why take the time?"

"Release the lifejackets! Make them float!" The man was agitated now and the distinct rattle of a round being chambered added to my feeling of impending desolation. "All of them!"

I complied without objection, placing the jackets in the water so they floated lazily on the lee side of the lifeboat. My idea being should I need one after this particular bout with piracy, they would not have drifted far. The _Gangrene_ was now within a mile and closing fast at full speed, its brilliant floodlights kicking on as the final jacket dropped from my fingers.

"Now, pull the drain plug," the buccaneer demanded.

"But the boat will sink," I said, meekly stating the obvious. A blast of the _Gangrene's_ horn served as a gentle reminder of what would be greeting me. "I'm not so sure we want to do that."

"Pull the plug or I blow a hole in the boat. And maybe you, too."

Again, with a smile, I carried out his wishes and popped open the plug as if I were uncorking a champagne bottle. "There," I said, assuming the shotgun barrel was trained directly at my chest, "we're taking on water now, as ordered, sir." The searchlights on the _Gangrene_ scanned the bay surrounding the boats, close enough to hear its engines idle down.

"Walk up here. Move!"

The light shown to the bow of the fishing rig. I picked up my gear and slung it over my shoulder, stepping on the center bench as the lifeboat's aft submerged. "You may wish to make this brief, sir, as I am due at a swim meet in a matter of seconds."

My immediate life goal was reduced to reaching dry ground, embarking on a plane, flying north and landing, ultimately, in the soaking hot bath of my private quarters at the Manor. Enjoying a cup of Mrs. Potsdam's special English Breakfast tea would serve as a bonus. A bill to Sondheim for my time, as well as my advice he procure someone else to bring Bridgework into the fold, successfully rounded out this fantasy. I held a vision this case was, in terms of my involvement, arriving at a rapid conclusion.

"Give me the bag."

"Sure, why not?" I swung the haversack off my shoulder toward the beam of light, timing a half-gainer aft-side upon its release. The maneuver would deflect the main blast of birdshot and with good luck I would be deep in the briny before the trigger could be pulled again. Slinging the bag forward, I leapt straight up from the bench, turned my head about so my body would follow and arched my back while extending my arms. My form was beautifully executed, suffering only a lack of water in which to land. The pine constructed framing was, naturally, a poor substitute for the Pacific and, landing on my back staring at the night sky, I had cause to consider the boat's relative firmness.

"Incluso un pescado sabe su manera de nuevo al agua, amigo."

"Yes, well, I was headed in the right direction," I sputtered, regaining my wind.

"You can go down with your ship or join me here on mine. But please, _gringo_ , no more jumping in the air. Someone get hurt, yes?" The coiled end of a rope landed on my chest. "You hurry. Your friends come and your feet get wet."

I dragged myself up the rope, heaving to over the edge of the well-used fishing vessel and landing on a collection of nets, buckets and old chum. "You don't lack for the tools of your trade."

"I like catching what I fish for."

" _Si_ , I know." I rolled onto my knees, gaining a better view of my floating host. At first glance, it was as though Hemingway had returned -- or perhaps his distinctive white beard and ever-present turtleneck had never left -- the balmy latitudes of Central America. "They're going to be sore about the scuttled lifeboat."

"So?" Captain Ernest replied. "It will occupy their time once they find it. Give them much to do over little." He shut down the running lights on his craft, leaving us in total darkness, and kicked the engine into forward gear. The motor coughed, belched and built itself up to a low grinding speed, allowing us to putter along within the troughs of the rising waves. "We take our time getting home, yes?"

"Who am I to be in a rush?" I stood up and joined my rescuer by his side, extending my hand in gratitude while thankfully watching the _Gangrene_ recede in the distance. "How can I ever thank you?"

"You will pay me," he said business-like, giving my hand one firm pump. "Cash money. If you don't, I bring you back to where I found you."

"You will be paid," I chuckled. I sensed the older man would, without care or hesitation, follow through on his statement. "Your name?"

The skipper looked me over once and picked up an unlit stogie wedged next to a compass on the dashboard. "Around the bay I am known as _El Pulpo Malhumorado_. The Angry Squid. But you may call me Jack."

"Thank you for everything, Jack."

"You're money is all that is owed me. I care nothing for your background or reason for being a one man navy gunboat." He lit the stogie and, in the brief second the flame illuminated his face, evidence of a lengthy scar on his cheek stood out. "There is one thing for me to know. Your name, _amigo_. After that, no questions."

"Me?" I tried to sound flattered while subduing the elation at my good fortune in meeting up with Jack the Angry Squid. "Why, you can call me Skeet. Skeet Raleigh. Mechanical magician at your service."

CHAPTER NINE

_Outside Looking Out_

The view from the seaside outhouse made one feel regal, as if occupying the finest throne in a most picturesque kingdom. Through the slats to the left, under a bright morning sun, I watched as neighborhood kids chose teams for a pickup game of soccer. A knothole on my right void of the darkened oval once filling its space afforded a lovely view of the beach, where presently a mother walked her two toddlers, their toes splashed by the waves greeting the shoreline.

Beyond this visage lay the _Pulpo Malhumorado_ itself, listed to one side and firmly secured to a heavy piece of driftwood. No pier or wharf served Jack and his rig, as the man chose to live in a simplistic and unentangled way -- one he qualified with an introduction of select technology into his idyllic life.

"¿Las habas y el arroz?" Jack asked, bearing a slight smile. Wearing nothing but shorts, he sat on the shaded back porch of his home, legs outstretched and bare feet dug in the sand, an unlit stogie dangling between his fingers.

"No, no, my good man. Breakfast was just fine." Indeed, Jack's sunrise blend of beans and rice hit the spot. "Just catching up with the world."

"Yes. Your phone ring twice while you were away on jury duty," he replied, nodding toward the outhouse.

Not wanting to appear ungrateful, I seated myself on an unsteady stool and lifted the brim of my beaten porkpie. "Jack, I appreciate your hospitality, I really do. The rescue. The lodging. Using your outlets and electricity to charge my mobile and laptop. Your food. The outhouse. How can I ever repay you?"

"Money. Cold, hard cash." He grimaced as one of the goalies made a stunning save off a close header. "Answer your phone. It has a nice jingle."

"I'll call my personal assistant in a moment. I can assure you your bill will be paid in full. However, there are a few additional favors I need."

"See those kids play football? They play it because of me. I care for them. I make sure they have a ball to kick and shoes to run in."

"Duly noted, Jack. I'll be sure to include a donation in their name along with your compensation."

"That woman on the beach over there?"

"Your daughter and grandchildren?"

"The mother of my children walking my children."

"Jack!" I gulped, scrambling to deliver a compliment, "life is agreeing with you here on your, your, your \--".

"Peninsula."

"Exactly! And I'll gladly calculate your progeny into the compensation equation, as well."

"Don't forget the mother," he added wryly, wagging a finger in my direction. "Do not do that."

"And mother, too." I looked around to see if there were other relatives strolling into view. "In addition to stopping at an ATM on the way to the airport, I need to visit a Federal Express office. That wouldn't be an issue, would it?" My intention was to overnight the flash drive and Angel's note back to Tumultuous Manor for safekeeping, having made the decision earlier while under the glow of orange candlelight in Jack's comfortable though modest home.

Los Angeles would provide one final crack at harnessing Bridgework to Sondheim's sleigh. I owed it to myself, Angel and Sondheim to head off the financier at the next port where \-- with careful planning -- the advantage would be mine. My revamped travel strategy, however, was contingent upon a successful connection with one of my longstanding southern California chums.

"My son attend Cornell in New York."

"So you said," I smiled, briefly wondering how I would slip a year's tuition past Sondheim on my expense sheet. "Planning to be a veterinarian."

" _Si_ , darn right. He turn down Dartmouth."

"He did, did he?" It was cheap, vicarious revenge upon the College on the Hill for rejecting me, but it was revenge nonetheless. "Say, Jack, I've taken an immediate liking to your boy."

"Better hockey at Cornell."

"You don't say."

" _Si_. Kurwenal has full ice hockey scholarship. He's a good boy."

"Kurwenal? Ice hockey?" I supposed neither the name nor association with the sport was impossible. "Where'd he learn that?"

"The boys," Jack said, ignoring my question and pointing to the soccer game, "will need new skates this year. All sizes."

A quick headcount indicated I needed to add fourteen pair of CCMs to my lifesaving room service bill.

"Jerseys would help, too."

"I was just arriving at that very point." Finally, the value of life was being quantified. "Perhaps if I phone my home office right now, we can begin the balance of our day?"

"Goal!" Jack yelled, raising his arms and waiving to the mother of his children, who smiled broadly at him from the beach.

***

"Mia?"

"No, this is Mrs. Potsdam. Whom may I say is phoning?"

"Mrs. Potsdam!" I recoiled at my misidentification, but allowed a certain forgiveness for the lapse as I stood within feet of the crashing surf. "It's me! Baron."

"Sir," her response came rigidly across the airwave. "How might I help you, sir?"

"Yes, then, my dear woman. Is Mia available?"

"Not as such, sir. She's away for the moment."

"Ah," I replied, feeling nothing but comfort speaking with a familiar voice belonging to a kindred soul whose feet were firmly planted upon the safe flooring of Tumultuous Manor. "Smudgely then, if you please."

"I'm afraid, sir," she stammered, as though watching a pot of boiling tea water accidentally spill into a pan of hot olive oil over a live flame, "he's unavailable at this time, too."

"Smudgely? Unavailable? The two words do not coexist with one another."

"They've taken ... Together, they're gone. O my sake's alive, I prepped them a picnic basket and they're off together in the Whippet, sir!"

"They're on a picnic? With one another?" I scrunched a wad of wet sand in the crevice of my bare toes and deposited it into the receding wave. "This is our man Smudgely, is it?"

And what of my possibilities with Miss Mia?

"The devil's gotten into him, sir, surely it has!"

"Mephisto is everywhere, Mrs. Potsdam." I searched the horizon for sign of the _Gangrene_ , wondering if it discovered the abandoned lifeboat, gone to port in Acapulco or pushed on to its planned mooring in Long Beach. "Did they take the large wicker basket from atop the larder in the pantry?"

"That they did, sir, along with one of your best bottles of wine I must add."

"Merlot?"

"Shiraz cabernet, sir."

"That would be our Smudgely, yes, indeed."

"I didn't approve of this. Not one bit."

"Ours is not to judge, Mrs. Potsdam." I took a deep breath and watched as a starfish rode in and out with a wave. "Smudgely is a man of honor. I have great faith in his reasoning and logic. He need not explain himself to us."

"Yes, sir."

"That said, the gravity of my situation is such Smudgely will feel a pang of guilt for not being present to accept my instructions. Mrs. Potsdam, you are now receiving direct orders from me."

"Sir, I never --"

"Circumstance warrants this change in protocol. I can't be on this call forever. There is much to do." The intense distress I felt over the picnic lunch being shared by Smudgely and Miss Kolpaux was troublesome. A sense of betrayal crept into my mind, precisely where such animus was not welcomed. "Besides, it's not as if we're family," I blurted out.

"Sir, I always believed you felt otherwise." The disappointment in Mrs. Potdam's voice was unmistakable. "Let me get a scrap of paper now."

"There will be a package, an ordinary Federal Express envelope, arriving tomorrow at the Manor." I spoke in a clinical tone. "Upon its reception, instruct Smudgely to place it immediately in the Cromwell."

"The Cromwell!" Mrs. Potsdam gasped at the mention of the nineteenth century safe located in the wall of my upstairs study. Smudgely and I were the sole possessors of its archaic and byzantine combination. "Yes, sir."

"That is all for now. I hope to be home within the week and look forward to one of your delicious homemade meals."

"Yes, sir. Package to be delivered tomorrow. Stored in the Cromwell. I'd best be preparing a batch of blueberry scones, then, hadn't I?"

"Blueberry scones?" The pastry had never scored high on my list of caloric intake. "Whatever for?"

"For Dawn the Fed Ex girl, sir. You must know she likes to stop by the kitchen on her visits here and sample my cooking. Blueberry scones are her favorite."

***

What my next call lacked in the heartwarming phoning-home department, it made up for in the stroke of good fortune division. So much so, I held a brief notion to go online to purchase an Irish National Lottery ticket.

"Von dek Horn, you inimitable bastard! Unique you are!" The familiar and friendly voice sounded as though it originated from the inside of a can of freshly sealed peanuts.

"Hello, Joe," I parroted an identical height of cheer and goodwill. "Thank you for answering directly and on the first ring, too." Typically, as nice a guy as Joe Kose was, at times his insular position made him exceedingly difficult to contact. To reach him so promptly suggested a certain degree of divine intervention transmitting through the airwaves. "I'm terribly sorry to intrude upon your day."

"Baron, if I've said this once I've said it maybe four times in my life, you're never a pest! Not to me, not to my company!" He broke into a string of uninterrupted laughter, which left me smiling and feeling upbeat again under the hot morning sun. "Say, when're you going to shelve all that local stage drama crapola, anyway? I'm telling you, Baron, the minute you crack a smile on your gorgeous mug, a new comedian will be born for the screen. You'll be bigger than big, y'hear?"

Mistakenly, I digressed, as I often do with such Hollywood types. "Well, actually, I have taken on another role I believe will be the perfect challenge for my --"

"Hogwash, balderdash and bird droppings, son! If you're not drawing a laugh, you're not breathing correctly. When are you gonna listen to me? I'm giving you not only the best career advice you'll receive, but the opportunity to put it in practice. Come on, boy, do me a favor! You're making Uncle Joe look bad!"

The 'uncle' reference was Joe's droll way of portraying himself as seasoned and wise. In truth, he was perhaps fifteen years my junior and had earned his directorial chops at the youthful age of twenty, when he scored both a Golden Globe and Oscar for his debut film _The Single Svengali_ , a new-age vampire satire. The spoof had spawned a booming franchise, christening Joe Kose the boy-king of blockbuster comedies. He was, according to recent insider reports, currently scripting the fourth installment of the series, entitled _The Quadruple Svengali._

"Perhaps we could exchange courtesies then, Joe. If you would help me out of my bind, I'll be happy to screen test for you at some point in the future, yes?"

Joe had an obsession with my great uncle, Wark von dek Horn. Uncle Wark worked as an entertainer in the early twentieth century, starting out as an ax-juggler on the vaudeville stage before refining his act into one of the first successful standup comedy routines to tour the country. It was said his skit portraying then-President William Howard Taft as a health-conscience short-order cook revolutionized political satire: "Keep it on the backburner, goddammit!" became an accepted national idiom as a result of Uncle Wark's groundbreaking work.

After a lengthy and popular engagement at the old Belasco Theatre in Los Angeles, Uncle Wark was drawn into the realm of the burgeoning movie industry. There he influenced the work of Chaplin, Lloyd, Keaton and -- not so much -- Arbuckle, spearheading the transition from silent films to talkies with such classics as _Your Pen, My Nostril_ and _Noodles at Noon_. His final film, _Eve's Rib is Missing, Too_ , was released on December 6, 1941. A day later, Uncle Wark announced his immediate retirement from the industry, stating there was no longer anything funny about the world. He lived out the remainder of his days in seclusion and obscurity at his Bel Air estate, leaving there only to summer at Tumultuous Manor. Joe's fixation with Uncle Wark -- whom he considered an unrivaled genius -- was the force behind his continual contact with me. In the creative prism of film which only he could envision, Joe Kose was determined to resurrect Uncle Wark through me. Sinfully, I was about to exploit this relationship as necessary.

"You've got a deal, Baron! Pump your phone up and down and consider this our handshake. Now, what is it I need to do to get you on the big screen?"

I cleared my throat and struck a calm pace in presenting my dilemma. "I'm stranded in Acapulco right now and could use a lift to L.A., actually. Also, I was hoping you might be able to put me up for a night or two when there. Finally, would it be possible to borrow your best security man for a bit of research?"

"Yeah, yeah. Hang on a tick, Bee."

The line went cold and my heart sank into a molten vat of believing my planned itinerary too aggressive to pull off. I was certain Bridgework would have every entrance at the Acapulco airport under surveillance. The chances of being discovered before having the opportunity to purchase a ticket out of town added to the present set of complications. Private transportation via Joe was my only hope.

I could manage to slip through security to board the Kose jet, reach Los Angeles before the _Gangrene_ and set a snare for Bridgework. Once the unpredictable financier was secured, I would contact Sondheim for a handoff meeting, then quite possibly -- against all odds -- end this adventure in SoCal and yet enjoy the remainder of summer at Tumultuous Manor.

_Come back on the line, Joe_!

I watched from a distance as Jack hugged the mother of his children before walking over to the dilapidated outbuilding serving as his garage. He stood before the open doorway and motioned it was time to leave the peaceful compound, square up with him and enter the fray of living on my own once again.

"Beestinger, Uncle Joe again. You still there?"

"Indeed," I replied, my circulatory system hummed like a smooth flowing freeway at rush hour, "indeed, I am."

"The gods must be smiling on us, then. We just lifted off from Montego Bay --"

"You can't be serious! I was there just a few days ago myself."

"Yeah, yeah. I spent the past four days in Port Antonio playing poker with Johnny, Charlie and Tampa," he said, employing the refined deftness of one well-practiced in the art of simultaneous name and place dropping. Another string of laughter unfurled. "Tampa took the big jackpot. He won a starring role in one of my next productions. Maybe opposite you, Baron, my man!"

"It's something to contemplate. Now, about my predicament --"

"I spoke with the pilot. We're altering our flight plan and will land in Acapulco in three hours. We've got forty minutes on the ground, friend, to refuel and be on our way. In that time, find your way to the jet. It's got the Kose Production logo on it, parked in the VIP section. Got it? We'll get you onboard from there. No second takes, hear?"

"My gratitude, Joe. Rest assured, I'll make the gate." I would recognize his jet, too, as the only Lear with the Kose leer applied to its nose. From behind me came the rumble of uninhibited exhaust burping in the wind. "My ride's up, Joe. I owe you one."

"That's what I want to hear. A _Simpatico of the Circus_ redux will clear the bill with me, okay? Front row stuff, right? Ciao, Bee-man."

I winced at the mention of the old movie series and of all the hundreds of roles Uncle Wark took on, his least favorite character. Simpatico was a crime-solving clown traveling the countryside with a circus troupe, The Two-Ring Ding-A-Ling Ching-Ka-Ching Big Top. Child-friendly, benevolent and asexual, Simpatico's popularity soared among family theatergoers in the mid-1930s as he successfully curtailed community lawbreaking while transforming the surrounding vicinal into serene utopian neighborhoods so much in demand at the time. To his credit, Uncle Wark insisted on realistic storylines that found Simpatico breaking up a major marijuana smuggling syndicate [ _Cuff That Puff,_ 1931], uncovering child employment infractions at a rural orphanage [ _Induced Labor_ , 1933] and mortgage foreclosure high jinks in the Dust Bowl [ _Juggle My Balls, Mr. Banker_ , 1934].

How easily I could bring Simpatico to life after rendering Barrymore and Rathbone at the edge of the footlights!

Jack wheeled a vintage Indian Chief motorcycle, painted flaming red, with its canoe-shaped sidecar to within feet of me on the beach. "Skeet. Your bill is ready."

"Somehow," I said, picking up my battered rucksack from the seat before fitting one leg into the cramped cockpit and pulling my porkpie down tight, "I have a feeling yours will be easier to pay than that due Joe Kose."

"Joe Kose?" Jack cocked his head quizzically, spitting a shot of tobacco juice into the sand while gunning the engine. "That guy should make a good movie someday, yes?"

***

The trip into the city followed a timeline of its history, beginning with us roaring along a deserted and dusty dirt road, wide strips of weeds growing between the well-worn grooves of tire tracks. An occasional seagull fled roadside at the approaching sound of Jack's machine, as fine a steel thoroughbred ever machined on a North American assembly line. We soon reached a bumpy and sporadically paved one-lane road, laid out between a scattering of fishing huts, small haciendas and chicken-wired stick-built coops. As with the evolution of organized civilization, more livestock and animals appeared, standing alongside the occasional spectator who offered a wave to the affable motorcycle operator. Finally, like a stream feeding a river feeding a lake, we entered the city proper, with its multiple lane highways and volume of traffic to match.

Jack was clearly at home amid the bustle of urban unruliness, commanding it to obey his whim just as the sea did his boat. In, between and out we weaved, cutting off cars and trucks alike, garnering the imprecations of young and old, male and female. Jack paid no attention to the insults. If anything, the derogatory comments fueled his daring-do and increased our brushes with disaster twofold. After one excruciating close call while threading the needle between an Esso oil tanker and a luggage-laden multi-colored VW Microbus, we veered off a hairpin exit, occupying the center of what was designed to be two lanes. Amazingly, Jack stopped when spotting the red light at the intersection.

"Well done," I said, trying to loosen my grip from the dashboard long enough to offer a thumb's up.

"Federal Express across the courtyard," Jack yelled, twisting the throttle so the idling bike backfired. I braced myself, expecting a hard right with the flow of traffic. Instead, Jack tore straight through the traffic circle and over the curb, causing an errant pigeon to rise and strike me in the face. The bird was, at that point, the least of my concerns as the park in which we were navigating was until now for pedestrians only. Without a care written on his face, Jack guided the Indian over the bumpy cobblestones and past a beautifully ornate water fountain full of children cooling themselves in the rising heat. While alarmed mothers and nannies shrieked at us, Jack simply tooted the tinny sounding horn and smiled, as if he was the inconvenienced party allowing for amends.

The posting of the flash drive and note was done so efficiently I found myself back in the canister of a sidecar sooner than desired, again into the busy streets like a crazed rocket launched into an oncoming meteor shower. "Now to American Express, yes? From one express to another express on Jack's express!" The fisherman-cum-daredevil released the clutch into third gear, running a series of cautionary lights with the aplomb of a seasoned politician careening his way through a crowded cocktail party to meet the newest cash-flushed lobbyist in town.

The height of our harrowing journey was reached ratcheting through an open-air bodega several city blocks long, featuring vendor after vendor selling fresh fruit and vegetables. We no sooner began our thrust into the fleeing crowd when a squash -- I believe of the acorn variety -- crowned me directly on the forehead. This served as the harbinger for the abundant aerial crop hailed upon us: Tomatoes, cucumbers, bananas, eggs and pumpkins were included in the variety of items striking me from the waist up. I was forced to admire the proficient aim of the hurlers, for we were making a good twenty miles per hour along certain stretches of the narrow corridor. At one point, in what was an impressive display of aggressive tactics, I suffered passage through a gauntlet of dried cornstalks held forth by a contingency of elderly women who seemed intent on connecting the lengthy plucked shoots with my Adam's apple. At the end of our run we were met with several buckets of cold water, a lame apology made for having covered us so entirely in newly-picked garden commodities.

Jack swung the Indian into a sharp left turn and downshifted, allowing the bike to build up a head of steam. "The bastards," he shouted down to me, his white beard now stained in a fusion of orange, yellow and green, "they do that every time!" Within minutes we pulled onto the sidewalk in front of the Amex office, this time sending but a handful of citizens running for their lives. In the shade of an overhead awning, Jack shut down the engine and lifted his veggie-splattered goggles onto the baseball hat, now cap-backwards on his head.

"In your country," he spoke calmly as if he just stepped from a nearby confessional, "you are apt to say, 'Who is your daddy?'. Am I correct?"

"I'm familiar with the adage, yes," I replied, removing a half ear of corn from inside my shirt.

"I don't like that expression. At this moment, when the bill is to be paid, I prefer to think of you as my catch of the day, no? I fish for my living. I went out in my boat. I pulled you in. Would a fish pay me to throw him back in the water?"

"Not being aquatic, I've never considered such a scenario. But most probably, yes."

"Aquatic or not, now I throw you back to where you swim. Remember that when adding your sums."

"Will do. That and the hockey playing soccer kids --"

"Football."

"And the mother of your children."

"Those fresh vegetables were good for you. You're thinking smart, Skeet."

Viewing me as though I bore two heads, the American Express personnel could not have otherwise been more helpful. They were kind enough to overlook the drying tomato seeds on my transaction slip and even allowed me to dip into the complimentary hard-candy dish upon concluding our commerce. Feeling a renewed sense of independence with the replenishing of my wallet, I thanked them profusely and set aside the generous remuneration for Jack in a separate envelope before returning to the lively action on the street. Jack sat astride his bike in casual conversation with two members of the _Policía Federal_ who, with mirrored sunglasses shading their eyes and muscular arms crossing their chests, leaned against a battered and dusty squad car blocking our exit.

" _Aquí ahora está el americano_ ," he said with a weak smile as I approached. "Skeet, my good friends here say I drive well for you, but much too fast for the city. They wish to place a tax on you for our speed."

"Is that a fact?" I eyeballed the two officers, recalling my previous experience with corrupt and mean-spirited _Federales_ while in the thick of _Le Bourgeon de la Folie_. Encountering them on their turf was the rough equivalent to stepping barefoot into a pile of fresh dog waste. The smell was noxious, tainting one until the offensive matter wore off of its own accord.

"They say if the tax is not paid, they will continue their investigation at their headquarters. Find out what ship it is you came from."

"How much?" Disgusted and alarmed, I handed Jack his envelope.

"Be polite." Jack distanced himself from me, obviously concerned with the officers demeanor. "Smile."

I folded a one-hundred dollar bill in half and thrust it toward the nearest _Federale_ who, in a clever move, clamped a handcuff about my wrist while plucking the C-note from my hand as though taking a tissue from its box.

"Dos más bién esto en el aeropuerto y él sale."

"What?" I shook my arm in an attempt to loosen the steel bracelet.

"You heard him, Skeet. They escort us to the airport. You pay them two more once we are there and they let you go. Not such a bad deal, yes?"

"How did they know --?"

"Effective interrogation method," Jack said, firing the Indian to life and lowering his goggles onto the bridge of his nose. "The waterboard once was one time too many for me."

"They were going to waterboard you?"

"Me?" Jack laughed, carefully easing into traffic behind the now lit-up police car. "No, no, no. They wanted to strap you down for a talk, _amigo_. Here they use warm ginger ale. Hard on the sinuses. Feel it for months."

"Why in the world?" Despite the sweltering humidity in the city, cold chill traveled its way up and down my spine.

" _Ahorro su asno con todo otra vez._ "

I had no choice but to agree that Jack had indeed rescued my backside once again.

***

The ride to the airport was memorable for Jack's subdued piloting of the motorcycle, mimicking the speed, signals and turns of our official guides. I quickly learned there was no removing the unwanted bangle from my wrist and was forced, with a great deal of skepticism and doubt, to believe the _Federales_ would follow through on their promise of Franklins-for-freedom. Entering the concourse area, the siren of the squad car parted traffic and dispersed all hesitant or slow-moving gawkers staring at the spectacle of our approach.

"Where to, Jack?"

"Security," he hollered, narrowly avoiding an overzealous cabbie trying to squeeze behind the police car. "At the end, down around underneath."

A quick stop in traffic caused us to nudge the backend of the ersatz-cruiser. Jack cursed and pulled the heavy machine backwards. "You sure you want to go here, Skeet?"

"Indeed, I have a friend who's meeting me," I checked my watch, "in less than an hour."

"Can you meet somewhere else? I take you."

"No can do. He's my ride home."

" _Vergüenza_."

It was shameful. I was mortified at how it all might conclude, the flooding of my nasal cavity with a room temperature carbonated beverage notwithstanding. The _Federales_ were notoriously inconsistent and unpredictable, particularly on the subject of bribes. There existed no established etiquette or protocol -- one either swayed them with the requested payoff or suffered the misfortune of a flawed transaction. Either way, the cash enticement would disappear into the law's pocket, whether or not the promised return was realized. I could reasonably expect to be relieved of all my cash and valuables, and possibly humiliated in the local lockup, before being handed over to the bellicose crew of the _Gangrene_. Regardless of the attitude they exercised, I vowed not to depart the airport with the _Federales_.

As we inched past a long line of Jersey barriers, fifty yards before our turn, my luck dropped from dreadful to truly dreadful. On the edge of the curb near the final crosswalk stood Oz Moeziz, Rico, Staple and two other impeccably suited Holsteins, all posturing as though a local sheriff had deputized them members of the town posse. I crouched low in the sidecar, figuratively weaving myself into the fabric of the flimsy seat cushion.

The moment of recognition was, thankfully, swift. As much as I fought to look away from the search party, I forced myself to keep a watch on their movements and, despite my best effort to shade my face, I locked eyes with Moeziz.

_I know he knows. He knows I know he knows_.

It was that sudden. Like a child speechless upon spying the last Easter egg of the hunt in plain sight, Moeziz stammered before emitting a war cry in a shaky and disturbing voice. "There's the son of a bitch!"

I ducked down as Jack gunned the engine, jetting us into the back of the squad car once again. Moeziz stepped into the crosswalk, losing his balance when taking a roundhouse swing at my head, knocking my porkpie into Rico's face.

"Dammit! That was my favorite!"

My distress was short-lived as Staple showed commendable dexterity pushing Rico aside, hurdling the fallen Moeziz and sprinting to within arm's reach of the sidecar as we pulled away. Feeling like a wayward kabloona attacked by walruses while stuck in his sealskin kayak, I awkwardly twisted around and batted at Staple's outstretched hands. Again, with surprising nimbleness, Staple burst forward and clutched the straps of my overalls.

"Jack!"

The bike instantly braked and pivoted counterclockwise, grounding the onrushing Staple on his bottom to my right. To his credit, the big man retained his grip on my denim. With my spine calling painful attention to my problematic stature, Jack accelerated again rapidly, steering the bike back toward the final segments of the concrete partitions.

"Sorry about this, Staple," I said to my pursuer, nearly face-to-face with me, as he bounced along the asphalt on his ample behind. "It's nothing personal. Really, it isn't." Any conversation we may have held was cut short by his shoulder coming into contact with an immovable concrete barrier. He cursed and let go of me, ending his run in a graceful tumble that left him upright on his knees. I offered a halfhearted wave and held on tight as we made the sharp right into the underground world of the airline terminal.

The poorly lit catacomb resembled nothing more than an overcrowded, disorganized parking garage. Workers, fuel trucks, luggage trains and concession wagons sped about aimlessly, whirling in haphazard directions to a symphony of honking horns, loud cursing and flashing lights. We abruptly stopped next to a small cinderblock office, a poor man's oasis centered in the midst of the unruly commotion.

"This is not good for you, Skeet." Jack peered into the grubby den, lit only by a pair of flickering fluorescent bulbs. "What do I do to help?"

"Go upstairs. Inside to the courtesy desk," I said, extricating myself from the death grip the sidecar had clamped on my hips. "Page 'Baron von dek Horn' to gate number one. Wait a few minutes and page him again to gate number five. And again to gate ten. Got it?"

" _Si_. Page your friend to different gates after waiting."

"I'll be in touch again. Someday." The burliest of the two officers grabbed my arm as I gained my balance on wobbly legs. "Many thanks for all your help."

" _¡Usted! ¡Salga de aquí!_ " The other officer barked as he circled the front of his car. Without hesitating, Jack roared forward on the Indian, cutting off a ground service septic truck. "You no _habla español_?"

" _Un poco_. A bit." I gripped my rucksack tighter, weighing my immediate options for escape. As if reading my thoughts, the burly officer clipped the dangling handcuff to my free wrist, further limiting my alternatives. "I had a few years of your wonderful verbiage at Trotters on Funk, don't you know? You probably haven't heard of Trotters, but I --"

"Funk that!" The skinnier officer had clearly assumed the bad-cop role and I feared he was not acting. " _¡Movimiento! ¡A la puerta!_ "

I was both pulled and pushed into the cramped quarters, where an older man in uniform sat at a narrow desk filled with stacks of carbonless forms, crumpled papers and yellowed envelopes. A black-and-white television monitor broadcasting a blurry picture sat on a flimsy shelf above him, its speaker blaring a mixture of Muzak and unintelligible voices. Burly forced me into a greasy tan plastic chair opposite the doorway and started immediately on the older man, who never once lifted his head to look in my direction. Soon the three engaged in a bickering war which, as far as I could grasp, centered on why I should not be in the office and where they would be taking me.

They continued discussing their disagreement while I studied the charts on the wall, keenly interested in the layout of the airport as depicted in a battered map stapled next to the door. Having some experience traveling by private charter, I was familiar enough with the process to know the celebrated well-to-do were commonly afforded a separate gate and waiting area nearest the airport exit. This was done to accommodate limo services and private party boarding, while limiting public exposure.

Certainly Acapulco played by these rules and, should that be the case, then the VIP area would be right over there.

I noted the area to the right of the garage entrance where two extended limousines sat idling as a third pulled into line behind them. Given the opportunity, that was where I would seek Joe Kose and my freedom flight north.

