 
**The College Rape Guide**

By Doug Walker

Published 2015 by Doug Walker

(C)2015 by Doug Walker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
**Table of Contents**

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

**Chapter 1**

Not a how-to guide, but a few thousand words of caution to the unwary. Jo McDonald was not a virgin. She and her boyfriend enjoyed sex during her junior and senior years of high school.

But now she is a freshman in the third week of studies at a large Eastern university, far from her Omaha home. Campus rape is all too common and often goes unreported. The time between the beginning of classes and Thanksgiving is designated the Red Zone by campus officials, the time when freshmen girls are most vulnerable. Drugs or alcohol is generally involved.

Jo is a grey-green eyed brunette, 5-7 and weighing in at just over 125 pounds. A frailer specimen would have been heavily challenged to stand up to the punishment she took.

The event took place at the Jocks and Plocks House, or simply JP, a fraternity, its Greek letters lost in the mist. George Plock is (he was still alive at this writing) a fraternity man who goes through life as a fraternity man. Something of an intellectual genius himself, he made it his business to see that the house jocks were balanced by brainier candidates, thus the name.

Enter now one of the Plocks - Tim Blake, Jo's friend from Omaha who invited her to attend the JP party. A junior at the school, Tim's interests range from math and accounting to computer science. Tim is something of a nerd or geek or whatever term is currently in vogue. He and Jo are good friends, not lovers. Tim might be a true virgin.

I, Tim, will tell you the story as I know it of what happened that night. First let me say some will tell you that I am a virgin. Not true. I was personally debauched by a couple of girls some time ago. They not only took pleasure in doing it and thought it was also a great joke, but they also took turns. I am not as dumb in that way as some think. I knew exactly what they were doing. Unfortunately, they eventually caught on.

On the night in question, that of the Jocks and Plocks party. Jo made the mistake of having a drink or two before she joined the party. Also, she doubtless was not the only sweet freshman coed exposed to unwelcome sex that night. Most male students were aware of the so called Red Zone and the opportunity it presented. However, in her case it was a bit overdone.

She came alone at my invitation. I did see her in the main dancing area. She was doing something favored at that time which included grinding one's body against a partner, thought by some to be a prelude to sex. Obviously she had already had more than her share of alcohol and she was never in want for another drink.

Then I noted her absent from the room and guessed the next, although not the crash landing.

Whether she had sex with the first jock willingly, I knoweth not. But she says she was forced and others were in the room. Two others mounted her on the narrow bed and when the forth came along things were a bit messy. I was told he pulled her into a crouch position and used her for oral sex, although by that time she had no memory of it. There is not an actual count of who and how many others abused her in one way or another in that room.

My total count for the evening is twelve, or as she and I have named them, The JP Twelve.

She was somehow revived and more or less walked to the pool hall area. There bent over a table, a crowd watched and made bawdy comments as three jocks banged her from the rear. Each taking a turn. Sorry to say I was among that group, but failed to protest.

The attackers seemed set to outdo one another in banging her hard against the table. It was a mixed crowd and ultimately three girls from her dorm took over and managed to return her to that dorm, attempting to revive her. She was dazed and threw up more than once. They called the sheriff.

A deputy sergeant showed up, the girls helped her into his car and he drove her to the hospital. The trip took just over twenty minutes and Jo stopped the car and threw up twice.

I am told she was almost raving in the emergency room. She resisted the nurse with the rape kit, but eventually submitted. It is not a pretty process. The process includes rectal, vaginal, vulva and cervical swabs. There are also photos taken of your private parts plus dye injected into your vagina. Not exactly a day at the beach.

The deputy reported that he was told there were internal abrasions and heavy inflammation. The nurse concluded that Jo had suffered forceful sexual assault. Hospital reports surmised at the time of the initial encounter her alcohol level was about twice what is thought to be legally drunk. The sergeant said he tried to comfort her by saying the school would provide all the support she needed. This would prove to be nebulous pie in a cloudy sky.

**Chapter 2**

Once word spread on campus that she was asking academic authorities to punish the guilty a subtle tsunami of anger enveloped her. The shunning was almost stunning. One of her roommates moved out immediately. Nasty notes to the campus slut were stuck to her dorm door. There was a reluctance to associate with her in any way. But cutting remarks she could easily overhear were made in her presence. She imagined there was a competition for who might be the snarkier.

On the fourth day after the incident, her hearing was schedule late in the afternoon and she spotted her Omaha friend, Tim, the ultimate founder of the fiasco. She asked him to accompany her to a bench near the Student Union and he complied.

Once seated, she asked, "You don't mind being seen with me, do you?" Her tone was not the friendliest.

"Of course not, Jo."

"You were there, weren't you? In the pool room."

"I regret to say I was."

"And you didn't try to help me?"

"I'd been drinking too, Jo. You've gotta believe me. You weren't there."

"Where was I?"

"I don't know. In the clouds, maybe."

"But my body was there."

"Yes, your body was there and being badly abused. There was finally intervention."

"By three girls. Not by you."

"I'm a Plock not a jock. You've doubtless learned the football team is almost sacred. Also, upper classmen wait for this Red Zone with some relish. There were probably several what you might call rapes on campus that same night."

"What you might call rapes," she repeated icily. "What else might you call them?"

"You were drinking and the word is you were asking for it."

"I was asked to be gang banged and sent to the emergency room? To whom did I apply?"

Tim was deadly serious when he said, "My failure to act will haunt me for the rest of my life, Jo. I suppose I'm a born coward. You have to know that George Plock was, or is, he's alive on an island somewhere, or maybe in a New York condo, anyway he did the jock-Plock thing, delicate balance between jocks and brains. I'm supposed to be a brain."

"Possibly it needs a recharge."

"In the house we help one another, although sometimes it seems like an uneasy truce. But then someone will speak up and remind of the good thing we have going."

"Like group sex with an unwilling victim?"

"No. No, we profit by getting to know the jocks, like a psychological study and they profit by us doing their class work."

"You do their work?" Jo asked in some disgust.

"We try to help them, but generally it's a matter of us doing the actual work and attempting to explain to them what we have done. They get by."

Jo frowned and observed, "That's almost unbelievable."

"That's collegiate life, Jo. Now you had a choice after the horrible incident."

"Yes, go to the cops and let the local DA deal with it, report to campus authorities, or keep my mouth shut. In which case I would still have been branded as a campus slut and had plenty of brief dating opportunities, usually without my briefs. So later this afternoon I have my so called hearing."

"You're apprehensive?"

"Damn right. That sacred football team is also a money cow."

Tim nodded in agreement. "One of the players, a senior, has already raked in an early signing bonus. Maybe in the millions."

Jo's ears perked up? "Which one?"

"Victor Arias." Tim spoke without thinking of Jo's sudden curiosity, but the wheels did begin to turn.

"One of the rapists?"

Tim thought for a moment, then said, "Yes."

"At the pool table?"

Tim nodded in agreement and wondered what was going through Jo's mind.

"Consider this, Tim," Jo spoke with deadly seriousness. "You and I are in this together. You and I are good longtime friends from Omaha. Not just college buddies. You invited me to that party, left me unescorted, drinking too much, fully realizing we were in the Red Zone when everyone should have been on high alert. Do you agree?"

"Of course I do, Jo. We are the best of friends."

"So I want you to secretly keep your ears open and using what you know now and what you will learn, to make a list of everyone even remotely involved in that attack on me. Even the ones who might have held me down while others violated me. And I know that happened. We can separate the sheep from the goats later. Agreed?"

Tim replied instantly. "Of course, Jo. It's the least I can do. You have a right to know your attackers. And I will keep it quiet." He smiled and nodded knowingly. "You know what might happen to me if I didn't?"

"I can guess and it wouldn't be pretty."

Later that day, the hearing was pro forma. The three member panel had failed to even get the results of the rape kit. They had interviewed several football players and heard a series of bizarre accounts of what had happened. There had been a locker room meeting prior to their testimony. More than one accused Jo of inviting oral sex.

After several attempts to tell her story and being interrupted when she attempted to answer questions, Jo simply gave up. In her mind it was like the trilogy from hell. There was no sympathy, or understanding. The panel's attitude was, she was asking for it and got what she deserved.

In an attempt at transparency, the panel posted their findings on line. The jocks and Plocks involved, there had been both, were admonished not to approach or talk with Jo. Four of them were given what amounted to community service to be overseen by the physical education department, the remainder, including Jo, were told to attend to their studies and sin no more.

The following day, Jo called the sheriff's department and asked to meet with the sergeant who had taken her to the emergency room. This would be no problem. The campus was his normal beat and he often hung out with the campus cops.

They agreed to meet at a coffee shop just off campus. Once there, the sergeant suggested they go for a drive in his squad car. Jo thought this was a bit suspicious, but agreed. She had been brutally raped once, maybe he had the same thing in mind. But he had the look of a middle aged family man.

They drove through the countryside, bordering ripening fields of corn and wood lots. He pulled in at a small park bordering a stream. It was vacant save for a solitary fisherman in a folding chair.

"I thought it best if we weren't seen together," the sergeant said. "There seems to be general agreement that you were asking for sex that night at the JP house and got more than you bargained for. You've had your campus hearing and it played out as expected. What now? You want to file charges?" The sergeant was all business and fixed her with a typical cop-like gaze.

"You think I'm the campus slut, or just one of many?"

"I think you've got some growing up to do. I've seen you kids on campus have sex in the bushes, under the football stands, in parked cars and even in dorm doorways. You name it, I've seen it. It puts me in mind of those Roman orgies I've heard of."

"But forced sex?"

"Well, that's something else," the sergeant agreed.

"Do you have a daughter?"

"Damn right. She's my little princess." The sergeant looked away toward the river. The fisherman didn't seem to be having much luck. Probably forgot to bait the hook. Four noisy crows flew over the park and landed in a grove of tall trees across the water.

"Do you think that I might have been someone's little princess?"

The officer was thoughtful, finally nodding in agreement. "Of course. What do you want with me?"

"I want the rape kit and the DNA results. I know you took DNA from everyone you thought might be involved. There was at least the thought of prosecution."

"We generally defer to the campus authorities at the student's request. You had your day before that makeshift panel. The results are often the same."

"That is nothing happens."

"Particularly if football players are involved. You know the town and gown bit. The entire area is behind the team."

"I would like to know my predators. Prosecution or no prosecution."

"I took you to the emergency room. Stopped on the way to let you throw up. Tried to treat you with every courtesy. And still trying at this meeting. So, can I trust you?"

"Confidentiality? Of course. My word probably isn't worth much at this juncture, but you have it."

"What you seek is available. And could be introduced in court. But it would not usually be passed out to an individual regardless of how they were involved. If you will meet me at that coffee shop during the low period in the afternoon, say three O'clock, we'll take another drive together. You see the car, you get in the car."

"Agreed. Thank you sergeant. I count you among my friends, one of my few friends." He dropped Jo off at the edge of campus and wished her well.

By late afternoon the following day, Jo had the sergeant's report. She called Tim and suggested they meet early the next morning on a bench near the student union. Her parting words were, "You bring the coffee."

Very few people were out at that hour, even a bit too early for the eight o'clocks. Tim plopped down next to her and pulled her coffee from the sack. Jo struggled with the lid, then said, "Very good. Looks like one cream."

"One cream. I take two plus half a sugar."

"What are your plans, Tim?"

"Probably go back to bed. I usually don't get up at this hour. It is interesting. Few noises, a bird singing here and there. Maybe robins. One pickup truck moving west. Almost a buttermilk sky."

"Ain't nature grand. But I was asking something along the lines of your life."

"Graduate. Find a job. White picket condo. The usual."

"You come from money."

It was a statement and Tim agreed. "Soon I'll come into it. You might remember my Dad's death in an auto crash a year or so back. Mom's in a home with fading memory. Me the only child. I inherit on my 21st birthday, just a few months away. Means little. Always had money. Suppose I always will. What you can do with it is limited."

"I'd like to test the limits." She cocked her head and gave him a look. "Maybe we could do it together."

Tim's expression didn't change. "You proposing?"

"Yes, but not marriage. Just an arrangement."

"My money is involved?"

"Our money. Do you have that list?"

"The miscreants? Yes. The JP Twelve. They were all involved to some degree." He took a paper from his short pocket and passed it to Jo. She studied it for more than a minute.

Tucking it away in her clutch bag, she said, "I don't know these people, but I do see Victor Arias' name. He interests me. You of course have a copy?"

"I do. Just sitting here with you might cause raised eyebrows. But our Omaha connection would take care of that. But the list, I'd be in the grease. Big time."

"You're my BFF. I want you to give Victor a message. Do it any way you see fit. Tell him they found his DNA in my anus. If he doesn't understand that, tell him it means up my ass. There were plenty of witnesses. I've heard some lucky bystanders took photos."

"You're involving me in this."

"You involved me in this, Tim. Man up."

"What's my purpose in telling him this?"

"Obvious. There might be a lawsuit in which case I'd get all of his bonus signing money. Or there could be a criminal prosecution. In that case he'd end in slam for an extended period. In either case, he'd never see a Super Bowl ring. I simply want you to drop the hint, then back out."

"What will he do?"

Jo laughed. "Probably put a contract out on my life. Post a bounty. What would you do?"

"Buy you off. Anyway, how did you come by this information?"

"As we used to say as kids, ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. But the local authorities have this information. But, yes, our sacred football team is involved. Not only that, but star player, be he only a tight end. So, this would be the first of the JP Twelve to fall and he would be getting off easy."

Tim's mind was quick enough to grasp what Jo was saying and he blurted out, "Oh, my God.

**Chapter 3**

Three days passed, then Jo was joined at lunch in the cafeteria. She was sitting alone at a table for six when an attractive woman placed a tray next to her, then slid into the chair. She smiled a small smile and said, "I'm Jill."

"You up for a Jack joke?" Jo questioned.

"I would be, but I'm in serious mode. I'm Victor Arias' fiance."

"I take it you still speak to him."

"Unavoidable."

"How is Mr. Sunshine?"

"Confused."

"Sounds about normal. Can I introduce you to my friends?" They both looked around the table.

Jill smiled. "They must have had to eat and run. I'm not happy with what happened at the JP house. I live nearby and I was visiting my parents."

"I believe good old Vic needs some parental control and guidance."

"He needs something. I'm more on your side than I am on his. I'm glad you went to the campus authorities, but not pleased with the treatment you got and totally upset by your treatment from the stupid student body. I'll probably keep Vic. There is a gentle and kind personality down there someplace. He's asked me to offer you twenty-five thousand as a type of out-of-court settlement."

Jo mulled that one over and stabbed her fork at the last of her mac and cheese which seemed to be a combination of glue and plastic. She liked this Jill and decided not to toy with her feelings.

"I'm curious. Vic's not from a rich family. How did he handle that signing bonus?"

"Went utterly insane. New car, new clothing, new shoes. Bought me a ring that would knock your eye out." Jo glanced at Jill's hands, but saw bare fingers. "I'm not wearing it for that reason. It would knock your eye out."

"Isn't a bonus like that for a player still in school a trifle odd?"

"Very odd. But you see his Dad, who frittered and was tricked out of his football fortune, also played for Pittsburg. So it's old home week. He will at least help sell season tickets, T-shirts and so forth. A good football town populated by salt-of-the-earth rednecks and ne're-do-wells."

Jo nodded, then said, "There's plenty of money to go round and still more to come, so I'll take fifty thousand."

Jill didn't blink. Jo wondered if there might have been a hundred thou waiting out there for her. But, too late now.

"How do you want the money delivered?" Jill questioned.

"Cash, of course. And since we're into PE here, stuff it in a gym back and meet me by the student union some morning. Give me a call first."

"I'm to march around campus with fifty thousand in cash in a gym bag?"

"Sure, you're a gutsy girl. They'll think you're returning from an overnighter. Hand me the bag and Vic's home free."

"How do we know that?"

"You have my word. Seriously, it's the best deal you're going to get. Taking money is one way of punishing people. But there are far worse ways. Vic has already fucked with me, but if he does it again he's up for a rude awakening. I like you Jill. Sorry we can't get to know one another."

They ended their meals in silence. Jo was the first to leave.

Jo guessed it would take two or three days for Victor and Jill to assemble the cash and pick up a gym bag. It was the third morning when the call came, just after six. "I'm ready with the cash," came the voice. No need for ID. It was Jill.

"I've just rolled out of bed," Jo lied. She had been up for some time, had made coffee and was gathering information via the web. "I'll be by the student union in exactly one hour."

"See you." Then the line went dead.

In haste, Jo called Tim. He answered on the fourth ring with a sleepy voice. She told him she would be meeting Jill in an hour and asked if he could be waiting. She had called a bank in a large city just over an hour's drive away and arranged for a large safe deposit box. Tim assured her he would be waiting.

Jo reached the transfer spot ten minutes early, wiped the dew off the bench with a tissue and sat down as if to read a book. She was alert. Dangerous territory. She had fantasized a number of double domed plots. Someone waiting to snatch the gym bag away from her. But what good would that do Victor. But then he was not overly bright.

Then Jill approached, handed her the bag, wished her well and departed. A little on the shaky side, Jo set out for the one block walk to where Tim was waiting. Now she imagined the bag might contain a bomb. But what would set it off. No matter, she and Tim would be killed together. Campus martyrs and maybe star-crossed lovers. What a way to go!

Reaching the car, she opened the passenger door, tossed the bag in the rear seat, strapped herself in and said, "Let's go."

**Chapter 4**

Tim seemed overly calm, but perhaps he had yet to come fully awake. "We can stop at a McDonald's along the highway and get coffee, maybe a breakfast burrito."

"I'd rather eat live ants," he replied.

"Sausage biscuit."

"Ham biscuit, or biscuits and gravy," he responded.

She smiled craftily and remarked, "I'll pay."

"Don't go stark raving mad with your new found wealth," Tim admonished.

She mulled that as the miles flew by, realizing fifty thou wasn't a fortune. "Do you think we are trapped in a situation?" she asked.

"Of course we are, isn't everyone?"

"But not in our situation."

"Each in his private hell," Tim replied. "We are all of us lost."

"Too early for philosophy. Let's find the bank first. It won't be open. Then find a place for breakfast. Maybe a bagel shop. Flavored cheese, perhaps lox."

"Maybe a chicken biscuit," Tim replied, flipping on the radio for the morning news.

They left the expressway a few blocks from the bank and found a nearby restaurant that served breakfast. The time was eight-thirty, the bank would open in one hour.

Jo carried the gym bag with her. When they sat in a booth she placed it between her and the wall. The money's importance seemed to be dwindling, yet it would be useful. Jo's academic scholarship was good for a full year. She didn't expect it to be renewed.

There would be no bagels, no smoked salmon. They both ordered a pair of eggs over light, home fries, toast and coffee. The table held a bowl heaped with tiny containers of various jellies. Also napkins, salt and pepper and hot sauce. The restaurant was half full and there were good smells. They could have ordered biscuits and Jo wondered if she could change her order.

She asked a passing waitress who said, "Certainly, sweety."

Tim mentioned that he had the beginning of a book, but he might have writer's block.

"Don't you have to be a writer to be blocked?" she asked.

"Everyone is a writer."

"And everyone is lost. So why bother?"

"We crawl beneath the sun, through hail and rain. We could never live like animals of the forest, or beasts of the fields. But we would be better for it. They live only to reproduce and eat."

"How about getting a good night's sleep, a comfortable den, having friends, either other bovines or bears. I'd like to be a fox, not a groundhog. You see there are differences."

"Eat your eggs. You're confusing me."

"And you a proud Plock. Come now."

There was no problem at the bank. They were given a private cubicle where they dumped the fifty thousand into a large safe box, more or less counting the bundles. It seemed to be all there. Jo kept the better part of a thousand for herself.

Back in the car, she suggested they get a room for the night, then asked, "Are you interested in sex?"

"After what you've been through, it's iffy."

"Are you gay?"

"No."

"I suppose I'm damaged goods."

"That's an old fashioned thing."

"Well, then, what is it? Am I unattractive."

"Certainly not."

"Then what?"

"Well, then. We've been friends for many years and we're simply that kind of friends. Not to change the subject, but what are your plans?"

"You know very well what they are. And they include you."

"Me?" His voice rose a bit and he shot her a glance.

"The two of us together, not necessarily as lovers, but partners helping one another."

Tim seemed to shrug, but kept his eyes on the road. He was silent for the next few miles, then said, "That doesn't sound too hateful. But I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Okay by me, but we can't avoid it forever. I haven't told you about my roommate, have I?"

"No." Tim snickered slightly. "I didn't know you still had one."

"It is a wonder. Beth stuck with me while others jumped ship like so many rats. I wondered about it, speculating it was a great spiritual thing possibly of religious origin. Then, what do you know - she was raped the same night I was, but at another party. The old Red Zone."

Tim glanced at her and quipped, "She kept it under her hat."

"That's disgusting, but yes. No hospital, no rape kit, not really much violence. Just your old fashioned forcible rape."

"You mean when she realized rape was inevitable she laid back and enjoyed it?"

"You bastard."

"Sorry, Jo. But boys will be boys. Do you think she did the right thing?"

"Probably. Definitely if she wants to continue a positive college career.

They were silent for the next few miles and Jo began softly singing a song that had been bouncing around in her head - Sarah's off on a turnaround...

Tim listened for a few seconds, then said, "Nobody sings that anymore."

"It's one of my favorites," Jo protested.

Tim switched on the radio, NPR. They learned there was trouble in the Middle East.

As they approached the campus, Jo questioned, "Do you think we're all a bit mentally ill?"

"I hope so. If we're acting normal, we must be crazy."

Tim pulled up at Jo's dorm. She placed the gym bag in her lap and opened the door, then hesitated. "Rape seems to be taken as a matter of course on this campus and very likely every other campus, even religious based colleges. So, will it ever stop, or be stopped? What if I mention Penn State and the Nittany Lions. What does that bring it mind?"

Tim nodded grimly and looked away, then said, "A male coach sexually abusing boys of course."

"It's a strange, strange world we live in." Jo slammed the door and entered her dorm.

**Chapter 5**

Jo was alone in her room, sitting at the table, punching up a short story she had written a week earlier, when someone knocked on the door. Tap. Tap, tap. Thoughts of The Raven swelled in her head. "Come in," she shouted.

Entered not a stately bird, but a middle=aged man in a business suit, carrying a brief case. Thoughts of a feathered fowl flew from her head and she thought, a lawyer - or her precise thoughts: a shyster with a writ.

He did what passed as a smile and handed her his card, while stating, "Syman Bridgton of the Internal Revenue Service."

Glancing at the car, it read exactly the same way with the addition to phone, e-mail and fax numbers.

Looking up, she said, "Jo McDonald, how can I help you?"

"It's a matter of fifty thousand dollars," IRS said.

Jo attempted to look amazed and gasp. "I didn't know I had any rich relatives. Who died?"

"I'm afraid we're talking about your fifty thousand," IRS said.

"I understand that. Do you have the money in your case, or is there a check? I assume there are taxes to be paid."

"There are. By you."

"Of course. Once you give me the money and it's safely in the bank. These rooms are not vaults. You'd be surprise how much borrowing goes on on campus."

"Very little surprises me. Miss McDonald. My understanding is you've come into fifty thousand and have yet to pay taxes. Technically they're due when you receive the money."

"You surprise me, Mr. Syman, is that your name?"

"That's my first name."

"OK, I'll call you that. Syman. Truth to tell I'm on scholarship and don't have a job. Blood comes not from a stone. Cash comes not from poverty. You've got the wrong cowboy."

"Not according to information that has been given me."

"Please share."

"I cannot. It's confidential."

"Fine. You have your confidences. I have homework. This is a college campus. Perhaps you think you're in la la land."

"I'm a veteran officer of the IRS." Bridgton seemed miffed. "You were paid in cash and the bills are in sequence. You cannot dispose of them, launder them or in any way use them without my knowing."

"Well aren't you the little see-all and know-all. If you would tell me from whence these funds originated I might be able to set your confused mind to rights." Jo knew she shouldn't be goading IRS on, but she couldn't resist.

"Frankly, Miss McDonald, I suspect blackmail." He had turned a stern eye directly at her and she held his gaze until he turned away.

"Who in the world would blackmail me?" she asked.

"You're turning things around."

"I have no dark secrets," she countered.

"You're not confusing me with your words. You are the blackmailer."

Glancing out the window, she frowned in a thoughtful way, then asked, "To accuse an innocent person of blackmail, is that slander or libel."

"Perhaps you'd better ask a judge. You're in deep trouble. You know I can follow up with your informers and you must realize I have the force of the U.S. Government behind me."

Jo stifled a laugh. "You mean those folks in Washington. Our Congress and our Executive branch, not to mention the judiciary. Are those the people you mean who will be called in to assist you?"

"There are many competent people in our government." IRS seemed a bit crestfallen when he said these words.

"All right, Syman, this is what I suggest. Go to your sources, gather up facts, return with names, dates, where the money came from, where it is now, the whole ball of wax. I'll be happy to chat with you. And do come back. I know an excellent psychotherapist who will gladly offer wise counsel...for a price."

"You may think you can toy with me, Miss McDonald. But I will prove you wrong." He started for the door.

"What would the tax be on fifty thousand," she questioned.

"It depends on how you came by it?"

"But not a hundred percent, right?"

"Of course not."

"And how much do you make a year, Syman?"

"Those figures are available if you ask the proper authorities."

"And now your life's work is going to be to prove that I have a non-existent, but illicit fifty grand. And you will get help from those dandies in Washington. For your sake, I hope you have a plan B."

Syman Bridgton left the room, not in the best of moods.

**Chapter 6**

It was three days before she was able to single out Tim Blake and chat with him on a secluded walk, recounting her encounter with the IRS. She handed him a small roll of bills and told him to pocket it without looking.

"You remember I kept a thousand out. I had gotten rid of half that on some needed supplies, plus frivolous spending when this Syman Bridgton appeared at my door. So, you have five one hundreds in sequence. Dispose of them."

"But how, Jo. From what you said, we may be watched."

"How about the nearby Indian reservation, the casino. Buy chips, play blackjack, cash in chips. It's a well-known dodge, but it works. You might get lucky."

"But if we're followed."

"We're small potatoes. They're not going to invest a lot of manpower into tracking us down. Bridgton will try, but I don't think he'll learn much more. Victor or Jill obviously told someone the story, but both will deny it if push comes to shove. I can still send Victor to slam. I might go with him, but it'd be worth it."

I'll give you two or three days to either launder or burn the bills, then I'll have a talk with Jill. I do not take this kink in our plans lightly."

"What, more marked bills?"

"Not on your life. Good luck at the gambling hell."

Four days passed, then Jo after checking class schedules, bumped into Jill as she was coming out of class. Closing in on her she whispered. "We need to talk. Something has come up."

"I'm busy. We're through talking." Attempting to brush her off, Jill strode away. Jo followed and again whispered. "Ok, Victor goes to the state pen. See you in court."

This stopped Jill in her tracks. She turned and asked, "Where and when?"

"Tomorrow morning at eight by the founder's statue."

She nodded assent and walked off.

Jo was a bit amazed at her own capacity and mental stability. She speculated on how many more burdens might be placed upon her before she cracked. She had endured physical abuse, planned her revenge, been threatened by the IRS and yet she managed to attend classes, do her school work and continue with her devious plot. Perhaps she was born to be a master criminal or super spy.

Jill was waiting at the statue when Jo arrived. They strolled the campus walks, between massive ancient trees and the traditional ivy walls, everyone's dream campus. What sordid muck lurks below the surface.

Silence for the first few minutes, then Jill seemed about to speak, but Jo got in the first words. "An IRS man came to my room suggesting I've received fifty K and demanding payment of taxes."

Jill stuck out her lower lip, then responded. "Perhaps you should pay."

"And perhaps jelly fish can fly. You planned this, of course. The bills are new and in sequence. Sucker that I am, I thought you were an honest broker. So now the shit comes down."

"Me, honest," Jill protested. "You blackmailed the two of us. You should pay taxes."

"You bribed me," Jo said quietly, adding, "I mentioned prosecuting Victor and you bought me off. I suppose we're both guilty of obstructing justice. Perhaps we'll share a cell for five or ten years. Talk about getting to know one another! Do you have homosexual tendencies?"

Jill sputtered. "You bitch. That's insane! You're insane!"

"She said, she said, then, he said. Poor Victor, the drunken rapist as victim. The facts speak for themselves. You two betrayed me and now you must pay the price of betrayal."

"You want more money?" Jill asked in amazement.

Jo snickered. "No. No thanks. No more marked bills. Pay me off in gold. The usual price, fifty thousand. Poor Victor must learn to do his raping in the privacy of his frat room, or maybe some back alley."

"Gold? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Gold. Precious metal. Costs about $1,200 an ounce plus change. You can buy it here, there and everywhere."

"You want me, that is, us, to hand over a quantity of the metal gold to you? Where's the first fifty grand?"

"Burned it. Had to. Some moron tipped off the IRS, even gave them the numbers of the bills. Terrible loss, but that's life. Hope those morons don't make the same mistake twice. Could be fatal."

"Fatal?"

"Just a manner of speaking. No offense meant. What I meant was uncomfortable. No thought of doing you bodily harm. By the way, if Victor has brought any of his fraternity brothers in on this sneaky plan they better be frozen out right away. There's enough blame to go around."

This startled Jill. "You might go after them?"

"Let's not get into long speeches." Jo began to wonder if Jill might be recording their conversation. She carried no purse, but she did wear a jacket where a device might easily be concealed. She stopped abruptly and asked Jill to remove her jacket.

"Why in the world?" Jill asked.

"I thought you might be wearing a wire."

"How stupid," Jill countered and continued walking.

"Have it your way, Jill. I'm going to the feds and lay the whole sordid scenario bare. The rapes, the bribe, it will all hang out and you will be a major player. Goodbye." She turned and hurried away.

"Stop," Jill almost screamed, but Jo continued at a fast pace. Jill overtook her at a dead run, grabbed her arm and wailed, "You were right. They're all in on it. I am wearing a thing. It records, but doesn't transmit. Also, they're supposed to be watching us, but I don't know how."

Jo eyed Jill calmly and said, "Give me the recorder."

Removing her jacket, Jill handed her a small recorder slipped to her blouse. She also turned around so Jo could see there was no backup. At that point she seemed on the verge of tears.

"You've just rescued the good old J and P fraternity. All of those scumballs would have been in deep shit and the fraternity would doubtless have been abolished."

"That's harsh," Jill managed to say.

"So are gang bangs. Have you ever been the object of their affection?"

"How much gold do you want?"

"It doesn't have to be exact, but about fifty thousand will do. The pieces must bear the proper marking and be 999.9 pure. Two of the reliable purveyors are Credit Suisse and Pamp Suisse. The Swiss seem to be into the gold thing, also anything else that involves money or commerce. And I must say, this is your last chance. Time's running out and I won't mind taking a fall if I bring down the rest of the miscreant horde. Remember, too. I'm the victim."

Back in her room, Jo attempted to work the tiny recorder, but could make no sense of the controls. She wondered if indeed it might transmit. But then she didn't really care. Too many other things to occupy her time. Borrowing a hammer from a maintenance man, she sat on the dorm steps and pounded the recorder into small pieces, then dumped them into a sack. She would flush them down the toilet bit by bit.

One week later, Jo met Jill near the statue and was handed a New York Times canvas tote bag with a surprisingly light heft. She thank Jill, walked to a nearby bench and called Tim Blake, who was in his car on the edge of campus.

"I have here a mystery tote bag," Jo said as she climbed into the passenger seat.

"I'll drive and you can look." He sped away.

The price of gold varies from day to day and some predict it's due for a crash dive, but at current prices, Jo figured it might be worth slightly more than fifty thousand.

After giving the word to Tim, she added, "Of course there are fees involved. So it's a crapshoot."

They both suffered mild paranoia and thus drove this way and that to avoid pursuit before hitting the road for a medium sized city an hour and a half away. Jo had prepared packaging material and would send the gold via certified mail to her best friend from high school, still in Omaha and working as a law firm receptionist.

By phone she had asked her friend to go to her home on Sunday morning when her parents were in church and bury the package unopened in her back yard next to the grave of her darling cat, Mayhem.

Told of the plan, Tim had suggested that she wasn't playing with a full deck, but he could think of nothing better. So be it.

As it came to pass, during that college year, her first and her last, Syman Bridgton of the IRS never showed up or called again.

**Chapter 7**

All this had come down before the Thanksgiving break. Everyone in the J&P House was aware of Tim's friendship with Jo. He was a much respected Plock and even the most gauche jock avoided mentioning the gang rape.

With turkey and dressing in the air, it was too far for the two of them to return to Omaha, even though Tim's family did not lack for finances. They found a third rate hotel in the Foggy Bottom District of Columbia, a place where foreign service types holed up while visiting their holy land.

They had yet to be sexually active. Jo didn't doubt Tim's heterosexuality, but every time thoughts of sex passed through his head a rerun of all those rapes danced by, quite a turn off for a sensitive intellectual.

Tim welcomed the trip to Washington. He was writing a book, working title, Fracking America, supposedly penned by a female White House staffer. He would seek fodder for his computer in the odd corners of the city even though all three branches of government had fled.

Their digs were near the Kennedy where they attended, and Tim enjoyed, a performance of Fierrabras, Franz Schubert's best thrust into opera. "Dead at thirty-one, his creativity possibly never fully matured," Tim explained to Jo. "He was something of a mystery man. No one knew him in depth."

"Put me in the ranks of no one who knew him at all. But the Kennedy was dazzling, just as described - like a beached whale on the banks of the Potomac. What I'd really like to do is visit the Ford and see where Lincoln was shot."

"I'll see what's playing."

"It's still used?" Jo asked in wonder.

"Why not. No firearms allowed. But tomorrow we walk the Mall from the Capitol to the Lincoln, then cross the river to Arlington. A good stretch of the legs."

"I'll say. After that I'll be ready for a nap then a burger and beer at the Watergate."

"My dollar," Tim replied. "We're a team."

"Damn right."

The team thing was foremost on Jo's mind. As many know, Omaha has produced players who loomed large on Wall Street, even from afar. Jo's father had been one of them, moving from rags to riches, moving back to rags and finally settling for the humdrum of family life with a modest portfolio that permitted him not to work at all if he so chose.

Jo had spent time studying the markets. She needed simply a foothold to get started. This she hoped to acquire from one of three old friends of her father's, still active on Wall Street. Her major asset was amazing self-confidence, truly a gem of a characteristic not available on the open market.

Her plan, with one J-P down and eleven to go, was to drop out of school after the first year, go to New York, take Tim with her, use the fifty thousand plus the gold to get a start, find a Wall Street job that would support them both and begin accumulating an impressive stock and bond portfolio.

Tim was important to her both as a faithful friend, if not a sexual partner so far, and a pipeline to the J-P Fraternity, a group that was certain to keep track of its members over the years.

Tim's role in the Big Apple would be to write his book and if he finished, to begin another. Jo had read the beginning of the manuscript and it seemed a reasonable idea. But whether it prospered or not, concerned her not at all. She needed Tim by her side. The first few paragraphs went like this:

Fracking America

It began long before I became a White House intern. I had always meant to look into it, but never did. It seemed some western rancher had refused to pay federal grazing fees for some years, that is his cattle were enjoying a free lunch, and when federal marshals moved in to arrest him they stepped into a confrontation with armed nut-case militia men.

That was the moment when a crackdown might have worked, but there had been two or three previous shoot-outs which left the country unwilling to witness another bloody confrontation.

The rancher allowed that he did not recognize the government in Washington and the government in Washington simply let things slide. Several other issues seemed more important at the time - Russian mischief, gay rights, immigration, birth control, abortion, budget problems, an aging population dependent on Social Security, a festering Mideast, the rise of China and many more cropping up on a daily basis.

At this time I might say my name is Kyle Nomad and that my sole skill is getting along with people. Some call it simply a woman's touch, but it has served me well. I became an intern just out of Georgia Tech where I had flunked, or almost flunked, an amazing number of engineering courses, but somehow managed to graduate sans honors.

My ability to get along, which got me through GT, gave me an extra push at the White House. Somehow I hung on through three administrations, rising to the position of well-paid staffer. That also served me well. No one seemed to know the exact job description of a staffer. I drifted from one office to another, often solving personnel problems, making fast friends along the way. I was the go-to lady, Kyle the problem solver. I found my non-partisan niche. Life was good.

Then Oklahoma decided it no longer wanted to be part of the fifty states. Before a cat could blink an eye, Colorado, Florida and Alaska hopped on board.

There is more, but I won't burden you with it. Thanksgiving gone, the holiday season well underway, the two returned to campus to hunker down in wait of the Christmas and New Year's break.

Jo had not yet developed her devious plan to seek revenge on the dozen JPs who had done her wrong, but she was up to malicious mischief. A particularly dull witted jock, one Brian Armstrong, was hospitalized for a mysterious ailment, maybe mono or food poisoning.

Jo called the hospital, managed to connect to Brian's nursing station and told the woman who answered that she wished to speak in confidence about a patient. The student nurse on the hospital end said, "OK."

"I wouldn't want this to go any further, but the patient, Brian Armstrong, has had unprotected sex more than once with a coed said to have AIDs. I'm not saying he has the disease, but I hope you'll tell his doctor in private. Nasty rumors can spread. But if he does have AIDs and it's caught early it can be cured."

With that, they sincerely thanked each other and the conversation ended. The student nurse told the head nurse, which was overheard by no more than three or five people, one of them standing in the hallway to ask a room number.

The story of course had legs and dashed through the campus, eventually reaching the office of the provost. Of course by that time it was determined that Armstrong did not have AIDs, but had suffered a fairly serious case of food poisoning, probably caused by three-day-old pizza he kept in a desk drawer.

But the provost, having little to occupy his time, launched a search to discover the AIDs coed and stop her from having mindless sex. Armstrong was forced to turn over a rather substantial list of dull-witted sexual partners.

Despite the minor nature of the hit, Jo was quite pleased with herself and looked forward to more devastating capers.

**Chapter 8**

Roommate Beth mentioned one morning that a far northern college, thanks to its president, had vowed to root out campus rape and destroy it.

Jo, who had gotten wind of the same report, remarked that because it was that particular school it seemed quite an oddity. "Back in Omaha there was general agreement that the majority of male students up yonder were gay."

"That's because it was an all-male school until the mid-seventies," Beth explained. "The long winters had a subtle, but growing influence to make your roomies look more and more appealing."

"I see," Jo replied. "They weren't in fact gay, but simply tried out the lifestyle for size."

"Because of its reputation the school did attract gays, plus the so-called winter sports crowd. But yes, straits dabbled in the game much like the boys in Brazil."

"What does Brazil have to do with it?"

"Long standing rumor that Brazilian boys go through that phase as a passage to manhood. No one down there gives it a second thought. I'm sure there's deniability there someplace, but it could be true. The college we speak up though, the one up north whose name mustn't be spoken, seems more interested in what's good for the college, thus far ignoring victim's rights."