Without warning, Skinny grabbed my arm and forced me up from the chair. Still arguing with the older man, he pushed me to the doorway and allowed Burly to take over handling duties. Whatever our destination, we would be on foot. With yet another shove, Burly retained a grip on my bicep and throttled me in the opposite direction of the waiting limos. To my dismay, we headed deeper into the middle of airport itself. Almost hit by a luggage service vehicle, Skinny emitted a string of epithets which sounded quite flattering when delivered in the Spanish language.

"Would you mind if we walked near the wall?" I asked, skittering sideways as a speeding food service van bore down on us.

" _¡Silencio!_ "

"Hardly! I demand to know where we're going! _Destinación_ , my good man." With that, Burly walloped me karate chop style in the middle of the back causing a momentary loss of breath. "This is going to remove you from consideration as employee-of-the-month, you know."

"Shut up with your mouth!"

We passed a half-dozen luggage conveyers, dumping solid streams of checked suitcases and bags from the ticketing counters located on the floor above. At the seventh such belt Skinny stopped, confused and uncertain as to his location, irritated by the squeal of brakes, slamming of metal and overwhelming smell of exhaust. From above I heard the stentorian announcement " _Baron von dek Horn, please report to gate five. Baron von dek Horn to gate five, please_ ", first in Spanish then repeated in English. Given the probability these two lawmen were not going to release me intact, I decided to start a footrace the instant Burly eased his grip. However, before I could initiate my plan, the partners rejoined their heated discussion.

What little I understood involved Skinny's difficulty in finding the correct door leading to a lower level, a basement beneath the cargo area. Burly insisted the entrance was up ahead and their predicament illustrated yet again Skinny's stupidity. Skinny commented on Burly's laziness and the fact he was a cheapskate for never buying lunch. Skinny claimed he was forever picking up both the food tab and their luncheon trays. This struck a nerve with Burly who, in a highly agitated state, nearly pushed me down while criticizing Skinny for not marrying a woman who knew how to cook. I covertly pivoted my feet and shifted my weight so when the moment came I would be first out of the gate and, with legs flying, hold the lead.

Then, as if my troubles were not great enough, one of the oddest events witnessed in the annals of airline luggage processing occurred. Without fanfare, Oz Moeziz barreled down the metal shoot on his back, an LAX tag wrapped around his bicep. We watched without comment as he slid by our location before fighting mightily to disengage himself from the belt-driven device. The baggage handlers were perplexed, not certain if they should scan and load him or call security. My escorts were indifferent to his appearance, as though checked and tagged human cargo was an everyday happening.

"I believe the page was for gate five," I said as Moeziz worked to straighten his ponytail. "This would be gate seven, if I'm not mistaken."

"You should have seen the line at five, full of whiny kids and sunburned mothers. No thank you." He dusted off his clothing while sizing up the two officers and my cuffed hands. "It appears my mission will go faster than planned."

"You have second dibs, I'm afraid."

"Push back, mongrel." Skinny asserted himself into the equation, unsure of Moeziz's intentions. "Our prisoner! We search first."

"I will buy your prisoner from you, sir," Moeziz offered, digging into his pocket and displaying a thick roll of US currency. "Name the price."

"Not here!" Skinny admonished him, casting a broad grin at Burly. "Downstairs. We do business there."

I felt a jolt of happiness shoot forth from Burly. "I'm surprised at your presence here, Moeziz. The abandoned lifeboat wasn't enough to send you home? Or did you even find it?"

Moeziz ignored my taunt and spoke into the cuff of his shirt. "Rico. Target has been acquired. Repeat, target has been acquired. Report to service level immediately."

"Come!" Skinny pulled Burly's arm, triggering Burly to shove me forward. "Enough talk. Follow me." Miraculously, Skinny exuded full confidence in himself to find the previously hidden door.

"We must wait for my associates," Moeziz protested, adjusting the wristband beneath his sleeve. "Just a few minutes!"

"No wait! Now!"

With Moeziz checking over his shoulder and growling instructions up his sleeve, we double-timed our procession to an alcove set back inside the foundation next to the tenth luggage conveyer. As Burly jostled me through the door, I managed to keep my orientation toward the garage entrance -- and, hopefully, the area for private aircraft -- about one hundred yards from the rusty grated stairwell we now descended. Behind and above, Moeziz could be heard giving Rico, Staple and company directions to our location. The stairs double-backed and ended in a grayish-colored tunnel, lit only in weak yellow light by the occasional bare bulb dangling on a single cord from the ceiling. The tunnel was a plumber's dream: Dank and smelly, filled with utility pipes, musty crates and boxes, air compressors, electrical boxes and shut-off valves. Overhead, the muffled sound of tires rumbling on the concrete added to the surreal sense of mortal isolation.

Here I am, surrounded by thousands of people nearby, in danger of losing my life.

Moeziz appeared on the metal landing and descended the stairwell, using his well-honed survival skills to sniff out any potential ambush. Satisfied he was dealing with genuinely corrupt _Policía Federals_ , he tugged at the lapels of his sportscoat and entered the forum.

"But for a deck of cards, we could partner up a Bridge tourney," I suggested cheerfully, beginning the stall for time. At this point, I determined a run in either direction would be a marathon of blind proportions, akin to sprinting through a utility room obstacle course enshrouded in a fog bank.

"Always with the wit, aren't you?" Moeziz appeared more haggard than I previously recalled. His beak nose and thinning hairline, respectively, more pointier and sparser. "Mr. Bridgework discovered something very important to him has been tampered with. He'd like to take you out sailing to discuss the matter."

"As you can see, I'm a bit inconvenienced at the moment. Perhaps next cruise, right? There's a good fellow."

"No next time, you talkative ham."

"Ouch." The ham reference stung deeply.

"Do you know how torturous it is being forced to listen to you?"

"Let's not get personal here --"

"Oh, we're about to become very personal, Baron old boy. Very personal, no mistake about it." Moeziz produced the wad of bills again. "How much for the bitch?"

"He no woman!" Skinny scanned me once more in order to be certain of his conviction. Burly, at the sight of the money, relaxed the squeeze on my arm. "You trying to drive down price!"

"Not at all. It's just an expression," Moeziz explained, fanning out the hundreds to form an impressive display. "Now, how much?"

"All you got."

"All?" Uncharacteristically, the professional thug hesitated in closing the deal. The discussion of price, being the least of his concerns, caused me to feel cheapened by his sudden penurious mindset. "Isn't that asking a bit much?"

Skinny further spun open the jar of chaos by drawing his sidearm, providing me the opportunity to make a split-second decision. I planted my feet firmly and swung the rucksack upwards, making sure the weight of my battered laptop led the way. The bag struck Skinny's pistol full force -- causing a round to be discharged -- then glanced at an angle into the bottom of the Moeziz money wad. Unfortunately for Burly on my follow-through, the gritty bag deflected square into his face with a resounding whack. The distraction caused by the report of the pistol, coupled with the confetti-like dispersal of hundreds of dollars into the air, proved worthy of Skeet Burnisher's best effort. I decided, however, not to dally in admiring my handiwork.

Launching Burly at Moeziz, I brought the bag around in perfect forehand fashion and drove the revolver from Skinny's hand, sending it clattering onto the floor. Skinny appeared just as happy to be relieved of his weapon, as his attention and outstretched left hand were focused on the torrent of greenbacks raining down.

Advantage, Baron.

I wasted no time disappearing into the recesses of the hallway, racing in the direction that -- should there be an exit -- would lead me up and out near the edge of the terminal. A chorus of yells mixed with cursing followed after me as I gripped anew the rucksack and maximized my ground speed. Skinny and Burly would most likely occupy themselves cleaning up their newfound wealth before arguing over it. Oz Moeziz, in contrast, would hunt me down to the exclusion of everything else in his sorry life.

The crack of pistol fire coincided with my shin striking a large metal handle, dropping me to one knee as the bullet screamed past my head, and destroying the center section of a drainpipe. Immediately a foul smelling liquid gushed forth, spraying over me. I jumped up in spite of the throbbing pain and, in a moment of brilliance, held the rucksack aloft over my head Moses-like as if the laptop was a tablet of wisdom and morality. Approaching the next bare bulb, I properly timed my leap and shattered it with a powerful strike. Using all available items, such as a splintered wooden skid, I filled the trail behind me, creating a pathway of treacherous difficulty Moeziz would negotiate in the dark. Another round exploded from the barrel of the gun, pinging off the cinderblock wall to my left. I launched into the air and smashed the next light, and afterward threw down three metal folding chairs into the middle of the tunnel. The concept of devising a video game based on this predicament flashed through my mind, gaining credibility as I lined up my approach for the next target.

Smash!

In my wake, the satisfying sound of Oz Moeziz tripping over the weak planks of the fallen skid added bonus points, an additional amount scored if the international thug lost the weapon somewhere in the shadows. Increasing the distance between us, I took out another light and raced toward the next when the clang of a folding chair being kneed reached my ears. I pushed on faster, dumping a row of shovels and brooms askew on the floor in a wide swath. Just as I zeroed the next light, I spotted a stairwell on the left.

Don't look now, Baron old sod, but freedom awaits you.

I extinguished the final light with a flourish, as though dunking a basketball in a street game of hoop, before anxiously scrambling up the stairwell two steps at a time toward a dim glow at the top step.

A broad gray door at the landing bore the label " _Emergencia solamente - La alarma activará."_ Indeed, given my situation was an emergency and I was quite alarmed, I wrestled a fire extinguisher from a wall harness and struggled to dislodge its pin. This prop, at the very least, would give my presence the air of credibility and serve to spread confusion in the process. Slamming myself against the retaining bar and flinging wide the door, I burst into the flurry of the service garage accompanied by the loud squawk of a blaring warning signal. There was, to my astonishment, no reaction. From anyone. I took the moment to collect myself, rearranging my rucksack so it adequately covered the handcuffs while adjusting my grip on the extinguisher handle.

Comporting myself as though taking a regular daily walk with my fire extinguisher, I strolled through the airport service area toward the bay door where a half-dozen corporate jets were convened. The bright sunshine outside prompted me to break into tune, whistling a riff of Elvis Costello numbers that helped remove the sting from my negotiating the erratic traffic patterns of the service vehicles. The activity was so calamitous that, foolishly, I neglected to react upon hearing a terrific commotion from behind, believing it to be a routine part of airport milieu.

"Gotcha!" Like a forklift using its tongs to raise a pallet, I was effortlessly lifted off my feet by a massive pair of arms. "You go nowhere this time, you Skeet Burnisher Walter Raleigh Baron von dek Horn jerk!" It was Rico, behind me and beside himself with anger.

"Put me down, you lummox!" I demanded as carts of freshly prepared meals tooled past. "I was on my way to find you."

"Thank me for saving you the trouble."

"Why, certainly!" I swung the extinguisher between my legs and struck, if not the direct center of my objective, certainly close enough to prompt my release. Tumbling forward as my feet hit the floor, I nearly fell into the path of a veering lavatory service vehicle. "Here! Let me douse your fire!" I spun around and aimed the nozzle at my doubled-over opponent.

Pulling the extinguisher's trigger, I anticipated a wide blast of sodium bicarbonate to stream forth. My triumphant sneer lost its sheen when, akin to loosening the cap off a week-old bottle of soda, the faint hissing fizzle of the container's lifeless contents could be heard. I fabricated a most apologetic smile as the searing look in Rico's eye signaled his knew the table had turned in his favor.

"Be green and recycle this, would you?" I lofted the spent extinguisher high in the air over his head, banking the brute possessed a paternalistic streak buried within that would prompt him to catch the ersatz baby. Unfortunately Rico proved no Willie Mays and the red canister, abiding the law of gravity, gained the better of him. I had barely a moment's notice to appreciate the big man's dilemma when a crushing blindside tackle leveled me onto a fully-packed cart of outbound luggage.

"For Shiva's sake, Staple!" My cheek was nearly impaled by a zipper tab sticking straight out of an unrelenting American Tourister expandable upright. "Was that really necessary?"

"You are like an eel, Mr. Burnisher. Slippery, scaly and always getting away."

"Which would be the eel's job, right?"

"Now it's time for you to visit Mr. Bridgework on the _Gangrene._ Far out at sea."

"It seems like a lot of trouble to go to, Staple old chum. Since I'm already at the airport, how about I fly back to the States and have our people arrange a meeting in a few weeks, say a nice luncheon at Lake Tahotukmikash --"

"You are going for a visit," he grunted, flipping me over so we faced one another on the uneven pile of suitcases, "then for a swim in the ocean." He knelt while pressing his hands into my shoulder blades, shading me from the intense overhead sun as we bobbed side-to-side with the unsteady ride. "What's this?"

"Hey! That's my magic kit." The burlap bag, by this time shredded and frayed, proved no trouble for Staple freeing it from the chain holding my wrists together.

"Your magic belongs to me now."

"Just don't look inside, whatever you do." Naturally, the prohibitive warning proved too much temptation for the poor fellow. I casually stretched my arms back over my head and groped for the nearest handle. As Staple peeled back the lip of the bag, I brought a pricy Louis Vitton handbag squarely down upon his crown not once, but twice. Taking the blows like a gallant housefly going up against a resilient plastic swatter, Staple relinquished the bag to me without opposition. I scrambled up and over the wobbly pile of luggage to the forward rail, considering my options along the way.

"You did it again," Stapled puled from below, digging a heel into a tan Samsonite and starting a halfhearted ascent toward me, "you're nothing but a slippery eel!"

"I accept and am honored by your praise of frustration, friend," I replied, eyeing an approaching inbound luggage carrier -- empty of its cargo -- tracking uncomfortably close toward us. "But even your average eel must possess his redeeming qualities, yes?" With that, I leapt as such to land both feet on the last luggage unit as it passed, speeding away from Staple at a rate which made it impossible to hear his response. I waved goodbye to him, my stature assuming that of a relaxed subway patron taking the Number Four uptown after a hard day's work, heading home to the safety and comfort of his Lear jet.

Through a thicket of wings, ailerons and fuselages I spied the trademarked Joe Kose leer, boldly displayed beneath the nose of his private ride. It seemed a simple trick to hop off the transport once it stopped and race to the immobile aircraft, minding the coils of service hoses and tie-downs along the way. Surely, Joe and his crew were expecting my arrival and would allow me swift access to the jet. As we motored near the open bays, my vision of an uncomplicated exit expired with the appearance of Oz Moeziz, Rico [now carrying the fire extinguisher as though it were a can of soda] and two oversized reddened Holsteins emerging from the shadows of the concrete garage.

Hindrances immediately arose: First, Oz Moeziz and crew were positioned between me and the Kose Lear. Second, my physique was a far cry from even remotely resembling a traveling garment bag. This combustible combination ignited quickly when I passed within twenty yards of the idled mass, spurring it to stampede my way. At the same moment the conveyance slowed upon entering the dark service area. Ducking to my knees and holding tight to the aluminum rail in front of me, I inserted two fingers to the corners of my lips and issued a shrill whistle prompting the already distracted driver to peer over his shoulder. Whatever personal guilt the poor fellow was harboring -- be it an illicit love, unpaid gambling debt or the consistent skipping of church services -- uncorked with the sight of four angry men bearing down on his cart. He hooked a sharp left and tromped on the accelerator, causing the final cart which I clung to dearly to snap like the tail of a playful housecat. I breathed a sigh of relief as it was immediately apparent our pursuers would not outrun the daredevil behind the wheel.

New trouble began as we headed away from the Kose jet. The two _Federales_ , pockets stuffed with Moeziz's allowance money, were entering their modest squad car as we shot past at a rocketing speed. Skinny and I made hostile eye contact, while Burly shouted an intelligible curse. With emergency lights flashing, siren blaring and tires squealing, the two law enforcement officials picked up where the thugs left off. The cart driver, much to his credit, seemed apathetic to having the official vehicle pursue him. Indeed, he made yet another ninety-degree, spine-cracking turn and pointed his rig toward the open bays and tarmac beyond. I was grateful for this maneuver until realizing, probably at the same moment as Oz Moeziz, the pack of scoundrels on foot would easily intercept us should we stay our course. I might have possessed more faith in the highly-skilled cart operator. As we neared the foursome, the wheelman let up on the gas, permitting a small food service truck to form an effective block between us and the angry mob. Indeed, the food truck was now inline to make direct contact with Rico and one of the muscle-bound Holsteins if they chose not to move. As horns blasted and fists shook, I dipped my head and gritted my teeth.

The resulting explosion of sandwiches was impressive and perhaps set a world record of its kind. A broadside of cucumber on rye, with dill mayonnaise, plastered me to the left while a strong aroma of egg salad quickly filled the air. I cautiously lifted my head to see that the police vehicle had precipitated events by ramming the sandwich truck into a spin and, in the process, causing its side doors to spring open. The truck's bumper caught the first luggage cart, momentarily stalling our progress, and sending Moeziz and friends scattering to parts unseen. Just as I completed processing the scene, the driver gained forward motion once more, this time aiming directly at the gaggle of corporate jets outside. I would have been elated with the developments had Rico not attached himself to the rear grate of my cart. Worse still, approaching from the right side on the sunlit tarmac appeared the very irate Staple.

"I never give up!" Rico decreed, his hefty legs pumping faster and faster as the luggage shuttle's engine picked up the pace.

I opted against engaging Rico in small talk and instead focused on climbing from cart three to cart two and, along the way, locating the cotter pin on the hitch connecting the units. Once kneeling securely in the middle cart, I used the flat portion of the handcuffs to hammer the tines back into the hole, easing the pin out effortlessly on the other end. Upon disconnection, the expression of surprise on Rico's face defied description as, on a mad run, he involuntarily veered to the right with the now out-of-control cart, the soles of his fine leather shoes slapping loudly on the blazing hot tarmac like a carpenter's hammer pounding on a sturdy two-by-six.

From the other direction Staple's swift pace equaled that of his associate and, for reasons known only to the likeable ruffian, he maintained a steady course headlong into the careening cart. The impact was reminiscent of the preseason drills I spent working with the Oakland Raiders defensive line while touring the country on my _Mind Over What Does It Matter?_ lecture series. The main tenet of this discourse, lost upon Rico and Staple in their moment of confusion and collision, was the belief that pain was vitreous -- one could manage his or her way through the ache of any predicament, be it physical or emotional, as long as one prepared spiritually and psychologically.

I was painfully reminded of this lack of provision when the service vehicle, speeding faster than ever, made an abrupt right turn and tossed me chin-over-teakettle onto the hard pavement. I rolled countless times before planting both feet flat on the ground and popping up like an over-cranked jack-in-the-box head-butting its way through a rusty lid. Bloodied, sore and battered, I stood directly at the base of the steps leading up to the Kose Production Lear itself.

"That was spec fucking tacular, Baron!"

The diminutive Joe Kose occupied the doorway, wrapped in his customary white silk shirt, raspberry ascot and black jodhpurs. Gazing down through the thick round lenses of his black-framed glasses -- which magnified his already large, narrow-set circular eyes -- he took the form of a humanized Venn diagram. "Lefty Joe caught the entire sequence on video, my friend. You are nothing short of stardom, babe!"

"Will you require a boarding pass?" I asked, flouting his accolades and dropping to my knees so I might better drag myself up the metal stairwell.

"I'll waive it as long as your agent is willing to negotiate percentage points." Kose reached down, hoisting me by the handcuffs up the last few steps. "What's this all about?"

"They were attempting to steal my treatment, Joe," I said, suddenly feeling very weary in the midst of the strangers lounging in the stylish aircraft. Lefty Joe kept his videocam running, outwardly giddy over capturing the _mise en scène_ which so enthralled his boss. The plane lurched, causing my nose to press flat against the camera lens. "I wanted to receive proper credit for it."

"Wark couldn't be prouder," Kose replied, a tear evident in his pie-pan eye as he escorted me to a vacant seat, "and neither will I."

I collapsed next to the window and blankly looked out over the wire mesh fence to the causeway exiting the terminal, relieved to be returning to the States at last. In the distance I spotted the small visage of a red Indian motorcycle -- sidecar attached -- dodging its way through congested traffic headed back toward the city, its driver throwing his head back with a burst of laughter.

CHAPTER TEN

_Naked One in the Pool_

"The force is controlled by this button."

I clinched shut my eyes, relishing the hot water rolling over and around my shoulders and neck, swirling about my submerged arms and legs as I rested against the lip of the massive pool's padded liner. The scent of eucalyptus, a reliable source of soothing comfort during visits to southern California, mingled with the fresh hillside breeze. Somewhere off to my left Joe Kose, sitting in a recliner floatie, sipped Coppola Rosso from a glass while operating the hot tub, pool and waterfall remote control.

Beyond the garden-encased aquatic container where we reposed glowed the luminous valley far below, its assemblage of individual lights a constellation of reassurance indicating civilization was indeed at hand, regardless of the human disparity sloshing back and forth within its boundaries. I was pleased to be tucked in the security of the Kose compound, far removed from dangers associated with motorcycles, ocean liners and magic tricks.

"And number seven does this."

A shower of ice cold mist instantly rained down upon me. "Neeyug!"

"And number fourteen," Kose laughed while punching his finger down on the controller. Streams of froth appeared from the bottom of the water, rising rapidly like champagne bubbles in a fluted glass. "Let's cancel that one."

"This too?" I asked, waving a hand among the falling ice pellets while trying not to sound annoyed. "I was rather enjoying the warmth of the waterfall splashing through the coffeeberry bush."

"That was a wake up call. I'm still disappointed you slept during the entire flight."

"I apologize again for my exhaustion."

"Here I was, going on for the better part of two hours before realizing you were not simply 'resting' your eyes, as you stated, but somewhere out in the forest sawing wood."

My collapse had been a combination of several soporific factors. The bottomless mixed drink the famed director's assistant PA served me upon takeoff. The relief of having escaped the madness of Bridgework and those around him. Kose's uninterrupted polemic for casting me as the lead in a remake of _Simpatico of the Circus_ , accompanied by his in-depth analysis of great Uncle Wark's Hollywood career. I drifted off into a splendid sleep, dreaming of Antoine presenting Jack, Angel and me with potent leaves a-plenty and our subsequent motorcycle excursion in the Indian sidecar to Machu Picchu under a brilliant blue sky.

"You owe me this screen test, Baron. You won't be disappointed by the talent I've pinned on the wall for this production. Tampa Budd will costar, with lower billing and thirty percent fewer lines, of course. Speaking of lines, I.I. Goines will serve as wordsmith and --"

"Goines?" I sprang to life, having previously believed should I successfully sabotage my audition, Kose would diplomatically release me from the hook and seek out a box office magnet such as Johann Depth for the role. "You've got Goines?"

"Goines will be here in a little while," Kose said, slyly checking his watch as he paddled the floatie with his feet. "We're scheduled to discuss some scripts under consideration. Thought you'd like to meet him."

"Like to meet him?" I.I. Goines was legend, the premier screenwriter of his generation. A gifted eccentric, he surrounded himself with Hollywood's finest stable of authors -- including Jon Two Lassos, Trudy Mugg and Esther Ounce -- to staff the Scriptorium, a round-the-clock intensive care facility for unhealthy screen and teleplays. His work was instantly identifiable by his notable custom of writing exclusively in capital letters while employing an overabundance of punctuation. "I'm not so sure I'm worthy."

"That's the attitude! Goines will take to you right away." Kose scooted his makeshift raft in my direction. "If that isn't enough, I've lined up Tueur de Thon to score the film."

"Impressive."

"He might consider _Simpatico_ if your porkpie is in the ring. Tonight we're reviewing I.I.'s storyboard for _Blithering Nights_."

"I wondered who the caterers were setting up for," I remarked, glancing past the waterslides and main pool to the array of tables, chairs and food being laid out below. Bold signage and a sturdy partition had been erected to segregate a vegan patch from the reddish ambiance of the carnivore trough. "I must say if Goines and de Thon are stretching their muscles for a run with _Simpatico_ , I'll give nothing less than my best for the casting director."

"Casting associate," Kose corrected me while looking annoyed. "Were you planning on showing us less than the artist whose very bloodlines you carry?"

"Of course not," I protested feebly in an attempt to whitewash my gaff. "I hold the belief that Uncle Wark played _Simpatico_ with a certain flavor of understated mawkishness. That is to say, you wanted to like him while at the same time beat him over the head with the bowling pins he was forever juggling. You see that, don't you?"

"Baron, you're an a one fucking genius! Genius, baby! I love you!"

I nodded knowingly while summoning an image of Uncle Wark in costume as the clownish character who, frankly, frightened me into fits of extended hysteria.

"Mr. Kose, sir," the assistant PA called out, hacking his way through a miniature bamboo thicket dominating the east side of the cove we presently occupied. Breathless and sweaty, he shoved his nose between the oversized reeds. "Mr. de Thon has arrived and is making his way through the herb garden."

"And Mr. Goines?"

"He's in the kitchen searching for his favorite marinade."

"I suppose," Kose groaned and slipped off his raft, tossing me the remote water control. "Hilda!" Within seconds of his reaching poolside, Kose was stripped of his swimsuit, towel dried and dressed in a simple but tasteful pair of khaki jodhpurs and wheat-colored button down shirt. He finished by adjusting the diamond-pattern ascot himself. "Swim over to the tables in a few minutes, Baron, and I'll make the introductions. Remember, underplay yourself. I'll have our starting lineup penciled in before the night's over."

He strolled off confidently to the banquet area, surrounded by his staff and their assistants, the latter falling over themselves to greet their opposing numbers being shoved forth by the de Thon and Goines camps. For all conventional purposes, it appeared a gathering of religious missionaries preparing to issue their message of faith to the invisible masses. They mobbed together below, flagellating one another to reach the highest stage of superficial grace, allowing my thoughts to slip back to the matter at hand.

Within forty-eight hours, the _Gangrene_ would reach Los Angeles. In the interim, I had plenty of time to recoup within the Kose estate, while employing Kose Production security to be my eyes and ears on the shoreline. Bridgework was capable of mooring his ship in any of a hundred slips in Long Beach Harbor. I needed to quickly identify its location and make contact with Angel. Drawing out Bridgework would be another matter. With the CerebStix flash drive securely stashed in the Cromwell back at Manor, deception would be required when casting my lure.

"Baron!" Kose danced about with joy in the middle of the suits and dresses. His round-rimmed glasses bobbed on his nose, resembling a miniature dumbbell being repeatedly jerked and cleaned. "Baron!"

I timorously pushed away from the comforting shadows of the tropical themed water garden, well aware the ill-fitting Speedo on loan to me might advertise certain personal products which, at this moment, were better served by remaining shelved in my private stockroom. The sensation of having all eyes upon me was overwhelming as I waded across the hot tub and entered the translucent tube, approximately three feet in diameter and fifteen feet long, that angled down into the main swimming pool itself. Joe Kose had set up a grand entrance on my behalf and I, in turn, did not want to fail in delivering.

In retrospect, it was fatigue which swayed my decision to slide headfirst down the connecting conduit and continue on without a care as the erstwhile swimsuit snagged -- then remained hung upon -- the exit lip of the tube. Indeed the very same lassitude made me oblivious to my own unsullied form, as I was idyllically unaware of my quite natural state of appearance.

I completed an underwater arc along the base of the pool and majestically broke the surface, extending my arms outward to greet the waiting throng, mistaking their laughter and smattering of applause as warm affection for welcoming the grandnephew of the esteemed film icon Wark von dek Horn.

"Hey, a new member of SAG!"

"I don't know. It looks like Oscar material."

"His special effects department is understaffed!"

"He's up for a small role in this one."

"Mr. von dek Horn," a little person, waist high to his compatriots, poked out of the crowd at the edge of the pool. "Your grand entrance lacks for nothing."

"Thank you," I replied earnestly, embarrassed by my trouble to readily identify him. "I have a nagging sense we know one another."

"Pershing Cantilever --"

"Of course!" Why I was so delighted to see Mr. Cantilever again I was uncertain, but delighted I was. " _Carnaval Du Diminutif_! How are you, my good fellow?"

"I'm feeling quite well in comparison. Are you here for the _Blithering Nights_ roundtable?"

"Indirectly, perhaps." I began to feel a bit put upon by the continued snickering echoing across the pool. "And you?"

"Scheduled to lead the Village Midgeots, as they're described in the novel. Not one line shall be cut." He cupped a hand to his mouth and called forth in a loud whisper, "Say, you do employ a good publicist, don't you?"

The uncomfortable moment of realization I was without the borrowed Speedo arrived. I raised my hands higher in the air, as would a choragus facing his choir in the Greek days of old, hoping the next statement out of my mouth would explain away the fact my costuming decision had been entirely unintended. Before I could begin, the crowd shuddered and released a collective gasp, as though I stood before them a demented warlock aiming to cast a final and fatal spell. Falling silent and huddling together in small groups, they cowered into the corner of the terraced patio. Kose, Goines and de Thon remained as the point trio to the trembling assemblage, their own shaky movements quite capable of registering an impressive score on the Richter Scale. Then came the marching click of heels from behind me.

"Mr. Forrest Sherwood," a booming voice announced. I half turned to witness the fabled movie producer enter from the shadows by a large cluster of frangipani, his colossal sunglasses reflecting the thin flames of nearby tiki torches. My bowels weakened when I saw his entourage included Oz Moeziz, Rico and Staple and their stable of amply fed Holsteins. A petrified silence filled the air as the group, dressed in funeral black, halted short of the neatly stacked buffet plates.

"Kose!"

Our host reluctantly advanced a step from the confines of his guests. "Mr. Sherwood, sir. What a pleasure --"

"This is no social call, rodent." Sherwood's voice was steady and cold. He brushed the lapels of his suit before flattening the tie against his shirt. "You've harbored an individual who has offended a very dear friend of mine. So deep is the affront that Mr. Bridgework himself requested I pay you a personal visit to express his dismay and unhappiness."

Kose instantly emulated a deflating balloon, sputtering from one end while shrinking at the other. A minion, in a poorly disguised stage whisper, fed him an apologetic line which Kose started to repeat.

"Silence! I want names and faces of everyone present here tonight," Sherwood advised his assistant and, on cue, another member of the mob immediately began filming the frightened crowd with a videocam. "Mr. Bridgework's associate has a few words for those gathered here. I strongly urge each of you to pay heed."

Oz Moeziz stepped around the older man. The graying ponytail had vanished, replaced with jet black hair slicked back over his narrow, thin head. There was no mistaking the prominent beak of his nose, however. "Should any of you provide assistance or aid to one Baron von dek Horn, I personally guarantee your career in the industry will be terminated. Tonight. The closest you'll come to working in film again will be selling concessions part time at the weekend matinee in Oxnard. Understood?"

A murmuring of agreement started low and rose to the level of a conforming pack of monkeys begging their handler to toss out a bunch of bananas.

"We gathered to discuss I.I. Goines --"

"Shut up, Kose! You of all people! You provided flight to von dek Horn today from Acapulco!"

"Well, sir, I wasn't aware Mr. Bridgework and \--"

"Of course you weren't aware! But you are now." Moeziz sauntered forward, at his best when kowtowing a beleaguered opponent. "Every dime of production money you hope to have access to is going to dry up if you don't tell me where von dek Horn is this minute."

"He's in the pool," Kose responded, offering me up faster than a collection plate making the rounds at a tent revival. "The naked one." This specific referral brought all eyes to bear upon me and I detected a hint of embarrassment -- _or was it homicidal infuriation?_ \-- in Staple's downcast expression.

"Moeziz," I offered pleasantly, keeping my arms outstretched while nodding a greeting.

"Clever masquerade, Baron." He shot a final blaze of scorn at the dumbstruck movie colony before squaring his lithe body at me. "You know why I'm here."

"I can think of several reasons, old boy, but perhaps the aroma of fresh foie gras overwhelmed you," I replied, noting several of the more aggressive underlings falling over themselves to personally serve a plate and drink to Forrest Sherwood. The old timer, breaking away from the rabble of thugs, basked in the attention of the subservience and pointed at a heap of sushi as his starting point.

"You're in no position to play coy."

"To the contrary, I'm in my element." I tapped the surface of the water with my fingertips. "I hazard you'd like to inquire about a certain CerebStix flash drive."

"Out of the pool. Now."

"Obviously, as you can very well see, I don't have it on me." I waded to the near side, exiting up the wide steps within a close distance of the belligerent boyos. Having earned _persona non grata_ status, there was no cadre of Kose employees to greet me, not even so much as a used towel tossed my way. In fact, the group of partiers ignored my plight and broke into a rousing version of _Hooray for Hollywood_ with Tueur de Thon conducting at uptempo pace. "Nor is it with me here at the Kose estate," I continued, shaking drops of water from me as would a dog emerging happily from a dip in the lake.

"The long and short of your predicament, Baron," Moeziz sneered, kicking a chair to the side as he spoke, "is this. You have twenty four hours to deliver the flash drive to me."

"And when I don't?"

"There will be a new Angel in heaven." His sneer cleverly turned to a smirk then back again.

"Angelica Formica de Corcoran Bridgework Shumway? But that's his daughter!"

"His adopted daughter."

"Still his daughter!"

"His daughter who betrayed him. She was never family in any formal definition of the word."

"You're wrong!" My urge to attack him was leveled by sheer numbers. I had not an ally in the house. "She's a dear, sweet young woman."

"You would know."

"The remark of a cad, to be sure. But you're right in one respect, Moeziz. The fact Angel isn't a blood relation of Bridgework is evidenced in her moral integrity, her entirely different view of humankind than that of the _Eternus Spiritus_ seeker."

"Your righteousness is heartwarming, von dek Horn. Use it when determining whether Angel lives or dies with your choice to deliver the flash drive."

"You can have the bloody thing as long as Angel is turned over to me. Alive and in one piece."

"Not your terms, nudist." Moeziz withdrew a cigarillo from his vest pocket, prompting Rico to produce a lighter. "The flash drive to me first. Once I'm satisfied it's authentic and hasn't been tampered with or duplicated, you'll be told where to locate Angel."

"Moeziz, if you possessed a modicum of common sense --"

"No proposals from you. I just told you how it plays out. You get the flash drive and answer your cell phone. Instructions to follow. It's all very simple, Baron. Remember, if you screw this up, Angel gets her wings."

"I don't believe Bridgework would allow this! Not for a minute!"

"Believe what you will. These people did," he said, blowing smoke at the swinging revelry on the lower end of the patio. "It'd be a lot easier on my part to off you right here. No one would dare say a word. As foolhardy as you are to swim bare ass before the Hollywood elite, I know you're just as clever to safeguard the CerebStix from Bridgework."

"Natural instinct."

"Two things I knew I could count on. I told Wayland we'd find you here without the flash drive. I told him there's no way you'd ship it to Tumultuous Manor. And I told him you'd trade it for Angel in a heartbeat."

"That's three items," I said furrowing my brow.

"No, only two. You're here without the flash drive."

"What about my not shipping it to the Manor? Or swapping it for Angel?"

"Technically, those are two additional things. I'm counting on those, too." Moeziz flicked a row of ashes into the pool. "I could have you detained while we tear up your beloved Manor, but that'd be a waste of valuable time. Besides, your man Budgie --"

"Smudgely."

"Is a crack shot, as I recall. Someone on our side is bound to get hurt, then the local authorities stick their noses into a private matter and a whole lot of unnecessary questions need to be answered. Besides, I rather let you twist over the ethical dilemma of weighing a digital storage device against a human life. You'll do the honorable thing, Baron, like you always do."

"I wish I could say there's comity between our states of being, Moeziz, but it doesn't exist. You're nothing but a lecherous blackguard!"

"High praise coming from a Trotters boy." Moeziz drew on the cigar and, glancing downward, briefly assessed my self-effacing appendage. "You best get a move on before it gets any colder."

***

I stood in the driveway holding my battered rucksack, appreciating the fact the household staff washed and ironed my coveralls prior to Forrest Sherwood's dictum ousting me from the Kose kingdom. Without fanfare, I excused myself from the pool party, fetched my belongings and -- all the while -- worked on options for returning to Faithful Hill by morning, praying the Fed Ex package would arrive at approximately the same time. The first leg of my journey home, however, necessitated reaching the airport.

I approached one of the limo drivers practicing yoga near the rear fender of his extended chariot. "Say, sport, how about a lift to LAX while the band's playing out back?"

"No, no, no!" Another driver approached, waving a finger in the air. "Stay in your downward dog, Leonard. This is von dek Corn. If you help him, you'll be working at a car wash in San Pedro next week. Part time."

"It's von dek Horn! I don't grow on a stalk, imbecile."

"Minor point. The infraction remains."

"My word, fellows, I'm not an oomycete on a spud. Far from it." I regretted not following my first inclination to phone Mia and arrange for transportation home. At the same time I realized the futility in attempting to distance myself from being a fungus on a potato. "I'll have to walk down the driveway, hop the front gate and thumb my way to the airport."

"Avoid the four oh five," Leonard said, straightening up to a series of audible cracks in his spine before entering the reverse warrior pose.

"Thanks for the tip," I replied, doffing my now shabby cowboy hat, "it will stay right under here." The lengthy paved drive, lined on each side by rows Irish yews, curled gently to the left. As I reached the far side of the bend, beyond view of the Kose castle, an arm thrust through the thick covering of branches and locked around my throat. "Neeyuk!"

"For Christ's sake, Baron, act like you've been mugged before," Joe Kose said peevishly, dropping me to the dank floor of the tree's undergrowth, "after all, I'm the one in real danger here!"

"Right. Look how close you are to receiving a branch in the eye."

"Or worse. Look at the dirt on my Guccis, dammit! Purchased in Italy, so you know."

"That's all part of the peril, one supposes. By the by, muddied shoes aside, you're not doing much in the way of assisting me to exit the premises."

"I'm not supposed to help you, remember? I only want to make sure our _Simpatico_ deal stands. We shook hands on it, Baron. That makes you legally obligated to do the project."

"Obligated? I think not. When Sherwood gets wind of such a thing, he'll take it straight to Bridgework, don't you think?"

"And? So?"

"What are you going to film it with? A Sony Betamax? And distribute it from the trunk of a used rental car?" I hurriedly dusted off my overalls. "Bridgework will ruin you, Joe."

"Bullshit! This is nothing but a grandstanding power play by Sherwood. That old bastard somehow got wind that you were onboard --"

"Your plane."

" _Simpatico_! The project. Just watch, he'll be lining up Johann Depth for the lead, the lousy son of a bitch."

"Sherwood was here on other business, Joe." I pushed my way out onto the drive and took a few steps toward the gated entrance. "Truly he was."

"Embarrassing me in front of everybody! In my own home, too. You'd better not be in league with him, von dek Horn!"

"Be calm. I'm trying to save your livelihood, friend."

"We had a deal. You're going to bring _Simpatico_ to life if it kills me!"

"Joe! Collect yourself. Let me deal with Bridgework first, then we'll have a chance to discuss other plans. Right now, I've got to --" Headlights appeared from the direction of the house as a buzz issued from the security fence, followed by the harsh click of the gate unlatching. "I've got to go, Joe. I'll be in touch, right?"

"You asshole!" He grabbed the straps of my overalls and shook me around. "There's a taxi outside waiting at the curb for you."

"Why, thanks, Joe." I was touched by his sense of abusive loyalty in the face of such intimidation. We were alit when the vehicle rounded the bend, its tires crunching to a halt on the pavement as its passenger door swung open.

"What's going on here?" It was Moeziz. "I told you not to have anything to do with this guy!"

"I'm tossing the son of a bitch out, sir!" Kose wrangled the overall straps in both hands, dancing me around helplessly in a full circle. "Never again do I want to see you!"

"Hey, Joe --"

"Let these jugheads pass, then take the cab to the airport," he whispered, "my pilot's on the lookout for you. He'll take you wherever you want to go." The final twirl brought me to rest against the grill of the car, where Kose began repeatedly slamming my head on the hood. "And that's for Sherwood! And one for Bridgework! Sherwood! Bridgework!" He stopped for a second and looked to the bewildered Moeziz. "And your name, sir?"

"Get the hell outta our way!"

"You are never to set foot on this property again!" Mildly stunned, I posed no problem for Kose in wrenching me to one side, permitting the vehicle to pass. "Get out of my sight!"

"Give me a chance to do just that, Joe," I sputtered while attempting to keep my footing.

Kose ignored my plea and tossed me over the threshold. "Remember Simpatico and our deal, Baron," he called out. "We're going to make an awesome team together." The gate clicked shut and the director disappeared back up the drive.

"Over here, my cowboy country friend."

I glanced to my right and spotted a tall gaunt man keeping himself tight to the ivy-covered brick retaining wall. "And you would be?"

"Maneesh. Your LAX ride tonight."

"Maneesh," I greeted the driver wearily, "let's haul freight."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

_Domestic VIOLENCE_

The serenity found soaking one's aching and battered body in a deliciously hot bath was doubly enhanced by the knowledge I was marinating in the bubbles of my own tub.

I propped my head against a tightly rolled towel, gazing eastward through the large windows of the master bath, awed by the streaks of golden yellow morning light filtering down on the bluish peaks of Maine. Immediately before me, a dense gray thunderhead peeled back like a lid from a can, allowing thin rays of sun to pluck their way up a hillside in rapid succession and warm the woods within. A pot of breakfast tea prepared by Mrs. Potsdam was a nectarial delight, served in the familiar green porcelain mug I enjoyed so much as a boy. I sipped the steeped brew, shifting my attention to the southwest where some one hundred fifty miles away, University stood in its solemn brick sturdiness and blossoming floral accoutrements.

How rewarding it was to study there. I received as good an education as any student anywhere. More importantly, I valued it. A time of personal prolificacy in a wonderful setting. What more could one ask?

"Sir?"

"Enter, Smudgely." The valet's rap upon the door shattered my scenic enchantment. Excepting our brief interaction during the delivery of tea, along with fresh scones which went untouched, I had yet to converse with my trusted manservant. "Please, take a seat."

"Kind of you, sir, but no. With your permission, I'll stand." He remained behind the wicker partition that was once, ironically, Uncle Wark's dressing room privacy screen. An awkward silence filled the room as if two penitents had arrived at a confessional booth simultaneously, each uncertain as to whom should receive absolution first.

"I was just ruminating on old Professor Meeyard, Smudgely," I began, "and my days at University, of all things."

"Gerald Meeyard, the noted entomologist, sir?"

"Precisely. Full of doom and gloom, never one to partake in the brighter side of life. Oh, how I used to fulminate about his lengthy tirades, complaining about this and that, predicting the worst in everyone and everything."

"He was, sir, absurdly cynical."

"You know what resonates with me? His reaction to my final article in the _Daily Oxymoron._ "

"Sir, need I remind you, your attorneys successfully argued the material was not libelous? Further, it was determined Professor Meeyard did not even bother to read the student newspaper."

"Still, that day he stood atop the cantaloupe crate on the campus green and announced to passersby that I wouldn't amount to but a spur on a housefly's leg." I pursed my lips and shook my head. "I have forgiven a lot of offenses, Smudgely, but that one has always stuck on my wall."

The older man issued a long sigh. "A poorly configured insult on the professor's behalf. You must take solace in the fact most listeners envisioned a giant mutant bug, sir, wearing cowboy attire."

"His words ring in my ears this morning. I do feel like a failure, as significant as a hair on a fly's hind leg."

"Sir, you shouldn't --"

"I had Bridgework in Jamaica. I could have conked him on the squash and packaged him back to the U.S. Instead, I make an ill fitted foray to Machu Picchu --"

"Stunning bit of history there, sir."

"And then lose both Bridgework and the woman who trusted me while aboard a bedeviled ship in the Pacific."

"It sometimes does happen that way, sir, despite our best intentions."

"Now I'm expecting a digital storage device, no larger than your thumb, to arrive here today, Smudgely. In a sad statement about this entire affair, the object in question is equated on a fungible level with that of a human life."

"My word, sir, such an undesirable predicament to find oneself in. I trust arrangements are being made to bring proper order to the matter?"

"Again, Smudgely, I have been sadly outwitted by my antagonists. I can only wait for their word to instruct me on what next to do." I pushed a floating island of bubbles down to my waiting toes. "You are to notify me the minute Dawn the Fed Ex girl arrives, understood?"

"Sir." He cleared his throat. "Will that be all, sir?"

"Actually, there is another issue. A rather thorny one. In addition to Wayland Bridgework, I've bollixed another mission. This time on the domestic front."

"Sir?"

"How is Mia Kolpaux working out, Smudgely?"

"Just fine, sir," he replied exuberantly. "She has been nothing but topnotch."

"Will it be your recommendation we keep her on?"

"I'd have no reason to say otherwise, sir. She has performed all her duties quite satisfactorily." He labored to keep his voice on an even keel. "I dare say she jumped into the Duesenberg minutes after you phoned, sir, quite anxious to be waiting for you at the airport."

"So noted." I paused, deciding it best to have a clear understanding with my most valued employee, a lifelong presence at the Manor and my de facto mentor. "Smudgely?"

"Sir?"

"Did you both enjoy the wine?" I gazed in the direction of University once again.

"Sir?"

"You and Miss Kolpaux. The wine. At the picnic yesterday."

"Oh, indeed, we did. Very nice selection, sir, which shall be replaced during our next visit to Boston."

"There's no need for such a thing, Smudgely," I said, rising from the tub and facing the splendor of the southern mountain range _au naturel_. The course of nature was an unpredictable but nevertheless welcomed mistress and deserving of unconditional respect. Any attempt at obstruction, I learned in my short years, invariably met with miserable disappointment. "Consider it my gift to you both."

"Very kind, sir. Thank you."

"Indeed, Smudgely. Let the wine cellar be at your disposal for as long as necessary. True love isn't meant to be corked, shelved and left alone in the dark!"

"Well put, sir!"

***

"Shadrack's had two on sale, my Baron. I selected the one with the most memory." Mia handed me the new laptop. It was difficult not to think of her as an entity composed entirely of sugar, sweet as she was in appearance and demeanor. Her voice was gentle and assuring, adding to my gladness of being seated behind my desk in the study. "You were so tired, my dear Baron, when I fetched you in Manchester. We did not speak at all on the way home."

"I slept, I'm afraid." That I did, nestled into the cloth seat of the car like a spent child returning from an intense week of giddy overachievement at summer camp. "If I didn't thank you properly for meeting me at such an early hour, please accept my full gratitude now."

"It is my job to serve you completely, my Baron."

"So it is."

"I also purchased a new porkpie for you, along with a fashionable leather valise recommended by Mr. Shadrack himself." She smiled, melting a portion of my heart while imploding a corner of my soul. "You're all set to travel once again."

"So I am."

"I have a thank you card here for Mr. Kose. It was generous of him to fly you across North America."

"He called me an asshole. His term."

"Modern etiquette advises to ignore personal remarks and focus on the courtesy which has been extended."

"Very well." I scrawled my name at the bottom inside page. "Two items for your consideration, Miss Kolpaux."

"And I have two items for you as well, my Baron," Mia echoed me, her soft chuckle evoking an image of schoolgirl days gone by. "You first."

"I'm expecting a package --"

"Of which we are very much aware."

"To arrive with Dawn the Fed Ex girl today. This very morning. It is critical I be notified immediately upon its receipt."

"Surely, my Baron."

"Secondly, I am expecting a call on my cellular device in the coming hours. It is vital my phone is charged and with me."

"Done and completed. The phone is fully functional and placed next to your Trotters blazer, which is laid out on your bed."

"My what?"

"Your Trotters on Funk blue blazer. It is to be worn today," Mia said, stifling a cough. "This is the first of my two items."

"The blazer? Certainly number two on your list cannot compare!"

"VIOLENCE is paying its monthly visit to the Manor today."

"VIOLENCE! Of all days, why today?"

"It was scheduled during last month's meeting, my Baron." Mia smiled as she referenced the minutes before me. "You should know this as you are the group's chairman."

"But the entire day will be consumed with bird watching, lunch, lectures, notes and speeches," I groaned, wincing at the thought of being surrounded by nearsighted naturists while waiting on pins and needles for word from Moeziz. "I'm terribly busy right now, Miss Kolpaux. We either must cancel or have someone else take over my duties for the event."

"Not all is without good news, my Baron." It was amazing that a man of my stature fit so snugly in the palm of her delicate hand. "Anticipating you might be preoccupied, I invited the Kornblatts to assist in your duties. They graciously accepted and arrived last evening."

"Stinky and Conestoga are here? Wonderful news!" A rush of renewed enthusiasm shot through me. I would be able to apply my focus on Angel and the CerebStix situation, while being relieved of the mechanisms of the charity I reluctantly agreed to sponsor. "Good, old Stinky. Born a true friend, indeed."

"Once you are dressed and downstairs, lunch will be announced upon your directive."

"That is very kind of you, Mia. I appreciate your organizational efficiency."

"You will share a table with Mr. and Mrs. Kornblatt," she replied, rising from her chair like an elegant lily reaching for the first rays of dawn. "Should duty summon you from those you are helping, you shall have my total support."

"Mia," I called after her, "this thing with Smudgely. That is, your interest in him. I was hoping to get to know one another better. You and I. I thought we might make quite a couple, if I dare say as much." The words left my mouth before I realized they would cover me in a wash of undignified mortification.

"Oh, my Baron," Mia blushed, covering her face with her hand. "You are such a busy bee. Where would you find time for such fanciful things as romance?"

"As much as I like to consider myself a fugleman of contemporary events, Miss Kolpaux," my self-embarrassment continued unabated, "there is another side of me that appreciates both the timeless divinity of soulful love and the finer quality of human desires."

"Oh, my Baron, you are but a vigorous boy!"

"Heavens, Miss Kolpaux, I'm almost twice your age! And Smudgely is half again mine!"

"Thank you for so quickly understanding my position. Your extensive intellect grasps my attraction for Mr. Smudgely's maturity, experience and worldliness."

And so the door closed behind Mia, leaving me to ponder a youthfulness still circulating within the old frame, one of which I had been blindly unaware.

***

"This is the finest Reuben I've had in ages," Stinky managed to emit between mouthfuls of Mrs. Potsdam's toasty creation. Several strands of sauerkraut dangled from his chin, bearing solid witness to his testimony. "It's all there and more!"

"I'm happy for your satisfaction." I could not help but smile at the sight of my old friend thoroughly enjoying his lunch whilst I but dabbled at mine. It was half after twelve and there was still no report of my package arriving. "Would you care for some of mine?"

Stinky's head teetered up and down in agreeable fashion, much to the protests from Conestoga. "Stinky, you've had two already. Please be mindful! We're out in public."

"Yes, dear." His response came amid a spray of bread crumbs, his stubby arm reaching across the white linen to help himself to my uneaten portion.

"There you go," I said, pushing myself away from the table. "While everyone enjoys finishing this fine collation, I shall hasten the proceedings by addressing the gathered." As I made my way to the dais placed in the corner of the dining room, a knowing exchange of glances with Smudgely who stood rigid in the corner awaiting tea service, indicated the package was yet in transit.

"Baron!" Gertie Idleweed, a founding member of our group, called out. "You must permit me the introduction as promised!"

"Indeed, Gertie. The proceedings would be remiss otherwise."

The blue-haired senior citizen, a nimble and brisk octogenarian of some years, sprinted from her seat in the middle of the room to the modest podium. "I've been working on this for weeks, don't you know," she said, pushing past me to tap the microphone head. "Agnes helped me polish it up at the fish supper last Saturday."

"I'm sorry I missed that."

"Here goes," Gertie continued, oblivious to my apology. "My fellow VIOLENCE associates. I would like to extend our collective gratitude to our host, Baron von dek Horn and his staff, for their hospitality in once more opening Tumultuous Manor to our group. Where would we be without him?"

I humbly and silently acknowledged the whistling and tweeting which filled the room.

"And now, a poem. A poem about us and the challenges we face. Nearsighted and farsighted, our sight is but blighted. The birds chirp from far, the birds chirp from near. We cannot see them, but we know what we hear. A man opens his home, puts his hand to his ear, he opens his mouth and says, 'Hey, I care!' Baron von dek Horn, chairman of Visually Impaired Ornithologists Lacking Economically Needed Corrective Eyewear."

Despite the horribly measured meter and anarchic structure, Gertie's heartfelt words drew another round of assorted birdcalls from the numerous attendees.

"Please, please, my good friends, one and all," I waved with one hand as Gertie pulled me to the stand. "Thank you, Gertie. I am glad to hear so many familiar birdsongs with us today. It is nice to be home where, at my insistence, brevity reigns. I think it's safe to say VIOLENCE has touched us all, having a major impact on the quality of our lives. The pleasure of bringing VIOLENCE upon the less fortunate is a worthy activity, requiring every ounce of our collective effort. Why, our current 'Binos for One, Binos for Many' campaign has created a staggering response, one unprecedented in the history of bird watching. While you walk the grounds of Tumultuous Manor today, seeking out the ubiquitous eastern wood pewee or perhaps cooing to a rare blue gray gnatcatcher, please take a moment to remember the joy you share with those possessing inferior ocular attributes. Again, as I look at the faces seated around these tables, there are so many of you to thank for our success. Agnes, the Goofy Whites, Stinky and Conestoga, Froggy, Gertie, Dr. Hahmennum, Reverend Parsseau, Dawn the Fed Ex girl --"

My choking was involuntary and, as with my earlier remarks to Mia in the upstairs study, a distinct moment of personal humiliation. I gagged several times while circling on the riser, futilely tugging at my ascot.

"By gore, he's imitating a Rumpless Araucana about to lay an egg!"

"Come now, that would be a New Hampshire Red all the way. Baron wouldn't fool around with his indigenous chicken dancing."

I was struggling for words when the firm hand of Smudgely landed upon me, guiding me along the perimeter of the room to the sanctity of Mrs. Potsdam's scullery. "That was sheer brilliance, sir."

"Neeyug".

"Far be it from me to correct our invited guests, sir," Smudgely said, handing me a frosted glass of spring water fresh from the tap, "but I recognized your performance to be that of a Belgian D'Anver. Jolly well executed too, if I may say so. Only a smattering of feathers required to make it authentic."

"Thank you, Smudgely." I slurped another shot of fluid to dull my exasperation before launching my main line of inquiry. "Now please tell, how is it Dawn the Fed Ex girl is in attendance at our luncheon without my knowledge?"

"I conveyed that to you before lunch with my look, sir. And again when you rose to make your remarks."

"Look? You appeared calm and collected. In fact, simply your stoic self. Look?"

"Yes, sir. I was indicating to you Dawn the Fed Ex girl had arrived on premises."

"She was here, sir," Mrs. Potsdam added, entering from the kitchen proper carrying an enormous ladle in each hand which, in conjunction with her ample midsection, suggested she was rehearsing to parade as a bass drum player in a marching band. "She arrived at eleven sharp. We shared a good visit here in the kitchen. I just baked some fresh scones, cinnamon flavor this time, and the little sweetheart was wild about them!"

"She's been here for almost two hours?"

"She had previously expressed her interest in VIOLENCE, sir, and graciously accepted the luncheon invitation this week past."

"I'm cheered by that bit of news, Smudgely, certainly I am. But what of the package she was to deliver?"

"That thing?" Mrs. Potsdam waved the ladles in the air as she would a pair of lit sparklers. "I made the sweet lass wash her hands thoroughly after handling that bit of filth."

"The cardboard envelope, originating in Mexico, has been placed in the Cromwell, sir, as instructed."

"Thankfully. I was a bit miffed when I spotted Dawn the Fed Ex girl. Overcome, actually, with surprise I hadn't been told she was here."

"Sir, if I might. You were engrossed in conversation with Mr. Kornblatt concerning your Hodaka motorbike. I made the decision not to interrupt you, but instead to deal with the envelope as directed by both you and Mrs. Potsdam. In addition, I rang Mr. Goofy Eddy White and suggested he bring a utility trailer with him today so he could remove the Hodaka to his workshop. It will soon be in top running shape, sir."

"Mrs. Potsdam. Smudgely. How could I ever function normally without you two?"

"Oh, my," Mrs. Potsdam nervously giggled while brushing her face with the back of her hand, leaving a faint trail of flour on her rosy cheek.

"Sir, it is my natural vocation to be always of assistance to you."

"Let it be said you are rousing success. Now, Smudgely, please follow me to the Cromwell for an additional set of directives."

I made every attempt to remain inconspicuous as we crept along the dining room wall, hoping the Reverend Parsseau's dissertation on the breeding habits of the American Woodcock might hold the attention of the audience. Unfortunately, any stealth I wished to retain evaporated upon my tripping over the brass hearth cricket -- a traditional symbol of good luck -- and sending the fireplace tools scattering across the stone tiles. The room, upon spying me, immediately burst into a cacophony of clucking as I lifted myself off the floor and hastened my escape to the upper confines of the Manor.

"That was some bit of misfortune, sir."

"Wasn't it?" The day was turning into one endless coldwater stream of discomfiture for me. "At least the Cromwell is cooperating." I tumbled the last number into the place and threw the stainless steel handle into the open position, pulling mightily on the six-inch thick door so it eased open on the single rod hinge. There -- amid collected treasures, heirlooms, keepsakes, ephemera, manuscripts, diaries, letters and photos -- lay the envelope I sealed thousands of miles away the very day before. "Smudgely. Top left drawer of my desk. There is a small blue plastic device."

"Dark blue, sir?"

"Yes. A CerebStix, so that you know." I requested from Mia to buy up the lot at Shadrack's during her morning trip. Slitting open the envelope, I put the Bridgework CerebStix and the note taken from Angel's cabin in my pocket before accepting the Shadrack CerebStix from Smudgely. "Should there be a predicament where the demand is made upon us for a missing CerebStix flash drive, we will provide the requestors with this CerebStix. Understood?"

"Sir. Would this be a red herring, sir?"

"A lame duck Trojan horse of a red herring, yes."

"Understood, sir."

"Such a request may be made under dire circumstances."

"Life is full of trying situations, sir. I'm certain we can successfully accommodate any ultimatums as presented."

I sealed the Cromwell and dutifully covered its coal black door with the Etruscan tapestry depicting dancers in the Tomb of the Bacchants. "I'm going to visit the Hodaka in the garage, Smudgely, before it departs. Afterwards, I need to place a call to Mr. Sondheim from the study. Please attend to the guests and see I'm not interrupted."

"Sir."

The cool, dank air of the garage was a welcomed relief under the early afternoon sun. The mixture of musty smells -- aged pine wood, used engine oil, damp soil and concrete \-- provided a soothing return to years gone by. Many boyhood days were spent here with my father and grandfather in the company of familiar figures: The Whippet, Duesy and Packard in their respective bays, lined up in front of the jumbled workbench running the entire length of the large outbuilding. I let slide the old wooden door behind me, half-expecting to see the ghosts of my ancestors appear in their work coveralls, ripsaws or pruning shears in hand, talking about which thicket of bushes or rows of trees were ripe for grooming. Beneath the workbench sat a collection of chainsaws and line trimmers, silently waiting for the moment they would be summoned forth to maintain the semblance of the grounds enjoyed by so many through the decades. I followed the beams of sunlight entering through the rows of windows, greenish-hued and cobwebbed, along the length of the back wall past the vehicles and bays of lawn tractors and trailers. In the very last port, next to a row of stepladders and half-folded drop cloths, sat the dust-covered Hodaka resting faithfully on its kickstand.

Suppressing a wave of sentiment and the urge to give its motor a try for old time sake, I loosened the throttle grip exposing the open end of the metal handlebar. The Bridgework CerebStix slid perfectly into the cavity. Without tarrying a needless moment, I replace the rubber grip snuggly into its original position, clapped the grime from my hands and stood back for one last look. "See you soon, my metallic chum."

***

"Sounds quite complex, old decimal point."

"It is that," I replied, clinching any ounce of frustration with Sondheim from my words. "Bridgework is on the run. On the move. The possibility of breaching his security to carryout a clandestine abduction is highly doubtful, given the man's contumacious attitude."

"You sound frightfully dismal about it, old negative number."

"As mentioned, I'm afraid the job has risen above my skill level." From my perch in the study, the muted calls of bird-seeking guests rose from below as the assembled fanned out over the Manor grounds with binoculars and notebooks in hand. "I do, however, have an item of his that will draw him to my locale."

"There's an upside to everything, my good lemniscate. You've only been at this for a week now."

" _Tempus fugit_ , eh what?" My lamentation was sincere, as a major part of me lobbied heavily to place the entire matter on the corner of his desk. The peace of Faithful Hill was upon me and would prove most difficult to leave once more. Counter-weighting this selfishness was the disturbing thought of Angel being subjected to Moeziz and his thugs. She was destined for a bad turn should Moeziz's proviso be fulfilled. "If you'd like, I can supply you with all the information I've collected, along with a synopsis of the players for your reference."

"Not necessary, old sinusoid," came Sondheim's quick reply. "We the board believe you're the best integer in the equation at this point. Particularly with the mention of Moeziz placing himself square into the set braces."

"As you desire," I relented. "I will negotiate with Bridgework and Moeziz as best I can."

"Negotiate? Track and bag them! You'll do fine, old cotangent. As long as the objective is met, we'll be satisfied from this end. Bring Bridgework to us under the radar and you'll be free of the matter."

I hesitated raising the quandary involving Angel's safekeeping, if only to forfend Sondheim's request for the CerebStix. It was possible that, should the absence of the flash drive thwart Bridgework's plans, Sondheim would be just as satisfied taking ownership of the digital storage device, leaving Angel to twist in Moeziz's wind. There would be no need for the body of Bridgework if the global financial house could stand on its own. "Well," I said, aiming to end the conversation before such an inquiry began, "that's my megillah of this assignment."

"Thus far, my good oblique prism, thus far. Is there something else you're not telling me?"

"For instance?" I shook the receiver with annoyance, wondering how Sondheim read my mind through it.

"The item of Bridgework's you possess. The one that brings him to you."

"Oh, that. Just a nugatory trinket."

"Nothing worth mentioning, old googolplex?"

"At this juncture, no. Just a little object he may want to retrieve at some point. For now, I sit in my rusticated fortress awaiting the attack."

"Would it be shallow of me not to supply you with a bit of fuel for an offense then, old equidistant?"

"I'm in this up to my chest, Sondheim," I eagerly replied, pushing us away from the topic of Bridgework's article. "Whatever you have for information, I'll gladly accept it."

"I thought you'd never ask, old pinching theorum." Sondheim's voice betrayed an overconfident tone. "Bridgework and his family, accompanied by Moeziz and his tribe, boarded a flight at LAX this morning, a private jet affair wouldn't you know. Their intention was to fly to Tunis --"

"Tunis!" I fumbled in my pocket for the note procured on the _Gangrene_.

"Tunis, my good transversal. Our friends were able to divert the flight to Chicago and, through means I shan't divulge, arrange it as such that the Bridgework party was forced to continue its journey on commercial aircraft."

"To Tunis?"

"Please don't stutter, old horizontal parabola. They are now on their way to a lengthy layover in Newark, which should provide you enough time to arrange for your own passage."

"To Tunis?"

"Rather annoying that is, my fine augmented matrix, stumbling over your own words. Of course, Tunis! The belief on this end is that Bridgework's completing some sort of cycle which he recently began on Mount Rushmore. Now, I'd dearly love to recommend you shake a leg, but far be it from me to dictate how you carry on, old y intercept."

"Sondheim, I must truncate our call!" Tossing the receiver into its saddle, I stalked out into the sunlight drenching the grand balcony and read the note once again:

Final drive! Carthage links. Tunis.

The fourth flash drive needed must be hidden in Tunis, but how could that be? If Bridgework picked up the first at Mount Rushmore and the second at Machu Picchu, how could Tunis be home to the _Final drive!_? Were the flash drives numbered and Bridgework choosing not to work sequentially? As a byproduct, was Sondheim suggesting so with his overabundance of mathematical references? And what did _Carthage links_ translate to?

Good questions all, leaving me with only one answer: All would be revealed in Tunis, not on the third floor grand balcony of Tumultuous Manor.

"Mia! Smudgely!" I called to the yard below. It was time, yet again, to proceed at a cracking pace.

***

"Your valise is packed with the North African clothes as specified, my Baron."

"Thank you, Mia," I acknowledged, while loading the essentials -- laptop, passport, notepad, spare pens and paperclips -- into my attaché. I had spent a good part of the afternoon marshalling my forces in preparation for a hasty departure, realizing that arriving in Tunis ahead of Bridgework would be critical to any chance of success. "Any word on the flight information yet?"

"No, my Baron. The internet is down for the moment. All travel agents have been phoned and are researching our options."

"Very well. Smudgely, see to it the Duesenberg is tanked full and roadworthy. We may just get underway shortly and make final arrangements while on the road."

"Sir. One point of consideration."

"Yes?" My mind wandered away into the sticky, undefined mix as to why Sondheim did not suggest taking down Bridgework in Newark. "That would be?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Kornblatt borrowed the Duesenberg to drive home a few of their fellow birdwatchers. Mr. Kornblatt has repeatedly expressed his desire to operate the car and, in a moment of servile weakness, I permitted him to do so. They plan to stop by Shadrack's Market on their return, sir."

"That's fine, Smudgely," I said, checking my watch. Stinky, in addition to drooling at the advent of Mia, had developed a fixation with the Duesy sometime back. Allowing him a turn behind the wheel would alleviate one of his two wishes. "We'll coordinate with Mia, as necessary."