"There are women who accuse males of rape after consensual encounters," Jo tossed in. "This complicates the situation to no end. He said, she said. Let the campus cop beware. Anyway, it's widespread. Have you seen the stories about the military academies?"

"No," Beth said. "I don't read a newspaper except the campus blah. Sometimes watch the judge shows on TV. Not much news there."

"It was particularly the Air Force academy. They recruited a spy on the untouchable football team. In the past members could rape with impunity and everyone knew it. Three convictions and the alumni generals put their military feet down. The spy was expelled, his handler vanished. Back to the honor code. Of course there is no honor, only dishonored female cadets."

"The military is an old boys club, of course. While our public and private schools are left to ferret out the truth. Drugs, date rape, drunken rape. High jinx rape. Boys will be boys and girls, girls. So there's a sexual assault prevention center at that northern college, the report of a steering committee and what happens next. I don't know and I'm beginning not to particularly care. I'm getting on with my life. How about you?"

"I told you. After this year I'll be self-educated and you'll find me on Wall Street prowling for big bucks. And getting even. You want me to take down your rapist."

Beth, who completed fixing coffee for the two of them, nodded no. "He apologized to me and we're now the best of friends."

Jo rolled her eyes and carried her coffee to her desk. Every day was crowded with activity and unanticipated jolts, but she was enjoying life.

She was also reading what she could about rape. In the case of a student traveling in Italy, she met a professional man in a train station who offered to upgrade her ticket from coach to a sleeping compartment. Once in the compartment, he stripped her and raped her, then crawled into the upper bunk for a good night's sleep.

She reported that she did not wish to have sex with the chap and had not given her OK to the act. Yet, traveling alone in a foreign country with no knowledge of Italian, she had little choice. Later, she looked on the experience as almost harmless. She wrote that she was coerced, but not actually forced. Later in life she questioned whether it was an actual rape or a type of seduction.

In thinking about the ins and outs of sex, she ultimately reasoned that she had gotten a lot out of the experience in terms of empirical knowledge and food for thought. In certain countries, particularly in olden times, one answer to rape was virtuous suicide. Such a thought never crossed this student's mind. In Jo's literary meandering, she had read Ovid's Metamorphoses where Tereus rapes Philomela then resorts to the brutality of cutting out her tongue to silence her. This might be viewed as a cut above piercing her heart.

Jo did not seek professional help. She did a little soul searching, refining her understanding of her situation and toyed with the idea that she possessed a genetic mean streak. Her knee jerk reaction from the get-go was not so much to get mad, but to get even. That thought endured and was strengthened by her initial success at blackmail. She saw the future unrolling before with a crystal eye, a woman on a mission, not your run-of-mine flopping around, sleeping around nervous Nellie. Once firmly saddled with a mission there is no room for doubt or second guessing.

She was a news-junky. Rather than swilling in the beer emporiums or downing Two Buck Chuck, which fraternities and sororities bought by the case load at the nearby Trader Joe's, she haunted the library for study and to pore over newspapers and news mags, plus waking each morning to NPR.

Occasionally she would run across a humorous story and share it with Tim. Such as the bed bug plague at the Naval Academy. Students were flushed from their dorms leaving everything behind - clothing, books, personal items and so forth. Let the fumigation begin. She built on this, speculating what might become of a ship deployed on a months-long mission at sea when face with a bed bug invasion.

Not since the hard times of the 1930s had bed bugs been equated as a threat as great as a foreign war. These were homeland invaders and the Congress could pass no law or the religious right could invoke no deity to deal with the confrontation.

She remained well into women's rights, bristling when she read of a woman in a non-abortion state sentenced to prison for buying an abortion pill for her daughter. She was acutely aware that when abortions are forbidden, abortions don't go down, but deaths and injuries go up.

She applauded the California law that states "yes means yes." That is a woman must say yes to sex. This rules out sex with person floundering under drugs or alcohol, or simply a type of conscious rape.

Then it was as her first year dwindled and Tim eyed stepping out into the literary life that a small earthquake erupted Jo's future.

Two things were on Tim's mind, neither of them did he care to discuss with Jo, but both were on the agenda as they shared a springtime picnic lunch under the ancient campus oaks.

Hesitant or not, he finally suggested that Jo's obsession with revenge seemed to him to be unwholesome.

Jo smiled. She was expecting disapproval. "It's not an obsession. It's more like a hobby."

"Well, what you went through and relived on film, an obsession might easily grow from that. I thought therapy of some sort..."

Jo broke in. "I'm not crazy. Maybe I'm unbalanced, but who isn't. I suppose I do have an obsession, but it's to make money, become successful. If I can take out a few of my attackers along the way, so much the better. I'd like to be the top dog for a change."

"Well, there's something wrong with our relationship."

"We'll always have Omaha."

"Just like the films. But you know we lack something."

"Wholesome sex?"

"No sex. It's my fault. When the topic comes up, I have images of the attack. If there hadn't been pictures."

"Tim, we can work this out. I think of a small apartment in the Village, which village, I don't know, but there seems to be an abundance of them in New York. I work on Wall Street. You write your book. The two of us together."

"I know that scenario and it has a certain ring to it. But I think we need separation for a time. I've been offered a position on a goat farm in Vermont. I would have adequate time to write and helping tend the goats would be therapeutic."

Jo's eyes widened. "You need therapy? I thought it was me."

"Fairly obvious. It's the two of us."

"And just who made you this offer of a position on a goat farm? A would be lover?"

"No. It's a commune type thing. Limited, of course. Goats can only support so many people and that, marginally. It sounds trite, but I'd be true to you."

Jo thought for a long moment, poured herself more iced tea and devoured a deli deviled egg. Tim was silent. Somewhere a bird cried out. It was springtime, nesting season. "Your mind's made up," she finally spoke. "Ok. I'll try it. I'll be true. We can e-mail."

"Or text."

"I prefer e-mail. I can do it at leisure. Kids seem to text, sending volleys to and fro. You will have time to sit with your goats and at your computer. I hope to make money."

"That's another thing. I'd like to keep this between the two of us and keep our families out of it. I'd like to borrow $5,000 just to stay afloat. I thought you might cash in the gold."

This request brought a smile to Jo's face. "That makes the cheese more binding. As much as I want to make money, it really doesn't mean much to me. Maybe I'd do well on a goat farm. I'll call my friend and see if she will unearth the buried treasure."

**Chapter 9**

Jo was unpleasantly surprised when she called her friend in Omaha.

"My boyfriend was curious," the friend explained. We dug up the package and found the gold. It drove him nuts."

"He had a breakdown?" Jo asked.

"No. There's a small cottage in town called The Exchange. The man pays cash for gold. I tried to stop him, but he went to the man and got a five thousand dollar offer."

"For God's sake." Jo almost shouted.

"I know," the friend replied. "He knew it wasn't enough and demanded seven thousand."

"Holy Christ," Jo said.

"He got it, too. I'm sorry, Jo. He gave me two thousand and then left town. He said he needed to find himself. I found out from his best buddy that he's living in Cheyenne."

"He's trying to find himself in Cheyenne Wyoming?"

"At least that's what he said. I'll probably never see him again unless he runs out of money."

"In that case you probably will see him again, much to your dismay. Although it could be you were made for each other."

"Jo, you have a romantic way of expressing yourself. I've always admired you for that."

Tim suffered mild trauma when Jo told him the news. "We needed that money," was his sole comment before looking longingly into middle space.

"We'll recover part of it if we go to Omaha and confront the gold buyer."

"With what? A .38 revolver?"

"I'm giving it some thought."

Tim nodded as if in profound thought, then smiling, uttered a single word: "Dominic."

"Dominic," Jo repeated.

"Yes, Dominic. He joined the House at midterm." Tim laughed. "Just the guy we're looking for."

"There's no fraternity rush at midterm."

"He's legacy. His dad was a jock, dumb as a fish, but a successful New Jersey gangland figure."

"You mean a criminal?"

"That's not a term in common use in New Jersey. He's a millionaire, loved by all. Dominic's much like him, but not as well coordinated. He has the appearance and threatening demeanor of a crime syndicate figure."

"Which, of course he is."

"In this case you can tell a book by its cover. But Dominic has no need for cash as you might guess. He also has no need to study for he too has the academic grey matter of an olive. But loaded with street creds."

"Can he hack college?"

"Yeah, like a pretend jock. Chicks seem to dig this type of dude. Rugged good looks, rough talk, rough sex, loaded with cash."

Jo placed a hand on her breast and whispered, "Be still, my heart." A few seconds later the dreamy look vanished and she questioned, "Will he do it?"

"He's up for anything. I mean he's in the flush of life. I'll do a few papers for him to make him look OK. No one would dare flunk him. His Dad's a donor. But he wants to keep up appearances. He flies to Omaha, touch bases with your friend, leans on the gold shyster, recovers a good portion of the cash. Give the shyster his due. Returns with another feather in his cap. End of story."

And so it came to pass that Dominic wired twenty thousand directly to Jo's bank because he wanted to spend an extra week in Omaha with Jo's friend.

"Sweet, innocent girl," Jo remarked. Tim covered for Dominic's absence with a touching tale of a dying grandmother.

**Chapter 10**

With the term ending, Tim packed for the goat farm and Jo rounded up her few possessions for the journey to the Big Apple and cheap digs as close as she could get to Wall Street.

Meanwhile, Jo had continued to devour all manner of research and news on the topic of sexual assaults, particularly in the academic world. Washington had turned up data indicating one out of five women experienced sexual assault during college.

The Department of Education was looking into the mishandling of sexual assault cases in half a hundred schools including Harvard College and Harvard Law School. Dartmouth ruled to expel students guilty of sexual assault while Columbia removed students from disciplinary panels dealing with sexual misconduct. On the other side, charges of schools overreacting against students accused of such crimes were surfacing.

After years of ignoring the problem, colleges were finding it difficult to reach a fair balance. But there was general agreement that lack of resistance and silence no longer constitute proof of consent. There was growing agreement to the simple truths that yes, means yes, and no, means no.

Her research was piling up and to define rape in many cases seemed almost impossible. She found her mind wandering into all manner of language contradictions, such as the so-called liar's paradox: The next sentence is true. The previous sentence was false.

Scanning an article on passwords it came clear how human relations such as love and types of caring played a major role. The numbers 14344 cropped up now and then - code for I love you very much. The Spanish words te amo, meaning I love you, were scrunched together as teamo with some frequency. Jo was keenly aware that she used the dates of her rape in two passwords. These were thought to be secret things. How dark? How secret?

She began to think that maybe Tim was correct, that she was obsessed with her goal of not bringing down, but at least punishing a dozen of her attackers, which included those who stood by as half-drunk spectators. She felt she had already damage one pair - Victor Arias by depriving him of cash, and Brian Armstrong, who had in fact dropped out of school after being nailed with the AIDs rumor. If indeed she was obsessed, might she be hideously and permanently scarred.

Overshadowing any obsession she might have was her major goal to make money, lots of money. For this she had her sights firmly set on Wall Street. If she were obsessed, this might be the big one. With money came power. The power to crush one's enemies.

In her brief search of self, purpose and the universe, she understood she was not the center of all things, but the tiniest of specks in infinity and that she was not created in any degree of perfection, but an accident of evolution. Yet she must define herself, with or without hidden scars.

About this time she received a phone call from Jill, Victor Arias' girlfriend. In hushed tones she asked Jo to meet at dawn the following day at the usual place. That was the extent of the call. Jo was puzzled. Twice before she had met Jill for the purpose of extracting money from Victor. What now? She certainly wasn't going to give it back.

The morning was chilly and drab. Jo wore a hooded grey jacket and carried a thermos of coffee. She fully expected Jill to be late if she showed up at all. To her surprise the woman was waiting for her, huddled on a park bench against the early chill.

"How bout some coffee?" Joe asked, unscrewing the cup.

"It would be welcome," Jill replied. She took a sip, then a swallow and returned the cup to Jo who drained the container. It was warm. But not hot.

Refilling the cup and passing it back to Jill, Jo said, "Your call surprised me."

"I can imagine. We aren't the best of friends. But I do sympathize with your condition and do not condone the Frat's behavior which has taken a turn for the worse."

Jo stared blankly, wondering how it could be much worse. They had ravaged her body. Did they want a second go at her?

"Somehow they've found out about your list of the twelve men you blame. They know about the money from Victor and they've guessed you planted the story about Brian having AIDs. They've held a meeting, made medicine and decided to remove you from the scene."

Jo thought for a moment, Jill drank coffee. The two of them out there in the gloom of early morning. Jo wondered if she had wandered into a trap. "You're talking murder," she finally said.

"Gangland style," Jill agreed.

Jo glanced around. "Am I in danger at this moment?"

Jill smiled and handed her the empty cup. "No, I'm the good Samaritan. I've come to warn you and hope you will take it to heart. These frat boys take their brotherhood seriously, too seriously. Stupid Victor told me what was coming down. His trust is misplaced."

"But you love him?"

"I love life. I love money. Yes, I care for him. Lover, keeper, what have you. If we marry as we likely will, I'll have a full time task mothering him, keeping him out of trouble, attempting to invest his money for those twilight years everyone speaks of."

"Do you have a suggestion for me, Mother?"

"Flee. Get your sorry ass out of town. In time the situation should blow over. But my task here is done. Thanks for the coffee. And remember, these boys have connections. Amateurs that they are, they will turn up a hit man. They have the will and the means." She stood, nodded and walked off.

Quick study that she was, Jo moved with alacrity. Huddling with Tim Blake, she learned he knew nothing of the plan. It was deep in the lodge, plotted by the dozen who had somehow learned she had such a list and who was on it. She had made the mistake of committing it and other relevant information to her computer.

Armed with a laundry bag loaded with a few of her personal belongings, Tim pretended to leave town on a short vacation. A night and a day crawled by before Jo implemented the next step in her plan. She had five thousand in cash which she placed in the pocket of her cargo pants, then stuffed folded trousers and a sweat shirt into a roomy hippy-type bag.

Donning a skirt, a fairly dressy blouse and medium heeled pumps, she informed roommate Beth that she had received a call from some of the boys at the JP house for a meeting just after dark at the Red Trover Tavern.

Beth was wide eyed and asked, "These are the boys who raped you?"

"The same. Time heals old wounds. I suppose they seek closure, forgiveness and so forth. It is a bit odd, though. I had heard a rumor that they were afraid I carried a grudge and planned some long term retaliation. Now I think that was simply a rumor. Nothing else."

"But the Trover," Beth said. "That's across the river."

"Just off campus and across a bridge. Not far. I'll be there in no time."

Beth glanced out the window. It's almost dark. Is Tim going with you?"

"He's out of town for a few days. No problem. I'll be home probably by ten, certainly before midnight. You needn't wait up."

Beth shook her head in doubt. "I wish Tom was here. I'd go with you, but the whole thing sounds odd to me."

"You'd be a fifth wheel. We'll have a drink, smoke the peace pipe, maybe share a pizza. It will probably all be for the best. They must have talked about this for some time."

"Talked about something," Beth said darkly.

Jo shouldered the large bag, said "Ta," and was gone. It took her only minutes to reach the bridge. She scrambled down the embankment into almost total darkness and privacy, kicked off her shoes, peeled off her skirt and blouse, pulled on the cargo pants and sweat shirt, stepped into a pair of sandals.

Her next act was to plant one shoe near the edge of the dark, rippling stream, toss her other shoe plus her bag, skirt and blouse into the water, hoping something might be washed ashore.

Climbing back up the bank, she quick-stepped down the narrow river road where Tim sat waiting in his car. In minutes they were well out of town, heading south just under the speed limit. No time for traffic tickets.

**Chapter 11**

Beth did not raise an alarm that night. In fact it was noon the following day before she approached a campus policeman and told him her story. He promised to make a report.

The morning of the following day, when no one had asked her to confirm her story, she called the local police department.

"You want to file a missing person report?" the desk sergeant questioned.

"I do."

"But you say you're her roommate, not a family member."

"I am, but that's not unusual. We're all students here, very few of us with family members. I also have a story and fear what the films call foul play."

The sergeant seemed to chuckle, then replied, "That is one of the terms for what might be called wrong doing, or unlawful behavior. I think you need to talk with one of our detectives. Can you come in, or should we send someone out?"

"Either way. I talked to a campus cop and he was no help. I'd like to go on record with some sort of official report."

"I'll have a detective call you."

An hour later she met a Detective Jenkins at a McDonald's just off campus. She took time to relate the entire story including the gang rape and the mental quirks that followed. He took a few notes then suggested the two of them should walk the path Jo would have taken between the dorm and the Red Trover.

They paused on the bridge and Beth looked down at the dark water below. She almost instantly spotted Jo's shoe at the stream's edge.

She turned to Jenkins and said, "Her shoe's down there."

The two of clamored down the river bank, very nearly tripping on brush.

"Don't touch it," Jenkins ordered," as they both took a long look. "You're certain that's her shoe?"

"She was wearing it when she left," Beth said, visibly shaken.

Jenkins called his office and asked for backup, reporting a possible crime scene. Soon the area was alive with police plus fire and rescue. Beth leaned against the bridge railing and wiped her eyes with a tissue. She was barraged with questions. The same campus cop she had first talked with stood by, now as an off-campus spectator.

Meanwhile, far to the south, Tim and Jo were enjoying chicken fried steak biscuits and coffee at a Bo Jangles. She smiled to herself at what she had done, but was full of wonder considering the consequences of the wheels she had set in motion. The quote 'murder will out' shot through her mind, but what about fake murder. There would be retribution, of that she was certain.

She had sounded no alarm. Her only sin was inventing a story for her roommate and disposing of a few personal items she had little use for. She was a tom boy at heart, patting what remained of the five grand in a pocket of her cargo pants. The two of them were in Virginia and headed west.

The raw excitement of their adventure had one positive fact in Jo's mind. She and Time were enjoying passionate sex. The ice was broken and the trip was truly a honeymoon before the fact.

Detective Jenkins had left the possible crime scene to the search and recover set and had learned the frat house in question had recently acquired a member with mob connections. Tracking down Dominic on campus he asked if he might answer a few questions.

"That depends," Dominic replied, "if I am a suspect I will lawyer up and clam up. If you want me to help you solve this puzzle then I'm willing to chat providing you have no concealed recording device."

"You worry about your words returning to embarrass you?" Jenkins asked.

"Words can be construed, conversations can be altered. We are living in the real world, officer."

"I assure you I am not wearing a wire and have no other recording device. We can have coffee and talk over the situation."

"Gladly, but somewhere far enough away from campus so as not to spoil my reputation."

"I understand," Jenkins said.

When they were settled in a diner some miles from campus, Jenkins said, "I understand your Dad is somehow connected to the New Jersey crime scene?"

"The old man is in the state penitentiary serving a term that will last a lifetime and beyond. He is quite the happy inmate."

"He is pleased to be in prison?"

"Yes, at his time in life. He was getting up in years when I was born, a product of his third wife, a statuesque woman, very pleasant, but without major grey matter. I inherited the size of both parents and brains from Mom. I am a monster, but neither coordinated like an athlete, or bent toward the scholarly."

"And your Dad has settled into prison life?"

"Definitely. He is growing old and likes the slow pace. Now there are mob bosses and mob bosses. And there are prisons both good and bad. My Dad is a prisoner, but can also be considered part of the prison administration. He runs his cell block and helps keep the greater institution on an even keel. If there is a problem, he is there for the warden. On the other hand, the warden is there for him."

"And there is no chance for release?"