The next hour dragged at such a sluggish pace I felt deafened with every tick of the various Manor clocks. Stinky and Conestoga proved unreachable by cell phone, which only added to the aggravation Mia experienced attempting to obtain overseas airline reservations. During this time, I politely bid farewell to departing guests and members of our VIOLENCE function while pacing the main hallway from Mrs. Potsdam's pantry to the theatre room at the east end of the house. Finally, with luggage stowed by the main entrance, I could stand the delay no longer and decided to ring Sondheim once more.

"The cherry blossoms in Washington are more plentiful than congressional aides." I used the most recent code supplied by my veiled employer.

"Baron, old fraction, so good to hear from you again," Sondheim answered on the fifth ring. "We're in the midst of a board meeting, so if you wouldn't mind being brief."

"Certainly." Being admonished for perceived long-windedness before I had spoken contributed increasingly to my load of anxiety. "Why don't we simply paddock Bridgework in Newark? Usher him to a VIP lounge, let him stew a bit, then place a bag over his head before taking leave to the nearest government truck. I'd have him to you in a matter of hours."

"Both good and bad thinking, old abacus, much of which we've already accomplished here." Sondheim's measured avuncular pitch had, in my unsettled state, a knee-buckling effect upon me. "You see, Bridgework is conducting some ritualistic international scavenger hunt. I presume that was part of your foray into the Andes. Quite bizarre, really. We thought it best to allow the old boy his day in the sun, so to speak. See where he leads us and what it is he's collecting. Sound plausible?"

"Thus far." I was somewhat distracted by Mia's note-taking and smile as she sat, legs crossed, on the large marble bench just outside the front door. "Go on."

"Extending the leash, you see, allows him to venture off US soil, my good orthopole. Should the occasion arise that our subject requires obliteration, well, it's best done in a backyard of a neighbor where there's less scrutiny, don't you know."

"Obliteration?" As confusing as Sondheim's instructions were at times, this one moment I angled for nothing less than clarity. "Isn't the plan to bring him in alive?"

"It was and is. I'm just letting you know all options are now on the table, given new developments."

"New developments? Since we last spoke?"

"Indeed, old Euclidean distance. It seems the Bridgeworks have separated yet again, this time at O'Hare. Damned busy place to be carrying on a relationship as it is. The old gal \--"

"Ethelene?"

"Has taken a flier to your neck of the woods, it seems. What her intentions are, we're not sure."

I involuntarily slapped my forehead. "You were planning to inform me of this, yes?"

"Naturally, old subgraph. As I said, we've been a bit tied up here, with ordering out for dinner and what not."

"Pizza? At a time like this?"

"Chinese, actually. Mandarin."

" _Neeyug_."

"Isn't that a Malaysian dialect, my good binomial theorum?"

"When you next hear from me, Sondheim, I'll give you my answer!" Finishing the conversation, I unintentionally pinched my finger while closing the mobile's cover. "Sweet mother of God!"

"My Baron!" Mia's outcry came as I sunk my foot deep into the leather umbrella holder next to the coat rack doors. "You must harness your emotions."

"O, forlorn as I may be, surrounded by those who impose thine will upon me so!" I was orbiting to the heights of being out of control.

"I have news of your flight. If we hurry, you can catch a Slipstream Green --"

"Imposed again and once more!"

"Flight from Boston to Halifax to Reykjavik to Dublin to Madrid to Casablanca, then Tunis."

" _Newg!_ "

"But you don't have to get off the plane, my Baron."

"Sir, there is still no sign of Mr. and Mrs. Kornblatt. Would you like me to check the petrol in the Packard?"

"Oh my goodness," Mrs. Potsdam said, entering the hallway to further jack the elevation of stress, "the blueberry chutney's gone ripe, sir, and I dumped it all over me favorite apron, wouldn't you know!"

"Nenna!" Try as I might, I was tongue-tied with the indignation of airline routes, friends who borrow cars and exotic spicy relishes. "I need to --"

"Sir! The Duesy approaches!"

For a quartet lacking any type of rehearsal, we moved with great poise and purpose to the portico, arriving in time to see a distressed Duesenberg -- sputtering and coughing as though it had contracted a dismal cold -- circle the cul-de-sac and glide to a stalled-out stop just shy of the front steps.

"My word!"

Out from the driver's door staggered a flustered Conestoga Kornblatt, hair disheveled and blouse torn, with a trickle of blood evident at the corner of her mouth. Her intent was to cross the front of the stately vehicle, but like an intoxicated overweight teenager attempting execution of a delicate _danseuse chaîné_ she spun helicopter-style nose first into the bubbling fountain.

"Conestoga!"

One of the many admirable traits possessed by Smudgely is his deceptive strength, the shear physical ability he houses in what would otherwise be rightfully considered a bog-standard sexagenarian body. His alert reaction, actually vaulting the hood of the Duesy with his left arm rigid and both legs fully extended, was all the more surprising when his rescue effort was superseded by that of the stout and plucky Mrs. Potsdam who, arriving a step behind the sprightly valet, fished Conestoga from the mountain spring fed drink by wrapping her burly arm around the anguished woman's plentiful midsection and heaving upward.

"Conestoga!"

"Baron," a most confused Mrs. Kornblatt snorted before attempting to dive into the fountain a second time.

"Conestoga, gather yourself! This is no time for a swim!" I moved to intercept her and aid Mrs. Potsdam, who by now was affecting a full nelson on the troubled soul. "Who did this? Where's Stinky? What in the name of Saint Aloysius Gonzaga happened?"

"It was terrible, Baron, just frightful," she gasped and, with a surge of adrenaline, hoisted Mrs. Potsdam airborne. "We were hijacked by highwaymen. Stinky's been kidnapped by terrorists!"

"Ethelene," I muttered, lowering Mrs. Potsdam to the ground while easing her death grip on the distraught Mrs. K. "That caps it right there! Where did this happen?"

"At the, at the," she gulped and stammered, repeating her attempt to enter the fountain once more, "at the base of the drive. Just as we turned off the main road. Poor Stinky!"

"Smudgely! Mrs. Potsdam!" I gestured for the two to pin Conestoga against the nearest pillar. "How many did it? Was one of them a female? Did they say anything?"

"There was three of them, all big men. They kept calling Stinky you, Baron. 'Baron' this and 'Baron' that, then calling him other names, 'Walter' and 'Skeef'."

"Skeet," I corrected her. "Go on."

"They said no disguises would fool them this time. Oh, it was pure horror! I was in shock."

"Did Stinky put up a fight?"

"He did. He got me pretty good in the mouth by accident, but I have to say I had it coming. All those years of criticism. I never cut the man a break! Oh, Baron, you have to save him! Save my Stinky, my dear husband!"

"Three big men, you say. Would you classify them as Holsteins in suits?"

"More like," she sniffled in disagreement, "gorillas."

"But Holsteinish nonetheless?"

"Perhaps," Connie hesitated, obviously not inclined to split hairs with me at the moment, "if cows subscribed to bipedalism."

"That's a very good point, Conestoga. In this instance, I concede that gorillas they are." I ran my hand over my brow, visualizing the thugs and their wicked feelings carried for me. "This I know. Germany 'Stinky' Kornblatt and I share a bond which renders us inseparable. He is a loving husband, an honest public servant and dear friend. We have seen one another through both the joys and devastations life is prone to squish in one's face. He will never be abandoned!"

***

There was no sense of leisure on this trip south. I issued final instructions to Smudgely -- advising the steady adjutant to hold said fort in my absence -- and with Mrs. Potsdam's assistance, helped poor Conestoga into the front parlor so she might better recover from her cataclysmic encounter with Rico, Staple and one unnamed gorilla. Leaving the distraught spouse to fill the room with her wailing, Mia and I fetched my gear and bolted in the Duesenberg for Logan International Airport.

"Let's talk perspective and strategy here," I said over the energetic pounding of the straight-eight cylinders sending us effortlessly along the interstate. "I have a piece of Bridgework's puzzle he's eager to trade for. Oz Moeziz will phone me to set up the swap. On their way east, Ethelene leaves the Bridgework party to travel on her own, reportedly in my direction. Meanwhile, three gorillas kidnap Stinky, believing he was me. They're off to parts unknown with no demands made. Finally, Sondheim insists on my presence in Tunis, believing it's better to follow Bridgework as he collects his flash drives instead of actually apprehending him when we know where he is!"

"I understand not half of what you say, my Baron."

"And I less than that."

"You did not contact the FBI to assist with Mr. Kornblatt."

"A conscious decision on my part, Mia. The Fed boys would become another weight to carry, another variable in the equation, another vegetable portion in a growing salad. We don't even know the stipulations for bringing Stinky back home." My suspicion was that Stinky's true identification would not be determined until he was brought before someone possessing a sliver of intelligence. I handed my cell to Mia. "Ring me Sondheim."

"Your call went straight to voicemail," Mia said after several seconds passed.

"Try it again." I made every effort to apply patience to the situation.

"Same result, my Baron."

"Mustn't interrupt the almighty consumption of Mandarin." An obstinate peevishness overcame me. "And again!"

"It is the same option as before," Mia said, downcast as she lowered the phone from her ear.

"It's a mark of insanity to anticipate a diverse result."

"How's that, my Baron?"

"Nothing," I snapped, "simply brooding over a musty old Einstein theory, is all."

We motored along for miles in silence until, just south of Ashland, the mobile rang to life. "It states 'private caller', my Baron." Mia flipped the phone open, handing it to me.

"It's about time!" Once past the obligatory code phrase, I intended to address Sondheim about his indifference and lack of concern for this operation. "The cherry blossoms in Washington are more plentiful than congressional aides!"

"Who gives a flying fuck?"

I was taken aback, suspecting the Mandarin obviously did not seat itself well within Sondheim's system. "I do, what with all the political gridlock these days! And I'm confirming my identity to you which, under the circumstances, should be a priority for the both of us. Truly!"

"Agreed. Then with whom is it I'm speaking? Skeet Burnisher, Walter Raleigh or Baron von dek Horn?" The question was punctuated with a boisterous laugh.

"Moeziz! You son of a bitch!" I cupped the phone and cast an apologetic eye at Mia. "I'm so sorry to use that phrase in front of you, Miss Kolpaux."

"Baron, it seems our plan to collect you netted a different fish, a whale by the name of Kornblatt, actually. At first I was angered by our error, but the more I considered the value of our capture, the happier I became."

"Where is Stinky?" I demanded. "You sent your agents in violation of our deal and nabbed an innocent man. You double crossed me, you ingrate!"

"I'm in control here, Baron. And it was a triple cross, actually. We messed up the second step before deciding to proceed to the third. That aside, you know why I'm calling. Where is the CerebStix?"

"I have a handle on your precious flash drive. More to the point, where is Stinky? And Angel? And you!"

"Where I need to be. I ... you ... when ..."

"Moeziz, you're breaking up on me. We're rapidly reaching the communication service dead spot just north of Meredith. Repeat, I say, repeat!"

"Why you! I said ... then ... Angel and Kornblatt ... is ... CerebStix now!"

"I can't hear you! Phone again! Call back, you idiot!" I slammed the cell shut directly on my exposed digit once more. "Damnable fool!"

Erroneously and childishly, I subjected Mia to a bout of sulking during the balance of our trip to Logan, silently cursing modern technology while knowing I would not hear back from Moeziz. Wheeling the Duesy to a stop in front of the loathsome Slipstream Green logo, I set the parking break and scanned the ominous gray shadows cast by an evening rain shower.

"Here we are again, Mia. Another farewell at the airport."

"So we are. Safe travels, my Baron."

"In case the opportunity doesn't present itself once more, I wish you and Smudgely all the best for future happiness." I exited the vehicle, collecting my valise and attaché while tugging my porkpie into position. "Take good care of the gentleman, right?"

"I shall, my Baron." Her eyes adopted a sudden mist as a slight tremble entered her lips. "You will be home soon and we shall celebrate with a glass of wine, yes?"

"That would certainly be a revel with a cause. Indeed."

CHAPTER TWELVE

_Class Act All the Way_

"Suppositories. Now that was a line to be in. Guaranteed income. No lack of sales. The market never bottomed out. Then came the sexual revolution. End of the game. All of a sudden, you got your enema experts, your colon cleaners, basically siphoning off a huge slice of the pie from the suppository salesman. Hard to believe, but true as I speak it."

I wrenched in my seat -- Row 49, middle bucket -- as the obese pharmaceutical sales representative leaned further into me, under the impression I actually cared about his worldview, his marriage, his livelihood and his mid-Atlantic coast Congregationalist upbringing. His sweat-infused button down shirt adhered itself to everything it touched, including the mutual armrest we shared. It was evident, too, the man had not employed a single inch of dental floss in over a decade.

"I don't know," he began in the whiny voice first introduced to me when we were seated while waiting at the gate. Forty-five minutes into the flight, his pitch had not altered a note. "The wife or was it the kids? I don't recall, but someone got me a snow blower. For Father's Day, I think, or it could have been my birthday, I really don't remember. So, here it is in the middle of summer and I got this snow blower sitting in the driveway, because of the wife or kids getting it for me. As a gift, it was either Father's Day or my birthday, does it matter? There it sat all summer. In the driveway."

"Would you mind, sir? I'm consumed at the moment on some rather personal concerns and I'm finding it extremely difficult to focus upon them with your endless suppurating over issues I would not find of interest under any circumstances, no matter how dire or bizarre."

"Is that right?" He looked as if he sampled a choice selection of his own wares. "Did I ever tell you about the rude son of a bitch who sat in front of me on a flight home from San Juan one time? Oh, I wanted to kill that bastard, I surely did. Him and his two punk kids and tight ass little wife sitting across the aisle from him. I don't know, I had the impulse but not the follow through, you know? The kids, my kids, they always said that about me, okay? Dad, you're not going to get that finished today because you'll end up drinking beer in a while and we all know the lawnmower doesn't run itself. This from a group that buys me a snow blower in June. Or was it July? I don't know, really, but it was somewhere during the summer around my birthday or Father's Day ..."

Realizing I was unable to access any immediate form of suicide prevention assistance, I harkened back to the Pranayama breathing exercises taught at a yoga series held in the Faithful Hill Arts Recital Theatre hall two winters ago. Though I never advanced beyond the Ghata stage in accord with instructor Yogini Mary's standards, I did indeed find the practice effective for relieving all major symptoms of the common cold and ingrown toenails. To a lesser degree, I found myself attaining elevated levels of concentration hitherto obfuscated by the routine rituals of daily life. That state of higher awareness was about to come into play, sparing Death a visit to this particular flight.

"... Cher performing at the Wells Fargo Center. Cher! Class act all the way, I tell ya, class act all the way. The kids or the wife, I don't know, they got us the tickets for our anniversary or Arbor Day, I really don't remember ...".

I quelled my severe misgivings about leaving the USA and, as much as I avoided admitting it, there loomed a concern over Sondheim's actions. He insisted I travel out of country without confirming our target's departure. Indeed, Sondheim indicated he orchestrated delays for the entire Bridgework party, culminating in the billionaire being unable to use his own fleet of private aircraft for international travel.

Again, why wasn't the takedown of Bridgework in Newark made active?

Then, almost as an afterthought, Sondheim mentioned Ethelene's splintering from the crowd in Chicago and winging it solo in my direction. How was it he knew of Ethelene's departure and destination, but failed to mention the travel and intention of the three gorilla-cum-Holsteins? His brash advisement, too, that eliminating Bridgework while overseas was now an option put into play.

Wouldn't such an action, both illegal and immoral, quickly destabilize global financial markets? What was Sondheim thinking?

All of his bluster with no mention of Angel's disposition. And his feigned surprise to learn that Oz Moeziz had volunteered for the Bridgework camp where his intelligence apparatus would have instantly pegged Moeziz's hawkish profile. Finally, I knew for an absolute fact that Sondheim himself could not stomach the delightful and savory contrast of good Mandarin cooking, whether dining out or taking away. Despite his best arithmetic rhetoric, Sondheim's words simply did not add up.

"... It appeared out of nowhere, I don't know. The grandkids found it in her top dresser drawer or somewhere, who knows? So the dog now has the thing in his mouth, running around the dining room table in front of all the relatives just as the turkey is about to be served. Can you imagine a Christmas like that? I know I couldn't until it happened. I don't know, our dog is usually a class act like all Golden Retrievers are, but this one took the cupcake, I tell ya ...".

Golden Retriever? Pat Aundybach!

Why I had not considered him before was credited to my profound haste in getting underway. I fumbled for my cell phone and promptly rang through to the Aundybach farmhouse on the outskirts of Wicklow. "Pat!"

"Is Pat junior, yes?"

"Pat, is your dad home?"

"He's out at pub. Dart night. Would you like to speak with mum?"

"Why certainly, young man." I checked my watch. The flight was scheduled to land in Dublin seven hours from now, enough time for my European cohort and friend to pull himself together.

"Mum! For you!"

"Hello, Pat here."

"Pat! Baron von dek Horn phoning."

"Baron, you old culchie! When do you need him and where?"

"Dublin Airport. In about," I checked the itinerary prepared by Mia, "make it seven hundred hours your time. Slipstream Green flight number forty four."

"He'll be ready for work. And sober."

"That's a bonus. Thank you, Pat."

"Just have him back in a reasonable amount of days. The Wicklow Dart Tournament opens the first weekend of July. It's all he's talked about for months now. You be sure to stop in soon for a bowl of stew and some Vitamin G, right?"

"Long overdue, dear woman, long overdue."

I gingerly closed the phone, digit extended beyond its hinge this time, and smiled. Pat Aundybach was a trusted colleague, my assistant for European business when such a need arose. Athletic and handsome, he was oft mistaken for an Irish country lad by those unaware his roots were sown and grown on the mean streets of Yakima, Washington.

Orphaned as an infant, Aundybach was adopted and raised by an older couple recently retired from the CIA. Enamored with World War II history during his formative years, Pat was a standout two-way high school football star for the Yakima Valley Yaks, before receiving his Bachelor degree from the Australian College of Theology. Upon graduating, he headed south to Hobart, Tasmania for a spell -- never explained why -- and back over to Australia again, where he hooked on as part of a security detail for the Pogues while the band toured the great Oz. With the band, Pat found his niche and his religion. There was no cause to look elsewhere. He eventually met Pat and married, settling in Wicklow as an expat before the birth of their son, Pat.

My association with Pat Aundybach began one rainy November evening during a chance meeting backstage during a Mescaleros concert at the Olympia in Dublin. The moment is recorded in a manuscript -- _Argent de Rébellion_ \-- I have yet to formally publish. Joe Strummer, surely entertaining in the heavens now, blessed Pat with the sobriquet "Golden Retriever", due to the lad's thick flowing blond locks, toothy grin and good nature. At the time Pat was helpful in providing me some much needed information and, from that night forward, we continued two steady relationships -- business and social -- each proving mutually beneficial. Typically our collaborations were prearranged, enough so I felt somewhat badly about this improvised contact. Regardless, I was certain he would understand.

" ... I don't know. So I said to him, sure I didn't drink the entire bottle of barium. The dog ran off with it like it was a toy or something, but go ahead, stick the thing in me and let's see what's what ...".

***

I passed out during the gastrointestinal recitation and bumped to awakening when the wheels touched down in Halifax. It was a brief layover, almost a rolling stop, and just as quick we were aloft once again. My neighbor provided play-by-play of the landing, gate crawl and liftoff before launching into a comparison of his wife's and sister-in-law's respective hysterectomies.

"This is Captain Cadieux from the flight deck." The familiar Cajun twang was both a welcomed disruption to the medical analysis while simultaneously instilling a grain of fear for what air travel information would be imparted. "You may have noticed our brief stop at the last gate back there, eh? No passengers depart and only one climbed on! Good news for our weight. More good news. We are avoiding the cold of Iceland. What kind of nut wants to live on ice, anyway? Live like an ice cube inside the freezer box. So we'll skip that one and fly straight to Dublin. Remember, for those qualifying, please see your flight attendant to receive your Mile High Club lapel pin. Thank you for flying Slipstream Green, folks!"

"Well, who'd have thought that, eh mister mild mannered? The captain's mentioning questionable things while we're up in the air. Why in my line of work, you'd never catch me placing myself in --"

"Hey, you." She looked, acted and spoke like an out-of-wedlock specimen produced by a teamster and a town clerk: Tough, no nonsense and prepared to detach certain body parts should the conversation not go her way. "Un ass your seat, mister hoity toity."

"But I --"

Her anger rose swiftly, electrifying her facial hair so it stood on end. Without wasting another word, she muckled onto my jacket and forcibly drew me over the talkative pharmacological aisle sitter. "You're headed to first class, jerk head."

"What about my gear?" I was impressed by her ability to shut down my windpipe with one hand, leaving me motioning wildly for my valise and attaché on the floor. A lack of oxygen dampened the euphoria experienced when realizing I was to move far away from the boorish ignoramus.

"Pick up his stuff, motor mouth," she demanded of the heretofore bland observer.

"I don't know, the kids, they had something similar happen to them one time. They were flying to Florida or Texas, I really don't remember, and they were sitting --"

The attendant's elbow struck loudly and firmly into his breastbone, followed by the instantaneous and repeated hammering of his groin with her clinched fist. The storyteller, at last, was effectively defused. Slumped onto my vacated seat, he obligingly produced the requested items without comment, much to the flight attendant's satisfaction. Switching her grip from throat to earlobe, the attendant gathered up my items in her free hand and double-timed our march to the forward cabin.

"Right here, nancy boy." She shoved me into the first row, my noggin striking the overhead storage unit as she threw the attaché and valise against my shins. "Enjoy your flight."

I was in disbelief of my good fortune to be removed from the proximity of the pill-pushing blowhard and handed an entire row in first class, all by myself. I swiftly suppressed my joy, however, as any expression of gratitude would most likely result in an additional beating. Instead, I focused on setting out my laptop, updating my assignment notes and recalculating our arrival time in Dublin. Without warning, a loud pop was followed by the aroma of smoke filling my seating area. A figure emerged in the haze before me, stepping through the lavatory doorway.

"Baron. Welcome."

"Ethelene!" I was startled, not in the happy way. Indeed, a fury welled up within me at the thought of Stinky bound and gagged with cheap duct tape. "What in the world --"

"Who do you think promoted you to first class?"

"I hadn't really considered that. Yet. I was theorizing the odd chance of good luck had finally --"

"Push over," she said, sitting down and spreading her fragrance of nicotine. "And who do you think boarded in Halifax? It was no trick in tracking you down and joining this flight, dear Baron. You could at least thank a girl for all her efforts made to see you."

"I'm not so sure it's a thanks I'd like to give you, Ethelene." I promptly removed the hand she placed on my knee. "You know my friend Stinky Kornblatt has been kidnapped by your collection of off the rack rascals. But that doesn't bother you, right? After all, your daughter's life is in the balance while we're here in the air. In a wretched turn of fate, whether Angel lives or not is being decided by her very own father, who seems to care naught for her!"

"Oh, Baron, you are such a love when you're passionately in error."

"Let this invade your apathy. I'm on my way to rescue both Angel and Stinky. When that's completed, it'll be you, your husband, the allegedly benign son-in-law of yours, and your henchmen answering for all this mayhem."

"And so righteous. No wonder the women can't keep their hands off you."

"I have a good mind to return to row forty nine. Sure, my seatmate was a dullard and the recitation of his life story fatally damaging to one's central nervous system, but this I know. The man has integrity and true love for his family. Any description of you would omit those two very points."

"You're riding a high horse. When you tumble off, you'll be in need of help."

"My welfare is of no concern to you." I removed her roving hand once more and closed the laptop cover. "In fact, I think it helpful if Interpol greets you when we reach Ireland."

"Only if you completely disregard what I have to say. Or perhaps my information wouldn't be helpful to your plans."

"And you'd certainly like to know what those plans are, wouldn't you? Pass them right along to Oz Moeziz and the boys."

"Why would I do that? After they threatened me, accusing me of being a double crosser working with Angel?"

"Instead, you conveniently found out my travel arrangements and miraculously placed yourself on the same flight. Ethelene, you left me in Peru to fend off a psychopathic llama and happily went on a maritime binge with Wayland. Your credibility lies somewhere on the ocean's bottom so many thousands of leagues below."

"Then I guess it's time we bear our honesty to one another, Baron." Both her hands came into contact with me as though I was a practice mannequin at a workshop for pickpockets. "Sondheim."

"What?"

"Not what, silly. Who. Your employer. Sondheim."

"What about him?" Agitated, I pushed her away only to have her grasp and caress my hands.

"We'll discuss it all shortly. I need a smoke first."

"Isn't that in violation of the rules?"

"What rules?" Ethelene tossed her head back in laughter, a truly attractive woman for her age. She fished a cigarette from her handbag. "It's part of Slipstream's upgrade. They disable the smoke detectors in the first class lavatory. You have to love this airline!"

I spent the few moments of solitude flipping through the latest edition of _Why Are You Here?_ , considering the spiraling implications Ethelene's presence brought to my venture.

***

"That's quite a story. Much like a marriage." Pat looked from Ethelene to me. "Honestly, I can see where you two might be allies. Then again, it's obvious there's not much ground for trust."

"I trust Baron completely," Ethelene protested, "it's he who has the issues of conviction."

"You'll receive no argument here." I allowed Ethelene to recount the entire narrative to Pat, filling in the obvious blanks only as necessary. For the sake of self-preservation, I omitted the fact I now possessed the Machu Picchu CerebStix, noting with interest that Ethelene put forth Bridgework himself still retained it. "The reality is we're all pursuing the same items while pursuing one another. A circle of tail chasing dogs, as it were."

"Another reality," Ethelene snapped, "is the fact Sondheim's been in touch with me for as long as he has with you."

"I have my doubts."

"You're entitled, but you're selling yourself short, Baron. We've been teamed together since the moment Sondheim dispatched you to Ocho Rios. The sooner you realize that, the quicker we'll settle this entire mess. I'm off to have a smoke!" Her attempted dramatic exit failed when she snagged her cuff on the aisle armrest, ripping her blouse sleeve to the elbow.

"That's not all of it, Pat," I said, after Ethelene sealed herself inside the miniature powder room. "I've secured the Machu Picchu CerebStix. Bridgework knows this. That's why Moeziz sent a gang of Armani clad Holsteins to Tumultuous Manor, the ones who bungled my kidnapping. They made off with Stinky Kornblatt, instead."

"They have Stinky? We have Ethelene," Pat said, readily comprehending the situation. "She's probably monitoring your activities and reporting back to Bridgework headquarters. She makes a useful outlet for misinformation, I'd say. One working both ways."

"True enough. And I'm skeptical of her alleged association with Sondheim, though I can't entirely discount it. Troubling." I rubbed my brow, feeling the onslaught of weariness set in. "Prior to that Moeziz issued an ultimatum to me, the CerebStix for Angel. I'm afraid I missed the deadline for that exchange."

"Your concern's unfounded , Baron. If as Ethelene claims, the flash drive holds the key to unlocking Bridgework's electronic vault, your bargaining chip trumps all. They're not going to force a swap to spare Angel. They're not going to kill her. Kidnap and kill you? There's another issue altogether."

"Hence my contacting you, Pat. Your backup is needed on this one and, unfortunately, the danger level is exceedingly high." I fished the cryptic note from my pocket. "Our destination is Tunis, hopefully arriving before the Bridgework caucus."

"Caucus or circus?"

"Either and both. Once there, we must locate the Tunis CerebStix, aided in part by deciphering the phrase, 'Final drive! Carthage links.'"

"Final drive? There are four, aren't there?"

"Indeed. And we can discount any connection with the cloven hoof _sus scrofa_. I tend to believe --"

Pat interrupted me with a nod toward the aisle where Ethelene appeared in a smoke ball.

"You know, you two, there are more people in the race to collect these CerebStix --"

"Flash drives."

"Than just Wayland and the Baron here. Do you realize possession of the right CerebStix translates to a lifetime supply of money? Total global control at your fingertips."

"This is not news, Ethelene." I closed my eyes with a goal of sleep finding me.

"Wayland is shaking in his boots right now."

"I'm sure Stinky has him backed right up against a wall as we speak."

"Listen, I didn't know anything about Rico nabbing tubby Kornblatt!"

"Funny," I replied adjusting my pillow, happy that Pat and I had Ethelene surrounded on both sides, "I never mentioned Rico by name." Drifting off to sleep, I listened to Ethelene's assertions of her innocence, her claims that Angel was safe with Chip/Silly and her tight connection with Sondheim. All the while, from far behind me over the whir of the plane, a single monotonous voice carried on about snow blowers, diva concerts and family holiday gatherings.

***

I awoke briefly as the Slipstream Green jet fell into a holding pattern several thousand feet above Madrid, circling for almost an hour before Captain Cadieux announced he had given up any hope of landing. We would push onto Casablanca and leave those on the ground to their own traveling devices. Ethelene prattled on about her fundraising work in Southeast Asia, occasionally applying a sharp elbow to my ribcage. I, on the other hand, allowed my subconscious mind to process _Final drive! Carthage links_. The possibilities considered were plentiful and a few of keen interest. Tunis might very well serve as the arena for the Bridgework solution.

The jolt of touchdown in Casablanca a little over an hour later blew out two -- if not three -- of the jet's massive rubber tires, evoking a stream of laughter from behind the cockpit door and dissolving my pleasant reverie of conquering the stage alongside Barrymore. The plane screeched and bucked, careening wildly as it skidded along the runway until dropping off the pavement and imbedding its smoldering landing gear into the soft muck and reeds a half mile from the terminal.

"Way to go, team!" The silence was broken by an applauding flight attendant, exuberant in her cheering as she kicked items of strewn luggage down the aisle. "How to bring it home! Now, collect your belongings and get off of here!"

"How?" I made the mistake of asking the question those around me were too stunned to put forward. "Where?"

Within an instant of grasping my valise and attaché I was being guided headfirst down the inflatable evacuation slide with a forceful shove, ending up in a thicket of cattails. Before rising to my senses and removing myself as a blockage, Ethelene plowed into my exposed backside and tumbled over my shoulders. Knowing who was next in line, I scrambled quickly to avoid the strapping Aundybach, rolling on my side while pulling Ethelene from harm's way. The able Pat indeed appeared, in full war cry, gaining the upper hand on the officious attendant with a complicated, yet effective, stepover toehold facelock. Riding the momentum of the pitch, he held his kneeling position intact until the final second before releasing her into the wetlands.

"I told you, keep your hands off Baron!"

"Thanks, Pat," I tendered, yanking the suddenly reticent Ethelene into an upright position, her hair, face and dress smattered with filth. "Let me check the situation with the flight crew. Be back in a moment."

With Ethelene in tow, I selected a good size rock and squarely nailed the cockpit window broadside on my first attempt. A smiling Captain Cadieux slid open the main side panel.

"Yes? What is it, valued customer?"

"Captain, what's the likelihood of our reaching Tunis on schedule?"

"Who's the trollop on your arm, sir?"

"This, my good man," I said, searching Ethelene's dazed expression for a believable explanation, "this is my mother."

"My apologies, valued sir. I mistook her for a floozy."

"Not to worry. It happens more often than I'd like." I gripped Ethelene's cheek between my thumb and forefinger, giving her a good shake so that some color began to show. "Now, capable aviator, about Tunis."

"Much disappointment there, sir customer."

"How so?"

"We have one problem. Out of fuel. We stay in Casablanca."

"What? Out of fuel? That's it?" I slipped my hands under Ethelene's arms, bolting her to attention with a hearty jiggle. "What about the tires? And being stuck in the mud?"

"No concern. Been there, done that. All the time." He paused to light a cigar. "Fuel's a different animal of another color. A whole other mindset. Keeps us in the air like birds."

"Very well, then. Any additional flights to Tunis?"

"Sorry. Can't help you there, valued consumer. This window's closed."

And so it was. I gathered the collapsible Ethelene and made our way back to the evacuation area where Pat waited for us. "Out of fuel," I said, watching the remaining passengers issue from the open door like preprinted diplomas from a life-skills online degree mill.

"That'll do it."

"Grab my gear?" Thankfully, Pat traveled as lightly as I did. "I'll escort Ethelene until she comes to her senses."

"Not a problem."

Joining a string of our fellow travelers, we tread nomadically across the muck, sand and hot-top to the terminal that seemed, given our weary and beaten condition, to be nothing but a watery mirage floating on the horizon.

***

The benefit of the long line originating indoors at the Slipstream Green counter was its snaking outside by several hundred yards. Those of us arriving at its very end readily enjoyed the pleasant mid-seventy degree temperatures and, much to our good fortune, it appeared several hours of such delight had only just begun.

"Where's my luggage?" Ethelene rallied and was now able to form coherent sentences. "Why isn't my luggage here?"

"Your belongings, my dear, most probably remain in the hold of our faithful Slipstream Green transport."

"That's no good! I need them here! Now!"

"You should travel with one bag, miss," Pat offered.