"You might say that. But after serving a few months he could have sought and obtained release, very likely a full pardon. But he has a young faggot for a cellmate, large TV, computer, special food, anything he wants, really. My Mom is a frequent visitor. She has her life and her friends. They've reached a total understanding."

Jenkins shook his head in wonder and then moved on to ask about the frat's involvement in the current situation.

"The boys in the House are not totally in touch with the world as it exists, but they are not as dumb as goldfish. To lure a young lady to a bar, then ambush her on the way and knock her in the head and throw her into a stream, that is almost laughable. So what do we have, a shoe?"

"I heard they might have sought a hit man."

"I heard the same, but discouraged such talk. Now can I talk frankly and in confidence?"

"Yes."

"Back home, in Jersey, we can level with cops and they can level with us. There's an unwritten code. I'm not talking squealers you understand, or snitches."

"I understand. I understand. I just want to get this thing behind me. My word is good."

"Ok. You talk hit man. This all started with a hit list. The girl in question, one Jo McDonald, had a list of a dozen of the boys who had roughed her up, or who hadn't attempted to help her during that totally stupid episode. She had made the mistake of placing it on her computer along with a few choice comments. She had already attempted to punish two of the culprits and God knows when she would give the thing up. Someone like that, she's got smarts, it could be a lifetime hobby. So there was talk of stopping her."

"Killing her?"

"That's schoolboy talk. That would shut her up for real. But I think cooler heads would prevail. I would have counseled something like that meeting in the tavern, but different. To get together and talk things out, make peace. Mia culpa."

"But you didn't?"

"No. Why should I get involved? This whole college business is a lark for me. I'm no athlete and I'm no scholar. So I'm having a good time. My Dad set up a trust fund for the school before he went into slam. Of course I have one too."

"So what do you think of this situation?"

Dominic laughed. "I think the girl got wind of the hit man talk and struck the first blow. You know, a preemptive strike. She's a fucking genius. I'd like to meet her."

"You don't think she's in the river?"

"I think her other shoe's in the river. She's sitting pretty somewhere, having a good laugh."

"Then she's the criminal."

"What's the crime? The case of the lost shoe?"

**Chapter 12**

Tim dropped Jo off at the train station in Washington D.C. and headed back to college. Jo boarded the east coast line for New York City where she found a cheap hostel, purchased a few essentials and hit the streets looking for a job in the food industry.

Knowing his relationship with Jo, almost the entire Jocks & Plock house pounced on Tim the moment he arrived.

"I've been driving around the countryside," he said laconically. "I have nothing more to say." They kept at him, but he held fast. By this time the river search had ended and it was becoming obvious that deception was in play. But any thought of the frat evening the score with Jo had vanished the first day. It was a matter of who was getting even with whom. When and how.

A week passed before Beth received a letter from Jo saying that she had decided to drop out of school and seek work in New York City. It asked that her things be boxed up and given to Tim who would see about getting them to her.

Word seeped out across campus about Jo's whereabouts. Beth in turn called Detective Jenkins to give him the word.

Later that same day he was waiting in the dorm when Beth returned from class.

"I didn't ask this morning, but how might I get in touch with your roomy Jo. I'd like to have a word with that young lady."

"She didn't say where she was living. I have an e-mail address. I also have her computer which handicaps her to a certain extent, although there are places where she can receive e-mail. Why do you want to talk to her?"

"She's caused law enforcement a great deal of trouble, leading us to believe she may have been tossed into the stream. Police work, fire and rescue work."

"Of course that's your job," Beth replied.

"You too are implicated. You led us down the wrong path."

"You think I planned that?"

"Probably not."

"So, you jumped at conclusions."

"You showed me the shoe and identified it."

"I showed you a shoe. Did you ever find its mate?"

"No. You know that."

"I guessed. Did you ever find a body?"

"Of course not. That body is alive and well and slinging hash in Manhattan."

"Are you going after her?"

"No. But I will tell the county prosecutor. Lay the facts before him."

"Some facts. You may make a fool of yourself. Did the frat boys plan to kill Jo?"

"That's a possibility."

"Then run them in."

"No crime was committed."

"I see. You'll wait until they carry out the actual murder, then arrest them and try to build a case?"

"You know that's not true."

"Then tell me, what is true?"

Jenkins scratched his head and forced a smile. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"

"Are you married?"

"No."

"Then, Ok. I'll change and be back in a minute."

Jenkins shrugged and found a chair and a magazine in what passed for the dorm lobby.

**Chapter 13**

Jo had been working for some weeks as a barista, peddling odd cups and mixtures of liquids generally identified as coffee. To the north, Tim was in Vermont milking goats, helping convert the extract into various products and plugging away on his book.

College boys and girls were released for their summer break. A slender, short, but dark and handsome young man purchased a cup of straight American coffee, paid, then said, "Long time no see, thanks Jo."

Jo did a double take at first coming up blank, then placed him with the JP frat lads. He could be the harbinger of big time trouble.

"I'd chat, but I'm busy," she replied. "But I think we have met under different circumstances." If they were coming for her, she would be ready and resolved not to show fear. They could smell fear. She would not be cowed.

"You may know me. Jose Long. In fact I may have achieved a place of honor on your list." He looked around, almost furtive. A couple were waiting behind him. "I have something of interest to tell you. We could talk after your shift, or any other time."

Jo guessed that Jose had the whole book on her activities, knew where she lived and so forth. Private cops. So, let's make a deal if possible. She seemed to be targeted as a black widow, a killer bee, what a reputation for a proud, but harmless, barista.

Jose had a monied look about him so they met at an off Broadway bistro just after six. The happy hour crowd was two deep at the bar and the place buzzed with controlled excitement. Very likely Jose would have settled for a coffee shop, but the barista would have none of it. If she must meet the enemy, why not get a beer and extra-large burger.

My Dad's an insurance exec," Jose began.

"Good for you," Jo interrupted. The beer arrived and she took a quick swallow. "I've had a rough day."

"I can imagine," Jose sympathized. "That's what I want to talk to you about. I had heard, probably through Tim, that you had your course set for Wall Street. Frankly, that's where I'd like to be. That's where the money is. You might guess, I am well off, but I'm expected to stay in the insurance game with dear old dad. And I suppose I must. I'll continue to be well off."

The burger arrived and Jo dug in after splashing it with mild hot sauce. The sandwich was huge with lettuce and tomato trailing out at the edges. There was also a large slice of kosher pickle which Jo crunched between her teeth, bringing a smile to her face. Jose eyed her as he would a spoiled child.

After a pause, with half the burger gone, Jose continued. "I have a friend who can get you an entry job on Wall Street. You would be one of those floor people. You've probably seen then on TV, or in the films, milling around, shouting in an arcane way."

Jo finished the burger and caught the eye of the wait person. "Did I see cobbler with ice cream on the menu?"

A nod of approval and Jo nodded back in assent. This would be the finest dinner she had downed in weeks. She toyed with the idea of ordering a pony of brandy, but then thought that might be rubbing it in.

She looked Jose in the eyes and questioned, "Why would you want to help me get a job on Wall Street?" It had crossed her mind that he being one of the twelve little Indians, it might be self-preservation. The shoe stunt had put the fear of God into the frat boys and there had been no official reprisal.

Jose had ordered nothing up to that time, but when the waitress brought the cobbler he asked for a vodka martini on the rocks with a lime twist. "I have a couple of reasons. You can help me in two ways. I want to be super rich and I want what you want, to get even with the JP old boys club."

Both motives came as a surprise to Jo. "You're a member of that club and how could I possibly help you get rich?"

"First the rich part," Jose said, sipping his drink and picking at a dish of nuts the waitress had brought. Jo had ordered a second beer which seemed strange after cobbler and ice cream. "I have money to invest and I need someone on the floor on Wall Street to feed me information in real time. They have machines that can make buy and sell decisions in fragments of a second."

Jo smiled. "You think I would be such a machine?"

"We would text and as we both are educated there would be other ways. We would develop into a machine to grind out money by the bucketful."

"Your self-confidence dazzles me, Jose. But why choose me?"

"Target of opportunity. You're smart, capable of making decisions if you ignore the sexual incident. You want money, so do I. I plant you on the floor and we use my money to get rich. End of story."

"Except the frat boys."

"Right. Second reason. I hate that lot."

Jo started on her second beer, pulled a face when she tasted it on top of the cobbler, but soldiered on. You dislike your fraternity brothers. Why so, Jose?"

"Well, you might know I'm out of college after two years. I've had enough of it and I don't need a ramped up CV. So my name is Jose and I look like a Latino. It might have been all in jest, but it was hurtful. They would call me an illegal, a wet back, a Chicano, even a greaser. Or their little show-case minority."

"There are blacks in the fraternity," Jo tossed in.

"Even an Asian or two. But I was their Chicano. I was named after my grandfather. He was Spanish and came to this country via Cuba. He came from money and an insurance business in Madrid. So he founded our company and we've done well, quite well. I'm a Latin from Manhattan. So, I'm not a fan of the JPs and am sorry I qualified for your list. I beg forgiveness."

Jo finished her beer and for a long moment gazed into the glass, finally saying, "I'm not a monster, Jose. But I do have a score to settle. It is not an obsession despite what others may say. I look on it as more of a hobby. We've met, you've fed me, you seem sincere. Let's play it by ear from now on. Is that a deal?"

"Best I can hope for, Jo. I'll be in touch very soon, brush up your resume, lie if it suits you, certainly exaggerate. Read up on the Street. Google, whatever. I have a good feeling that we will make an excellent team."

"And I shall hold that belief until you prove otherwise," Jo responded.

Jo had been resting on her oars, savoring the tempo of the big city, but now, with Jose standing in the wings, she got busy on line. There were trading jobs galore, many of them 'work from home' which she viewed with suspicion. Others with handsome salaries in Chicago, Bismark, ND, Memphis, TN and so forth. But for her it was the Big Apple or nothing, with or without experience. She would read up on it.

One ad caught her eye: Proprietary Equities Trader - Quasar Trading New York, NY...a registered broker-dealer...located directly across from the New York Stock Exchange. We are seeking professional equity traders...we offer a variety of direct access trading platforms...

Jo was like a famished fish seeking the bait. She vowed to study online, check out the library, listen to anyone in the profession, seek an education 24/7. She would be a trader or she would die a played-out barista.

Jose Long got back to her within a week with the names of three companies that were looking around for floor staff. The first two were the, don't call us, we'll call you type. The third was with a small company called Standup. A vice president/personnel director, Norman Brown, studied her resume for some time, then said, "You haven't much experience or training. Why ever did you expect to get such a job?"

"I've been in intense training for some days. What I need is true experience."

"True experience?"

"Yes, the sweaty grubby floor life, the hustle and chaos of the exchange. I feel I was born for such excitement, plus the goal of financial gain."

Brown smiled. He was a middle-aged man with the usual midnight blue suit and conservative tie, probably a pillar of whatever community he called home. "You sound like a woman on a mission."

"Dedicated people tend to be boring, but at the moment I feel dedicated to this work. I'm carried forward by enthusiasm."

"Enthusiasm is important. Nonchalance, a feeling one is above the fray, can be just that, deadening. But enthusiasm alone won't turn the trick. You mentioned intense training. Please explain."

"For days, Mr. Brown, I've devoured every scrap of information I can find about the market. On line, at the library, to people I've talked to. I feel I've learned a lot, volumes."

Brown nodded. He seemed somewhat amused by Jo's approach. "Your outlook is refreshing, like a novitiate aspiring to be Pope, but one must crawl before one can walk. I can offer you an internship."

"I'll take it," Jo snapped back.

"At no pay."

"Splendid. When do I start?

"Today is Friday, the market shuts down for the weekend. How about Monday morning?"

"Delighted. Any special attire?"

"No. You'll find your fellow workers are a tasteless lot when it comes to fashion apparel. You'll be fetching coffee and performing low-level errands, but the frenzy and chaos will be there, a baptism by fire."

"I don't know how to thank you, Sir. I thought I might never get to this point. Although I haven't been at it for long."

"Frankly, it's unusual. You can thank your friend Jose Long. You're a girl with one year of college from a fly-over state, come to the big city to seek your fortune. And, Jo, you may have found it. Keep your nose clean, work with diligence, banish all thoughts of instant gratification." With that he rose and shook her hand.

Jo told her coffee shop manager that she'd take shifts on Saturday and Sunday if need be, but otherwise she was resigning.

"But you're a great barista," he responded, somewhat surprised. He felt he had given this Nebraska girl a break. He was still puzzled over what or where this Nebraska she spoke of might be located.

"I've got a new position on Wall Street," she responded.

"Wall Street," he reacted, "big bucks."

"No pay. I'll be an intern."

"A step down the ladder?"

"No. I intend to work with diligence."

This puzzled him. First Nebraska, now diligence. He decided to drop the subject, signing her up for the two weekend shifts, then, wishing her well.

Meanwhile, in Vermont, Tim, living in a type of yurt with an oil heater and an electric lantern, found he had adequate time to unloose his creative juices. He had started a second book, mostly fiction, but partly autobiographical. He could then skip back and forth between the two works, and had toyed with the idea of beginning a third.

The beginnings of books had their greatest appeal. At times starting a book of beginnings had darted about in his brain cage. Although he was taken with this, his second effort, sandwiched in between his tend-the-goats chores. He was beginning to hate goats. Their odd looking faces and their bleating, the young ones jumping in the air and standing on boxes or fence posts. But he enjoyed the country life and his hardy, affable companions, always with a ready smile, a word of encouragement, a pat on the back, a smart quip, a wink and a smile.

His new book opened with these words: "When I was seven I killed my parents. Don't get me wrong. It's not as bad as it sounds. I didn't do it out of spite. I was not a spiteful child. Of course I write this as an adult and in retrospect I see the act as a career move.

"We were living in Paris at the time. Both parents aspired to be artists and had chosen a Bohemian lifestyle, supported only by a trust fund. The three of us were struggling to learn French and to this end they had pushed me into a nearby elementary school where I was the source of derision because of my language ability, or lack of it, and perhaps my large ears, lack of personal hygiene, ill-fitting clothing and several other items too personal to mention.

"One evening we were seated on the cornice of our shabby building, feet dangling over the edge, admiring a view of the Seine and the Eiffel Tower when Mama asked me to fetch a bottle of cheap red wine from our apartment below. I knew that particular cornice stone was loose and when I returned with the wine and they were sharing it out in small glasses I simply made a running start and gave each a hardy shove.

"They toppled over the edge to certain death. Not certain. I was told Mama made a few gasps on the pavement below as she lay dying. I pushed the corner stone after them. It fell smack on Papa's head flattening it for fair.

"Of course the trust fund would come to me. But, better yet, I was sent to live with Grandmama in her Manhattan tower. Quite rich, you know. I enjoyed the good life, until I reached the age when she could send me off to school in Switzerland. That experience wasn't as frightful as Paris because everyone spoke English, even though we were required to learn various languages.

"Here it was that I plotted various ways to do Grandmama in free of detection. I waited stealthily until she would send for me during the various holidays that cropped up one after another during the year. The Old Girl outwitted me, keeping me in one school or the other, always far from the States, until I was twenty-four.

"At that juncture, Grandmama was in a splendid old folks home, a drooling wreck, her memory long gone, living only from one meal to the next. As a her sole heir, I contented myself with the waiting game, living in her luxury condo, enjoying my trust fund, making a list of ways I might spend her money once she was gone. A second fund under the guidance of a law firm and accounting firm, set up to watch one another, paid the servants and the necessary bills.

"Yet I was less than totally in harmony with my surroundings. Certainly they were luxurious. I had every comfort including affectionate upstairs maids. But still, I wanted it all. And there was Grandmama seemingly on a track to live forever, wasting away her fortune for luxurious accoutrements she could hardly enjoy.

"The old girl was foxy. I'm not talking about looks or charm. She suspected I had eliminated my parents, given the circumstances. And prior to plunging into dementia she had arranged for a body guard to be present during my visits to her affluent digs. One advantage, they provided someone to chat with as she drooled, made animal noises and rolled her eyes in dramatic fashion. The eye rolling would have been less irritating had the two been coordinated.

"Obviously I was attractive to women because of my wealth and social status. I had dallied with several, discarded them, until I met what might be described as my soul mate, Bugsy. She had absolutely no conscious and was up for most anything.

"My plan was original, imaginative, but possibly too complicated. But I felt I could control Bugsy. That was certainly key. She had worked as a practical nurse, a companion to the dying. And had assisted in hastening more than one death, but no one had raised an alarm because the survivors were well pleased and it was assumed the deceased felt the same.

"The two of us were married and then booked a honeymoon cruise to the islands. As planned we left the vessel to check out Bermuda and Bugsy re-boarded with a group of merrymakers and managed to sign me back on board without suspicion. That evening, she contrived to lure a crewmember to her cabin, a handsome young man by the name of Claudio. She told him her husband was gay and would be away for the night.

"As planned, she slipped a knockout drop into his drink and while he sipped and she slipped out of her slip he shipped out to lala land. Summoning a stateroom steward she demanded he be removed, which was done immediately.

"The following morning after breakfast she asked for a private interview with the captain which was granted.

"I'm afraid my husband has been drowned at sea," Bugsy related, dabbing her eyes with a frilly hanky.

The captain seemed alarmed and said, "He fell overboard?"

"No, he was thrown from our balcony shortly after we sailed last evening."

"By whom?" the captain inquired.

"A young crewman, Claudio by name. Quite the Romeo. He befriended me."

"Befriended? What does that mean exactly."

"Let's leave it at that, Captain. Just believe my husband has been deep-sixed, tossed from this vessel like a piece of trash or is it flotsam?"

"There must be more to it than that?" the captain demanded.

"Perhaps my lawyers will explain to the judge the details."

"Madam, we are on the high seas. The law here is the law of the seas. In fact there is very little law. You might say that I as captain am the law."

"High seas, low sea, it might be an embarrassment to this ship and to the parent company which seems to be constantly embroiled in nasty things occurring during cruises."

"You have a point there. I seem to detect a plan."

"You mean such as blackmail?"

"Of course not, may I call you Bugsy?"

"You may."

"What I mean Bugsy, is I could see awarding you a monetary gift for the loss of your husband if we could put this thing behind us."

"I can understand that, Captain. But the amount would not be outstanding. I will need a spot of cash because my spouse went overboard wallet, credit cards, cash and all. So maybe five thousand dollars."

This brought a smile to the captain's face. "Very reasonable, Bugsy. But how do we account for the loss of your loved one?"

"He got drunk and fell over the side. Happens all the time."

"All too often, I'm sorry to say."

"But Claudio must be punished."

"Of course. What do you have in mind?"

"They struggled and Claudio either passed out or was knocked out. I doubt if he even knows the harm that was done. So I suggest he not be told. Simply leave him ashore on the next island. I'm sure you can think of something."

"Right. We must have had some complaints about his amorous activities. Done and done. I'll have the cash for you by nightfall. But if you don't mind, I'll have someone discreetly look around the vessel in case your good spouse slipped away and is hiding someplace."

"You are a prudent man, Captain. God bless you. And I will need a death certificate because a high and low search will turn up nothing faintly resembling the dear departed."

The plan was for Bugsy to slip a needle to the old girl, then inherit the estate as the sole heir, then rejoin hubby who was beachcombing in Bermuda under an assumed name. But with a fortune in hand, Bugsy might be torn, rejoin her assumed dead spouse for a life in exile, or hire a hit man. There must be a local in Bermuda who would do the job for next to nothing.

Tim looked over his manuscript and was not pleased. It needed to be fleshed out and he didn't think it was worth the candle. In his heart he pled writer's block and thoughts of rewriting Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing danced in his head. He had never been satisfied with Hero's treatment. And anyway, the goats required his attention. What's a goatherd to do?

**Chapter 14**

Jo's rise on Wall Street would have been amazing except for the fact that she earned the right to become a floor trader by dint of long hours of study and close attention to the daily grind. A formula that generally succeeds, given normal intelligence.

But she had narrowed her field of the dozen little Indians to ten, Nine if you count Brian Armstrong who she had caused to drop out of school after the Aids rumor. Victor Arias had been crossed off after the pay-off. Now Jose Long was out, not only out, but an ally in his vengeful thoughts against the JPs.

So, after more or less bonding with Jose Long in their twin desires to become super rich and seek revenge, she was in a place where she longed to be and the cash began to roll in.

Thus positioned, she decided to start at the top of her diminished list. First name, Mike Ayers, a jock. She had time and the money was flowing and the good times were rolling. She was making payments on a high rise condo complete with doorman and spa. Jo dated occasionally and got together with Jose now and then, also through e-mail and phone. The two of them agreed on victim Ayers and Jose hired a private eye to scope him out.

Jo had decided to start with his parents for no particular reason and she had no particular plan. She found they had a palatial home on Maryland's Eastern Shore. The elder Ayers had been a short stop and a punch and judy hitter, spending his career with the Cleveland Indians.

The wife, Janet, spent time every weekday morning at a health club. Jo flew to Ocean City on a Thursday, rented a car and spent the night in a Motel Eight, staking out the health club minutes before Janet Ayers usually ended her session. She had never laid eyes on the woman, but she had studied photos of mother and son.

Waylaying Mrs. Ayers at carside, she blurted out, "I'm Mary Jane, did Mike tell you about me?"

Janet stared at her in disbelief. "Mike who?"

Jo could hardly keep from laughing, she actually had no plan other to confront Mrs. Ayers. "Your son, Mike. He and I. Did he confide?"

Janet took a step back and asked, "Confide what?"

Jo pulled a pleading face. "The pregnancy. We're having a baby."

Janet Ayers took a deep breath and finally asked, "You and who else?"

"Me and Mike."

A knowing look crossed Janet's face. "You want money." It was a statement, not a question.

"No. I simply want your blessing. You'll be the grandmother, and your husband."

"My husband?"

"Yes, the grandfather."

"My husband, the grandfather," Janet repeated slowly, then asked, "Why are you wearing a headscarf?" The sky was blue, the sun shining, the thermometer pushing eighty.

Jo paused for a long moment, then said, "I'm Muslim. Our son, and I hope it is a boy, will be a proud Muslim, a Jihadist."

"Your name is Mary Jane, is that what you said, and you're a Muslim?"

"Not my real name. You couldn't pronounce my real name. You couldn't handle my real name. It's well known in the Arab world. My world. The world that will someday know that Mike and I have given our child to the Prophet."

"You're giving your child to a prophet? I mean, am I supposed to believe this?" She looked around for a trick camera.

"I wanted you to know, Mother. For even though Mike and I will never marry, no joyful wedding, no friendly advice, I simply want to spend a brief moment." She lurched forward and gave Janet a quick embrace, then backed away.

Mrs. Ayers seemed stunned. "This is a put on, isn't it?"

Jo pulled a sad face. "You may think this is a stunt, but you will know soon enough. A possible baseball Hall-of-Famer, the grandfather of a Muslim child devoted to the cause of the Prophet. What a modern combination. What an international story it will make."

Jo, who had basically been winging it, the idea of a baseball great, the grandfathering a Jihadist had come out of the blue. She made a sad little motion with her right hand, then turned and stalked off. Her car was parked just around the building and she had soon pulled off the headscarf and was headed for the airport and a flight to JFK.

**Chapter 15**

Over cocktails in Manhattan, she regaled Jose with the story of her encounter with Mrs. Ayers, the two laughed until they almost cried, particularly during the third drink. They went over the story, repeating every detail until both knew it by heart.

"Now what?" Jose finally asked.

I don't know," Jo replied, recovering slightly. "Do you think Mike is smart enough to know he's being conned?"

"It doesn't really matter," Jose replied. "Some damage has been done. The game's afoot, as Sherlock often said."

"Game on," Jo agreed. "Let's give it a few days and make a few more barrels of money."

On the Eastern Shore, Janet Ayers called her son. "What the hell have you been up to, you stupid Pollack?"

"Mom, I'm not a Pollack."

"If I'm a Pollack, you're a Pollack and as dumb as they come. Drop everything and get your stupid ass out to the Eastern Shore. Your Dad and I have some well-cooked bones to pick with you."

"Mom, I can't leave. There's practice, the coach wouldn't understand. You know there are classes here too."

"Like you attend classes, Mike. Like you're some kind of scholar. There's girls, aren't there, girls on campus?"

"On and off campus."

"That's college, isn't it? Sports and girls. Why the hell did we ever send you to college? You should be learning a trade, or selling used cars. What's to become of you?"

"I'll get job offers."

"You be home by sunup or you'll never smile again." She slammed down the receiver, one of the last land lines on the Eastern Shore.

Days later, Jo examined her list, singling out David Barns for study. He was a Plock, intelligent, family wealth, an investor of his money and that of others, had graduated and living in Manhattan. She and Jose had discussed him.

"Apparently, he's bisexual," Jose had said, "but definitely leans toward the feminine side. Sarcastic, wise ass, not my cup of tea. I hope we can cook up something nasty where he's concerned."

Jo guessed he had done some hurtful things with Jose as the target. She was thus surprised when she received a phone call from Barns who asked her to join him in his apartment to smoke the peace pipe.

The "peace pipe" were his words. She called Jose and suggested Barns would like to bury the hatchet in her head. "Any advice?"

"Take him at his word. What harm could come to you in the heart of this city, which incidentally has no heart. Let me know the outcome and we can tailor our evil devices from there."

"Yes, my captain. I shall carry our banner to the enemy. We have our plot and they seem to have theirs. No shoe in the river this time."

"Bravo, Jo. Beat the drum, sound the brass, hunker down with the horse's ass."

So it came to pass.

She entered his apartment at six on a Friday. A gracious host, two bowls, one of cashews, the other stuffed olives were on the coffee table when Barns waved her to a seat. He asked what she would drink and she opted for red wine, any kind would do.

He brought the filled glasses from a wet bar against the wall. Another wall consisted of windows overlooking city scenes, not a park in sight. They were twelve stories above the city. A clutter of city buildings as dusk was descending, a metal structure with blinking light. Jo kept watch for peregrine falcons. She had heard there were nesting pairs in the city, stealthily apprehending feral pigeons as their major food source. They were great favorites of retired individuals who sometimes attempted to rescue the young who fell into street traffic.

Barns had opted for white wine, raised his glass toast like, muttered, thank God it's Friday, them both sipped. He stared at Jo intently and then remarked, "I know your history."

"I can imagine. You even witnessed some of the more violent and garish episodes. Tell me, what was your role at the JP house?"

Barns hesitated only a moment, then said, "Let's not relive old crimes. I referred to your coming to the big city, getting your feet on the ground, experiencing the American dream."

Jo laughed. "Wake me if I'm still dreaming."

"Our mutual friend, Jose Long, gave you a leg up, if you don't mind the term. He never really fitted in with the JP brothers."

"Chicken and egg," Jo replied. "Did you clutch him to your hearts, or bully the wretched misfit. That is did you give him the opportunity to fit in?"

"He was our little Chicano boy. Members would make jokes, such as a Chicano family had a boy and named him Jose. Later they had a second boy and named him Hose-B."

"Sounds like full time comedy central with buffoons as writers. Did you ever consider Jose's feelings?"

"Those were carefree college days. You go with the flow, or roll with the punch. Survival of the fittest."

"I never thought of higher education as a primitive jungle environment," Jo remarked. "Something more gentile might be in order."

"Boys will be boys, Jo. You found that out the hard way. Did you and Jose talk about your coming here for a confab?"

The question struck Jo as bizarre. Why would he care? Or, why hadn't he invited Jose to tag along? She lied and said no, then added, "Just you and me and the Devil makes three."

Barns said, "Let's leave the Devil out of it" and refreshed their glasses. "The JP brothers do stay in touch, particularly some of the twelve on your list, excluding Jose of course. Something popped up recently about Mike Ayers, a hapless jock, albeit from some wealth on the Eastern Shore. Are you apprised of that situation?"

"Why should I be? I'm not a JP."

"About half of us on that list are still in school, upper classmen of course. Poor Mike has a mother with the temperament of Genghis Khan. She recalled him to the family home where he may remain, possibly doing a bit of beachcombing. It seems that women are the root of all evil. It seems Mike had sexual encounters with a number of young ladies, often not entirely sober, and his memory is far from perfect."

"Poor Mike," Jo said, nodding a bit as she drained her glass. It had been a long day and she was tired.

"You've done research on us and we've done research on you. You do not fly to Ocean City and return undetected."

She had guessed that she might be under surveillance. Now she looked at Barns and saw two images as the scopolamine in her drink took over.

Barns was neither happy or sad as he viewed the slack body. He had been targeted by his JP brothers to participate in a dangerous game and he had done his part. Now to put an excuse in place for Jo's disappearance and get on with the remainder of the plan. That grisly part out of his hands. A slight shudder went through his body as he realized this was much more than a college prank.

How long Jo was out she kneweth not. She woke in a fog feeling she must find a toilet or have a serious accident. She had been laying on a thin exercise mat and struggled to a sitting position. Her wrists wore handcuffs and her right leg was also handcuffed, but to a metal chair. Thus her ability to move in a normal fashion was seriously thwarted.

She sat in a small windowless room, bare except for the mat and chair, a caged light glowed overhead. A closed door to her right and an open door just behind her to her left. By craning her neck she determined it opened to a small half bath.

After some serious scrambling and crawling, she made it to the toilet. Thus relieved she labored to the closed door and found it securely locked. She banged her handcuffed hands a few times against the door, then retired to her mat. She was not totally awake, but realized she was in deep doodoo. The JPs had captured and imprisoned her almost with her full cooperation. What next?

During the hours that followed, she had plenty of time to consider what next. She drank from the wash basin, slept and had returned to what passed for normalcy when the locked door clicked, then opened and David Barns appeared.

He looked at her rather dolefully and asked, "And how is Jo feeling on this fine day?"

She looked up with a scowl and asked, "What day might it be?"

"No matter. Time is relative."

"They'll miss me at work."

"They've been informed you were called to Omaha on a family matter."

"Jose will miss me. I lied. He knew I was meeting you.'

"We can handle Jose. Our eye is on him."

"So, you are the mastermind. Planning and carrying forward some heinous crime?"

"I am a spear carrier. Simply doing what my fraternity brothers requested."

"Shall I anticipate another gang rape?"

"We have moved beyond that life stage. There are wanton women aplenty crawling the streets and drinking emporiums of the Big Apple."

Jo smirked. "I've lost my appeal."

"Not entirely. You are sought after. But I do question this plan. I was to have delivered you to the brothers JP when you were in an unconscious state and I have dithered."

"How were you to have made the transfer?"

Barns raised a finger to indicate a time out, left the room, returned immediately with a chair, seated himself. Jo was still seated on the floor.

"I was supplied with a body bag."

Jo's eyes widened. "You were to kill me?"

"Certainly not. I'm not a violent person. In fact, I'm a vegan. There's a large dumb waiter that goes to the basement parking garage. I was to make a phone call and then when whoever it was had taken up a position in the basement, I was to lower away. This would have been a midnight escapade."

"Escapade," Jo repeated the word. "Like college high jinx."

"Possibly a poor choice of a word. But you would have been out of my hands and out of my hair. I'm an animal rights person. Give money to the cause. If I ever get an animal, say a dog, it will be a rescue dog."

Dogs, rescue dogs? Why is he talking about dogs now? Pretty cool for a person involved in a murder plot. Maybe he's simply trying to frighten the shit out of me. "You could have a dog," Jo said. "Lots of people in this type building have dogs."

"But you must walk the dog," Barns responded.

"Surely you can afford a dog walker."

"Why have a dog if someone else walks it?"

"Why indeed? Maybe to rescue a poor pooch from an early grave."

"I donate money for that purpose. So it's like a virtual dog, or a series of dogs."

"An imaginary dog," Jo tossed in.

"Something like that. I can't save the planet alone, but there are other people like me."

"Rich and single?"

"Not necessarily."

"Vegans?"

"Possibly vegans. They are on the cutting edge, the elite foodies. Discriminating."

"What about vegetarians?"

"A dime a dozen. Eating vegetables. What's the big deal."

"But vegans eat vegetables."

"We have choices. Take nightshades for example. Like tomatoes. We can choose whether we eat them or not. Whether we deem them wholesome. And so called dairy products. What has an egg to do with a dairy?"

Jo thought for a moment, then said, "I don't know. They keep them in the same section in the grocery. The dairy section, the cool section. Do you eat eggs?"

"If I have an omelet, I may have an egg white omelet. Again, discrimination."

"What's wrong with the yellow?"

"Several things. For one, that's where the embryotic chick develops if the egg is fertile."

"So you'd be eating the whisper of a chicken."

"Yes. I like that whisper."

"But if you have an egg white there would be a yolk somewhere. So, for whatever reason you're devouring only the white, the risk of aborting a chick fetus remains."

Barns smiled. "You're tricky, Jo. I'll tell you a little joke, or as a pun, yolk, that we foodies enjoy. If the barnyard wants to give a notable animal ham and eggs, the chicken makes a contribution, but for the pig it's full commitment."

Jo had grown tired of being trussed up like a Christmas goose and laying on her mat. Now she was being tormented with lame humor. "How about taking these cuffs off me and fixing some breakfast. Or should we slip out to the Pancake House?"

Barns blinked in disbelief. "You're my prisoner, Jo. I can't let my frat bros down."

"One of your frat bros is Jose. I lied to you. He does know I came here. So rustle up the second body bag. It looks like the beginning of something big. Mass murder."

"Come now, did you really lie. Innocent you?"

"Damn right. If you're bugging his digs, you'll soon find out. He'll be beating the bushes for me. Unless you sent my stunt double to Omaha he's probably on to you about now. What day is it anyway?"

"It's Monday afternoon."

"You are toast, Dave. Wake up and smell the coffee. When the cops break in and find me in handcuffs and you with a body bag, you can expect a long stretch in that gray hotel. Now get these cuffs off me and let's talk. Maybe I can save your sorry ass."

Dave thought a moment, then produced a key. He gave Jo a spare toothbrush and let her freshen up in his large bathroom, all the while brewing a fresh pot of coffee. His vegan lifestyle permitted cream. After coffee, they hit a nearby bistro for steak and eggs.

Jo used her cell phone to check in at work and promise to be on the job the next day. Then she called Jose and left a message that she was OK.

"I can help you," Dave said over their early evening meal. "I can invest money for you. No charge."

Jo fought back a grin. She could probably invest money for Barns with her spot on the floor. "How do you approach a client, Dave?"

"First we ask what the goal is. That's after we find out how much money we're talking about. Half a million's about the minimum for our purposes."

"What about the client's purposes?"

"Let them eat cake. We're in business to make money like everyone else. There are basically two goals, growth funds or some type of fiscal instrument, or cash flow. I prefer the cash flow, live today, screw tomorrow. Then we tell them the risks, usually using a scale of one to five, five being the high risk. Normally a prudent person would pick between two and three. Then we go from there."

"Where do you go from there?"

"Do our best to stay within the law and have reasonable ethics. From time to time rumors crop up about financial advisors taking advantage of clients."

"Screwing the public?"

"Along those lines. We're in business for profit. It's our job to figure out how much profit or growth would satisfy the client and how much profit we might rake off without raising a great hue and cry."

"A fine line."

"Truly."

"So I'm on the floor, watching the market minute by minute. There are machines that can make trades quick as a cat can wink its eye. So you can help me. The fact is I can help you. Just as I help Jose. And that my friend is why he helped me get the berth as a trader. We're in business together, both on the road to riches, me a novitiate and he, already rich and getting richer. No problem adding a third member. All good things come in threes a priest once told me."

"Is that thing about a blinking cat a Midwestern colloquialism?"

Jo was thoughtful and then replied, "Possibly."

"Is what you two are doing considered inside trading?" Barns questioned.

"I don't think so. Ask your shyster."

"At any rate the three of us should get together at a (and Jo chuckled at this) a neutral location, free of sinister shadows."

"I like that sinister shadow thing," David tossed it. "It could embrace more than one facet of our lives."

"Exactly. Your frat bros might be out to get you as well as Jose and me after your betrayal. The stalwart bros sans mercy."

"Yes, we must keep the vessel on an even keel. So, why don't you huddle with Jose and then give me a call. In the meantime I'll watch my backside and make up some self-serving double domed tale to ward off the famished beasts. Or you could simply call off your bloodthirsty quest for revenge and announce it to the world."

Jo smiled sweetly. "Who would believe me? And would my life be worth living without a goal to achieve? I'm not even approaching the fifty yard line. My worthy opponents can smell both mendacity and fear. Jose has ample reason to turn against his snickering brothers. You on the other hand inhabit a type of no-man's land. As the French idiom goes - neither wolf nor dog - twilight, when the two are indistinguishable.

"I understand, Jo. Perhaps I lack backbone, or might be the quite stupid individual. Stupid, but rich and well placed."

"And hence, quite dangerous."

David laughed in delight. "Until we meet again. I'll wait your call."

**Chapter 16**

Jo was in irregular touch with Tim, still helping tend the goat farm in Vermont and working on one novel, or another. She called with the thought in the back of her head to entice him to the city. She had an apartment that would lend itself to the writing persuasion, was bringing in enough cash to support a robust lifestyle plus more to stash. But when she called he monopolized the conversation with a new book he was reading.

"Sensational, that's what the critics are calling it. I know I've been inspired. I'd send you my copy, but I'm not finished. I may never finish. It's that kind of book!"

"What kind of book might that be?"

"Surprising. It's also hard to find. The folks who wrote it self-published. They never expected such a furor. I'm told the film industry is into a bidding war over the rights."

"And the critics who have read it find it praiseworthy in every way?" she questioned.

"That could be. But apparently no one has ever read it all the way through. It's that kind of book!"

Jo was plainly puzzled. "There is a plot?"

"Of course. The mother of a child takes a job as a nanny for the adopted parents. You see the foster mom is married to the genetic father of the child's dad who meets, but does not recognize the nanny because she was hitchhiking on the dark night of conception. Also, he has lost part of his brain in a mowing accident."

Jo laughed. "It would seem the author, whoever he or she might be, has lost a generous portion of grey matter."

"That's one of the interesting parts. The novel was co-authored by a book club who wrote it in a single weekend on the scrap end of a newsprint roll from a newspaper publishing company. They used pens, copy pencils, crayons and even marks-a-lots among other things."

"Holy, Christ," Jo almost gasped. "What's the book called?"

"Naked Came the Nanny." Tim paused for a moment to catch his breath, then continued. "The large roll of newsprint was then cut into sections and assembled in a random fashion and rushed off to a vanity house."

"Novel," Jo commented, all thoughts of talking sense to Tim on this day flown away.

"You bet. Critics applauded the system as an historic first, although up until now no one has managed to read the work completely through. Another first."

"It's amazing they could assemble a common theme," Jo said.

"Possibly the third first. This book club has been together for many years with the same membership and no new members admitted. It is diminished somewhat by natural deaths, plus two and a possible third suicide, a striking number for such a small group. So, over the years these members have fallen into a pattern of thinking alike and become skilled at non-verbal communication. A sizable grant has been awarded to a group of psychotherapists to probe this interesting, but highly regarded, situation."