"Impossible! Don't get smart with me, young man." She made a halfhearted attempt to brush the mud from her dress. "Look at this. And with nothing to change into, thanks to you!"

"Hush, Ethelene." I spoke softly, masking an urge to step really hard on her foot. "All we want to do at this point is leave Casablanca."

"Did I hear someone say he desires to leave this our city?" A sidewalk peddler, wearing a neatly kept beige gandora, approached us with a plastic cooler brimming with bottled water. "A way out of Casablanca?"

"Actually, I verbalized the thought, yes. This entire line of people, however, holds dear the same concept."

"You're not English. You're American!" He popped open the cooler and dug out an ice cold plastic container of Avian. "Ten dollars."

"What?"

"Give me that!" Ethelene grabbed the bottle from the man. "Pay him!"

"Like the lady says, right?" He smiled at me.

"Your English is impeccable, salesman." I groused, handing him a battered sawbuck.

"Eton, ninety one. And you?"

I opted not to respond directly to his inquiry. "We need passage to Tunis as quickly as humanly possible."

"You won't get that standing here." He looked around, admiring the line now starting to reverse direction, pushing us farther from the distant doorway. "You need a letter of transmit."

"Beg your pardon?" I felt the hot sun must be having an effect on me. "A what?"

"Ladders of transients. You need them."

"What we need is a taxi, my good man."

"And another bottle of water." Ethelene helped herself to the abundant supply and proceeded to douse the upper part of her dress with its content.

"Ten dollars," the vendor demanded, extending his hand. "Would you care to run a tab?"

"There are no taxis in sight," I muttered to Pat while forking over another Hamilton. "Ethelene, control yourself, please. It'll soon be less expensive to buy you a new dress."

"Where in this sand pile am I going to find something acceptably seasonal, Baron?" Her thrashing sent debris over the front of my pants.

"Would you care for taxi service?" The man smiled and let loose a shrill whistle without waiting for our answer. "My cousin take you to the train station for three hundred dollars."

"One fifty!" Pat lowered himself into the man's face. "Or we summon the prefect."

"It's a somewhat free country. Summon whoever you like." He pried his way through the line, waving to a shabby green vehicle of unknown make. "My cousin's here. You haggle with him."

Hastening ourselves before a bidding war broke out with fellow disgruntled travelers, we jammed into the makeshift hackney, pressing a damp and bitter Ethelene in the middle of the back seat. "To the train station, good friend. The one with service to Tunis."

"Certainly. Once payment is achieved."

"Here!" I handed forward three fifty dollar bills. "Not a penny more."

"My understanding is you will pay --"

"Listen, friend," Pat calmly interrupted, placing the firm grip of his large paw on the driver's shoulder, "that's the end of the bartering. Either drive or get out."

Cousin let out a stream of invective lost upon us, which increased with his frustration when the cab immediately stalled out.

"Baron, look!" Ethelene reached across me, tapping her finger against the half-open window. "It's Jan Brat, Wayland's head of European security!"

"Drive, Moroccan, drive!"

The starter churned, clicking like an antique electric fan, bringing the modest engine to rumbling life. Our initial pace was such we were passed by casual walkers wandering the parking lot. Bridgework's man, alerted by Ethelene's outcry, even had time to adjust his shoe before strolling after us and peering through the sedan's the rear window.

"What kind of French name is Jan Brat?" Pat twisted to get a better look at our pursuer. "Don't you mean Jean Bart?"

"Jan Brat, you Irish egghead! Open your jug ears!"

"A Washington egghead, actually. Non beltway."

I knew nothing of Jan Brat, except that his being part of the Loo guards made him an instant danger to us. I tossed another fifty onto the front seat. "Friend, we need to depart quickly, despite the colorful appellations you're giving to your vehicle."

"Bite me, college boy!" The car roared to life, nearly coming off the ground as the driver banked second gear and popped the clutch. "Last train out of town for you!"

"What's the plan, Baron?" Pat groped for a nonexistent seatbelt before giving up.

"A good lesson for you, son. Apply your knowledge and predilection for World War Two. Pop quiz. Who once stood in Casablanca wondering how to reach Tunis in November, nineteen forty two?"

"For Christ's sake, you two are insufferable," Ethelene said, wringing out her dress on the floor and propping open her purse. "I'm calling Wayland and giving him a piece of my mind."

"Even though your husband probably wants you dead?" Pat was sidetracked from our history lesson.

"Death shall find me somewhere, someday, but it won't be at the hands of that oaf Brat. Not if I have anything to say about it."

"Patton's your answer, Baron."

"Absolutely right. Therefore, we must think like Patton and entitle our strategy, with Angel in mind, 'Operation Carry the Torch'. Onward to Tunis via Oran and Algiers. In doing so, we shall defeat Bridgework's plan of arriving first in Tunis."

"Hello, Wayland?"

"Thereby getting the jump on searching for the flash drive."

"Why wouldn't you expect me to call? I'm pissed off and for damned good reason. First, I lost all my luggage at the end of a Casablancan runway --"

"Don't tell him that!" Pat said with great alarm.

"Casablanca. Right. Well, we're in a taxi now."

"It's fine, Pat," I said, waving off his fear. "Let her give this a go, right?"

"We left him behind, the brute! Of course I'm not telling you where we're headed. Yes, he can hear every word!"

"Tell him our plan is to intercept him and Oz Moeziz."

"Yes, yes, yes. You remain in Lisbon, dear, because we're coming after you there. Right now!"

Pat chuckled. "As if he'll stay put."

"And I'm so disappointed in you for sending Jan Brat to assassinate us. How gauche! I much prefer a younger Italian hit man. I simply refuse to die if Brat is involved!" She slammed the phone shut. "I had the satisfaction of divorcing him once and, by God, I hope to have it again."

"Bridgework's tasteless choice of executioners aside, what's the good word?"

"They're hung up in Spain due to your friend's lack of a passport, of all things," Ethelene said triumphantly. "It appears Wayland's pull is waning with foreign customs."

"Then let it wane on their plane in Spain," I observed, feeling rather upbeat about our current position in the rush to Tunis.

***

It was late afternoon when the train to Oujda pulled away from the platform, clacking over the tracks with its lengthy array of cargo and passenger cars. The trip mapped out to be a substantial one, consuming roughly ten hours. In organizing ourselves and plotting strategy, Pat and I had fortunately landed our second class seating in the middle of the beast. From this perspective, we conducted regular surveys of the ticketing booths and pedestrian walkways, fruitlessly searching for sign of a Jan Brat tail. Though we did not spy the Loo sentry, I sensed a menace upon us realizing a devoted Bridgework employee -- e.g., Staple -- knew no boundaries when it came to fulfilling a mission.

Further complicating our effort to cloak ourselves in ingenuousness was the wizened gray bristle-mustachioed conductor, a nosy native of Picardy as it turned out, who made it his vocation to question us about our travels. His initial sortie was of such annoyance that, upon his momentary absence, we quickly devised a makeshift cover story.

After much editorial wrangling centering around whether Ethelene would be my ex-spouse or mistress, we reached a mutually agreeable arrangement calling for the lady to be my ex-mistress. Pat, by his own device and without our objection, adopted an Australian accent to match his front as a surly Down Under lepidopterist.

Much to our anguish, the stories served but to encourage the rail official's curiosity. Believing Ethelene to be unattached -- which, in reality, she was -- he began a series of romantic runs at her, starting by suggesting a walk to the lounge car for a shared drink. In deflecting his advancing lust, Pat suffered the misfortune to discover the persistent inquisitor's second passion was, indeed, butterflies. Having one's bluff called was a harrowing enough experience, infinitely compounded by Pat's profound lack of knowledge in his selected field of study. I launched myself into the breach, hoping to quell the budding tempest in the midst of the bustling and crowded car.

"My good conductor, we are the tired representatives the Papilionidae Import Export Company. That is all. Is it too much to ask for a bit of peace?"

"I merely inquire as to your area of expertise, sir, and you give me nothing! Nothing to think about." He idly twirled the brass cancellation punch chained to his vest.

"If you must know," I replied, sensing I had the man pinned down like a prized winged sample under display glass, "we are traveling the Mediterranean coast in search of the elusive Queen Alexandra's Birdwing." My attempt to rescue Pat was moderately successful and put the aggressive steward temporarily at ease.

"Is that a fact, monsieur?" He smiled while pleasantly nodding his head. "How is it a learned lepidopterist such as Monsieur Aundybach would be seeking the world's largest butterfly here in North Africa when it is widely known only to be found in New Guinea?"

"T'is a fair observation and one I would expect to hear from a provincial person such as yourself, no offense intended. We travel the world to shatter such axiomatic thinking. Consider it, good man. Why couldn't the Q.A. Birdwing exist here? It wouldn't be any more out of place than a native of northern France fulfilling the position of a Moroccan rail porter, would it?" I smiled, allowing my reasoning to finish on this strong note. It was apparent I had only stirred the flames of suspicion in the transport worker's mind.

Sleep was fleeting during the overnight trip. As we were in an open car without any degree of privacy or personal security, Pat and I agreed on alternating three-hour watches. Still, when it was my turn for rest, I dozed with one eye open. Had I known that Jan Brat was lurking in the carriage directly behind ours, I would have altered our plans and jumped the train altogether. Just after two in the morning, Ethelene excused herself to freshen up and upon her return declared she had received a call from Angel: The fourth and final CerebStix was located in Paris. If true, this confirmed my hunch the Tunis drive was indeed number three.

What, then, to make of the phrase 'Final drive'?

Naturally, pursuing such inquiry required a belief in Ethelene's claim of Angel contacting her. At this juncture, my mind spun enough yarns to keep that venture separate and isolated. Whether or not Ethelene sourced the information from Angel was not relevant. The fact she came forward with it was significant only if it was true.

The next morning brought brilliant sunshine and, quite diametrically, a gnawing sense of looming catastrophe. The French conductor had lost his amorous urge for Ethelene but not his interest in our group. He filled his time taunting us with his erudition on the dietary habits of the cabbage butterfly. We were far out of our league with the learned gentleman, our thin cloak of contrived identity continually punctured by his repeated observation that we lacked even the most humble of specimen containers. I should have realized, with his repetitive use of the words 'nab', 'catch' and 'net', what awaited us in Oujda.

All escapes unfold on a timeline of lightning fast action and reaction and this one was no different. Pat was the first to spot the excessive security lining the station platforms, both uniformed and plain clothed. It was an obvious welcoming party we fairly guessed had been prepared for us.

"The lavatory's your best bet, Baron," Pat said as the train slowed to its final stop. "Remember the border to Algeria is officially closed. I'll take Ethelene and head in the other direction to divert these jokers."

"Thanks, Pat," I gathered my gear and stood to shake his hand. "I'll find my way to Oran somehow. Be in touch soon."

"I know you will, friend." Pat took Ethelene by the arm. She let loose a few mild protests over not joining me before disappearing into the throng headed to the rear exit. I, in turn, went the opposite way, hoping to use the bathroom window for an unobserved departure of my own.

"Going somewhere, monsieur?" The French conductor darted unseen from a corner to block my path.

"Out of my way, Madam Butterfly!" I brought a stiff forearm into his throat, followed by a resounding headbutt flattening the brim of my porkpie. The now unconscious official dropped slowly into an open bench seat, a slight smile forming upon his face. "Conduct yourself with some sweet dreams of Cho Cho San, friend."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

_Ride of the Brilliant Chicken_

Wrenching my way out the maddeningly small bathroom window, I momentarily sat on its sill estimating the distance upwards to the car's roof. The length of four feet seemed impossible to conquer, especially while maintaining a grip on my attaché and valise. Hearing the muted shouts of confusion from the opposite side of the tracks, it was a matter of seconds before Pat's diversion ran its course. I had to move immediately and I did so, only in the opposite direction. Raising myself to stand on the wooden ledge, the train leapt forward with a violent jolt and sent me tumbling backwards, forcefully landing on the concrete rail bed.

"Neeyuk!"

In the process of my graceless fall, the exposed tip of a nail found its way into the seam of my pants, opening a gap in the garment from crotch to ankle. Quickly, it became the least of my concerns.

" _Là ! Capturez cet homme_ _!_ "

There was no need to look for the source of the order. With a groan, I shot upright onto my feet and sprinted parallel to the train away from the station platform. The sound of multiple footfalls behind me added to my motivation, sending my mind spinning back to the days spent training for the University curling team where, unfortunately, we did very little in the way of physical exertion and exercise.

My immediate options were limited by the historic Moroccan/Algerian dispute, complete with all the drama and headstrongness of an intra-family feud. The friction between the two countries consisted of a piquancy found while attending annual family reunions -- as well as birthday, wedding and funeral gatherings docketed in-between -- meaning the Oujda station, rubbing against the Algerian border, served as the end of the line. There existed no easy or swift passage between the two nations, for when one was locked in a longstanding disagreement with a stubborn relative, what was the point of being neighborly?

That fact alone did not inhibit me from sprinting to the concrete wall at the end of the track and flinging myself up its smooth surface, hoping in a perverse sense to grab hold of its barb-wired crown and drop safely into the perhaps more hostile territory on the other side. Thankfully, my frivolous attempt came to a rapid conclusion, leaving me temporarily motionless at the base of the impenetrable mountain of cinderblocks.

"I say, middle aged man!" An anonymous female voice called from an open window near the rear of the engine. "You're in a bit of a spot, what?"

Indeed, I was. An older and wiser a person, I felt, would have been better suited in dealing with such a jam. To my left, just outside the station platform, a throng of taxis and cars congregated in front of a jumble of sand colored buildings baking under the hot sun. I would have to leap through an open-air portal, then scale a wrought-iron fence, but if I hurried and luck was with me --

" _Halt! Halt!_ "

\-- which, at the very moment, it was not. I kicked my pace into high gear just as the train came to life once again, reversing its direction and jerking its cars backward like a giant mechanical serpent slinking out into the arid desert sun once more. Running past the nose of the growling engine, I gauged the distance in hope of timing my leap.

" _Halt! Halt!_ "

In a matter of seconds I would have no choice. The remaining alternative was to turn and confront those chasing me while convincing myself that I -- along with Pat and Ethelene -- would receive some type of equitable treatment from Jan Brat and his cohorts.

" _Arrêt! Je tirerai!_ "

Gunplay or not, there was no stopping now. I took the open archway like an Olympic hurdler, using near perfect form with my right leg out straight and stiff. Clearing the opening I hit the steps in full stride, weaving past the lax security guards enjoying their smokes in the shade of the long building. Managing a one-handed leap over the final barrier -- a shaky waist-high metal fence -- I found myself on a moderately busy sidewalk which curved parallel to the line of battered vehicles constituting the local taxi corps.

"Algeria? Algeria? Algeria?" I questioned, trotting by drivers huddled in groups outside their vehicles, some dressed in customary turbans and gandoras while others wearing westernized Oxford shirts and chinos. Their interest in me was sparked by the clamoring of agitated civilians pouring out through the station doorway, some waving weapons in the air indicating the direction in which they intended to run. The supply of available hackneys dwindled with each passing step and the thought of entering a foreign city on foot without knowledge of its streets or neighborhoods was not a decision to be made in uncomfortable circumstances. "Algeria, someone?"

"The Englishman who fell from sky!" His words hit my ears just as his course-altering grip flung me through the open back door of a dusty Toyota. "Get in here like the bunny or you be killed like it was no time tomorrow."

My feet were still in motion as I hit the bench face-first, thwarting my desire to initiate a thoughtful conversation with who I presumed would be of assistance. "Neeyug!"

"And your head down too fellah or we get stitched up like a kipper, as you say."

"I said nothing of the sort, friend." I spoke loud enough in competition with the vehicle's lack of a muffler. "I'm simply looking to find my way into Algeria."

"'Indeed', as you will probably say at some point."

"Are you putting me on?" I braced one hand against the floorboard, narrowly avoiding the large rusted opening to the street below. We were traveling at a high rate of speed while encountering several turns. "How are your brakes these days?"

"These brakes, she work fine. And, no quite frankly, you're not being put on and stitched up. Now, be quiet or be killed. My name's Karim and I will be the pilot today."

"Where to, Karim?"

"First stop, mother's. You need costuming to stay alive. Then to my cousin Kamal in Oran." He issued a burst of torrid language, apparently addressed at my pursuers, as we exited the station's main entrance. "The French do not realize they overstayed their welcome."

"Perhaps we could tell them later?"

"They should go back to their own country. They will find they are foreigners there, too."

"True that." I adjusted myself into a kneeling position. "Thank you for what I'm interpreting to be your help, Karim."

"I help any man from Trowbridge. I heard your voice, I said 'that's Trowbridge'. I saw your walk, I said 'that's Trowbridge'. All my relatives in Trowbridge would be proud of me right now."

"Mine, too," I hastily agreed, peering over the rim of the seat to see if anyone of a threatening manner was following us. Given the moment and situation, I decided honesty was not the best policy. In fact, there was to be no disclosure program whatsoever. If anything, as our exodus progressed, I would align myself in full agreement with my generous chauffer. "Trowbridge is a wonderful community populated by fine people."

"Indeed and quite. We love Trowbridge and its people." He copped a brief glimpse of me in the rearview mirror. "Fish and chips! Yea!"

"Yes, jolly old Sir Isaac Pitman, progenitor of the shorthand system." I harkened back to the days of my book tour for _The Brassiest Bearings in Birmingham_ and the night my agent and I spent at a pub in Trowbridge so named for the legendary note-taker. "It's simply a wonderful community populated by lovely people. All way around."

"Trowbridge football, yea!" Karim wheeled us down a series of interconnected side streets before veering onto a main thoroughfare. "We talk Trowbridge later. You meet mother next. We must hurry. The Frenchman after you looked like, how you mighty say, asshole."

"Agreed. I appreciate you expeditious manner, by the by."

"We get you to Oran. Then you pay me. Then you help me and my cousin. Then your bill is settled." He laughed, not unfriendly so. "You know American football?"

"I'm the biggest NFL fan this side of the Pond, wouldn't you know."

"You prove big help to Kamal in Oran. He will be pleased. Your big help. You're from Trowbridge. Wow, indeed."

The stop at mother's was, more or less, an idling drive-by scraping the door of her threshold. With very little used in the way of words, Karim tossed a robe and hat onto me with the instructions to cover my British appearance while emoting I was in great distress.

"We must convince sentries you are Algerian and need to get home."

"Sentries? But there isn't a border crossing, is there?"

"Not official. More efficient than bureaucrats. You see in a minute." Karim ran the busy street like a slalom course, shifting me about in the backseat as I tugged the gandora down over my sweaty, dirty clothing. "Correct headwear, too," he said, tapping a finger inside his thick growth of black hair. "You must develop accent, too, in next few seconds. No English."

"What?"

We swerved down a side alley, heading directly for a wooden barricade. Karim slammed the car to a stop and honked the horn three times. Opening from within, we were allowed to enter and face yet another barricade, this one taller than the first, the former of which was now closing behind us. "We're locked in now. Start your accent."

"But I --"

"No English, Trowbridge!"

We were immediately surrounded by a dozen men in long black robes, their faces covered but for a barely perceptible slit showing their dark, serious eyes. Karim instantly began a spirited dialogue with a handful of our greeters, including much gesturing toward the rear of the car where I sat under the scrutiny of those not engaged in now multi-voiced eruptive conversation.

Keeping my head bowed, I conjured an image of the good luck cricket stationed on the hearth at Tumultuous Manor and began clucking, clucking as though I was answering the very calls of fellow VIOLENCE members. As my squawking rose sharply in volume and cadence, a swirling bewilderment came upon my audience. Catching fire with a rhythmic beat, I cackled to the tune of _(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction_ and noted, to my delight, more than one head bobbing along to the refrain. Suddenly the auto yawed forward through the next open gate, where a smaller contingent of armed men -- dressed in the same nondescript uniform -- lowered their barrels through the open windows. Karim nudged the muzzles away from his head, slipped a sealed envelope out the window and jerked his thumb at me, inducing a round of deep throaty laughter from the group. Apparently in agreement over our passage, the third gate swung back. We eased the vehicle across a series of pronounced speed bumps and, with a surge of acceleration, slipped through the final gate of meshed wire and out into the open sunlight.

"You make for brilliant chicken," Karim laughed uncontrollably. "Cluck, cluck, cluck! Still, I said you were a crazy Algerian who escaped two months ago."

"Which crazy Algerian might that be?" I sat upright in the seat, gratefully squaring away my attaché and valise.

"Anyone of them. Anyone of us. We're all crazy here, just like you." Karim smiled while viewing me in the rearview mirror. "What do they call you in Trowbridge, mister?"

"Von dek Horn," I answered boldly, intuiting that Karim and his clan might be willing to form a constructive and meaningful alliance with me. "Baron von dek Horn."

***

The road trip to Oran consumed over two hours, much of it narrated by Karim's nonstop travelogue on the delights of owning a well-maintained Avalon, the instant distrust I should expect from cousin Kamal, and the fact that had I traveled this stretch of road alone, I would have fallen victim to the local fatwa against wayward Westerners.

"The tea is exceptionally good at these cafes, though. Brilliant, eh what? But not this time. Next time."

"When I'm able to meet your mother."

"Indeed, sport. You are one sharp dart, Baron von dek Horn."

His remark brought forth to mind Pat Aundybach, prompting me to quickly dial up the lad's number, bearing in mind my mobile battery had now entered the precious zone in terms of time remaining. No answer was forthcoming and I opted not to leave a message. Pat would know enough to contact me at his first opportunity.

"Here we come now to Oran. Big city in every direction. You keep head down. No brilliant chicken this time."

"Understood, Kamir."

"Cousin Kamal, he keeps a business in the port section. He also keeps business at airstrip. We see him tonight at airstrip, what ho?"

"I am at your disposal, my good man. Entirely. You do know my ultimate goal here in North Africa is to reach Tunis."

"Of course I do, Baron old boy," Kamir laughed once more in his gentle, unassuming manner. "You mention it not once but several times, like a chicken clucking, scratching at the ground."

"My anxiety, I guess. I want to complete my job." I had in fact thought about what would await me in Tunis when solving the mystery written out on the note. Without question, Bridgework and Moeziz -- along with who knows -- might have already arrived and departed with the flash drive. Their clear advantage was knowing the location of the CerebStix. My challenge of reaching the city before them and, once there, figuring out where to search was daunting. "I might be carrying out nothing more than a fool's errand."

"All the more reason to help Kamal and me. And then you help my other cousin, Khalid."

"Khalid? Just how many cousins do you have?"

"Hundreds. You only help the ones helping you. Okay, chum?"

"Sound policy for adherence." At the moment my stomach began to sour and my heart palpitate. What in the world was I thinking? Racing to Tunis? For what? Beads of sweat formed on my brow despite my continual efforts to mop the hydro-matter away, while a seizure in my airway produced a constellation of sparkling stars before my eyes. Here I was in a foreign country where death was easily dispensed based on perceived religious conviction as defined by skin pigment. And I entrusted myself to a stranger whilst fleeing sure apprehension. My mouth went dry, except for the aftertaste of acrid bile rising along the back of my tongue. "Kamir, my good man, how much time before we reach Kamal?"

I never did hear his answer, busy as I was slumping unconscious atop the forward console.

***

"The Lions or the Saints, Trowbridge boy?"

"Slap him again, Karim, the lazy Euro."

"He will be useful to us, Kamal. Passport is from U.S."

"U.S.? Hit him twice. Hard."

"Hey, Karim!" My diction was as mushy as a day old fast food milkshake. "What in the name of all that is holy? In the Koran, of course."

"Sorry, my good man. Wakey, wakey. Meet Kamal."

"How about a sip of cold water?" My surroundings, as I became aware of them, were cool and dark. I attempted sitting up in the padded wicker settee, blinking my eyes several times. "Yes, a refreshing fluid would do the trick right now."

"One more wakey," Kamir said, applying a resounding crack to my right temple. "Now for your water. From Switzerland. Not that French crap. Here. Catch."

The plastic bottle struck my forehead and dropped on my lap. "Kamal," I greeted the man closest to me, ignoring the water. "Baron von dek Horn."

"You," he replied, stooping lower and intently studying to my face, "are not who you say you are." He tossed my attaché down next to me. "You speak Trowbridge with U.S. address. It does not add up."

"You're correct, sir. Here's the long and short of it. My psychoanalyst, Dr. Ed Hahmennum, diagnosed me with Asparagusberger's Disease years ago. It's a uniquely Anglo Saxon condition which manifests itself in one's espousal, successful or not, of British mannerisms. Beginning in infancy, such idiosyncrasies include but are not limited to the use of accents, expressions and gestures of the Realm. I finally accepted and learned to live with the condition in my late teens."

Kamal pulled away and stroked his chin. "I hope it is rare illness."

"Extremely."

"Karim has been bitten by same bug."

"So it would seem. He's rather focused on Trowbridge, wouldn't you say?"

"Many relatives in Trowbridge. Fine city, too." Kamal's demeanor lightened for a moment. "Trowbridge is twin city of Oujda. Oujda is twin city of Oran."

"Triplets it would be then, right?" I displayed an expression of helpfulness. In researching the subject later, I discovered there indeed existed a Moroccan diaspora effectively providing Trowbridge with the second largest Moroccan population center in England. "All relative, so to speak."

"Perhaps. Still, you are a little devil who comes from the Great Satan. And you are now in the shadow of the mountain of lions."

I was also in the shadows of a well-used and seemingly active airline hangar. Several single-engine planes lined the opposite wall, while another half-dozen were strung out in a row being loaded with boxes of cargo. "I shan't burden you much longer, friend. I see that you're a busy man with much to do."

"Not to worry. You are at the top of list." He walked away with Kamir and several other associates, engaging in an energetic conversation with much random finger-pointing at the planes, the cargo and me. I sat still for a solid fifteen minutes, in complete acceptance of my fate resting with the growing group of men and their now heated exchange of opinions. I found myself rooting for Kamir who unfortunately was on the defensive side of the debate, ostensibly for bringing me to corporate headquarters. It was impossible to decipher if Kamal -- as CEO of the operation \-- supported his cousin's lower-level management decision or was merely allowing the underling to roast a bit at the hands of his coworkers. Finally, the throng drifted toward me as its discussion grudgingly reached a conclusion.

"We bring our goods to market in Tunis," Kamal began, shushing those behind him who continue to speak. "To cousin Khalid, our boss."

"Yes?" I was hopeful the shipment might include me.

"Khalid is fussy with our product. He may be disappointed with what we created." Kamal grimaced at Kamir and two others. "Someone pays dearly for Khalid's sadness."

"The boss is always the most important customer, right?"

"You will be our lamb this trip, von dek Horn." Kamal smiled triumphantly, as though his problems had been resolved in Solomonesque fashion. "Kamir will serve as shepherd. If Khalid is unhappy with product, you will take bullet for us. Fired from the company!"

"But I haven't yet completed the proper application process!" My protest fell short of its mark.

"Take complaints to shop steward."

***

"Are you sure?" My question was inaudible over the roar of the engine and spraying of sand against the windscreen. The modified Cessna bucked and churned down the gravel-packed runway, gaining speed in a frantic attempt to lift itself from the earth. As a final resort, I ducked my head and held tightly to the bottom edge of the narrow front seat.

"Here we go, Horn!"

"Baron!"

"No need for formality between us now, eh chum?" Kamir pulled back on the yoke and with his effort came a great series of cracks and groans from the rear compartment stuffed full of cardboard boxes. "There. I think we are in the air now."

"I hope we remain for a while."

"Ho, ho. Me too. Much easier driving on the ground, you know?" He popped the side window and casually lit a smoke. "We get to Tunis okay if we have enough fuel."

"Enough?" Would my time airborne always be spent in a constant state of panic?

"We added two tanks for Tunis. We make it," he said, taking a deep inhale, "if they are full."

"Very well." The filling of petrol not having been my assignment, I had no choice in the matter. "Assuming we survive our flight to Tunis, what should our strategy be on the ground?"

"Good of you to ask, mate. We are marketing a line of gandoras bearing emblems of your American football squads. Quite popular, they are." Kamir cut the thrust and allowed our flight to level off at an stimulating thirty feet above the deck of dunes below. "Go Bears!"

"I wouldn't have pegged you as a Second City fan, honestly."

"Casablanca and Chicago. Sister cities they are."

"And gandoras with NFL team logos on them? Would not have guessed that, either."

"Incredibly popular, Horn. Lions sell out, every time. Go Detroit Rock City!" He flicked his cigarette butt out the window and sealed us back in. "Except for now. Troubles."

"So sorry to learn of that. By the way, do your troubles include flying so low?"

"Not at all, chappie! Better this way, yes? Below the radar, no missiles or fighter planes to shoot us up. Maybe too close to those waging jihad on your unholy ass, but tough toenail as they say, right?"

"All the way to Tunis at this token distance from the ground?"

"Hmmm. A bit higher over Algiers," Kamir conceded, "but not by much. Now, about the troubles I am seeing \--"

"Quite. Sorry, my good man, to have sidetracked us on something as insignificant as a healthy altitude." I watched a flock of sheep scatter through a pasture at our approach. "Your football team colored gandoras. For both men and women?"

"Both genders, yes. But is not problem," Kamir said, his voice trailing off in embarrassment as he toyed with the stabilizer rudder, causing the plane to careen from one side to the other.

"Let me guess. You have no agreement with the owners. The apparel is unlicensed."

"That is true. But I am also unlicensed to pilot plane and it still flies. Having a license is not the end all, eh what? And still that is not our problem."

"Your problem seems not to harm your business."

"Hardly, wanker. Our trouble began by putting New Orleans Saints' logo on gandoras. Not one. Not one hundred. Thousands! And machine would not stop! Gandoras galore with House of Bourbon on them. Spoiled fruit for our marketplace. What to do now?"

"Unstitch them?"

"Your capitalistic inspiration lags, old wog. Wasted material and labor beyond comprehension, never to be claimed back. Khalid will mightily disapprove. There will be much grief. Much grief, followed by death and more grief."

"Khalid need not know, right? Be green, recycle them. A mistake is but once rectified when no one notices."

"Our number one problem, chief. We deliver the entire mistake to Khalid tonight. On this plane. The mistake and problem becomes known when we land."

"Why in the world would you --"

"Kamal's decision."

We flew, as it were, as few moments in silence. "Kamal wants you to look bad in front of Khalid. Kamal's blaming you for all of this because you decided to market the _fleur de lis_. He wants Khalid to think you exercise poor reasoning."

"Like when I bring you to Oran," Kamir said grinning. "I make entrepreneurial choices with instinct. Kamal is a simple corporate bum licker."

"Now I'm your point man when Khalid inspects the goods."

"Don't feel too special, old boy. Point man or not, Khalid is efficient. As he says, the bullet passing through bodyguard is good enough to kill target." Kamir hastily throttled the nose of the plane upward to pass over a rising dustbowl. "I'm in it deep, chum. Welcome to the club. May your knowledge of American football be our saving grace, right o?"

"Which is why you plucked me to safety at the airport."

"Not at all. I saw Frenchmen chasing fellow Trowbridger. Give me that much, will you, hard case?"

The remainder of the flight passed with little exchange as I contemplated having slipped free one noose only to feel another fit just as snugly around my neck. The first priority would be solving, if possible, Khalid and his dilemmas. Once that minor miracle was performed, I could sink my teeth into deciphering _Final drive! Carthage links. Tunis_. The puzzling phrase played over and over in my mind as the Cessna droned on, at times hypnotic enough to ease me into the trance of sleep as the desert sky around us transformed from rose to indigo to solid black.

What was Angel trying to tell me? Assuming, of course, it was Angel who wrote the note.

"That orange glow is Algiers," Kamir said, breaking the silence while lighting another cigarette. "Big city, Horn. Tough city. We avoid."

"Algiers, Algeria," I remarked sizing up the expanse of distant lights. "Similar to the Jonathan family naming their son John."

"More like Abdullahs calling first born Abdul," he corrected me.

"Precisely what I meant," I agreed.

"Three or four hours more we make it."

"Given there's enough fuel in the tanks."

"Oh yes, bloke," Kamir laughed lightheartedly. "The least of our worries. You keep planning how to explain your marketing plan to Khalid, what ho?"

As the metropolis faded away behind us, I closed my eyes and summoned forth the remarks made by Ethelene on our Slipstream flight to Casablanca. At some point, while I struggled with napping, she had babbled to Pat about Bridgework suffering a number of attacks through the years. Safe deposit boxes had been compromised. Bribes offered and dismissed by her husband. Various homes ransacked while vacant. She was certain they were tailed while visiting countries the world over. It all culminated in the past year with vacation trips to Mount Rushmore, Machu Picchu and other tourist venues.

Including Tunis and Paris, and during which time the dancing deaths occurred.

My only conclusion reached was Bridgework harbored fear someone had breached the Loo's privacy. His kingdom was under siege from within, prompting the course of action to prepare and load a global financial holocaust onto four flash drives, which were then hidden away around the world. No use for bank deposit boxes or wall safes behind oil paintings this time. Bridgework dotted four points of the globe with digitized information that would alter the course of humankind, while using Ethelene as the dodge to rid himself of an officious inner circle. And when he was prepared and ready, he returned to collect the flash drives, cashing in his chips and -- under Chip/Silly's supervision --living forever to enjoy and control his endless wealth.

Insanity. Another detached madman in the parade of many who desired to rule the world.

In what felt like only a matter of minutes passing, the plane gave a sudden jolt and its engine sputtered to a stop. I raised my head and rubbed my eyes, hoping to see we were safely coasting along on the smooth surface of a runway. "What the \--"

"Gliding in now," Kamir said, looking as though he himself had just awoke. "No noise. Not to wake the neighbors."

"But the runway is where?" I gripped the dashboard with both hands, peering into the confusion of lights we were rapidly descending upon. "We're going to crash into those buildings!"

"No, no, no," Kamir was the essence of calm. "Khalid's airport is in the suburbs. A tight fit but a doable one, chum."

I braced myself for the inevitable collision and watched as the darkened windows lining an alleyway touchdown flashed past. "Kamir!"

"Is on the job, matey." With that, we bounced down on a rough surface, tipping the plane to and fro. "Now for the tricky part!" Kamir yelled. He pulled the flaps back to slow the craft and with a violent jerk we instantaneously came to a halt. The nose of the plane dipped forward, dislodging our cargo and burying us in a flurry of cardboard boxes.

"Thank Allah," Kamir uttered in a low voice. "This one is never easy. You okay, Horn?"

"Yes. Yes I am. And thank Allah, indeed."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

_Yardage to the Green_

For an unauthorized airport, Khalid's was tastefully decorated and sported a restful passenger lounge. The stucco work, a light cream color displayed under soft lighting, was classical in motif and handsomely complemented the authentic art deco design. Kamir guided me to a cushioned chair and provided me with tea, then disappeared out the door addressing himself in his native language. Across the oblong room, a bench stretched the length of the wall. Above it, a set of a narrow windows looked out on the alleyway airstrip, where a team of aspiring baggage handlers could be heard offloading the contents of the little plane that did. Relaxed and rested, I took in stride the ringing of my phone.

"Baron, I'm almost in Tunis."

"Pat! How in the world --"

"Don't ask. No time to tell the story. Bridgework, Moeziz and Brat are on my trail. You have got to find the flash drive immediately and leave for Paris."

"Paris already? But if I get this CerebStix, I'll be ahead two to one. It won't matter --"

"It does matter! The Paris flash drive contains a command function to activate the Tunis flash drive. The Tunis flash drive contains a command function to activate the Machu Picchu flash drive. Ergo, the Machu Picchu lights up the Mount Rushmore."

"And Mount Rushmore activates Paris. A tautological chain of activation it would seem."

"Redundant security at its finest."

"Each one padlocking the next."

"Except," Pat's voice took on a tone of urgency, "Chip/Silly claims he can reprogram the Paris drive to open itself and commence operations."

"But that only gives him one quarter of the puzzle, friend."

"And that's all he wants, Baron! He's dumping Bridgework, but Bridgework doesn't know it yet."

"For crying out loud, why can't they stay they keep their transgressions united?" I winced at the thought of having to rake through the sludge of Chip/Silly's crackpot mind to plot his apprehension. "Now I've got two financial rogues to deal with! Where's Angel?"

"She, Ethelene and Stinky are headed to Paris under the control of Chip/Silly and the Holsteins. His offer is to trade them one on one for each of the outstanding drives."

"Stinky equating to Machu Picchu. Angel being Tunis."

"If you take control of Tunis before Bridgework."

"And Ethelene swapped for Mount Rushmore."

"Should Bridgework decide she's worth it."

"Got it, Pat. Look me up when you arrive."

"Where are you? Get me some directions. Hurry."

"No directions needed, sport. Simply ask around for Khalid the airport owner and gandora distributor. That will connect us in no time." I just finished fitting the adaptor to my cell recharger and plugging it into the sole wall outlet when the door shot back, allowing entrance for nine intimidating men. I stood quickly to greet them, only to find myself the objective of six shiny swords and three modern handguns.

"Horn! A polite greeting and smile would be sufficient, eh what?" Karim's arrival was a welcomed sight. "I introduce you to Khalid." Behind him entered a giant of a man, wearing the neutrally stern expression of a high school principal and a gandora emblazed with the Seattle Seahawk crest, its shoulder piping corresponding to the team's steel blue and dark navy ornamentation.

"Your appearance brings great honor to the Emerald City, sir," I said, bowing while keeping my eyes forward on the impressive exhibition of weaponry. Straightening up, I found myself looking another six inches higher to make eye contact with the extraordinary gentleman.

"Yesterday I brought honor to the state of Minnesota."

"Go Vikings!" Karim fist-pumped the air, drawing a stony scowl from his leader. "Hey, it's been our best seller over the past six weeks."

"Tomorrow will be the day for Chargers of San Diego."

"Go Bolts! Air Coryell, eh chum?" Karim's effervescence was a bit too upbeat, suggesting at the moment our lives, if not in grave danger, were at the two-minute warning mark.

"Baron von dek Horn at your disposal." I extended my hand graciously.

"But never the New Orleans Saints."

"It's a shame, actually --"

"'T'is more the pity," Karim added, "I told Khalid of your brilliant plan."

"My plan? Please, I shouldn't take all the credit, Khalid. You see, it was our thinking, your young cousin and I, that we should --"

"You ruin my reputation! My reputation is money! Money is my business! Business is my gandoras." Khalid swung around wildly, scattering his posse against the wall.

"Another quadrilateral dilemma. Ironically, I too have a problem related in a four way sense --"

"Tough toenail," Khalid shot back, unconcerned with anything but the Saint gandoras. "Explain yourself in one minute or less."

"Alright then. We decided --"

"It was all Horn, Khalid. All Horn."

"That in order to dominate the French gandora market, we needed a barb to hook our prospective francophone clientele, to wit delving into the heart of their culture. What better avenue than that of the fleur de lis, I ask? Not only do you have a readymade audience awaiting you in Morocco, thereby saving on shipping and distribution costs, but may I suggest you consider direct export to the homeland of Marseillaise itself? Certainly, for what these fine garments could bring at retail, you would fleece any Parisian and their fellow countrymen at a cost more than covering the necessary transportation expenditure. A sample pricing strategy might be to double your markup and add fifty percent. That would remove any and all sting from the deal."

I read Khalid's enigmatic expression as one of doubt and opted to quickly retreat to my fallback and rally point position.

"Which leads into the second part of our campaign. I apologize for not having prepared a PowerPoint presentation. I want you to consider the North American market for obvious reasons, foremost the vertical export trading company that would derive income from likeminded expansive traders such as yourself. Also, you should explore the diversification this would bring your product line. The Boston Celtic Shamrock. The Baltimore Oriole. The famed Detroit Red Wing --"

"Detroit Rock City!"

"Are all additional possibilities which are readily achievable with your production processes and methods presently in place. Certainly I don't have to point out the increase in customer base that such a move would bring. My goodness, the gandoras would literally sell themselves, wouldn't they?"

"Excuse, please," one of the more reasonable backbenchers raised a hand, "but what of apparel licensing and marketing rights to team logos?"

"Excellent question, my good man, one I'm glad you asked. It just so happens all such copyrighted material can indeed be licensed. The long and short of it is this. Everything is, in today's sporting world, for sale."

"But who could help us with this?"

"I would be glad to serve as your intermediary, indeed. My counsel Justin Minge and his firm, Bollocks, Bonk and Minge, are just the very legalese people needed for all potential litigious matters. It would bring great pleasure for me to make an introduction on your behalf." Without checking my watch I smiled, perfectly confident on having come in under the sixty second corporate presentation guideline.

"We can make him pay for the gandoras, Khalid," Karim offered, hedging his bet. "And make another order of them again for him, if it would please you."

"You would help us exploit United States' consumer?" Khalid projected an odd look in his eye. "Sell our goods in Great Satan's playground?"

I hesitated for a moment. "I would prefer to think of this as a purely capitalistic arrangement. You're providing jobs for your fellow citizens, aiming to make a profit for the risk you take. I am merely opening a door for you to walk through, helping the small business owner succeed, as it were."

"What do you want in return?" His voice was deep and ominous. "There is no free lunch here or in Trowbridge. This I know firsthand."

"Now that you mention it, I do have a list of items requiring assistance," I said, tapping a finger to my chin as if in serious contemplation. "I have a riddle in need of a solution, which will then lead me to a missing item. There is a friend of mine coming to visit Tunis whom I need to be in touch with. Finally, I'm seeking direct transportation to Paris immediately upon the completion of these tasks."

"That is all?"

"Actually, no. I could stand to take some Saints gandoras with me for advance sales, yes? Kind of get the ball rolling, so to speak. Greasing the necessary skids."

"Karim," Khalid turned to the younger man, "did you plan all this?"

"Some of it, I suppose," he shrugged. "I thought he was a boffo chum from Trowbridge, so I liked the old bean."

"This is a good plan," Khalid nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes, "a very good plan."

"Of course, I did recruit Horn over Kamal's objections, Khalid. I'm always looking out for good sources of business."

"Kamal did not like the old bean?"

"He did not think any of it a good idea, Khalid." Karim looked at me to provide underpinning for his tale. "Kamal, he said, 'Send Khalid the Saint gandoras. Let Khalid the bigshot deal with problem, just like he does with coffeemaker in the morning.' I said no. Let me find savvy Western man to pave way for solution. Horn showed up immediately like the good sport he is."

"Is this true, Horn?"

"Yes, to an imprecise extent." Eyeing the pleading Karim, I realized it was time to hitch myself to his rising star and hopefully land on both feet in Paris. "Karim possesses a keen mind for promotion and sales. I really don't see how you would operate successfully without him."

A lengthy animated confab ensued, one which ably illustrated the minute disparity between celebration and savagery. I sat as a party of one in the bleachers, uncertain as to which side was winning and for whom I should be cheering. The good part of an hour passed, during which time Karim's behavior ranged from dancing an uncultivated jig to later dropping on his knees sobbing hysterically when a Saints gandora was brought in for review and modeling. The proceedings came to an abrupt conclusion upon Khalid's final statement, which again presented difficulty interpreting which emotion -- and what action -- had triumphed during the discourse. Silence fell upon the room as all eyes turned toward me.

"Here," Karim said, looking somber yet resolved as he tossed me a Saints gandora. "Wear this. You are now walking billboard."

"Thank you, I suppose." I traded off the old gandora Karim had procured in Oujda for the new one, much to my delight well-made and comfortably fitting.

"Khalid agrees with us. He agrees with your terms. He grants you two requests."

"With all due respect," I said, adjusting the robe, "I believe there were three conditions on my part."

"Is true, Horn. And one has been fulfilled."

With that, the door on the far end of the room thrust open. There stood Pat Aundybach looking, with the exception of a black eye, no worse for his travels. "Baron!"

"Pat, my boy! So good to see you!" We heartily shook hands.

"Enough reunion," Khalid interjected. "Now to solve puzzle." He summoned forward one of the bystanders who, with his black-framed glasses, bore a passing resemblance to a well-tanned Buddy Holly. "Hasan. Here, now."

"Hasan is our puzzle master," Karim said reverently. "He is champion. Brilliant, I say there's a good fellow. He solves _New York Times_ crossword in matter of minutes. Does Sunday version with ink pen, no less. Speak your strange code to him."

"Very well." I gave Pat a look of relief, reluctant to converse with him for fear of upsetting the prevailing positive vibes. "Final drive. Carthage links. Tunis."

Karim translated the passage, taking much longer than expected, then patted Hasan on the shoulder. The intellect, in turn, began a pace of the room with his eyes focused on the ceiling. Occasionally, he stopped and withdrew a small sheaf of paper from his pocket, scribbling down a thought before resuming his abbreviated walk. After several minutes, he grabbed Karim's shoulder and whispered into his ear.

"You seek more than one item?" Karim asked.

"Yes."

"Is the one who sent you to find it," Karim said, struggling for the correct words, "would that person be athletic?"

The pleasant imagery of the night spent with Angel in her cabin on the _Gangrene_ filled my mind. "Very much so."

Karim relayed my answers to Hasan. In an excited outburst, Hasan pushed Karim into Khalid and announced in rapid fire his findings to the room, swinging his arms in unison at the floor.

"Quickly if you want your item!" Karim announced. "Khalid does not have all day for you!"

"Where are we off to?" I gathered up my bags, feeling adrenalin flooding through my veins. "What must we do?"

"We, my good friends, have a tee time."

***

Our entourage sped at such a rate through the burgeoning city there was but little time to appreciate the local color. Neighborhood shops and outdoor markets, spread out beneath brightly color canvasses, filled the thoroughfares and side streets. The bustle of life under the morning sun gave our journey a sense of purpose and hope of promising results. Left to my own devices, I would have ended up aimlessly bewildered in the lively and colorful byzantine metropolis.

"We've had some peaks and troughs, Pat, but maybe we're reaching the end of the trail."

"In a round of golf?"

"I'm disquieted by it, too. I trust my short game will be up to standard today." I rolled the window down completely. "Tell me of your black eye."

"The conductor, poor bugger. His stay in hospital includes the fond memory of getting the first shot in." A grin of satisfaction formed on Pat's face. "After that minor setback, I gave him a good waxing. Floated like a butterfly, I did."

"And Angel?" I gulped involuntarily. "Did you see her?"

"I did now. She and Stinky were kept penned in by the Holsteins. They were traveling together until Chip/Silly took over," Pat said, giving me a grave look. "I have to say, Baron, that the boy is calling the shots here. His control over Bridgework is like that of a pusher over a user."

"Interesting observation."

"Bridgework is teetering on the edge of desperation, lashing out at everyone except his son in law."

"Angel, too?"

"Deeds in place of words, he despises the girl. It's out in the open now, at least in front of the hired help and involuntary captives."

"Of which she is one. They're together, anyway. I'll take comfort in the fact that Stinky, being a stout Trotters boy, will do his all to protect her." I paused to consider my position. "I'm not so sure that will be enough."

"Their situation is dismal, Baron. Chip/Silly's decision to split the group apart allowed the opportunity for my escape."

"And before your departure, he made sure you knew he could reprogram the Paris flash drive."

"True."

"And he would supposedly trade flash drives for hostages."

"True again."

"We shall see what develops, then." At that moment it occurred to me how much, to the peril of all involved, I had massively underestimated Angel's malevolent husband.

***

"Welcome to _Golf Federal de Carthage_." Karim announced, bouncing from the front seat onto the flower-and-shrub lined walkway and flinging open the back door.

"The Carthage links," I whispered, tipping my hat to Karim. "Well done."

"It is Hasan who deserves praise."

"And the final drive?" Pat shielded the sun from his eyes with a raised hand.

"She meant hole eighteen. It must be hidden somewhere near the tee." My excitement exceeded even that which I experienced when participating in the Faithful Hill CC pro-member tournament each September. I started toward the clubhouse to gather a course map.

"Hold on, boyo," Karim placed his hand on my chest. "Khalid speaks the language here, what ho? It is his membership. He is a board of director. Besides, there is no playing through. We need exemption to hop on number eighteen."

"Pat, why don't you inquire with the reservation desk to see if a certain party has arrived," I suggested. "Certainly that's permissible, eh Karim?"

"Off with you now. Hustle back!" Karim followed Pat's departure, then smiled at the arrival a hulking behemoth sporting a Miami Dolphin gandora. "This is Mr. Hannibal, our special exception. He has a love affair with the ocean, right? Good morning, good sir!" The newcomer nodded and remained grimfaced, the blue-and-orange logo of the leaping marine animal stylishly accented by his matching sunglasses.

"Mr. Hannibal certainly creates a level of comfort."

"As long as you come through for Khalid, you are safe, Horn. The minute you bodge the deal, Mr. Hannibal cancels your contract. Will not be pretty."

"Fair enough." What else could I say? Pacing the driveway as though a rash were burning up the back of my legs, I nearly leapt over Karim when Pat reappeared. "What's the news, friend?"

"The Loo party teed off about twenty minutes ago. They should be finishing up on the second green about now."

"Without being able to play through gives us two hours, at least. Did you --"

"A foursome headed by Brat, accompanied by a man whose description fits Bridgework."

"Let's assume the other two are Moeziz and a Holstein." I chewed on my lip waiting for Khalid and Hasan to return. "Assume the flash drive is on eighteen, somewhere between the tee box and the green. Any ideas?"

"Eliminate the cup and the flagstick." Pat quickly echoed my exact thought.

"Right. The position of the hole is transitory. And someone could walk off with the pin at any time. We have to focus on a permanent fixture or marking."

"What about the other part of the clue. Tunis. Two knees?" Pat stooped to tap his legs. "Or tune us, perhaps."

I shook my head. "Toonies? Cartoons."

"Where out here would you find --"

"Wordplay, friend. Listen. Sinut? Yes nut? Sin yoo tee?"

"This is going nowhere, Baron."

"Wait, Pat. Think about it, the message is backwards. The city, the location, the specific sight. Tunis. Carthage Links. Final drive. Logically, what would come next?"

"The person it's addressed to. You. Baron."

"That's right, Baron."

"Wordplay." Pat scratched his head. "Bar on."

"Look for a bar on the final fairway, Pat. Let's go!"

We sprinted around the eighteenth green with Karim shouting at us to stop before he joined in the footrace, keeping to the row of shrubs on the left as a foursome prepared to hit their approach shots. They paid no attention as we dogtrotted past, slowing our pace and scanning the ground as though searching for a misplaced club.

"You two! So wrong!" Karim chastised us between labored histrionics of catching his breath. "You should wait for Khalid!"

"No more waiting, Karim," I firmly replied, estimating our distance from the eighteenth tee. "This is far too important for club protocol. Khalid will have to understand."

"Not so sure, Horn."

"Too bad." I was in no mood for implicit statements. "Pat, the one hundred fifty yard marker to the right of the tree."

"I'm on it."

While I strolled out onto the fairway, pretending to look for a misplayed ball in order to delay the next group teeing off, my young colleague dropped to one knee and pulled at the rectangular-shaped slate gray sign imbedded firmly in the lush turf. "It seems to be fastened onto something heavy."

"Concentrate. Look for a latch or release." I waved at the distant group and shrugged my shoulders, holding up my hand as though requesting an additional moment of search time. "Maybe a hinge or slide."

"Got it! A bar on the bottom front." He pushed a piece of the signage to one side, exposing a small cavity. "Behold the Tunis CerebStix."

"Grab it and go."

I waved my arm windmill style, indicating the fairway was now open for play. Without comment, Karim took the lead with Pat between us as we loped along the slight incline of the fairway back to the clubhouse, sticking close to the hedges now on our right. We reached the green just as the exiting group finished putting out and, amid their handshakes and backslapping with one another, a most curious sight rose from the lip of the far bunker. Bridgework, Moeziz, Brat and Staple dismounted their haphazardly parked carts and, drawing clubs saber-like from their bags, brought their attention to bear on our line of travel. "To the right, boys! Down the drive!"

Karim broke into a sprint of impressive velocity while Pat and I, winded from the foray down and back, redirected ourselves to the obvious escape route quickly closed off by the irate foursome. "You've had it now, Skeet Burnisher!" Staple's yelp of well-deserved revenge was instantly recognizable to my ears.

Like a rugby ball, Pat lateraled the flash drive into my hand seconds before the scrum commenced, diving so he took down the two lead aggressors, Bridgework and Staple. The gandora's double-stitched hem constricted the length of my stride, making me an easy target to tackle for the remaining opposition. Down we went in a heap and, much out of the norm of rugby rules, Moeziz slammed his barely used cleek on the back of my hand as Brat's foot became hung up in the bottom of my garb while he attempted to knee me in the groin.

"Give it up, Baron!"

I clenched the CerebStix in the palm of my hand while struggling to fend off blows from the iron club. On a positive note, I managed to scissor-grip Brat's leg and flip the small Frenchman to one side.

"One last chance before I chop your hand off!"

Before I had time to consider the outcome of his directive, Brat -- playing out of a tough lie -- struck the back of my noggin squarely with his mashie niblick just as Moeziz drove the cleek into my metacarpals. The reflex to protect my head trumped my desire to retain the flash drive. I threw the miniature storage device away from me and turned my attention to Brat's backswing, thankful he was unable to follow through a second time.

"I've got it!" Moeziz's cry was followed by three rapid bursts of gunfire.

"Grab von dek Horn, too!"

Brat ditched his fairway stick and grappled with my kicking legs, ripping my prized gandora in the process. I drew my knees to my chest and launched a mighty mule kick into his midsection, sending Brat tumbling backwards clutching a handful of torn cloth. Before he could recover, Mr. Hannibal arrived on scene to dispatch the disrespectful French golfer with a blow to the top of the head.

"Pat!" My throbbing hand felt the knot forming on the peak of my skull as I rolled onto my knees.

"I'm good. One to the foot, is all." He rocked on his back like an overturned turtle, grasping his left ankle. "That peckerwood Bridgework!" The squeal of tires from the parking lot foretold of the trio's departure, along with the CerebStix that was once in my possession.

"Dammit!" With three of the four flash drives now held by Bridgework -- not to mention Angel and Stinky -- dissolved any leverage I hoped to wield.

"What's the matter with you?" Pat grunted.

"We're deeper in the hole than ever before."

"Here, I need a cane. Hand me that iron, would you?"

Khalid arrived with Hasan. Cowering behind them, several members of management gawked at the chaotic scene. Khalid barked orders at Mr. Hannibal who, without hesitation, jammed the unconscious Brat into the crevice of the nearby hedgerow. "You were impatient," Khalid rebuked me. "In just a few minutes, the greenskeeper would have done your work."

"Indeed, it played out unfavorably," I said sheepishly, helping Pat to a standing position. "I might as well have just handed it to him."

"You tore your Saint gandora and ran off Karim." These developments proved more upsetting to Khalid. "Your friend gets scratch, too."

"Totally bungled," I agreed, fearful Pat's foot bled at a heavier rate than first thought. "A complete botch job."

"Chin up," a voice called from the green, "today I broke ninety for the first time."

"Here come Karim." Khalid nodded at the blue Mercedes sedan circling the parking lot. "Get foot wrapped tight, no blood in car. Hospital for him. France for you."

"The sooner the better, Khalid. I am certainly sorry for --"

"No words now," he said, holding up his hand. "Action only."

I clinched my fist in frustration and issued an execration only Pat could hear.

"Baron, it's so unlike you to curse."

"A bitter pill to dry swallow, Pat. Not only did they turn the table on me, they proceeded to run the damned thing, then flip it over on their way out the door."

"It's not all that bad," Pat said, his injury having little impact upon his good-natured spirit, "after all, you still have this." He tossed me a CerebStix flash drive.

"What in the world? Is this the --"

"I borrowed a page from you book, professor. We won't want to be around when Bridgework discovers his version contains the complete works of William Shakespeare. In French."

"Brilliant, my boy!" Now it was my turn to be on the offensive. "Khalid! Shake a leg! I've got a mission to finish!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

_Manet, Monet & Mamonet_

It felt reassuring to be walking amid the cultural civility and social enlightenment offered along the Boulevard Saint-Germain in the afternoon sun, enough so I was almost able to forget my cares and find myself assimilated into the pleasantries of Paris on such a fine June day.

Open air markets displayed fresh wares to a range of shoppers, young and old, eager to acquire the finest of vegetables, cheeses and meats. Parents and children paraded past outdoor cafes filled with holidaymakers relaxing beneath flowing umbrellas and bobbing balloons. Even a gathering of pigeons appeared content, darting about like gray beer-bellied footballers seeking to organize a pickup game on the sidewalk. The atmosphere was such I wished to be taking advantage of the city I love, indulging in a leisurely stroll with nowhere specific to go but for the next available shop or gallery, with stops for the occasional refreshment served by a lovely barmaid.

Instead, I heightened my pace and crossed over the Seine on the Pont de la Concorde, angling through the Jardin des Tuileries -- its magnificent gardens rising to full strength -- to the Rue de Rivoli and, finally, the Rue de Richelieu. From there it was a brisk walk to the undistinguished apartment I kept on Rue d'Orangutang, a maisonette my grandfather \-- Jupiter von dek Horn, Wark's younger brother -- won as the jackpot in a marathon game of mahjong prior to the outbreak of World War II. As my visits to the unassuming abode were painfully infrequent by my standards, I entrusted its key to Renaldo Sédentaire, a reliable and longstanding family friend who owned the _Mangez Votre Gâteau_ cafe located next to the apartment's front door. Renaldo's daughter kept the apartment tidy during my absences, an act I was grateful for while refreshing myself under a hot shower and slipping on a clean ascot and suit.

Back on the street, I seated myself at the outward most _Gâteau_ table affording the best view of the active street life. Here, the carefree young and doddering aged strolled past, oblivious to my pressing dilemma. A number of revelations had come to me over the past few hours, the foremost being that for all of Chip/Silly's reputed mental deficits, he would know exactly where to find me in the City of Light.

" _Bonjour, Monsieur_ Baron."

"Renaldo, my good fellow. So glad I've returned."

"Likewise, sir," he replied, his features as dour as ever beneath his balding head. He set down a glass of red wine and the day's paper. "For you and you again."

" _Merci_. Thank Giselle, too, for looking after the apartment."

"As always. Your payments are timely and appreciated." He scanned the street in both directions. "A young woman stopped by minutes ago asking for you, sir. She left no message, only that she would return soon."

"Quite. No name, of course."

"Naturally, sir," he replied, bussing the table behind me. "Renaldo is discreet, as you know."

Renaldo's gentlemanly quality would not be required for this particular caller. Undoubtedly, she was a courier with a message for me.

It shouldn't be long now.

I skimmed the headlines and, enjoying a taste of the bold yet toothsome merlot, considered what had been accomplished.

***

The Beechcraft Twin Bonanza was an hour-plus into a low level flight over the Mediterranean with Karim helming it at a 200 mile per hour speed, barely concerned with clipping the odd shipping vessel occasionally appearing just feet beneath the fast cruising fuselage.

"I am Lucky Lindy, old boy." He lit another cigarette and rapped a finger against one of the dashboard gauges. "Dials speak nothing. I fly only by this," he knocked on his own head, "just like Lucky Lindy."

"I'm feeling a bit lucky, too," I said, tearing from me the remnants of the Saints gandora and wadding the shredded fabric into a tight ball while Karim watched me from the corner of his eye. Once compressed into a taut package, I withdrew the Tunis flash drive from the pocket of my shorts and shoved it deep into the center of the cloth, binding it firmly with a piece of loose twine found on the cockpit floor. Satisfied the flash drive would not slip from its resting place, I slid back the window and tossed the bundle into the Mediterranean below.

"Horn, you silly man! What you do?"

"Not to worry, Karim. I'm on the pig's back now. Let some archeologist find it in a thousand years, perhaps mingled with a long lost collection of sunken Roman amphorae. That would bring a new twist to recorded history, what say?"

"As sure as Bob's your uncle, sport," Karim chuckled in agreement. "Augustus was no fan of the Saints."

***

The plane set down on an abandoned airstrip, constructed during the second World War southwest of Paris, where a cadre of Karim's associates circled in waiting vehicles. A heartfelt farewell followed, in which we agreed friendship and understanding between our two cultures was the only path to take in deference to future generations. The first step on this journey, however, began with the understanding I was obligated to establish Khalid's burgeoning gandora business in North America. With that and a shake of the hand, Karim arranged my transportation to the outskirts of the city, where I commenced my pleasurable hike through the most fascinating and beautiful metropolis created by humankind.

"A bit more, _Monsieur_ Baron? It is my best." Not waiting for a response, Renaldo filled my glass anew. "And no sign of your young friend still."

"Thank you, kind sir. I'm sure she'll be along in good time."

"Enjoy the wine," he sighed heavily, "and return to your thoughts."

With the deep sea disposal of the Tunis flash drive, I had effectively destroyed Chip/Silly's plan to enable and employ Bridgework's financial landslide. Any hope of instant and endless fortune found at the rainbow's end on a keyboard had been dismissed through the destructive effect of the saltwater ossuary in which the CerebStix now rested.

Confirmation of my belief was provided by the worthless cad's own actions and behavior. If the Paris flash drive itself could be manipulated to open a portion of the virtual vaults of wealth the world over -- and Chip/Silly had preceding knowledge of its singular power -- he would have made it his objective long prior to my involvement in the ignoble Loo mess. Instead, he was forced to traipse half the globe tethered to his father-in-law by a tight leash holding forth the mystery and promise of eternal life. Because of what Chip/Silly offered, Bridgework held him in high esteem. Valued him. Supported him. Financed him. Needed him.

Had him marry into the family!

Using Chip/Silly's decision making process as a truth applicator, if there was but one of the flash drives critical to all the rest, it would have to be the Machu Picchu. Had it been the Mount Rushmore, the game would have been over before trekking to South America. Should Tunis had been so critical, Chip/Silly would have made the trip himself in place of Bridgework. And if Paris was home to the omnipotent memory device, what purpose was served by announcing it to Pat Aundybach with such fanfare? Further, why were Angel, Stinky and Ethelene held as a form of collateral against the Machu Picchu CerebStix?

More importantly, old boy, if Chip/Silly ultimately believes only one flash drive is critical, why would Bridgework insist on collecting them all? Chip/Silly is lying, old nut. All four flash drives have always comprised the equation!

" _Monsieur_ von dek Horn?"

Before me stood but a nymph of a girl, her formfitting biking attire seemingly but an additional layer of skin in a slightly contrasting color. "That would be me," I said, rising from my seat and offering a slight bow.

"A message for you, sir." She lifted her sunglasses and issued a freshly sealed envelope from her black leather delivery bag.

"And your client would be?" I handed her a generous gratuity.

"I'm not sure, monsieur," she smiled, cocking her head, "I'm just a simple courier."

"I'm sure you are, then."

Seated again, I slit open the seal and produced an invitation from the _Galerie des Expatriés Insipides_ , requesting me as an honored guest at the evening's private unveiling of a reputed Monet work entitled _Minuit bu à L'appel Final_ \-- "Midnight Drunk at Final Call" -- a rarely seen Impressionistic masterpiece long held in the collection of the well-known international investment firm and host of the affair, the Woolamaloo Gang Hedge Fund. As thankful as I was for being included in the exclusive assembly, I also calmed a slight tremble produced by the thought of once more having misjudged the malignant capabilities of Chip/Silly. There was no alternative but to walk into the subterfuge prepared on his terms.

I hastily flipped through the paper to the cultural section, scanning the arts and performance announcements. The lack of any advert for such an important rediscovery of historical art was significant, spelling trouble if I did not take cautionary steps for personal security when attending.

He knows I'll come for Stinky. The ultimatum for Angel was already issued. He will assume I possess both the Machu Picchu and Tunis flash drives. Obviously, he wishes to determine who leaves the premises alive.

I brainstormed and discarded many potential rescue scenarios, all of which were too obvious and therefore improbable. Chip/Silly's cleverness and, dare it be said, genius negated any normative response. The weight of time began to bear down upon me. Rubbing my brow in frustration, an item in the lower right corner of the busy spread jumped off the page at me, suggesting what I hoped held part of the solution for my trouble: The _Carnaval Du Diminutif,_ under the direction of Mr. Pershing Cantilever, had arrived in the city for a three-week engagement and would be ensconced at the Trifle Tower for the duration. Immediately, the compass needle in my noggin swung to a new direction.

"More merlot, _Monsieur_ Baron?"

"No thank you, Renaldo. I must be on my way to visit an old friend before popping into a gallery opening."

"Ah, such a busy man with the ladies." Renaldo's remark sounded more a lamentation than compliment. "Do you wish to freshen up first?"

"No time, I'm afraid," I replied, checking my watch and straightening my ascot. "It's fortuitous I'm already wearing my best bib and tucker."

***

The entrance to _Galerie des Expatriés Insipides_ was a nondescript raised doorway at the opening of an alleyway off _rue des Beaux-Arts_ , notable only for the commonplace signage crudely bolted above its frosted windowpanes. I drew myself up, tugging on the lapels of my blazer, and harkened upon the words Pershing Cantilever imparted to me within the past hour as we enjoyed an aperitif at the Trifle Tower bar: "The only trick to being caught is not having a trick to escape."

His advice and suggestions, intended to be supportive, nevertheless magnified the desperation of my predicament -- Chip/Silly had the upper hand and held all the cards. Daunted but not admitting it, I took one last look over my shoulder. Except for two women walking a Pomeranian on the opposite side of the boulevard, there was little other activity to be seen beneath the yellow light cast from antiquated streetlamps. I climbed the granite steps to the threshold and turned the weighty brass doorknob, unaware at how fast events would unfold from that moment forward.