"It does captures one's interest, but why highly regarded?" Jo asked.

"Well," Tim replied. "That's getting away from the novel, but other members anticipated the suicides and seemed to know exactly what the perpetrators were thinking at the time of the final act."

"You seem to know a lot about the novel and its inception," Jo remarked.

"I've read every scrap I could find in print, or on the web. Getting away from that interesting topic, we've seen real changes and some groundbreaking progress of late here on the goat farm."

"Let's save that for another time, Tim. I've got to run. Hoping you'll come to the city soon. Love you."

"Right back at you."

The conversation had given Jo space to reconsider her relationship with Tim Blake. The romantic notion of running off to a goat farm in Vermont and using that setting to pen a novel had overwhelmed her young lover. Perhaps it was time to snap him back to some form of reality.

He was surviving in a subculture and so was she. Hers was about money. Not just money, but making money from money without contributing a shred of anything positive to society. It was a great game, just as war and espionage were great games. Those in the trenches were peasant slaves who plowed the fields and produced the stuff that fed the pleasure seekers.

The novel Tim had ranted about was a subculture wrapped in a subculture. Jo was not totally ignorant. There had been snippets in the main stream press. It had been framed by something like a book club, but not exactly, more like a tight circle of pot smokers in Colorado or one of those places where that pastime is legal.

There had indeed been a self-published novel and word had been deliciously leaked out little by little about the bizarre if fictional phalanx of semi-crazed authors. The work was published in extreme limited edition and also truly impossible to read all the way through with any successful attempt at comprehension. And Tim had bought the story full cloth.

A pair of other facts bobbed into Jo's consciousness - The first, she still loved Tim, the two had encountered great fun together and might continue their trot down that rosy road in the future. The second involved goats. She could envision a trio of goats coming to the city and reuniting with Tim in her Manhattan apartment. Not the goats and Tim in the apartment, but simply Tim. The goats figured elsewhere in her devious plan.

**Chapter 17**

While what was left of the JP dozen were keeping an eye on Jo with their private eyes and network of friends, she was actively watching them through a discreet private detective agency which was not above planting hidden recording devices.

One of the Plocks, a Robert Griffin, was the proprietor of a large art museum bordering Central Park on the east. He was an importer-exporter of pricy objects d'art. But what caught Jo's attention is that he practiced Paganism in the ancient Greek tradition.

Clustered around him were others who professed to follow that tradition, either for hedonistic reasons, or which seemed less likely, conviction. One of the group was David Barns, the frat brother Jo had befriended in an unconventional manner.

Aware of Barns' daily habits, Jo sat in wait for him at the Starbucks adjacent to his building.

Settling in, they sat facing one another across a narrow table, each armed with a concoction that somehow passed for coffee.

"How goes the day?" Jo questioned.

"Tolerable. What strange quirk of fate brought you to my part of the city just after the day has devoured the dark? Although I'd rather not know. Perhaps we could both empty our cups and be off to the day's occupation."

"Not on your life."

"The answer I was hoping not to hear. So, read me in on your latest evil plot."

"Religion," Jo replied.

"Of course. Seeking your better angels. How can I be of service. The Reverend Barns waits with wild anticipation, but mainly trepidation."

"Some seek a supreme deity, others are polytheistic, there are heathens among us along with fungus, but I enjoy the word pagan. Know any?"

"You go first," Barns said.

"Frat bro Robert Griffin."

"A trader in fine art, doing very well at it. Of course some art is modern, some art is ancient, possibly dating to pagan times. Take Stonehenge for instance."

"Hardly an item to grace a museum."

"It would be awkward, but Bro Griffin would acquire it if he could. He is the go-to man for all art modern, ancient and in-between."

Jo glanced at her watch. It was early, but she did have to change and be on the floor when the market opened. "I'm interested in his pagan parties. You've attended."

"You know, don't you?"

"Of course. Never ask a question the answer of which one doesn't know. A shyster maxim."

"I've joined in the festivities on occasion. It's like a holiday party or a Thanksgiving dinner. Nothing out of the way."

"There is drinking, possibly singing and other boisterous activity," Jo questioned.

"To an extent," David agreed

"And the ritualistic killing of small animals such as chickens."

"You know my vegan inclinations. I would object to such practices."

"Silently?"

"Possibly. To make an issue of it at such a gathering would be seen as gauche. You know how many chickens are cruelly slain in this country alone each day just to stoke the fires of Colonel Sanders and other such eateries?"

"Probably thousands."

"Think of chicken wings."

Jo chuckled. "All those wingless chickens."

"I'm certain all the little body parts are put to good use."

"Feathering many a nest."

"So, I object to animal cruelty," David said. "And I may have stood by after a drink or two and witnessed such an event. That is an untimely death. How I would like to see all living things blessed with a full and contented existence. But, oh, not so in reality. If we no longer consumed the meat of fowl of any type, there would be no mass production of same, so many would never see the light of day."

"And therefore never be subjected to pagan rituals. So it's a chicken an egg quandary."

"If you say so. You are accosting me this fine day to discuss poultry?"

"Merely a segue. The parties are held monthly I am given to understand in the large basement of the art gallery. It is also the storage area for statuary of various kind which interests me not at all. But there is ample space."

"If you are asking, it is a huge room with adjacent smaller rooms, for what purpose I knoweth not, except for the usual toilet facilities."

"What I would like you to do, first hand, second hand, third hand, disguising your involvement if possible, is to let slip to Bro Griffin that goats are available in the city."

"Animals?" David questioned in surprise.

Yes, small horned animals, favored by pagans as walking hand in cloven hoof with the devil. Goats. Not just one, but maybe three, hanging around Red Hook with no place to go."

"Red Hook!" David spoke the location with some distaste."

"I'm thinking Red Hook. There are facilities there. Spaces to occupy."

David smiled and savored the words - "Goats in Red Hook. What a difference a day makes. I rose happily to greet the dawn on this day. Now, look at me. A broken man, saddled with a devious and very likely disastrous message. But since we seem to be in league, I shall endeavor to do your bidding. As you say, keeping myself in the deep, deep background."

Jo drained her cup. The game was afoot.

Her next step was to make a carefully timed call to Tim. Fairly late at night when the goat tending chores were through for the day, after his hardy farm dinner and before he had too ample a helping of whatever type of cheap wine was the order of the day. What writing he performed was committed in the morning.

Her first question to Tim was, "Do goats ever die?"

"Of course they do, Jo. They're mammals just like us."

"Just like us?"

"They have four legs and lack the gift of speech. Some are quite social."

"I have a project that involves one of the PJ dozen. Robert Griffin to come to the point."

"A rich boy," Tim replied. "Involved in the arts, head in the clouds, but feet on the ground. Hail fellow well met."

"Quite a descriptive series of cliches. You two still in touch?"

"Heaven's no. His head may be in the cloud, but his nose is in the air. He talks with those who communicate only with God."

"But not a Bostonian of the Back Bay variety?"

"No. No. Native New Yorker. I'm thinking of telling people I'm a native New Yorker. It has a certain ring to it, a certain mystique, opens doors that might remain tight shut."

"Does sound better than goat farmer. I have two reasons to call. First I'd like you to come to the city and share my adequate digs and write while enjoying my more than adequate earnings."

"What! Live off a woman!" He feigned outrage, then softened his tone. "You caught me at the right time, Jo. I miss you and am overly strung out on goats and cheap wine. Plus the cuisine ain't nothing to write home about."

"I also need three goats."

"Three goats? In the city?"

"Yes. I've heard all good things come in threes."

"What would become of those goats?" Tim's voice contained a note of suspicion. He might be tired of his goatherd tasks, but he felt a certain responsibility for the animals."

"They would be made available to your frat bro, Robert Griffin."

"Old Bob has a need for goats?"

"An unfelt, or unknown need, but a seed of a need that would blossom to maturity, ripen to a strong desire. First of all, goats have been a menu item in many countries and the mind of man runs not to the contrary. They are slaughtered on a regular basis to meet certain needs."

"Meat," Tim responded.

"That might be at the top of the list. Do you have strong objections to goat slaughter?"

"They contribute a product here on the farm. Occasionally a rogue goat might be slaughtered, or sold for slaughter. These three goats you speak of. They are to be featured at a goat roast?"

"Here is the plan, Tim. Griffin is one of the PJ twelve. I've crossed two or three off the list so far. I'll explain that when you get here. Griffin, either for sport or conviction, although I can't imagine conviction, is a Pagan and has gathered a group of so-called Pagans around him. They meet maybe once a month in the basement of his art museum to raise hell. A Pagan form of hell.

"I don't know who they worship or why, or if they simply interact, but so far they have been known to sacrifice chickens. My plan is to get them to notch up to goats, then nail Griffin with animal cruelty. It may or may not work, but it's worth a try."

"You would trick my frat bro into killing one or more goats?"

"Exactly."

"Sounds like good fun to me, but how would you do such a thing."

"With some difficulty. You would take the first step and singling out the trio of goats and having a chip planted in their bodies wherever chips are planted. That chip would contain Griffin's full name, address and phone number. Evidence that would be hard to refute."

"Not bad. But quite tricky and very risky."

"You don't mind the goats being slaughtered?"

"To a Pagan god? Shit no. I'd like to watch."

"Wouldn't everybody. And wouldn't it be grand to make that possible through the magic of video tape, possibly surveillance cameras, certain to be spotted around an art museum."

"I'm in, Jo. I'll be happy to shake the goat crap off my Wellingtons. When do we start."

"Let's start with the goats and the chips. If you can get the chips planted then somehow segregate the Vermont three."

"I'll color mark them with spray paint and let my colleagues know they've been sold to a dealer for a fancy price, cash on delivery."

"Name your price. Me, the Big Board and the Lord will provide. I'll begin combing Red Hook for suitable goat digs."

"Red Hook," Tim said, with awed surprise. "Red Hook," he repeated. The area's fame was not lost to him.

Red Hook had once been a rough and tumble dock-side area, but since largely subjected to gentrification. So many of the good old times had been sanitized with do-gooders seeking profits in their relentless quest for purity and cleanliness for the unwashed.

However, with Jose's help, Jo was able to find a largely empty warehouse with a bored illegal watchman who was willing to serve as goat sitter for a few pieces of silver. In truth his eyes brightened when he thought of the companionship, plus a tinge of nostalgia for the old country.

There was sadness on the goat farm when Tim announced he was departing for the city, sadness mixed with unstated envy. Many of the hip crowd who had once longed for the simple life were now having second thoughts. But there was some joy when Tim said he had contrived to market three of the older goats for a considerable profit.

There was very little call for the obnoxious beasts, particularly the geriatrics which hung around mainly to eat, sleep and get underfoot. He made no mention they were be slaughtered in a ritualistic manner. That would have sparked unending debate, as did other topics that folks engaged in active lifestyles would have viewed as mundane.

But Tim did wrap up his episode with the goat farm, backed his manuscripts and computer, rented a trailer and with three goats on boarded headed south for the city.

Somewhere north of his destination he sensed the animals needed water. Stopping at a service station-convenience store, he purchased a large cup and filled it from a hose to permit each beast to drink its fill. However, clumsy farmer-goat-rancher, whatever, one of the animals darted away, disappearing into the night.

Tim stood in dejected posture for some moments thinking of the absurdity of dashing off in pursuit of the escapee. Then he tossed up his hands and continued his journey, ultimately reaching the Red Hook warehouse as dawn was breaking. No problem, the illegal watchman had a small cot, TV and makeshift kitchen, rarely leaving the building.

He whiled away a couple of hours drinking coffee and chatting with the watchman who from time to time moved to caress each goat in the jerrybuilt pen he had created for the purpose. Then it was off to return both the rental trailer and car. The blessed reunion with Jo would have to wait until after the market closed for the day. But the elements were in place and the next phase of the plan would not be so simple.

In chatting with David Barns, Jo stressed that he should find a good friend of Griffin's, not connected to the fraternity, to let him on the news that a pair of goats were available in Red Hook and could be obtained by paying the watchman one hundred dollars.

"And how would he handle the goats?" Barns questioned.

"A panel truck or an SUV would do. There is a way to drive directly into the basement of the art gallery. Some prior arrangements would have to be made for the goats. The beauty part is they're a natural step up from chickens, also an ancient icon, and should delight the Pagan party goers."

"Well, it's definitely a party," Barns replied. "And believe me I want to be there when a goat is trotted out. Possibly the goat should be attired like royalty and worshiped before being sent to the Promised Land."

"That would be up to his nibs, Bob Griffin. I wish I could be on hand."

"That would be a stitch," Barns replied. "But Jo, what are you really getting out of this. This might be a minor embarrassment, but that's about it."

"An embarrassment that would hang on for some time. Griffin the goat slayer, Griffin the Pagan. Might even add a little pizzazz to his humdrum life. I'm not out to do real damage, or scar anyone for life. I'm out to show you good boys that you made a mistake and sometimes there's a price to pay. In effect you and Jose are paying that price. Tim regrets his role. I'm hoping my victims know from whence the payback is coming."

Time passed and Tim would drop in on the warehouse goat keeper now and then to bolster his spirits, bring food for the animals, a bottle and a few bucks for the keeper. The night watchman, his job was in fact 24/7, had become quite fond of the pair of goats, giving them names, Jimmy and Billy, and speaking to them as if they were his children.

Tim sensed a nascent revolt if the watchman discovered the pair were destined for sacrifice. But to him they were simply goats from a world he eagerly abandoned. His writing was going well and his social life had gained undreamed of traction.

Then the day arrived. Griffin sent a flunky who handed over a crisp one hundred dollar bill to the watchman and herded the goats into a closed van. Within minutes they were enjoying an anteroom in the galleries' basement, complete with delicious goat food and a small tub of water, the floor festooned with red mulch.

The goats had been summoned only a day before the event and Jo's ally, David Barns, would be among those attending. The party got under way just over an hour before midnight with the usual ritual of guests arriving, the first drink and a variety of small snacks. No formal dinner was ever held, but impromptu speeches began about 11:30 with spoof topics on polytheism, monotheism and Neopaganism. The more learned and less intoxicated speakers even referred to Pagans as they were known in the Roman Empire as Greek, while early Christians were largely Jewish and inherited Jewish terminology. This was at a time when Jews distinguished themselves from foreigners by religion rather than ethnocultural standards.

But no matter, by the rising level of boisterous talk from the gathering and the common sense measure of how long this might go on, Barns sensed that Griffin would soon summon the goat. He ducked into the washroom and alerted Jo with a pre-arranged cell phone signal. Jo in turn alerted some newly acquainted animal rights folks that a heathen animal slaughter was taking place in real time plus the location. She also made an anonymous call to the police using a throw away cell phone.

The result was an odd assortment of police and do-gooders converging on the art museum at a post-midnight hour. All were of course denied entry by the basement doorman who was joined by several partially intoxicated attorneys attending the party.

The attorneys asserted their rights to privacy while the police and animal rights people said there must be some law governing the slaughter of animals in the city. To which the attorneys collectively responded that animals had been slaughtered within the city limits since the time of the Indians, a practice that would likely continue.

The related excitement on the police radio alerted more than one member of the press who monitored such goings on which resulted in a type of media frenzy feed. Word got out that a goat had been slaughtered in a Pagan ritual.

Revelers leaving the celebration were braced by the press. Most refused comment, but several agreed that a goat had been slain, but it was simply good clean fun. No harm done to anyone but the goat. Such animals are killed on a daily basis in this country and abroad. Forget about it.

One tabloid ran half a page picture of a goat along with party-goers streaming out of the gallery basement, giving the episode the aura of a speakeasy raid in the twenties.

A city councilman spoke out in favor of Italians and Turks being permitted to slay goats in the city due to ethical tradition. Another demanded that Italians should only be permitted to slaughter lambs at Easter, while Greeks should be given goat slaying approval year-round. And the discussion in council chambers continued.

Because of the flap over the party, Tim heard a report on NPR that a feral goat had been captured north of the city and was being held at an animal shelter in White Plains. Deducing that it was his escaped goat, he called the shelter and suggested an implant chip might lead to the true owner.

The shelter manager ridiculed the idea of a goat having an implant chip, but Jo took over and offered to pay for a vet to check for such a chip in the goat's right shoulder. She in turn called the tabloid that had run the large goat story.

When the tab ran the large headline: Goat Owner Revealed and connected it to the Pagan party, Griffin was both puzzled and exposed. The body of the slain goat was never found and Griffin managed to sneak the live one back to the warehouse into the delighted arms of the night watchman.

Jo was satisfied. The Griffin caper complete. Griffin himself was confused - should he bask in his fifteen minutes of fame, or hide his face. He was viewed as either a hero or degenerate. Life went on. But untouched JPs were put on their guard. Jo checked her list - six down, six to go.

**Chapter 18**

Jo checked her list. Next in line was Stephen House a jock. Not only a jock, but the star running back with a full scholarship. Looking over her research, she found House was from a poor section of a medium sized Ohio city famed for its power house football teams. Wealthy fans had more than once found jobs for fathers of promising players and moved the family to that city, that school district.

Other than his fame on the gridiron, a pair of facts were of interest to Jo. First, House had no money and the school was able only to provide him with a menial part-time job that produced little cash. Also, at the moment the team was hard at practice a few days before classes had begun.

She decided to give this early season poverty a whirl.

She addressed a brown envelope to him with a brief return address: A fan. The note enclosed read: Dear Stephen - For many years a group of JP alum have made an effort to support members who have little cash. We know how important it is to have a few dollars to spend during the important college days. Dating, clothing, recreation and so forth come at a price. So you are one of those we wish to assist financially. Naturally we do this anonymously. Brown envelopes coming to you in the future will contain cash. Sincerely, Your Good Friends.

The note puzzled Stephen House. At first he dismissed it as a prank, but he was careful to tear the letter into small pieces and flush them - just in case. Financial aid, other than generous scholarships, was strictly forbidden.

Three days later a brown envelope arrived containing five one hundred dollar bills. House opened the envelope in private, stuffed the cash into his pocket and once again destroyed the envelope without a glance. He could hardly believe his good fortune.

Five days later, another envelope with five hundred dollars, then a few days later another five hundred dollars. He had more money than he could spend without attracting undo attention. He feared banking it. He quit his job in the school cafeteria, which wasn't really a job at all. He merely had to show up.

With the bulk of fifteen hundred dollars unspent, an envelope arrived stuffed with five thousand dollars. This caused him to break out into a sweat, brought on a fit of paranoia and caused him to remain in his bunk for long hours staring at the ceiling. At length he decided that was his take for the year and he must hide it and spend it carefully, perhaps send some home to his parents and get away from campus at Thanksgiving and Christmas and make rational decisions.

But five days later a brown envelope arrived loaded with six thousand dollars. Almost seized by panic, he stuffed money into toes of unused shoes, bought a new and stronger lock for his locker, returned to his job at the cafeteria. Something very strange was unfolding.

With the money flowing in, Jo could have managed the plan alone. But she and Jose were partners and they split the contributions fifty-fifty. It was something like drowning a person by compelling them to drink water. Too much cash and no apparent source. He had destroyed every envelope as quickly as possible. But there it was - money, money everywhere. His nerves were shot.

His performance on the field had suffered and the coach asked if he was preoccupied, possibly girlfriend trouble. House shrugged it off and shot back, "You can count on me, coach." He had always been a regular fellow, one of the popular crowd.

Two days before an away game in Philadelphia, an envelope with five thousand dollars arrived along with a note from his benefactors. It read: Dear Stephen - Someone suggested too much cash might be causing a hardship. Some hardship. Ha, ha. But that could be. So we've arranged a meeting after the Philly game. It named a time and a suite of rooms at a popular downtown hotel.