"Good evening, _Monsieur_ von dek Horn," the familiar voice said, quickly clipping a handcuff around my right wrist. "So good of you to attend."

" _Bonjour_." I returned her greeting, recognizing the waif's slender face as the one who greeted me at the cafe table. "I thought you were but a courier, young lady."

"During difficult times, one must moonlight too, yes?" She smiled, distracting me while she clipped the other end of the restraint on her slender left arm. "This is my friend, Marci. We'll be your escorts tonight." Before I could even think _Jack Robinson_ , a matching bracelet of steel wrapped around my left wrist and clicked into place.

"Does this mean we're dating now?" I smiled at Marci who was thankfully, like the Courier, an attractive delight in appearance.

"You need to be on your best behavior, _Monsieur_ Baron," the Courier said, tugging sharply at my arm. "The gallery owner has invited a group of his most valued friends tonight and we don't want to spoil their good time, do we?"

"Ruin the evening? Not me. I'm just here to collect but a few valued friends myself. We'll be quickly on our way."

"If you cooperate, perhaps your wish will come true." Both women pulled down their sleeves and curled their arms over mine before the Courier continued, "You should smile often! Such a lucky man to have two beautiful women attached to him, yes?"

"It would be a lie to say that my heart wasn't aflutter."

"Speaking of matters of the heart, please know I have a stiletto in my sweater pocket. I sharpened it this evening before changing into my gallery reception outfit."

"How thoughtful of you."

"Should you prove troublesome, I will be forced to bury it first in your groin, followed by your chest."

"The thought of serving such a brochette is in bad taste, particularly after all the preparation made by the caterer. What would the guests say?"

"What the guests don't see won't offend them," Courier smiled cryptically. "The painting you've been invited to view is located in the suite at the very back of the building. Please know it is by admission only and the room soundproofed with Plexiglas doors. We shall take our time, yes? Smile at everyone along the way."

"Why not, I say." I sensed both women had experience in the forcible escort business, as their pointed claws dug into my flesh like the talons of irate peregrine falcons. We moved through the foyer and into the main hallway, a scenario of detached emotion made moodier by attendees striving to exude artistic sulkiness. An echoing stream of techo-pop melodies pulsed from unseen speakers, as though a sterile electronic soundtrack from a futuristic wake. In agreeable contrast, there was an abundance of wine and cheese being served that, if unable to lighten the oppressive atmosphere, at least provided it with a degree of sustenance. "Shall we indulge?"

Courier came to a gentle pause at my request to douse ourselves with a drink before proceeding. "It would prove unhealthy for your prostate."

"I envision your point."

"So you should." She stood on her tiptoes in order to peck me on the cheek. "Let's go to our masterpiece."

To those in the intellectual crowd around us we appeared as a trio of happiness, contrasting significantly as a blissful puck fired into the gloom of their goal. Down the wide hallway we strolled, passing Calderesque mobiles a-dangle with thin strips of recycled metal, misshapen busts of the starving poor sculpted from discarded fruit and a series of oil portraits depicting industrial landscapes under attack by hirsute children who appeared spawned of daisy plants and rabid beavers.

"Here we are now," Courier sang out pleasantly as we entered a large anteroom. Four couples in formal dress occupied the area, seemingly waiting their turn to gain entrance to a bubble-like adjoining room jutting from the corner of the rear wall. "There," Courier pointed with her free hand, "the private display room. Through that paneled door."

Sure enough, as I anchored myself against the momentum of my two minders in order to grasp the circumstances, there stood Angel and Stinky on the other side of the thick translucent plastic barrier. Angel wore a look of exhausted anxiety, the produce of having borne excessive burdens over too long a period of time. Stinky was his usual self, a sweaty rainstorm of low pressure on his balding dome accented by a brighter-than-red complexion on his jowly upper deck.

To their right hung the massive oblong painting, roughly seven-by-five feet, depicting a well-dressed prostitute attempting to restrain an overly intoxicated man as he tenuously grasps an open book, writing quill and empty beer stein while lurching toward the thick wooden countertop of a vacated nightclub. A bartender -- his face partially obscured by an array of bottles -- was positioned in the reflection of the back mirror polishing a glass while ignoring the ill-lucked patron.

"Your invitation, _Monsieur_ von dek Horn?"

"I'm afraid," I said, emphasizing the difficulty of having their limbs attached to mine as I searched my vest pocket, "I'm afraid I can't locate it. Perhaps I left it on my dresser and should return to fetch it?"

"That was very inconsiderate of you. I will gain the entrance for us." Courier was polite, but made clear her irritation by reinserting her nails into my flesh with a stringent vigor. "My employer is very anal about such details."

"Such an attitude made Mr. Bridgework a wealthy man."

" _Monsieur_ Bridgework?" She chuckled as we approached a padded, opaque panel on the far left side of the anteroom. "Like everyone else, I work for _Monsieur_ Shumway."

Marci inserted a plastic card into a slot next to the jamb and, emitting a low buzz, the door swung inward. " _Entrez, monsieur_."

"Greetings, one and all," I said, stepping into the room as the door sealed shut behind us. "Glad to see all of you could make it."

"Baron! Thank God!" Stinky, in a heartwarming moment, briefly assumed his jovial nature. The remainder of the room was silent, from Angel's downcast expression to Ethelene's look of anxious aloofness. Rico cracked his knuckles while Staple glared at me, silently mouthing some form of threat in his native Spanish tongue. Two Holsteins, impeccably dressed in neatly tailored pinstripe suits, served as matching bookends for the quartet of muscle. Missing were the trio of Bridgework, Moeziz and the new apparent head of operations, Stockwell Silicon Shumway.

"Stinky, sorry you were mistakenly drawn into this festoon of misadventure," I said, directing my implied criticism at Rico and Staple. "You of all people to be mistaken for me, right?"

"Conestoga?" he weakly questioned.

"She's fine. Safe and dry as a cracker in a tin at the Manor." I raised my hands and jingled the bands of steel. "Angel, once we settle our account here I'm hoping you will consider me a worthy attendant to the sanctuary of your choice." My words were issued with the intent to generate comfort under the desperate predicament, but created no solace in the young woman's demeanor.

"Baron, why don't you keep a lid on it?"

"Ah, Ethelene, our extemporal fence straddler. What a cleft stick it must be to realize you have only two feet to plant in three yards."

"I find you exceedingly obnoxious, von dek Horn." She shook her purse in an effort to locate a cigarette before equivocating back to a marginal friendliness. "What do you mean, 'three yards'?"

"Simple enough. The respective and contradictory positions of your husband, son-in-law and myself in this matter."

She flashed a derisive look at me before lighting her smoke. "You're odd man out, Baron, extraneous to our plans. And believe me, it's not your sod I want to plant my foot in."

"Ah, then, I see. The two forces you've unleashed are rapidly approaching their denouement, a contemporary jousting match with the exception that one rider will in cowardly fashion plummet his lance into the back of the other." I watched Angel's face for a reaction, but none was forthcoming. "Really, Ethelene, quite predictable and extremely lame, if I may be allowed."

"I'm not interested in your assessment, Baron," she scowled. "You don't know and wouldn't appreciate what I've been through to keep a roof over the Loo. If it wasn't for my father's fortune, the company wouldn't exist!"

"So now you're calling in your stake, regardless of the collateral damage," I nodded at Angel.

"Life is too short to be sentimental, you fool. Mind your business and be concerned with your own fate."

"Too short? What about _Eternus Spiritus_ being developed at all costs?"

Ethelene released a contemptuous laugh. "It's all set to go. Just add water from the fountain of youth."

The promise of eternal life for the world's wealthiest man had been, as expected, nothing but deception, a play on Bridgework's gullibility and belief that endless wealth could acquire whatever he demanded. "'How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.'"

"'As You Like It'," Stinky responded immediately, his engaging mind ever ready to plunge into the Bard, "Oliver, I believe."

"Well served, Kornblatt," I smiled. "Orlando, actually. Act five, scene two."

"How touching." Chip/Silly's voice filled the room, startling all with his sudden arrival through a narrow passage opposite the main entrance. Behind him, grimfaced, followed Wayland Bridgework and a bemused Oz Moeziz. The party roster was now complete. "The great Sherlockian Baron and his ever faithful sidekick, Dr. Kornblatt, discuss great literature while teetering at the brink of eternity."

"I prefer to think of him as more my Garfunkel. All due respect to you, Stinky."

"Understood," Stinky nodded sullenly.

"Close the curtains," Chip/Silly, in a high state of giddiness, ordered Rico to draw shut the thick floor-to-ceiling maroon velvet drapes. "So all interested parties are in the know, this chamber is soundproof and impenetrable from the gallery. The back stairway from which we entered leads to a historic studio upstairs. More on that later. For now, let's resolve the problems which brought us here together, shall we?"

"Zhe vinal CerbStix ish loscaded --" Bridgework, looking haggard, semiconscious and sluggish, garbled slowly before receiving a jolt to the ribs from Moeziz and resuming his silence.

"You're right, Wayland. We'll start with the last of the four flash drives, which clarifies our gathering at the base of this truly breathtaking Monet." He reached past the ornate cordon and positioned his hand at the corner of the gilt-edge frame. "Is the power turned off this time?"

"It is," Moeziz replied, staring at me with the look of condescension he bore exceedingly well.

"You're sure? Because if I get shocked this time in front of all these people, there's going to be an additional body to carry out. Understood?"

"You're fine, Shummy."

I could not help but be amused by their fraternal familiarity. "Shummy?" Their relationship had, in my mind, reached a level not anticipated.

"Soon enough it will be 'Mr. Shumway' to those left alive." He worked his fingers around the back of the frame in a convoluted manner as though struggling to change an unseen light bulb. "Here it is, in this clever little stash slot created by a nineteenth century craftsman. This compartment was originally built to hold a valuable key, such as that used to open a safe full of riches or the door to the boudoir of a favored mistress." He glared at Angel while extracting the sparkling blue colored device. "And this CerebStix is a modern day version of just such a key. I can assure you the eighteenth century --"

"Nineteenth," I interrupted.

"Artisan who created that hidden holder never imagined the wealth it would someday contain."

"Yoush foundled dit," Bridgework slurred, sounding marginally surprised.

"So I have. Folks, this is the Paris CerebStix, last on the list." Chip/Silly displayed the tiny device between his thumb and forefinger, allowing all in the room to have a good look at it. "With this flash drive alone, I will control forty percent of the world's finances. Isn't that amazing?"

"Quite impressive, young man," I sarcastically opined, disgusted with his overt greed. "Perhaps we'll be on our way now."

"Not so fast, master of disguises. I have several bones to roll with you, the most important involves Machu Picchu and Tunis." He sneered while tossing the flash drive from hand to hand. "Of lesser importance is your molestation of my wife aboard the Gangrene."

"Your crudity better serves your avaricious desires. My relationship with Angel is consensual and, clarifying my point, private."

"There isn't such a thing as privacy on that ship. Your tryst was recorded by, of all people, the harlot you shared the cabin with."

"Angel?"

"I'm sorry," she barely whispered. "I wanted to ... it was our first --"

"You need not explain yourself to me, Angel," I interjected in a steady voice prior to addressing her erstwhile spouse. "You however, Chip/Silly, have a great deal of elucidation forthcoming."

"As do you, von dek Horn! I'd love an explanation as to why you try to act so properly British when you're nothing more than a backwoods New Englander!"

"I'm afraid that subject perplexes me as much it does you and everyone else," I replied, grateful for the opportunity to occupy Chip/Silly in conversation and stall for the arrival of a certain group of friends. "I attribute a good portion of it to my upbringing and the environment of decency and civility which my parents strove to instill --"

"Before they were killed," Moeziz cut in with a machete-like hack, effectively derailing my thoughts into a black abyss where I loathed to fall.

"Of course before they were murdered, you imbecile."

"Yet their severe lack of parenting skills coupled with your feeble mind proved insufficient," Chip/Silly said, coming at me from a different direction. "Imagine their disappointment at your complete and total rejection by Yalemouth on Rye. Application after application turned away. All the money wasted on hundreds of hours of tutoring, trying to make a square peg fit in a round hole. Finally, they had the good sense to stick you in the mentally retarded pool at Trotters, where your quasi British mannerisms could become a polished act of pretentious phoniness."

"Is that right?" My eyes stung with the onset of tears, yet I refused to wipe them dry.

"No one buys it, von dek Horn," Moeziz said, landing another counterpunch. "Your pseudo intellect, shored up by using obscure words and contrived quirks."

"And your books, full of cornball phrases, overworked clichés and fractured analogies." Chip/Silly piled on the blows. "Sold to the unsuspecting, believing they are reading the factual work of a real hero with bona fide intelligence."

"Real courage, too," Moeziz laughed. "How many times I've escaped from you, knowing even the most flatfooted donut eater could have caught me with little effort. You? Hell, you give me every opportunity for freedom because you're scared of what might happen should you actually catch me."

"Take this Monet, for example. Look at it closely, von dek Horn. The whore pulling the drunken author from the bar, away from the danger of the tavern owner who has probably throttled the useless lout many times in the past. Broke and without merit, void of any true creative talent, the worthless writer is urged to spend his last few coins on the skank who sells her body to serve her own material interests. Monet had it right. Indeed, his very work here foretells of our gathering in a way, doesn't it?"

I remained silent, visualizing the series of my next moves to the finest detail.

"Angelica the prostitute. Baron the alcoholic adventurer. Moeziz ruling them both." Chip/Silly drew out his recitation while continuing to juggle the CerebStix. "Adding to the historical moment of presenting this artwork again to the public is the fact Monet painted it in his studio upstairs, the very studio in which you, Angel and the unfortunate Kornblatt will meet your demise."

"Ang-jilsh?" Bridgework, slumping fast, attempted to shake his head.

"And I will relish each moment I gaze upon _Minuit bu à L'appel Final_ in the future, casting out the betrayal of my dear Angelica and the meddlesome Trotters flunky who amounted to but a bug bite on my ass." He stood back, full of satisfaction with himself, and admired the painting. "No, there's not one thing wrong with this picture."

"Wrong?" Blood rushed to my ears as I came out of the starter blocks. "You're so off the mark, Shumway, your idiocy truly astounds me. Indeed, your ignorance is of such a foul volume, one is challenged to locate its source."

"Start by turning the Tunis flash drive over to me. Maybe Kornblatt will live."

"This is clearly not a Monet, based on the simple fact the image is of an interior scene and compounded by its portrayal of contemporary figures. It is basic knowledge Monet produced the majority of his work _en plein air_ , out of doors, where he relished in capturing the subtle effect of sunlight as it played upon pastoral settings."

"A Monet is a Monet, von dek Horn. Your babbling will not change my findings. Now, should you care a whit about shaky old Kornblatt, you'll fork over the Tunis flash drive."

"Monet rarely, if ever, included the human figure in his art. His creative beliefs rested in and his inspiration derived from nature scenes. For these two reasons alone, the work before us was not executed by the brush of Monet."

"Moeziz, prepare to shoot him."

"If anything, a cursory glance of this work by an expert would lend attribution to Manet, who was a good friend of Monet's and influenced by his subject matter and choice of palette. Manet was much an artist of the common person, rendering reproductions deemed pedestrian during his day, unworthy of public showings, useless in their representations."

"Which one, Shummy?" Moeziz leveled the gun barrel at me then Stinky, before pointing it at the ebbing Bridgework.

"This particular work brings certain elements of Manet's creations to mind, foremost the alluring _Olympia_ , whom the young lady shown before us represents. Again, the suggestion is repeated when one thinks of Manet's portrait of author Emile Zola, bookish and thoughtful as he sits with an open tome. Ironically, if memory serves correct, Zola is seated before a likeness of the aforementioned _Olympia_ painting. Manet was both clever and humorous, wouldn't you say?"

"Kornblatt."

"Lastly, the image in the mirror reflects, for the lack of a better word, Manet's _Le Bar aux Folies-Bergère_ , the last of his great works. The gentleman in that particular work is perceived to be perhaps an English tourist enjoying a drink of Bass Pale Ale with the young and sweet bartendress. Here, the work above us, shows a blurry and undefined figure of some question, perhaps the artist himself wanting to shroud his identity for fear of artistic plagiarism accusations."

"No, wait, Moeziz. I've a better idea."

"The work then, too, is not a creation by Manet. In fact, if you had the pleasure of matriculation at Trotters and the honor of seating in Professor O'Toole's classroom, you would instantly recognize this work as completed by the hand of Henri Mamonet, a miserable and churlish understudy of both the great masters. Any decent art instructor would have taught you Mamonet was in reality an American. Yes, an expatriate who --"

"Enough with the art history lesson," Chip/Silly interrupted, his giddy state now transmuting into one of depraved agitation.

"I thought it was really interesting," Staple remarked quietly, looking down at his polished wingtips.

"Enough I said! So, it's a Mamonet, so what? Big deal. Bridgework acquired it at a bargain price and hid the Paris flash drive in it. That's the point. I now hold said flash drive and you're still a Trotters alumnus. Nothing changes, right?"

"To an ignoramus, I suppose that would be true."

"Well, I've changed my mind. I'll start our proceedings off by asking you for the Machu Picchu flash drive. If there's any hesitation on your part in giving it to me, Oz Moeziz will shoot Angel. Ready to play this game?"

Angel straightened upright, a look of disbelief coming over her as I geared myself to take action.

"Give me the Machu Picchu CerebStix."

"I don't have it with me."

"Moeziz. Shoot her."

"Doonnah shlute my gurl!" Bridgework lunged at the thug just the a glint of weapon appeared. With both hands wrapped around Moeziz's arm, Bridgework fell backwards to the sound of a muffled report.

"Jesus!" Moeziz exclaimed with disgust. "I always hate shooting the wrong guy!"

"Daddy!" Angel shrieked and dove to the floor on both knees, lifting the fallen man's head in her hands. "No!"

"You idiot! Where's the gun?" Chip/Silly bent over to search Bridgework's jacket, providing Angel the occasion to serve up a short but powerful right jab to his cheek, sending her husband reeling backwards into Moeziz. It was the perfect calamity.

As though signifying the moment of chaos with the clapping of cymbals, I raised my shackled hands and introduced the forehead of Marci's coconut to that of Courier's. It was enough of a tap to induce an instant sleep, but spared both escorts any permanent internal or visible damage. Parachuting gently to the floor as a group, I dug my fingers between my belt and pants, extracting the circus utility lock pick -- possessing the approximate identical characteristics of a common bobby pin -- Pershing Cantilever was kind enough to provide me. Putting it to quick use, I freed myself from the two groggy usherettes.

"Watch him!" With no further instructions issued attached to the warning, Chip/Silly's band of brutes did as ordered while their boss and Moeziz searched frantically for the handgun. Employing the collective delayed reaction to good use, I hitched Courier's wrist to Marci's ankle, then swiftly attached the loose end of the remaining handcuff around Courier's dainty lower calf.

"Stinky! Red orange, forty nine, left!" I shot him a nod while pulling both the stiletto and handcuff release key from Courier's sweater pocket. The strategy of my audible was based on the well-founded 'Statue of Liberty' American football formation -- appropriate while facing death in the country of the neoclassical harbor statue's origin -- executed Trotters-on-Funk rugby-style. Upon my command, Stinky would accept delivery of whatever package -- the ball as it were -- I held behind my back.

"What the hell are you doing?" Chip/Silly suddenly righted himself and lost interest in the missing Moeziz weapon.

"How does that old song about paper dolls go?" I look at him innocently.

"You mouthy son of a bitch!" He stumbled over Moeziz and tripped on the now immovable Bridgework. "I'll do you with my own hands!"

Choosing not to allow Chip/Silly the opportunity, I instinctively pitched the stiletto submarine style and, at a considerable distance of ten feet, was pleased to see its tip disappear into the fleshy real estate of the charging psychopath's flank. "Here's a true meddling bug bite!"

Chip/Silly let out a shriek of agony and collapsed. "Don't stand there! Kill him!"

Rico and company came to life like a row of bulldozers on a construction lot, rumbling across the room in my direction. Relying on my training workshops with retired US Navy SEALS, I met the rushing attack headfirst, going in low and hoping for the best. The ensuing fray was of top shelf variety for, just as my head met with Rico's knee, the room was reduced to total darkness. Legs, arms, fists and feet traveled in every direction, with remaining gaps filled by pointy elbows and random hair pulling. Stinky's plaintive wail of "forty nine!" could be heard above the ruckus of grunts and cursing, but the rugby play by this time had fallen asunder. I managed to shelter myself beneath Staple's ample back and, as the fracas intensified, was grateful for his unwitting willingness to endure such a beating on my behalf. Without warning, the room was momentarily lit by the muzzle flash of an additional round discharging, causing a cessation to fall over those of us tussling as though we were now mute models posing for a frieze being carved on an entablature. In the moment of stillness, the door leading to the upstairs studio opened slightly and to our collective astonishment there arose the distant sound of chanting:

In old Paris, the land of Robespierre

Hunters travel the globe to end up there!

And so it's come to this, we're sad to say

Huddled at the feet of a dusty Mamonet

"It sounds like angels," Staple grunted with amazement.

"Shut up, you fool!" Moeziz, his thin lithe body catlike in profile, moved cautiously toward the door.

Once quite threatening but now serene

Some still fear the chopping guillotine

Hands move fast, the clock loudly ticks

Who will end up with the four CerebStix?

"I'm outta here, Shummy!" Moeziz blasted through the doorway leading to the studio above while I struggled to leverage Staple off my lower half.

"Stinky! In need a hand, old chum!"

"I'm here, Baron," the former diplomat extended his flabby paw but neglected to gain steady footing. When I heaved, he immediately fell forward and gained membership into the toiling floor show. "Ouch! Hey, there! Stop that! I still possess diplomatic immunity!"

It was not my intention to use Stinky for traction, but as the single combatant who would not object to my gaining purchase with the heel of my shoe pressed against his silk tie, he was my designated jumping off point to begin pursuit. In the semidarkness, I spotted Chip/Silly limp over the threshold steps behind Moeziz, his hand wrapped tightly around his left thigh.

"Look after the chaos here, friend. It's those two jokers deserving of my wrath!"

The rickety wooden stairs dangerously narrow and uneven in riser height wound clockwise to the right, made more perilous by the ancient metal handrail loosely attached to the exterior wall. Its shoddiness was in part the reason I never saw the first blow coming as my sleeve snagged along the frayed edge of the old wall, permitting Chip/Silly to land a resounding kick to my head. "Back in the hole, motherfucker!"

As incensed as I was from the taste of his boot tumbling me backwards, more appalling was his choice of language. "Grow up, Chip/Silly!" I scraped myself off the lower steps and charged upward again, this time creeping slowly upon hearing the slamming of a door. Reaching a level plateau after a two more corkscrew turns, I stepped forward and instinctively placed my hand outward feeling for a knob or latch. At my slight touch, hinges gave way and exposed a large workshop bathed in dim, murky blue moonlight. Beneath a series of battered and worn skylights, wooden benches formed a u-shape in the center of the room. Several feet to the right, a sizeable platform rose slightly from the floor, upon it a random collection of blankets draped an overstuffed sofa serving as an area where a model would repose amid a contrived setting while the artist created. The odor of oils, spirits and solvents mixed with the musty air while, as my eyes adjusted to the lackluster hue, a jumble of paintbrushes, pencils and paper took form on the tabletops. Then, with jarring clarity rising steadily in volume, singing from the unseen began anew:

As he entered, this time surely

Though his face was feeling poorly

"Shut up!" came the cry from the unseen Chip/Silly.

One suffering impatience and enunciation

Hollered loud to expose his location

"Bullshit!" The ne'er-do-well's voice originated from behind the sofa, somewhere in the middle of a row of easels stacked haphazardly along the wall.

The hawk man first, on the run

One to watch, he holds a gun

But he'll be back, have no doubt

This room contains the sole way out!

I closed the door tightly and yarded one of the heavy tables against its frame, thereby sealing off any quick exit route. Dusting off my hands, it was time to bring one young man's illicit proceedings to a grinding halt. "Stockwell! Stockwell Silicon Shumway. Step out here. Let's talk."

"Go to hell, you worthless gumshoe." His voice, full of pain, was pitched with defiance. "Embarrassing me downstairs like that. The painting's a freakin' Monet original. Everyone knows it!"

"The game's over, Stockwell. The painting, the flash drives, your plan to take control of the Loo. It's finished. Even Bridgework's been taken off the board now --"

"Off exploring the dimensions of his new eternal life, if he even believed in such rubbish."

"One supposes, yes. Cascopalics believe there is a transitory period of indoctrination, processing and rehabilitation before one formally initiates afterlife. This is something you have the opportunity to do now, Stockwell, if you simply decide to give yourself over immediately. No more fractious pugnacity. Come clean and go forward in peace."

"Go straight to jail, you mean. No, it's not going to be that way. You have two CerebStix belonging to me. I want them now." He broke into a spasm of coughing, diminishing the effect of his demand. "Perhaps I might even pay you a reward for their return, if that's your angle, choirboy."

"My original interest in this matter is now lying deceased on the floor downstairs."

"Then give me the goddamned CerebStix and leave me be!"

"Not a chance, Stockwell. You aspired to take over the Loo throne and now you'll be my substitute for Bridgework. Besides," I paused, knowing the bombshell would deliver a massive explosion, "neither CerebStix is available. The Machu Picchu flash drive is in New Hampshire. The Tunis flash drive is, by now, resting comfortably on a sandy plateau somewhere hundreds of feet beneath the surface of the Mediterranean."

"It's where?" The rattling of easel legs nearly drowned out his inquiry and, after several of the stands crashed to the floor, the silhouette of Chip/Silly appeared within the muffled moonlight. "You've done what?"

In the middle of painting stands, disbelief

A far cry from arrogance, such a relief!

Like an addicted junkie seeking his next fix

The poor rich boy lacks two CerebStix

"And what's with the invisible chorus following you around?"

"I would guess, too, you are not in the possession of the Paris CerebStix." Oddly, my calculation provided me a sense of superiority over the _Carnaval Du Diminutif_ members scattered in their hiding places around the room. "Your triple cross has been trumped."

"What? I have it right here!" In the darkness, Chip/Silly resembled a nightclub dancer performing the latest floor moves while he desperately searched his pants pockets for the small sliver of plastic. "Where in the hell?"

"You're wasting your time."

"Amazingly, Baron's right for once." The voice of Oz Moeziz came from the opposite side of the room. "There's no need to look and there's no need for you."

The explosion of the handgun's report filled the art loft, sending me immediately to the floor as the sound of Chip/Silly involuntarily backpedaling into the cove of easels was followed by his loud groan of pain.

"All done this time, Baron."

I rolled beneath the heavy table nearest me, catching a glimpse of Moeziz's legs as he cautiously circled the perimeter of the room.

"I admit our game of global cat and mouse has been exhilarating at times. Comforting, too, knowing I always escape." He froze, realizing he lost sight of me. "But I will concede your dissing me in _The Bathetic Stranger_ stands as a slight never to be forgiven. Switching the title to _The Pathetic Stranger_. How childish."

Resisting the temptation to clarify the editorial decision made without my consent, I reared back on my heels and braced my shoulders and neck against the underside of the table. A few steps more would leave Moeziz lined up in my wheelhouse and I would have but one clean chance to take him down. Using the cover of another mournful wail from Chip/Silly, I gingerly tested my ability to lift the table off the floor. Heavy to the extreme, it would serve both as a shield and battering ram providing I was able to raise my end to its tipping point without first becoming a target.

"Not entirely unexpected, though. You've always been the boy in a man's game, Baron. You want memberships in our country clubs and seats on the airlines we fly, all the while dressed in the same brand of sweaters and chinos we wear. You covet the women we date and the cologne we splash on. We own everything you desire, every single item that would elevate you from your painful, envious wannabe status. I mean, your pseudo British accent and quasi knowledge of the world. Where's that ever going to take you?"

If Moeziz thought insulting me would provoke a response and reveal my location, he was right. I had to bite my tongue even harder.

"Why is your life this way? Immaturity, for the most part. Has to be. A novice trust funder with all his phony pretensions, enabled by his dead parents' wealth. Pitiful." He slid his feet forward, testing the sturdiness of the floor before transporting his full weight onto his toes. "Time to go visit mommy and daddy. Time to thank them for the good life they handed you here on earth."

I could tolerate it no longer. From my crouching position I thrust upward, driving the table on its end while letting loose a most foul of war cries. Made of a fabulous hardwood -- perhaps cherry or oak -- I severely miscalculated its weight and, defying my strategy of having the table land on top of Moeziz, its right edge pivoted on the floor causing the entire mass to list then fall on its side. I barely had time to loosen my grip and was nearly dragged down to the floor with it. As it was, the length of the table landed on the arch of my left foot momentarily pinning me to the spot.

"In lieu of a grand entrance, this is what I get?" Moeziz observed, standing just beyond arm's reach as a cloud of dust ushered away from the upended mess.

"Naturally inferior to any you might undertake, right?"

"There you go again," Moeziz said, affecting a sympathetic response, "proving my thesis for me. The poor wealthy downtrodden do gooder Baron von dek Horn."

"At least there's no doubt as to the legality of what I do."

"Working for Sondheim? You're fooling yourself. He's as big a crook as there is."

"Perception."

"Doesn't matter. I have a gun and you don't." Moeziz squared himself to me. "Now, I'm only going to ask for them once. If you don't turn them over to me, for whatever reasons, I'm going to kill you."

"And if I do turn them over to you, you're going to kill me."

"Hobson's choice, as it were." A thin smile formed across his narrow face.

"To the contrary, my Yalemouth associate. Morton's fork."

"Occam's razor. Still doesn't matter. I have the gun."

"And I have the flash drives."

"Here's your moment of truth, Baron," Moeziz said, his voice full of cold anger as he drew back the hammer. "Will you turn over the CerebStix flash drives to me?"

Evil hawk gripped a Smith and Wesson

Ignoring our man's historical lesson

It takes a coward to shoot a man unarmed

Prompting our obligation to see him unharmed

The tune was melodic and surprisingly upbeat for its somber content, having an entrancing effect upon Moeziz. During his void of concentration, a little man clambered out of a nearby cupboard and calmly walked past Moeziz without pausing, plucking the gun from his hand. He continued on, disappearing into a short, narrow cabinet on the opposite side of the room.

Whenever injustice occurs, wherever it shall take us

Use only your fists when engaged in a fracas

Moeziz, not waiting for additional choral commentary, unleashed a torrent of haymakers to my head while I successfully extricated my foot from the weight of the bench. The large slab now served as a fence between us old foes as we battled toe-to-toe in the spirit of "Gentleman" Jim Corbett and John L. Sullivan. With both of us clutching shirt fronts and throwing unobstructed blows, the grueling slugfest quickly took its toll. Within moments, we resembled two weathered and tired hockey players settling a season-long feud at center ice.

"Give it up, Baron," Moeziz grunted and ducked, "and I'll let you off lightly." He took hold of my fist while I pretended my arm had suddenly grown tired. "If you'll \--"

With an alarming fierceness and surprise, I pulled him off balance and planted my forehead directly between his eyes before shoving him onto the countertop beneath an open window overlooking the alleyway below.

Moeziz uttered a low hiss as I stepped over the barrier. "Who do you think you are, anyway?"

"Very simple." Beyond angry at this point and tired of being beaten up on yet another continent, I grabbed his lapels and lifted him to within inches of my face. "I'm the chairman of VIOLENCE."

"In that case," Moeziz shrugged, his muscles going limp as the fight seemingly washed from his body, "you probably don't deserve this."

"Deserve what?"

The pointed toe of his left shoe -- a G.J. Cleverley, no doubt -- slammed squarely into my testicles at a frightening speed, lifting me into the air and prompting an embarrassing dispel of air from my lungs. As the overture of flaming agony began to swell in my delicate nether reaches, Moeziz placed the offending footwear against my chest and pushed. "I'd like to say I've outsmarted you, but that would be giving away too much credit. So long, von dek Horn." He lifted both legs in the air, tumbled sideways and slipped feet first out the window.

We were led to believe our man wasn't a putz

Till evil hawk drove him to the point of nuts

He must collect himself and regain his being

Apprehending the criminal who is now fleeing

I weakly applauded their impromptu refrain from my crumpled position while retaining an excruciating appreciation for Moeziz's marksmanship. The waves of nausea crashed in my stomach like an unwanted tide as an assemblage of tiny hands wrestled hold of my arms and legs, straightening me up and lifting me onto the countertop in front of the open window.

"He went down and to the left," a little voice said, pushing the revolver into my hand. "There's one round left."

Before I could form a response, the clutch of friends transported me to the window and shoved me onto the precipitously angled roof tiles, smooth after decades of exposure to the elements. I slid nonstop onto a narrow, rickety water drain several feet below which served, for the time being, to break my fall. Balanced precariously two stories above a blackened alleyway, I suppressed the urge to vomit and instead looked skyward, glimpsing a handful of flickering stars.

"That way, hero," a high-pitched voice suggested from the open window above.

On the ledge of the next building, one-half story above my position, appeared the silhouette of Moeziz hugging an outcropping of irregular stonework while shuffling to his right. His destination was a small veranda encased by a wrought-iron fence. Once there, it would be an easy break-in through the doorway \-- or short jump onto the roof which, unlike the peaked building to which I found myself precariously attached, had a flat top.

"It's easy, Baron," Moeziz taunted me over his shoulder, "if you don't freeze, misstep and plunge to your death!"

Before me, a small window extended out halfway up the pitch toward the roof's crest, itself maybe a dozen feet away. Without thinking of the consequences I hurled myself at the dormer, scrambling atop its narrow overhang, then pressed my momentum upward in two leaping bounds, where I caught the apex of the building within my fingertips. Struggling momentarily to secure my grip, I carefully worked my lower half up the worn tile and ultimately hooked my left foot on the opposite side, straddling the peak.

"Enjoy your perch!" Moeziz pulled himself onto the veranda and forced his way through the shuttered door.

I jumped to my feet, delicately balancing myself on the narrow ridge in Wallenda fashion, and managed five well-paced steps before launching myself across the narrow gap between the two buildings and tumbling roughly onto tarpaper surface of the flat roof. It was a cinch Moeziz would continue running in the opposite direction and, instead of following him through the building proper, I nearly impaled myself on a vent pipe while trotting to the far end of the rooftop. There, assuming a prostrate position, I peered over the edge and watched as he emerged on the balcony directly beneath me. Convinced I was not following him through the maze of rooms and halls, Moeziz took his time in estimating the leap to the adjoining building, yet another structure housing vacant studio space.

Rolling back from the ledge, I plotted a path and took a good running start, leaping from one rooftop to the other like a gazelle in full flight across the savanna. It was questionable as to who was more surprised by my appearance, as I never expected Moeziz to climb into my line of travel and he -- as evidenced by the look of shear terror in his eyes -- was unable to escape our resounding collision. We tumbled saucers-and-cups across the roof and, impressively, Moeziz instantly grappled me in a reverse chokehold carrying us onto a large archaic skylight not constructed to bear the weight of two thrashing adult males. As I bucked Moeziz in an effort to release his tightening grip, the center collapsed and the glass shattered, sending us in a brief freefall to the interior floor below.

The impact, though painful, served to break Moeziz's death grip and send us sprawling in different directions among the shards of wood and glass. Blinking my eyes several times in the dim light, I shook my head in hopes of reducing the shock of such a traumatic moment.

"What is this? Who is there?"

The voice sounded reasonably familiar to my stunned ears, so much so I believed I was hallucinating. "Karim? Is that you?"

"Horn? Why are you in gandora warehouse?"

I shrugged off what must have been an apparition, a concoction of my addled mind, and dashed off after Moeziz who now was clambering up a dodgy spiral staircase in the corner of the room. With head down, I exhorted every ounce of energy to push myself up the corkscrew turns until reaching the open doorway at the top -- and the horrifying realization there was nowhere to go but down. I frantically grabbed for any type of solid structure, something to halt my misguided momentum carrying me too far out into the night.

"Bon voyage, Baron," Moeziz snorted as he stepped from behind the door, plucking the gun from my pocket and shoving me out into the darkness. Twisting midair in my descent, I witnessed the crack of flame from the final round being touched off, followed by an immediate burning sting in my left bicep.

The unbroken beauty of a starry night over Paris was my last conscious thought for quite some while.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

_AFdCB & BvdH_

Recuperation at Tumultuous Manor was, as always, a pleasantly efficacious progression. Attended to by my devoted staff -- Mrs. Potsdam and her teakettle ever full of English Breakfast, Mia's orderly trafficking of communication with the outside world, and the unswerving delivery of the morning paper each day at half-six by Smudgely -- the healing process was delightfully restorative to both the battered mind as well as the bruised body.

The gash on my forehead closed suitably, leaving a scent of a scar, while the stinging bullet wound to my arm was deemed nothing more than superficial, prompting a doff of the porkpie to those who experienced the more serious bite of a fired projectile.

As for the general aches and pains acquired motorbiking in Peru, entertaining on the _Gangrene_ , serving as a fruit target in Acapulco, being throttled by a Hollywood director, meeting the train platform in Morocco and golfing in Tunis -- they all faded away at various points during the placid weeks of July and August. Indeed, the single most excruciating injury was the lingering memory of my swim in Joe Kose's pool.

Details of the case continued to arrive on my writing desk over the course of the summer mornings, giving occasion to update my notes and satisfy my curiosity regarding the fate of those involved. Also received was a generous check -- well-earned -- from Sondheim for services rendered. As was his custom, he included an elegant pen set engraved with my monogram and a nominal gift certificate redeemable in the deli department at Shadrack's Market.

I appreciated Sondheim's patronage and goodwill toward my global consulting livelihood, as well as his consistent application of employing themes when churning out unique nicknames. Yet my feelings toward him remained ambivalent and tentative as always, i.e., an associate best kept at arm's length. He was a shadow-caster in the land of gray uncertainties, a man who believed himself omnipotent when orchestrating international intrigue. This was a dangerous impression to mantle oneself with and one I bore in mind by placing my good health before all else.

In the Bridgework case, I came away with the sense Sondheim had colluded with Ethelene and, frankly, I felt shortchanged by their covert connection. When pressed for an answer about their relationship, Sondheim denied Ethelene-as-mole being a plausible theory. Indeed, he encouraged me not to spend much time thinking about it. He remained steadfast in his support for the newly-minted widow and, despite her clear ties to Chip/Silly, he was successful in lobbying to have her exonerated from prosecution. Nothing was ever quite what it seemed with Sondheim, but he did prove a reliable sport when processing my bill on a timely basis.

Added to my invoice for this venture was the authorization to pay-in-full Kurwenal the Angry Squid's tuition bill at Cornell. In addition, Jack's youth soccer league received twenty-eight pairs of hockey skates and fifty-six Boston Bruin shirts of various sizes. I also found an excellent maintenance and care manual for Indian motorcycles on eBay, which I sent along to him as a personal gift. When traveling to the Acapulco area in the future, I look forward to sharing the fisherman's warm hospitality once more.

Angel was in a generous mood, as well. She maintained regular telephone contact with me since our initial viewing of the Mamonet and, happily enough, had taken firm control over both her personal life and the Woolamaloo Gang Hedge Fund in the face of the massive family tragedy. After ensuring I received the best medical care, she followed through by providing safe travel back to the States aboard her private jet, a cosmic difference from my Slipstream Green experiences. Angel arranged for her father's cremation and the dispersal of his ashes, ironically, into the anonymous depths of the Mediterranean. Perhaps a portion of Wayland will come into contact with the Tunis flash drive someday after all.

Chip/Silly, however, would never touch an electronic device again in his lifetime. The National Police snapped up the flaky pedaler of eternity at the art studio, plugged his bleeding and whisked him directly to a secure lockup. He was high-profile, certainly, and held aloft like a trophy to the international community, an icon of capitalistic greed surrounded by the supreme measurers of social justice and responsibility. In the weeks following his apprehension it was apparent Chip/Silly would be denied any type of Napoleonic exile. Instead, the now openly angry young man spent the balance of his days shuttling between various criminal courtrooms and confinement in what could be imagined as a less than cozy cell. His trial, sentencing and appeals would unfold over many years and several countries, but little would change his plight of perpetual existence behind bars. Suffice it to say, he would never play badminton under the warm Jamaican sun again. Perhaps that was punishment enough.

As much as I fought the urge, I could not help but shed a bit of pity on Ethelene. Her stormy marriages with Wayland aside, hideous rumors surfaced in the press it was she who personally selected and groomed Chip/Silly for the role of Angel's husband. The handpicking of a lover guised as her son-in-law was all the media needed to topple Ethelene from her exalted perch as international benefactress. Naturally, they set her back atop her pillar as often as necessary -- her story possessed too much meat for just one serving. The authorities held her for a brief period before releasing her on undefined "conditions". Ethelene promptly boarded the first flight back to Montreal, as I had once suggested she do. With the exception of gossip journalists and hyper-vigilant paparazzi, interest in her whereabouts quickly fizzled. I saw a few photos of her on internet news sites, wearing sunglasses and hair scarves while making feeble attempts to escape her electronic pursuers. It was the worst sentence Ethelene could ever receive: Relegation to C-list celebratory status where achieving a level of recognizable indifference was considered social accomplishment.

The one person whose location I held an interest in was nowhere to be seen. I suspected Oz Moeziz remained in Paris, the city of his preference, where among other activities he plotted to engage me in a future tournament of wills. I was also convinced he would form an association with the now-unemployed Jan Brat sooner than later. One sunny morning not long after my return to the Manor, Dawn the Fed Ex girl arrived with a modest size package originating from the City of Light. In it was a large framed black-and-white photo taken of me astride a Hodaka on a mountainside in Peru, surrounded by a gang of surly looking thugs \-- the very picture Moeziz snapped from the tourist train. Smudgely was instructed to hang the image in the first floor atrium, where it yet serves as a subtle reminder that each day is a fleeting gift not to be wasted. At some point I hope to thank Oz Moeziz personally for his thoughtfulness of this gift, the bastard.

April Après never left Los Angeles and, indeed, ended up landing a small part [uncredited] in the Kose production _The Quadruple Svengali_. Given enough time and many phone calls, Mia was able to track down Antoine in Ocho Rios who kindly forwarded a batch of his medicinal leaves to my attention at Tumultuous Manor. With huge assistance from Angel [funding], Stinky [customs-related paperwork and bureaucratic red tape cutting] and Bollocks, Bonk & Minge [licensing rights], Kamir and Khalid's NFL gandora business bolted out of the gate, sweeping the nation with a frenzy of infomercials paying tribute to wearing the attire while visiting the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field. I would be afforded a hero's welcome during future visits to Casablanca.

My thank-you note to Pershing Cantilever and his circus was mailed to their itinerant address in mainland China. The _Carnaval Du Diminutif_ had landed an impressive and lucrative five-week tour, proving exceedingly popular with both metro and rural folk. Their prolonged stay in the land of sundry dynasties was a boon to the troupe's hands-on research-and-development use of indoor pyrotechnics. Several fireworks companies insisted on donating experimental and unproven products, much to the delight and surprise of the performers and audiences alike. I hoped to meet up with my new friends when their tour reached the Maritimes in mid-autumn.

An early evening phone call brought good news from Pat Aundybach. Despite the residual pain of healing enveloping his foot wound, he placed seventh in the Wicklow Dart Tournament and third in the Guinness Trials that followed. His disappointing finish in the latter did not deter him from immediately signing up for the Tipperary Tipper Toss, from which he promised to send me a member's T-shirt. I look forward, as always, to a full night of pub crawling with him on his home turf.

A visit from the Goofy Whites and the return of the now-running Hodaka boosted my spirits equal to that of a week's worth of rehabilitation. Goofy Eddy enjoyed working on the vintage transport and had performed a magnificent job in matching the original shade of red when painting it. One of my daily customs involved hobbling to the far end of the garage just before Mrs. Potsdam served lunch. There I would rest against a yard tractor and admire the motorbike, dreaming of the day when I would take her out over the property trail system once again.

Initially delayed as I was in a Parisian hospital, I missed the reunion of Stinky and Conestoga at Logan Airport. Rumor eventually filtered back to me that the Kornblatts made it as far as the first vacant seats at a bar in Terminal Five. Quite inebriated by closing time, TSA employees gladly assisted the couple to a nearby Westin where they were not heard from for three days. Weeks later, the couple motored north to spend time with me at Tumultuous Manor, surprised and encouraged to see me operating the riding lawnmower upon their arrival in late July. The absence of Froggy -- impaneled indefinitely on a grand jury in New York state -- allowed us a civilized visit highlighted by Conestoga's spotting a pair of bald eagles on the east side of the old apple orchard.

Smudgely and Mia possessed the good sense to keep their romance from the view of everyone except Mrs. Potsdam. The caring but excitable cook, seemingly taking it all in stride, privately offered me the occasional update on the Manor's _affaire de coeur_. Not one to gossip, Mrs. P would approach me in the scullery whilst I fetched a tea mug and assure me, using her unassuming maternal deportment, the situation worked out best for all involved. Especially me.

I was not so certain I readily agreed with her.

Yet time, physical therapy and the work of the summer months proved enough of a distraction that the sting of a missed romantic opportunity quickly vanished. In addition to gardening and general yardtending, I reconstructed the old gazebo near the headwater of the brook with help from Stinky, replacing the dilapidated railing and screens before giving the roof a much-needed patching. Joe Kose finally forwarded his first draft of _Simpatico of the Circus_ for my review, hence my desire to finish repairs on the gazebo and establish a spot of peaceful solitude where I could study the screenplay and work on my book manuscript. The most pressing concern, of course, was _King to Rook's Three: The True Story of Chessmen John Barrymore and Basil Rathbone._

Agnes deMaelstrom began visiting the Manor in early August, meeting me at the gazebo midmorning for a series intense rehearsals. We discussed blocking, motivation, lighting, costuming, set design and other intricacies inherent in staging a one-man/two-character production. Agnes provided a wonderful solution for projecting the chess match onto an oversized beige backcloth, enlarging it to a degree so the entire audience could follow the contest as it unfolded. Finally, minor revisions were made to her solid writing, leaving us both comfortable with the rapid approach of opening night in early September.

In her wisdom, which at first I did not comprehend, Agnes decided the performance would be held for one night only. Tickets were priced at exclusionary levels, while the production would be professionally filmed, with a goodly amount of DVDs donated to New Hampshire Public Television for use as gift giveaways during the station's fund drives. This type of innovative generosity would raise the status of the PHART group throughout the New England region. Wholeheartedly agreeing with her and without a scintilla of objection, I signed the release.

Keyed up for the demands of the roles and the challenge in bringing the spirits of these talented gentlemen to larger-than-life proportions on the floorboards of the Faithful Hill Arts Recital Theatre, I immersed myself in the production. I exuded Barrymore in the morning and Rathbone in the afternoon. Barrymore reappeared in the evenings, often bickering with Rathbone in the library. The entire Manor became my stage and the staff, entranced by the reincarnation of two stage legends, stood aside as taut round-the-clock drama swept through the household.

Most importantly, however, I much looked forward to spending time with the special guest I invited to sit in the front row. It was with great anticipation I desired her to witness the artistic augury I would cast upon the stage.

***

RATHBONE: For the love of God, man, and all that is holy! Not the rook!

(Actor moves upstage around the back of the chessboard. Turns stage left. Becomes Barrymore).

BARRYMORE: Spare me your wistful diatribe. It is but mutton upon a trollop, a peanut in a pawn's hand. Soar, soar, soar, I say! As if an eagle christened Icarus or a crane known as Ichabod.

(Actor moves upstage around the back of the chessboard. Turns stage right. Becomes Rathbone).

RATHBONE: But I shan't! I shan't! Your actions are of one benighted, speaking as though spewing spitchcock through lips too wise to consume eel.

(Actor moves upstage around the back of the chessboard. Turns stage left. Becomes Barrymore).

BARRYMORE: That is wherest thou knowest all of me and knowest nottith of me! Sushi was not so named nor so popular during the time of Christ the King!

(Actor moves upstage around the back of the chessboard. Turns stage right. Becomes Rathbone).

RATHBONE: Thus so is this, friend. Our game. Your grand strategy. A savior standing tall on a cutting board amidst so much raw seafood. A king, indeed!

(Actor moves upstage around the back of the chessboard. Turns stage left. Becomes Barrymore).

BARRYMORE: Let it pass, then, from lips perceived unwise. King to rook's three!

(Actor moves upstage around the back of the chessboard. Turns stage right. Becomes Rathbone. Faces audience. Spotlight trains on actor for solo).

RATHBONE: T'is then it t'is. Check and mate. But for a kingdom, my horse!

(Actor as Rathbone drops to knees, arms outstretched, pleading).

I beseech thee! Live knowing thy fate lies within but a square of a checkered board!

(Actor as Rathbone curls up in fetal position, shivering. Curtain drops).

***

"Love the mutton," Conestoga smiled, holding aloft a plate piled with hors d'oeuvres and finger foods from which Stinky was sampling two-handed. "So delicate."

"Mrs. Potsdam labored long and hard keeping with the theme of the script," I smiled confidently, pleased with the generous turnout of theatre-goers at the post-production party. "And thank you for attending."

"We wouldn't have had it any other way, Baron," Stinky replied, patting my shoulder and, in the process, doubling the use of my jacket to remove the lamb au jus from his fingertips. "Your Barrymore is second to none."

"And such wonderful support you've received, Baron." Conestoga swept her arm across the Library, the tip of her cutty spoon serving as a pointer to quickly count those present. "My goodness, there are dozens of partiers out on the veranda as well. What a beautiful evening."

It was, indeed, a gorgeous night. I angled past the buffet line where a frazzled Mrs. Potsdam hurried to refill a bowl of peanuts next to the serving trays filled with her homemade California rolls, inarizushi and hosomaki. "Splendid job, Mrs. P. Thank you so much for your wonderful presentation."

"You're welcome, sir," the amiable cook replied, flashing me a momentary smile before returning with furrowed brow to her table of goods.

Moving past the end of the line I lifted a fresh flute of champagne while accepting the accolades of a half-dozen well-wishers. Just beyond, next to the marble column of the fireplace, stood a solemn Smudgely surveying the room. "Sir?" he asked upon my approach.

"See to it Mrs. Potsdam is bolstered with a glass of strong sherry during her next retreat to the kitchen, would you kindly?"

"Yes, sir. She has indeed put her heart and soul into the evening's menu."

"Not too much sherry, mind you. Just enough to provide her the energy to finish out service, right?"

"Sir."

"And Miss Angelica would be?"

"She's on the veranda, sir, visiting with the Goofy Whites and Mr. Rottweiler." Smudgely nodded in the direction across the room.

"Froggy?" If there was a chance these festivities would come to a foul conclusion, the formula would be found in the interaction Froggy displayed with Angel. "I should rescue her momentarily."

"That you should, sir. I have," Smudgely continued, raising one eyebrow, "placed the iced champagne and tray of food in your private quarters, sir, as instructed."

"Very well. The door will be locked behind me, so that you know."

"And I shall adhere to the strict instructions of not disturbing you, sir."

"Except for delivering a pot of English Breakfast when summoned."

"Naturally, sir." He adjusted the white gloves on his hands. "Would you care for Irish whisky on the side, sir?"

"Brilliant, Smudgely. You're always one to be thinking."

"Part of my service to you, sir."

"Let me be off, my good man. I thank you in advance of your efforts." I patted the servant's elbow, admiring his perfectly pressed and starched butler's uniform. "Oh, one last thing, Smudgely. Would the Hodaka be ready to ride at sunup tomorrow?"

"Your motorbike has been prepared to the precision of your directions, sir."

"Thanks once more, stout fellow."

"Thoroughly enjoy your evening, sir."

I worked the room on as straight a line as possible, with Point A being the fireplace and Point B represented by Angel. Many congratulatory remarks were made and accepted. As gracious and thankful as I was, Agnes deMaelstrom's hedging toward the dais in the corner served as a constant reminder of my need to urgently exit the proceedings. Finally, with all the determination of holiday shopper at a discount store on sale day, I squeezed through the center set of French doors and managed to accidentally nudge Froggy's arm just as he was about to sample his champagne.

"Son of a bitch!"

"Terribly sorry, old fellow," I said, hastening to resurrect a used napkin from the nearby table for mop-up duty. "Thankfully, like yourself, it's a brut. It should blend right in."

"Very funny, showoff," Froggy said, tipping the brim of his half-full glass toward Angel. "Just when I was making headway with this ebony beauty right here."

"Apologies again," I said, taking Angel's hand and applying a light kiss to the top of it. "Was I intruding?"

"Gosh, no," Angel beamed her delicious smile, "I believe the gentleman was discussing his doggy rottweiler."

"I gave you my name! Froggy Rottweiler!"

"How bizarre." Angel cocked an eyebrow before closing ranks next to me. "This young couple holds a great deal of admiration for you, Baron."

"Edwina, Goofy Eddy," I said, extending my hand successively to each. "Two of my favorite Faithful Hill residents, to be sure."

"You're too kind, Mr. Baron." Goofy Eddy pumped my hand. "Say, I surely did appreciate the subtle inference of theocracy dominating act one tonight."

"And the introduction of ocean life hit me like something out of Kafka," Edwina quickly added.

"Indeed. You're both quite astute students of the stage." I found the release button on Goofy Eddy's wrist and was able to claim my hand back as my own. "Say, not to shift gears or what all, but the Hodaka?"

"Is clean as a whistle and ready to run one hundred thousand miles, Mr. Baron."

"And all the parts are?"

"Exactly as you asked. I didn't touch nothing that didn't need fixing. It's just the way you presented it to me, 'cept it's running one hundred percent now."

"Quite. You're a good man, Goofy Eddy, one blessed with a lovely bride. Miss Edwina, if you'll excuse us now, I believe Miss Agnes will be addressing the guests soon and I must have a moment with Miss Angel beforehand."

With that and my well-placed heel pressing firmly down on Froggy's left set of toes, Angel accepted my offer to depart by interlocking her arm within mine. We gracefully skirted the edge of the room without a word to one another, making our way to the sparsely populated grand foyer at the base of the stairwell. My final view of the first floor included the dapper Smudgely providing me a knowing look as he carried a decanter of sherry toward the kitchen door. Leading the way up the wide carpeted steps, I was mindful of our pace as Angel gathered her lengthy dress in her free hand, shaking the bunched fabric back and forth with each stride. In spite of our anxiousness we moved in unison as though a rising cloud, floating above the buzz of a busy civilization and entering a heaven which was privately our own.

Steps from my bedroom door at the end of the third floor hallway, the firm voice of Agnes deMaelstrom was heard piping through the public address system below. "Where's Baron? Where's our star? What is he up to now?"

I took Angel into my arms, applying a long-awaited kiss directly onto her lips while dipping her slightly toward the inspirational Van Gogh _Man Home from Sea_ oil painting hanging to the right of my bedroom entrance.

"Wow," a pleasantly startled Angel whispered as I let off her, bringing her gently upright. "What is Baron up to?"

"Baron," I replied while swinging open the massive oak door, "is about to take a long hot bubble bath with his good friend." My evening was complete when noticing Smudgely's deep consideration and keen foresight in supplying us with not one but two bottles of celebratory Krug _Clos Du Mesnil_. Once settled into the warm froth of water, the overflow following the popped cork added considerably to the start of the night's mirth.

***

There is an intangible to the New England fall air, particularly in the earliest days of autumn and especially in the predawn hour before sunrise. The atmosphere is crisp and cool, clean and ripe, as clear as it shall ever be. And as lucid as that is, there lies within it a trace of decay indicating a season is turning, that leaves shall fade from their life-color of green and eventually crumble to dirt on the forest floor. Despite the natural desire to hold it in place, a fine grain of time trickles through one's fingers. With the mind busily occupied, a warm August suddenly tempers to a cool September. Such a blend of acute clarity and change was that which filled me as I held Angel close as we stood on the portico steps.

"It's ironic we're two early birds," she said, half-yawning with a smile.

"I'm quite glad we had the opportunity to explore such common ground," I replied, trying to summon something romantic to say not involving the phrase 'vaginal oscillation'.

"Your performance last evening was fantastic."

"Thanks, dear woman. I place all credit to the great direction given."

"I wasn't talking about the play, silly man," she replied, draping her arms around my shoulders.

"Neither was I."

Our embrace was passionate and our squishy kiss of an enjoyable length due, in part, to our mutual desire for brushing away bed breath within minutes of rising. I could not imagine a more perfect partner for myself and wondered if Angel contemplated the same.

"Ahem." Smudgely appeared, employing a disinterested tone from behind and above us. "Mrs. Potsdam prepared a large green tea and some breakfast snacks for your ride to the airport, Miss Angel."

"Thank you, Smudgely. You're so thoughtful." Angel accepted the recycled paper cup and bag from the mindful valet.

"And, sir, you will find a cup of tea next to your riding helmet in the garage."

"There comes no finer than yourself, my good man."

"Your ride, ma'am, should be here no later than six, as requested."

We waited for Smudgely to recede into the Manor before embracing once again, nearly spilling Angel's tea in the process and having a good laugh over our clumsiness afterward.

"I'll be in Africa through next spring. Working on setting up the orphanages I told you about. Please stay in touch, Baron."

"I will. Promise." I took both her hands, holding them within my grasp. "I'm gaining in proficiency with e mails. Beyond that," my voice trailed off as the phrase 'vaginal oscillation' began its climb up my throat.

"Think about this. Maybe we can meet in the Azores over the holidays. Yes?"

"That would be grand. I'd also like to help with your endeavors. Organizing displaced children and all."

"It's dangerous there, Baron."

"I think I've proven my mettle when facing disagreeable predicaments."

"That you have," she said, planting a short kiss on my lips. "And there would be nothing quite so special as making love to you during an African sunrise."

"Agreed," I replied, wishing I wore an ascot I could tug on at that very moment. "The sunset would be equally as nice, I'm sure. The midday sun? Maybe not so much."

"Baron!" Angel grinned while stroking my face. "I can never tell if you're being serious."

"I shall never divulge such information, either." I gave her a brief kiss just as the hum of a motor engine wound around the gradual curve approaching the cul-de-sac. "A Prius for corporate transport? Angel, I'm duly impressed."

"We must all do our part to conserve, Baron, including those in the Loo." She hugged me one last time as her driver loaded her luggage into the trunk. "Think about that the next time you're driving to Shadrack's in that old Packard of yours."

"I shall only then think of you, my dear." I kissed her hand while assisting her into the backseat. "Please be careful in and around the savannas, right? I understand hyenas, like llamas, can be embittered and ornery."

"You as well. You're a good man, Baron von dek Horn."

***

Minutes later I was alone circling the revamped Hodaka while sipping my tea, reluctantly admitting to myself I missed Angel already. Indeed, I could not the evict the essence of her from my every thought. In a lull during our overnight consortium, Angel disclosed it was she who originally retained Sondheim, asking him to provide his best to deal with the matter of his old acquaintance -- her father -- Wayland Bridgework. Angel wanted nothing more than to have her dad safely rescued from himself and his wealth.

In a brilliant prearrangement, Angel used the unsuspecting Ethelene as a conduit of communication with Sondheim. She pointed out the botched kidnapping attempt resulting in Stinky's overseas travel as having a potentially disastrous ending for the old diplomat had not Sondheim surreptitiously arranged for the Bridgework's carefree departure from Newark. By influencing Ethelene to travel with me as his spy, Sondheim forced Chip/Silly to play his strongest hand of cards. It seemed I misjudged my handler and, frankly, owed the dear old bastard yet another heartfelt thank-you.

Angel also imparted she was dropping Shumway from her chain of identification, legally taking her former simplistic title of Angelica Formica de Corcoran Bridgework. I heartily approved of both this and her desire to ultimately change the corporate name of her company to Next Generation Investment.

In turn, Angel wanted to know how I survived my fall at the hands of Moeziz into the darkened Parisian alleyway. Assuring her she would not believe me, I described hearing the voice of Kamir in the abandoned art studio moments before plunging into the night. As absurd and random as it was, the lower half of the vacant tenement serving as our makeshift battleground was leased to Kamir for storage of the _fleur-de-lis_ gandoras we had flown into the city. I wish I could have said my fall was broken by piles of the soft fabric. Instead, I crashed through the top of a wooden crate containing the overstocked robes. Still, this was preferable to landing directly on the uneven centuries-old cobblestones of the street, which surely would have inflicted greater -- and perhaps fatal -- injuries. And thanks to the flying Moroccan's timely reaction, I received medical treatment much swifter than I might have. Kamir proved a true friend when the moment of such vindication arose.

Clear your mind with a ride, old boy!

***

Kicking the engine to life, I shot out of the garage and held to the perimeter of the western field. Reaching the lower of the two stonewalls ringing its border, I downshifted and navigated a series of hay-infested muddy swales until reaching the dry land marking the start of the apple orchard. The bike displaced ample enough power on the firmer ground, quickly rocketing me to the top row of the plush trees where I leaned hard to the right and brought the rear tire around beneath me. The exhaust sputtered and smoked bluish-gray, as though daring me to provoke the bike to its maximum performance.

Parallel to the driveway below and overlooking the backyard and gardens of the Manor through the gaps in the apple trees, I ushered the Hodaka along the edge of the pathway dutifully mowed each week. Rising higher and farther away from the homestead below, I spied the entrance to the old logging road just beyond a rise on the left. Bringing the bike to full throttle in third gear I dropped lower in the saddle, ducked my head and disappeared into the woods.

Motocross riding requires supreme concentration if one is to ultimately dismount the bike unharmed. This was especially true in my case, considering the amateur operating skills I possessed were magnified by my love for speed. Yet nothing could compete with the thrill of split-second decision making, dodging branches that battered one's helmet and scraped one's denim jacket, raising the front tire to clear an unexpected washout or skidding without warning across a collection of fallen boughs. There was an indescribable freedom experienced when darting through warm streams of bright sunlight penetrating the forest and sensing the rush of a chill when passing into the wooded shadows beyond. In the absence of traffic laws, the woodsman rider was prone to obey his instincts and reflexes in order to survive.

I defy you, Death! And I defy you, again.

Higher I pushed into the mountains, up over spines of sharp inclines and across long stretches of ascending lanes. Passageways unused for decades by those who harvested the forest's pristine timber, filled with the swirling dawn fog, carried me deeper into the hinterland. A left at the first fork took me through a boulder-strewn gully replete with fallen hemlocks to each side. Wrestling the bike up a steep channel of sand, I upshifted when passing by a familiar stretch of hardhack surrounding a year-round mountain spring and knew I was close to my destination. Bearing right at the next stand of elms, treacherously obscured by a thick cropping of Douglas-firs, I slowed the Hodaka to a near idle before bringing it to a complete halt and killing the engine. What had taken me a half-hour to cover in distance would have in olden days consumed several days with a team of horses, if not an entire week.

Mere yards in front of me the abundant growth parted to expose a series of large flat rocks forming the top of a head wall known by locals as Rogers' Rangers Ravine. Should one dare to stand at its edge and look straight down, the sight of jagged outcroppings and razor-like shale extended nearly one hundred feet in a vertical decline, ending in a sprawling patch of errant alders and scrub brush at its distant base. It was not a view for the faint-hearted or those uncomfortable with nature's inherent capacity to inflict its brutal humility upon humankind. In short, here lay both a scenic and potentially deadly view.

One of the many legends of the mountains told of the ravine's namesakes -- a portion of men from the hearty group of frontier militia formed by British officer Robert Rogers -- using this very slide in which to hide the bounty from their early morning raid on the Abenaki village of St. Francis, Canada, then a French province. The intrigue occurred in October, 1759, smack in the middle of what is labeled the _French and Indian War_ in the States, a small slice derived from what is better known as the _Seven Years' War_ in the British commonwealth.

With angry French and Indian soldiers in pursuit of the Rangers as they retreated through the isolated and dangerous territory of what is now modern-day northern Vermont and New Hampshire, Rogers split his troops into small groups. One of these bands of Rangers was selected to carry and safeguard the treasure relieved from the Jesuit mission in St. Francis: A ten-pound solid silver icon of Our Lady of Chartres Madonna and Child; a pair of silver-plated copper candlesticks; a ruby ring; a small solid-gold statuette of a calf and other lesser-valuable artifacts. The plunder, considered priceless in its day, was never located afterward and has been sought for centuries by those desiring both fame and wealth.

I know this well. I was one of those fortune-hunters during my teen years, spending hundreds of hours in this remote section of the mountains searching for signs and clues of the two-hundred-fifty year old mystery. Given the ravine had entombed and preserved one fortune for all or parts of four centuries, I felt it deserved the opportunity -- and possessed the room -- for yet another.

Setting my helmet on the padded seat, I removed the throttle grip from the sparkling chrome handlebar and fished out the CerebStix flash drive from its hiding spot. A shiver shot down my spine as I walked purposefully to the edge of the largest boulder overlooking the open expanse, feeling as though I was standing on air itself.

"Uncle Wark said it best delivering the final line to _Simpatico of the Circus_ ," I spoke in a clear voice, loud and true. My words carried forth over the thousands of acres comprising the vista before me as I drew back my arm and launched the flash drive into the depths of the secluded abyss.

"'Life was, is and always will be, a barrel of monkeys!'"

THE END