House relaxed. He could handle this. Finally, he was about to meet those moneyed alums and have a heart to heart talk. Surely they could advise him how to stash the cash that had flowed in like manna from Heaven.

On the field, he played his best game and was named MVP. His team mates were boisterous and suggested they hit the town. But he declined, hinting at a rendezvous of the female variety.

In fact, that's exactly what happened. He was admitted to the lavish suite by a beautiful woman in her mid-twenties. There were hors d'0euvre and drinks. They sipped red wine and nibbled a variety of treats. In fact House was hungry and ate and drank more than his share.

Hesitating for some time, not wanting to be rude, he asked his new found chum, Betsy, "Where are the others?"

Smiling, she replied, "They'll be along. They thought the game would last longer. At least that's my guess."

A half hour passed and the phone rang. Betsy answered. Hanging up, she looked at him with renewed interest and said, "They're stuck in Baltimore."

"Stuck in Baltimore," he repeated, already partially intoxicated.

"Yes, I guess it's just you and me in this fabulous suite. I suggest we make the most of it."

He nodded and finished the drink in his hand. She replenished it. He said again, "Stuck in Baltimore."

She led him into the bedroom and they disrobed. Jo had not skimped. Betsy was the cream of the hooker crop. There weren't many cameras. Just enough to record the main event.

The following day, Jo crossed him off her list. Five more to go.

A couple of days later, Tim remarked over breakfast that he failed to see how flooding a jock with cash and setting him up in a luxury hotel room with a beautiful prostitute was a legitimate way to even the score.

"It was Jose's bright idea," Jo responded. "Not much on the surface, but dark undertones. Generally, he might be proud of photos of himself having sex with a delectable hooker. But the pictures and the money and the babe coming into the life of a penniless college jock might spell trouble big time. Anyway, just giving the jerk a few sleepless nights is enough for starters. And, Jose will follow up. Life is good."

"Too good, I'm thinking," Tim replied. "I shouldn't be writing a third rate book while you bring in the cash."

"Times have changed. But maybe not that much. Do you think Hemingway was on the dole?"

"Probably not. I'm told his family had money back in Illinois."

"A lot of the people who seemed to suffer for their art came from money. Where did Monet get the money to buy art supplies then sit around in an odd flat hat with a brush in his hand?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I. But my making money seems to be what I do best and I'm never happier than when I'm with that sweaty crowd on the floor. It's like I'm part of a beast. A ravenous beast. I'm not keen on grand tours and tropical vacations. Let's enjoy life and we can as long as no one's trying to hunt us down and kill us."

Tim shrugged slightly in agreement. "Sometimes you frighten me, Jo. Also, you worry me. There are still those out there who would like to hunt you down. The more sensitive will understand House's misfortune or devious fortune isn't of his own making. Of course many are out of college, but still in touch. Keenly in touch. If they don't know your list, they've envisioned it. It is not one of their favorite things"

"We will muddle through, Tim. And two of your three goats have found good homes. Of that you can be certain. Plus one in goat Heaven." She rose and slung a purse over her shoulder. "My floor life won't last forever. Electronic is on the way. Let's think about dinner tonight and maybe a weekend matinee."

"Or rent some fliks," came the quick response.

"Cary Grant or Fred Astair?" she shot back, then was gone.

Tim pondered her choices, then decided to catch the MSNBC news before plunging into his literary activity.

He pondered his future and the idea of a job flashed through his head. The idea was quickly discarded in favor of finding an agent. Then it occurred to him that maybe he should finish the book before seeking an agent. First things first. Maybe a short story aimed at Harpers or the New Yorker. He had a couple of ideas, but fretted over a title. Which was better: "A Drug Deal Gone Wrong," or "A Drug Deal Gone Bad?" A deep breath and finally back to work on the manuscript. He agreed with Jo. Life was good.

**Chapter 19**

Jo had handed Stephen House off to Jose and was back to her passion of making money when to her surprise she received a phone call from Elmer Means. He was the next victim on her JP list and she new vaguely where he was and what he was dong, but could recall no specifics.

The call came on her cell phone while she was devouring a ham sandwich along with a bottle of some sort of mineral water on a bench in a postage stamp sized park not far from her work place.

"What a surprise," she stated after he identified himself. She was skeptical, was this a put-on?

"I was next on your list, eh?" he asked.

She couldn't remember. Was he a Canadian? Or was the "eh" some sort of affectation?

"What list?" She would be coy. The cat was still in the bag.

"You're little revenge list, my spiteful friend."

"Oh, that list. You mean the one preventing you and your chums from serving ten to twenty in state prison?"

"Come now, Jo. Boys will be boys."

"And without the protection of a college campus you'd be walking in lock step with your frat brothers, free-loading on honest taxpayers."

"Your words may have a ring of truth, but I've seen the light, given up mortal pleasure, living off the grid in a tumble down miners shack among the former gold creeks in Alaska or the Yukon, not certain of which."

"You seem to have fairly good phone reception for such a humble existence."

"I do have a battered truck. Now at the general store to load up on what we call grub. Then back to my eccentric reclusive life. The dim light of a candle and a barred door against the fearsome cry of the wolves."

Jo guessed that Means was making some sort of Hail Mary call, attempting to feel her out for her next move, possibly to make peace as he doubtless knew David Barns and Jose Long had. She wondered where he actually was calling from. "So I assume you have chosen the path of celibacy and solitude?"

"Right on target. All of us are celibate most of the time, Jo. No question about that."

"Yes, it might be difficult to spend one's waking hours totally immersed in sex. Possibly with the exception of porn stars who might find little enjoyment, but a lucrative living in the pastime."

'I am not a porn star."

"Nor am I, though I've had my moments, thanks to your frat pranks. You naughty boys."

"To my eternal regret. I do keep in touch occasionally. I've heard that the good jock Stephen House was somewhat swamped with cash. Drowning in the stuff! What a way to go."

"Did he go? I hadn't heard. Lost interest."

"If he's drowning he's in an ocean of trouble. It seems the IRS swept down upon him with search warrants in hand, found several pairs of athletic shoes stuffed with money. He's still trying to explain where it came from."

"No source?"

"None whatsoever. He said it came through the U.S, mails, but he had nary an envelope to offer as evidence."

"Poor soul. If you see him, offer my condolences."

"I'm certain he feels your presence nearby. Probably thinks of you often, but a bit tardily. What in the world might you cook up next?"

"I concentrate, Elmer, on leading a good daily life. I'm certain you're doing the same in finding the sorrows and joys of solitude. Chucking it all in in our age of consumerism. How in the world do you get by in the wilds? Nuts and berries."

"My trust fund is a great comfort to me in these sometimes dismal, but delightful days. I have made desire my servant and thus turned inward."

"Noble thoughts, Elmer. My ham on rye is gone, time for me to trudge back to the trading floor and resume the financial gain game. Great talking with you. I will think of you in the days to come."

"Of course. We must talk again."

Jo smiled smugly to herself as she returned to her chosen field.

That evening during pre-dinner cocktails she questioned Tim about Means.

"Yes, Elmer," he replied absently, still pondering the title of a short story, "he's an aspiring writer. I had him in a couple of writing classes. Clever boy, also a trust fund baby. So no money worries."

"He called me today."

The remark jarred Tim out of his reverie. "He called you?" It was almost accusatory.

"Said he's living in an abandoned miner's shack in the creek wilds of Alaska or the Yukon. Not certain which. Something of a hermit."

Tim smiled and poured himself another glass of wine. Offered Jo a refill, but she waved him away. "The last I heard he was living in Bilbao, leading the social life and pretending to write, much like I am."

"Bilbao?"

"Northern Spain. There's a Guggenheim there, wild architecture. Also a first rate fine arts gallery. You can bet a gathering and watering spot for a certain set. It may even be on that religious trail across northern Spain."

"You seem to know a lot about it."

Tim shrugged. "Just the usual. You should have stayed in school a little longer."

Silently, Jo agreed. At some point she had vowed to complete her education once she had enough money. Now she had more money than she would ever need and she was out to get more. So she would complete her list, her quest, then what? Dump Tim? Probably not. He was comfortable to have around. She could do worse. She asked what else he might know about Bilbao.

"I think it's in Basque country, that minority that causes breakaway problems from time to time. Also Bordeaux is not too far north."

"That's in France."

"Yes it is. Europe is remarkably small."

"Is Bilbao on the coast?"

"Almost." He pulled up a map on his smart phone and said that a city north of Bilbao called Portugalete might be a sea port, although a larger city a bit farther away called Santander might be a better bet. "You thinking of traveling by boat?" He indicated mild amusement.

"I'm not thinking at all. You can do the thinking this time. Find out exactly where Elmer Means is hanging out."

"Why me?"

"We're in this together. Good old rich Elmer is next on my list." She almost told Tim to begin earning his keep, but stopped short of a total blow up.

"I'll ask around." He refilled his glass and hers, then asked, "How long are you going to keep this up?"

"I'll finish the list."

"You've got the JP dozen on edge, looking over their shoulders. Take Griffin, the goat man, he might think you'll make another pass at him. He was embarrassed, but not gravely humiliated, or injured."

"That's part of the punishment. They get me once, I get them twice, or maybe more. I've never lied to you."

"Ok, I'm in for the duration. I'm a kept man and leading a dream life. Please don't wake me. I'll run down Elmer. Frat brothers usually stay in touch. In this case they seek mutual protection, probably believing that the worst is yet to come."

"Let's do dinner."

"I'll broil the steaks if you'll open the package of salad."

After dinner they would watch the news, then Jo would look over her hedge funds. She didn't need to work at all. Her investments kept a flow of money gushing in. Keeping track of taxes and giving money to this charity or that was the largest bookkeeping headache.

Finally, a Netflix film, a nightcap, then to sleep like a pair of angels.

The doorman on Jo's apartment building was a handsome Latino named Eduardo, some thought him dashingly handsome, a few of the older women cooed over him. Jo had barely spoken to him. But because her work started later than most, she had time to dally.

On this day she asked him where he lived. Flashing his broadest smile, he replied, "Spanish Harlem. Would you care to go there?"

Ignoring the question, she asked, "Are you Puerto Rican?"

"Not at all." He seemed almost injured by the remark. "I'm Cuban. My parents came here before I was born in a small boat. Mom was pregnant at the time."

"But you do speak Spanish?"

"Of course I do," he replied with pride. "Much better than any Puerto Rican you've ever met."

"I haven't really met any. Are you married?"

"No, but I do like the girls. Many, many girls."

"I believe that, Eduardo. I'd like to talk to you some time, perhaps during non-working hours. There could be a job."

He grinned broadly. "A proposition?"

"Not in the way you think," Jo replied. She shrugged. "Something might come up." Then she was off to Wall Street.

In reviewing the day's mail that evening, she found a request for her to visit the local branch of the IRS. This puzzled her because she was careful to pay all her taxes through a reliable firm of public accountants. She called their office and left a message for her personal accountant.

Two days later she received a pair of phone messages, one from her accountant, the second from the IRS - each said the same thing. The IRS request had nothing to do with her taxes. Please respond.

Rather than responding directly, she called her lawyer, also after hours and left a message asking him to respond to the IRS.

The following day the lawyer called her via cell phone and said the IRS is concerned about your giving a large quantity of cash to some college student. "Know anything about it?"

She hesitated for an instant, then replied, "No."

He asked if he might accompany her to the IRS office.

She realized he would be on the clock for several hundreds of dollars, but that would be tax deductible. "Make an appointment. We can meet there."

That evening, Tim said he had completed his inquiry into Elmer Means whereabouts and found that he was indeed still living in Bilbao, to be exact in a rather posh apartment near the Guggenheim." He had the address plus phone number.

Jo smiled and suggested they go out for dinner. Why not The Four Seasons. She would relate the beginnings of her plan over dinner.

Early the following week when Jo arrived at the IRS office her lawyer was already seated in the outer office of the local director. They were escorted in immediately to meet with a Dennis Frank, who rose and shook hands with each of them. He was on the small side, slight, with round steel-rimmed glasses, a picture of what one would picture as an IRS official.

The three were seated and Frank began. "Well, may I call you Jo?"

"You may."

"You seem to have given thousands of dollars to person named Stephen House, a senior college student. I'm guessing the two of you are related."

Jo gave a troubled look at her lawyer, then back to Frank. "I know nothing about it. I do make charitable contributions. I would think you have my entire financial records."

"We do, Jo. But any money given to a college student for whatever reason would hardly be deductible."

She raised her hands in a know-nothing gesture and remarked, "You've made some mistake."

"Not according to House. He had thousands of dollars hidden away."

Jo thought for a moment, then made a guess - "The money was in an offshore bank."

"No," Frank replied. "Most of it was stuffed in a series of shoes."

The attorney smiled, nodded his head and muttered, "How bizarre."

"Yes, it is odd," Franks continued, "But House swears you are the source."

"Just who is this House?" Jo inquired.

"A senior student. Seems to be a well- known athlete."

"Plays a college sport then. Track and field?"

"No. Football."

"That's a very popular sport," Jo commented.

"Indeed it is," the attorney tossed in.

"Are those athletes paid?" Jo questioned.

"No. That would be unethical, possibly illegal," Frank said.

"That's a pity," Jo remarked. "I've heard the sport has a large following and brings in money to the school."

"That question has come up more than once," the IRS executive agreed. "But this boy House said you had some sort of grudge against him. He gave that as the reason for the cash."

Jo was pensive for a moment, then replied. "He must have been a freshman when I left school. I've done well on Wall Street and some people are naturally envious of my good fortune. But why would he be jealous of my luck and where did the money come from? I assume his parents are wealthy."

"Quite poor," Frank said. "And he said you have a grudge against him. Not the other way around."

"I have a grudge against him," Jo said, repeating the words. "So I sent him a pile of money. Pinch me, I must be dreaming. You must have proof of some kind. Trumped up, of course, but still proof. Cancelled checks, hate notes. This is so silly."

"Not a shred of proof," Frank admitted. "Only his speculation. He claimed the money was sent in envelopes which he promptly destroyed."

"Then stuffed the cash in his shoe," the lawyer said with some glee.

"Exactly," Frank said.

"Do we have a law suit here?" Jo asked.

"Perhaps," the lawyer said, laughing. "If he still has the money maybe we can get some of it. How much is it exactly?"

"We're not certain," Frank said. "He spent quite a bit of it and kept no records. We know after the last game he was in an expensive hotel suite with a hooker. From what anyone saw of her she was thought to be top of the line. He must have blown a bundle, all in cash. His performance on the field has been spotty, but you might call him a star player. Fans and fraternity brothers might have slipped him a few bucks under the counter, but the amount seems excessive."

"These are palmy days for some folks," the lawyer said. "There might be a sportswise angel out there somewhere, or a group of fans who got together. Have you checked on other team members?"

"No, but that's one heck of an idea," Frank said. "It won't be hard to audit all the starters." Thus ended the meeting.

**Chapter 20**

Jo and Tim had talked about having Eduardo up for drinks when his shift ended, but they found it simpler to invite him for coffee and toast before his shift began. He came early in the day in street clothes. There was a changing room for the door people and others on the first floor.

"We're happy the three of us could get together," Jo said, waving the Cuban-American to a seat at the breakfast table."

"Happy to be here," Eduardo replied. "Also, eager to learn about your proposal."

"It's a holiday trip to Spain," Jo said cheerily, pouring coffee for the trio. Tim sat in attentive silence. Eduardo's ears seemed to prick up. Each doctored the coffee in their fashion.

"We have an acquaintance in a touristy Spanish city called Bilbao whom we dislike. We would like to find out everything you can about him. He is fairly wealthy and would move in glamorous circles. We would finance you to the point where you might crack these circles with your native charm and language ability. That in brief is our proposal."

Eduardo smile broadly as ever and exclaimed, "I am at a loss for words. This is so sudden."

"Yes," Tim said. "You would take a week or two vacation, you might say your grandmother is dying or whatever. You may know of a person who would substitute for you. We would pay your airfare to Bilbao, provide you with adequate, but not excessive funds and you could take it from there."

"Again," Eduardo said, "I am overwhelmed."

"I suppose that's better than being underwhelmed," Jo tossed in. "Think it over today and come back tomorrow. Same place, same time. Now we can all get on with our work-a-day world."

"There would be details," Eduardo suggested.

"Of course. But you have the meat of the plan. The potatoes and onions come later. Of course this is all in the strictest confidence."

So it was the trio parted, each with their separate thoughts. Eduardo wondered if he might be asked to eliminate the disliked individual. Tim wondered how long Jo would carry on this vendetta which seemed to have become an enjoyable pastime. Jo was pleased to have hatched a new plan and hoped for the best. She was at the top of her game.

Returning the following morning, Eduardo couldn't have been in a better mood. He would welcome a break from being pleasant, even servile, to affluent condo dwellers. "I'm on board," were his first words when Jo opened the door. He hugged her and shook hands with Tim. They were fellow conspirators.

"I have a friend who happens to be an out of work doorman who can fill in for me. I've checked out Bilbao on-line. Wonderful place. Maybe I can marry some rich bitch and settle down there. Spanish Harlem has its charm, but there are limitations. Let's talk plan."

Tim wondered if Eduardo was a bit too enthusiastic, but quickly dismissed the thought. They settled down for coffee and hot buttered bagels.

Jo had gone over a plan in her head and spoke first. "First, do you have a passport."

"Yes. Valid for several years."

"If you don't have a first rate cell phone we could provide one."

"Mine should do."

"We will give you a few hundred dollars to open a checking account. The card from that account would probably be used as simply debit. You could pay bills, draw out some cash. We would replace your salary plus expenses. But avoid the lush life. If you appear to have money you will take care of your money. You understand that?"

"Of course," Eduardo replied. "Let me fill you in. I am not a simple immigrant. I was born in this country, attended first class schools plus a couple of years of junior college. I'm not glued to the tube. I read a lot."

"I'm sorry if I offended you," Jo said.

"No problem. I do live in Spanish Harlem and I am a doorman. The pay is OK, the tips are good and I dress in a flashy uniform, but I would like to advance in the world and this is an opportunity to rub shoulders on an equal basis. I welcome the challenge."

"Just to be crystal clear," Tim tossed in, "there would also be a possible opportunity to play both ends against the middle. That is to join the enemy if you equate us and you as allies and the person you will encounter in Spain as the enemy."

"That would be dishonorable."

"And have dire consequences," Jo said. "You might consider yourself playing a dangerous game."

"But I would be in no danger unless I give way to dishonorable greed. Right?"

"Of course," Jo said. "I think we'll get along just fine. I've written out the man's name and his street address and included a brief biography. When can you leave?"

"Three days, four days. I've already mentioned this to my employer, a wink of the eye and a dying grandmother did the trick. I do have a conservative wardrobe. So, bank account and ticket and off I go." He popped a final morsel in his mouth and said, "I love bagels."

Three days later Eduardo boarded a night flight for Spain.

Not to be idle in her off hours, Jo turned her attention to the next name on her list, one Werner Freeman, who had graduated a couple of years back and had excelled as both a jock and a scholar, one of two such achievers on her list.

Freeman, handsome, powerful frame, agile brain, graduate assistant at an Ivy League university, seeking a doctor's degree in psychology. Jo considered him one tough nut to crack, but a challenge.

Her first move was to get some eyes and ears on campus. She needed a ruse that might get her to Freeman, find his vulnerability. Tim had a writing buddy who had worked briefly on the goat farm, then returned to his home in the UK, the large city of Bristol.

With the help of a few dollars, Tim recruited him to pretend to be writing a book on the changes in psychology since the time of Sigmund Freud, the well-known Austrian neurologist and the father of psychoanalysis who died in 1939.

Of course Freud, who entered the field in an effort to help unhappy people, reinvented himself more than once during the years. But his thrust remained the same - we do not know ourselves, a condition associated with repressed impulses and unconscious drives.

Tim's friend was able to find a young psychology instructor who for a small fee and a promise of shared credit, would do a series of interviews, seeking out a brainy graduate assistant as the center of attention. Of course the recruit was told similar efforts were being made at other universities in Europe and Asia.

As luck would have it, the instructor singled out Werner Freeman who happened to be the only graduate assistant in the department.

"Eureka," Jo exclaimed when Tim told her the news, adding, "The marines have landed and as sure as the Jordon will roll, we have a foothold."

Tim was often puzzled, but at heart enjoyed Jo's mixed metaphors.

Within three weeks, reports shuttled to Tim's friend in Bristol were re-directed to Jo. At that time she asked Tim to ask his friend to ask the campus stooge to, in subtle ways if possible, to look into Freeman's private lifestyle as a means of rounding out a personality profile. He was told that Freeman's name need not be disclosed in any subsequent publication.

Meanwhile in Bilbao, Eduardo was having the time of his life. Always gregarious and now fitted out in handsome clothing and a few bucks to flash, he was making friends in droves.

He had found a room in a widow's home only a few blocks from Elmer Means' luxurious apartment. And had even become slightly acquainted with the man over drinks in the babbling barroom happy hour frequented by the beautiful people, almost entirely ex-pats. The handsome Cuban was always well received, his fluent Spanish another plus in his favor among those seeking to be understood for one reason or another in the culture in which they were submerged.

Finding a seat at the bar, he asked the dark-haired beauty sitting next to him if he might buy her a drink. She gave him a quick glance and said, "I don't speak Spanish. Hit on someone else."

"But I am an American, an American returned to the land of my forefathers."

"You had forefathers in Bilbao?" the woman questioned.

"Somewhere in Spain."

"Recently?"

"Depends how you define recently."

She cocked her head and smiled. "Grandparents?"

"No. My family was embedded in Cuba for some years, then took a boat trip to Florida where I was born."

"Born but not begotten?"

"Truly. A romantic night in Havana, without a doubt. I was not around at the time."

She drained her drink and he ordered her another, wondering what that strange concoction had been and what the price might be. "Sperm meets egg and voila, a gaucho is conceived. The rest is history." She lofted her glass briefly, took a sip and thanked him.

"We have no gauchos in Cuba, not that I know of anyway. I'm a city boy. That is I've never been to Cuba. New York City is my home."

"What part?" she questioned.

"Uptown, downtown, Time Square, Central Park, all those magical places you've heard of."

"Oh, really. I'm a Brooklyn girl."

His glass was almost empty, so was his comeback. The band was playing. "Would you like to dance?"

"Why not."

The postage stamp floor was crowded and despite the air conditioning he was beginning to sweat. They did a tight fox trot for self-protection, although he loomed over her small frame.

"You were saying about your place of residence," she said in a loud whisper.

"I am of humble origins and possibly have exaggerated a point or two. I am a child of the projects, a rough and tumble world where one must do battle to survive."

"You seem well equipped for such a life. What's your name?"

"Eduardo."

"I'm Irma, Irma Goldberg. My dad runs a deli in Brooklyn. Best Reuben on the block."

"It's like old home week. It's colder than organized charity in the Big Apple. Sunny Spain is just what the doctor ordered."

"You forgot the rain."

"Yes, but generally confined to the plain."

"Now that we've exhausted our weather small talk, what next?"

"Dancing and romance."

"This is so sudden."

"Isn't it though."

"Quite unexpected."

"Like a ton of bricks."

"Is there no cliche left untouched?"

"Nothing should be left untouched."

"You're a bawdy one."

"I was hoping for a dirty girl."

"I shower frequently. Care to join me."

"It would be gauche of me to turn down such an invite."

And so the evening advanced into dawn.

**Chapter 21**

With the Spanish mission underway, the psychology instructor, Rose Jenkins, began work to interview Jo's next victim, Werner Freeman. A graduate assistant working toward a doctorate among a Halls of Ivy outpost, Freeman was one sharp cowboy and had to be approached with the utmost caution.

Jenkins knew not her undercover role, but believed she was doing an in-depth number on Freeman for a professional paper. Her reward, a small monetary fee plus the greater glory of a mention as a contributor. The publish or perish edict was still alive in the halls of academe.

Rose had been in touch with Freeman via e-mail and now sat down to their initial face to face in his faculty lounge. The time was late afternoon and two academic types were whispering in a corner. An old white haired man was reading The New York Times near the snack machines. Otherwise the large room was deserted.

Rose, notebook and tape recorder in hand sat in anticipation. She was aware Freeman had a baccalaureate degree in the field and had done considerable research otherwise. She considered his knowledge of the field superior to hers even though she was considered rock solid as an instructor.

She asked if he minded if she used the tape recorder as well as taking notes.

"Of course not. One supplements the other. May I call you Rose?"

"You may. If you don't mind, I'll call you Werner."

"Excellent, a hand-me-down from my German ancestry. Frankly, I'm rather honored to take part in such a survey."

"That makes two of us. I was delighted to be tapped. I can never learn enough about the field. It seems the public trust has gone up and down over the years. That might be my first question. What about past mistakes?"

"There have been many, starting with Freud. Balanced against that are recent successes. Half a century or more ago certain drugs began to emerge that if used correctly have a remarkable impact on psychiatric symptoms. But you're aware of that."

"The use and misuse," Rose agreed.

Werner chuckled. "Not that I'm the all-knowing authority, but a major problem has always been the definition of mental illness. One shouldn't prescribe powerful drugs for something they don't fully understand. Rose, I'm not certain I can shed any additional light on what's already known about the present state of the profession."

"Perhaps not, Werner. But I think the survey sees you as one of the new best hopes for the profession. I've been asked to send my contribution on the whole man, what you have achieved and what you hope to achieve. The future is in your hands."

Werner smiled and scratched his head, a habit he had developed through the years when faced with a sticky problem. "At times it seems the more I learn, the less I know. It can be such a muddle. That damned Sigmund Freud screwed things up for more years than one can count. But I'll stick with you if you'll stick with me." He looked around uneasily. The couple in the corner had departed. The old man was still reading his newspaper and a middle aged woman was trying to extract snacks from a machine. "Let's schedule another meeting later in the week. Maybe we can have coffee, or lunch or something, off campus. In the meantime I'll gather my thoughts."

They left it hanging. Rose worked at a college, formerly exclusively for women, now co-ed, less than an hour's drive away. They would meet at a central point.

They met three times during the next ten days, Rose attempting to draw him out. Once she questioned his future and he replied, "I may become a perpetual grad student, at least for the next eight or ten years. I have the funds and there's no telling how many degrees I might pile up. I enjoy the academic world."

Some ambition, Rose thought to herself, then asked, "Ever thought of becoming a psychiatrist?"

"Not really. You know Freud originally was not a member of that discipline. You might notice I use the words psychologist and psychiatrist interchangeably. Truth to tell, we're all simply shrinks."

"That word strikes a note of horror when one considers the Genesis."

"Indeed," Werner replied. "I've dipped into that cauldron. The Jivaroan tribes of the northwest Amazon rainforest. They may still be at it for all we know. You know there's a market for shrunken heads."

"Some might be, but it's a rather simple process. Can be done in a week."

"But the donors must die."

"Yes, but usually quickly and amid the excitement of battle unless there's a stealthy ambush. The head is removed either after or during death. The victor them cuts a split in back, peels away the scalp and face, traditionally tosses the skull away as a tribute to anaconda, thought of as a god."

"Isn't that a snake?"

"I believe so," Werner said. "Then what's left is simmered in a pot for an hour and a half. Not too long, or the hair falls out and the entire mass becomes gooey. Then it goes inside out and the flesh scraped away."

"Gooey and messy. They probably have the women do it."

"I wouldn't be surprised. The head has already shrunk, but the slit is sewn up and hot stones inserted to shrink it more. I almost forgot the eyelids have been sewn shut and wooden pegs sealed the mouth. The last steps are to replace the pegs with string of some kind, rub the face with hot sand or whatever, harden it over a fire."

"God almighty," Rose said with downcast eyes. "So that's it."

"Often a hole is made in the top so a cord can be put fixed for the victor to wear the trophy around his neck."

"To the victor the spoils. How much are these things selling for?"

"I didn't go that far. It could become a fad. Every modern shrink's office might have one."

"Time doesn't stand still, Werner. Is there a wife and family in your future?"

He actually grimaced at this question, tossing back, "I'm not that old. There are wild oats to be sewn, holidays, travel. Part of the academic joy is one sees it from that angle. Long breaks during the year. Overseas study and teaching involves even more frequent breaks, particularly in Asia."

"The world is your oyster," Rose said.

"Exactly."

The two had become quite good friends and she was beginning to wonder if her subject might be gay. One way to find out did cross her mind and he was a strong, handsome, intelligent specimen. But this was an academic assignment as opposed to a pleasure outing. Her constant flow of information to her contact in Bristol continued and was promptly forwarded to New York.

On reading and rereading the file thus far, the same question came into Jo's mind that had struck Rose - Is Werner gay? If is, how could she use that, Jo pondered. Gays were mainstreamed these days unless there was some deep dark secret for keeping it hidden.

Once again she asked her nationwide private detective agency to take a peek into the private life on one Werner Freeman, using a college age operative with extreme caution. She also sent a relay message to the Bristol contact to encourage Rose to examine his private life in an effort to get a handle on the full person, vital for a vibrant and readable report.

The private eye firm commissioned its college age (in appearance) studmuffin for the task.

**Chapter 22**

Meanwhile, back in Bilbao, Irma and Eduardo chatted as they lay in bed staring at the ceiling the following morning.

Eduardo mentioned several places he had been in Bilbao and people he had met, then casually dropped the name, Elmer Means.

Irma brightened. "You know Elmer?"

"Not really. We may have passed a few words at a party somewhere, but we've never really talked or been introduced. He was pointed out to me as something of a bon vivant."

"You can say that again."

Eduardo smiled. He had scored last night, now he was going for the fence. "He's the playboy type."

"Plays the field. Also goes for a first class Reuben."

"You know him then?"

"Intimately."

"You're not shy."

"This is sunny Spain. Everyone's on holiday. Anything goes."

Eduardo's computer-like brain spewed out: Elmer and I share at least one girlfriend. What a happy coincidence. "I'd like to meet him sometime."

"Great idea. Birds of a feather should flock."

"I may have a few feathers, but I'm not cash endowed. Moneywise he's light miles out of my league."

"Maybe even donkey years, but he's asked me to help with a project and I could use another friend with a steady hand on the tiller. So if you're willing we can pick up a few loose bucks."

"Loose living, loose bucks, I'm all for it."

"I hope you think more of me than simply a loose liver."

"Of course, Irma." He grappled her for more heavy breathing. "You're more of a loose kidney, or goose liver."

"No more nonsense. Talking spoils the moment."

"Moment? Minutes. Maybe hours."

Later that week Irma introduced him to Elmer over dirty martinis in a bistro overlooking the Guggenheim.

"So you're a New Yorker off on holiday," Elmer said. After a hearty handshake. "Your name smacks of Spain."

"Cuban," Eduardo replied. "But my ancestors came from somewhere south of Madrid. My parents were boat people who arrived in south Florida before I was born. So that's my history."

"And an interesting one it is, particularly for my purposes. Irma tells me that your stay in Spain may depend on whether you might find work. Is that so?"

"I suppose. I have no particular plan other than wholesome enjoyment. So far, Spain fits the bill. I've found my Spanish helpful in the extreme. Falling in with the accent was quite simple, thanks I suppose to my forebears. Irma says you are something of an adventurer, a dashing rover."

Elmer laughed at that description. "Hardly fitting for someone named Elmer. My parents saw fit to name me either after a glue factory or an odd gentleman named Fudd. But you and Irma would fit in to an organization I'm creating. I aspire to be an entrepreneur and I have considerable backing."

"A businessman." Irma said with a smile. She had almost finished both her martini and a bowl of mixed nuts, hoping that they would suggest dinner.

"Yes, business," Elmer responded. "What's your line of work, Eduardo?"

A broad smile and, "Anything I can find."

"Perfect. My connections and you and Irma, plus a couple of more board members and we're off and running. How about it?"

"I'm in," Irma said, "If it means money and if I get another drink and maybe dinner."

Elmer signaled the waiter, grinned and turned to Eduardo, who responded, "Count on me if money's involved and the work is light. No ditch digging or deep shaft mining."

"We're a team," Elmer offered. Another round of drinks, then off to dinner. The three hit it off well, their feelings for one another were genuine. How the two men would share Irma's affections was another matter. But obviously there was a feeling of camaraderie and share and share alike.

During meetings in the next few days Elmer unfolded his germ of a plan. It involved a hedge fund that would take in money and lend money. The company would be incorporated on the Isle of Majorca, in the Mediterranean not far from Spain.

Henry explained that there would be two other members, but they were what he called "paper members" simply to round out the five member board. The three of them would furnish the flesh and blood and so must fly to Majorca to set up the corporation.

There was no objection to that, Majorca being a well-established playground for the rich and Elmer Means paying the bills.

Eduardo couldn't believe his good luck. He was going into business with the very man he was sent to investigate, sent on a Spanish vacation at Jo McDonald's expense and now an all-expense-paid trip to Majorca with a cheerful moneyed host and a delightful girl who subs as a sex partner to both men.

He punched up Jo on his cell phone and gave her the bones of the story without dwelling overly on Irma. It was possible Jo had some interest in him, others in the apartment did. Why spoil a good thing? The skies had opened and the Lord was smiling down on him. He promised to keep Jo up to speed.

A week later the three were aboard a shuttle flight that touched down at the Palma de Mallorca Airport. Irma had gone to school on the island and told them during the flight that the island was first colonized by Phoenicians, much later enjoyed a period of prosperity under Moorish control, finally Spain and the tourist rush began in the 1950s. Residents enjoyed mild stormy winters and hot bright summers.

The trio remained in the capital city, Palma, only two nights, time enough to hit a couple of three star restaurants and see the sights. Elmer had picked a fairly remote settlement called Porreres for the business address. It was on a back road not far from the center of the island. He had rented a postal box and engaged the hamlet's sole postal employee to represent the complicated system Elmer had in mind. The worker's sole duty would be to forward mail to Elmer in Bilbao and post mail that Elmer forwarded to him.

In Porreres, the trio stayed in an old house that was billed as a hostel. During their three-day visit they attempted to meet and greet a great many citizens, stand drinks for all at the local cantina and conduct what amounted to a political goodwill campaign.

Elmer had a ready explanation for this activity. He told his two companions that Majorca was a tax haven and the more remote the business was the better. "After all is said and done, what officials want to travel to Porreres to view a company headquarters?"

There were wisdom in his words. They had rented a car to make the journey from Palma, had become lost twice on the bad roads with no directional signs. The trip took more than twice the time they had expected. If they hadn't armed themselves with the typical leather pouches of wine, called bota, the trip would have been far less bearable. As it was they arrived in the village in grand spirits ready for zombie-like naps.

So, after the goodwill tour, they drove back to Palma and booked a luxury suite. Elmer left the two of them on their own and sought out the government offices where he doled out the appropriate bribes and registered his multi-national corporation.

Back at the hotel, where Eduardo and Irma had decided to forgo the sites and renew their acquaintance with one another, Elmer announced, "We're in business."

He handed each of the two a Spanish passport. "I thought it would be better if the pair of you were registered as Spanish citizens. I bought three passports in Bilbao. I believe the former owners are now deceased."

Irma, examining her passport, found her new name, Juanita Delgado, looked up at Elmer and remarked, "I hope these individuals weren't killed for their passports. Hell of a way to make a living."

"No. I was told they were all drug overdoses. Happens everyday."

Eduardo looked at his new name and winced. He kind of liked Eduardo. "Do we have to use these names?"

"Certainly not," Elmer said. "Keep the passports. They'll probably never be needed. It simply makes it easier to register a corporation in Spain if you are Spanish. So it's pro forma only. Do remember the names. But I doubt it ever come up. We're registered and now the fun begins."

"Fun?" Irma questioned.

"The pleasure of getting our feet wet in the business world and making money at the same time. What I'd like you two to do for the present is search any type of records worldwide you can find for individuals or companies who might like to borrow money."

"I wouldn't know where to start on such a project," Eduardo said.

"At the beginning. All I'm asking you to do is come up with a list of legitimate companies that might from time to time borrow money. My staff, my secretary, will do the follow up. Briefly, I'll tell you what the business is without overwhelming you with the details. We have a hedge fund. Folks can buy shares and receive dividends. We have a banking arm that lends money, thus our profits, aside from the hedge fund. We have connections with solid financial institutions that more or less assure the public or anyone who might ask that we are sincere. Remember, a lot of these dealings are based on trust."

"That's it?" Irma asked.

"In a nutshell, yes. There's more to come later. But now let's plan a grand and glorious evening and tomorrow we'll fly back to Bilbao."

"Using our fake passports as ID?" Eduardo asked.

"Certainly not. Forget those passports. I'm off to the shower."

When he had dashed into his room, Irma remarked, "I'm glad we don't have to use those passports. Those pictures don't look like us."

"You got that right," Eduardo replied, wondering just what they had gotten into.

**Chapter 23**

Casey Stanford, the studmuffin sent by Jo's private eye to scope out Werner Freeman's true character, arrived on campus as a potential psychology transfer student simply to get a feel for the place. The administration comped him a room in an independent dorm.

For two days, Casey prowled the halls and sought out psych majors, even dropping in on Werner himself to ask a few guarded questions. He learned from talking to an assortment of co-eds that Werner was far from gay, he seemed to be a dedicated womanizer.

He was told that the handsome, well turned out Werner had caught the attention of a sorority nicknamed The Bengal Girls. Bengals being a large cat and the school mascot, the girls had a name as sexual predators. And they kept score. It was said that to date, Werner had slept with at least half of the BGs as the girls were called. And the sorority was going for one hundred percent. Achieving such goals added to the mystique and romance of college life one of the BGs explained to Casey after a roll in his temporary bunk.

"We have larger beds in the BG house," she said, smiling as she donned her attire. "Come up and see me sometime. I'll introduce you around."

"Werner Freeman is actually that active?" Casey asked.

"A flawless performer, except for the Quaker girl. But that's ancient history."

"The Quaker girl?"

"That's a don't ask, don't tell tale. Sorry I mentioned it. Thanks for the buggy ride. See you around." She was gone.

"The Quaker girl," he repeated to himself as he luxuriated in a lengthy hot shower, the water flowing over his tired muscles. Maybe he was getting too old for this, he thought. Then the word "never" popped into his mind.

Later, he inquired about the Quaker girl to his male acquaintances, but got only blank stares. As always, he e-mailed a complete report to his employer. Which was duly forwarded to Jo who immediately picked up on the Quaker girl and bounced back a reply that Casey might try spending a little time in the BG house.

He had an in with the BG house. He had met Sandi (spelled with an i) and they had enjoyed one another's company. The BGs considered a couple coupling too many times bad form - it amounted to going steady, frowned upon by young progressives still in their formative years.

So he dropped by the BG house to chat up Sandi who fortunately wasn't there. Plopped down in the lounge he met several of the denizens, all attractive young ladies. During that first foray he got a handle on Sandi's schedule and managed to drop in more than once after that while she was in class. He realized he didn't have a surplus of time. The administration wasn't keeping close tabs on him, but sooner or later it would be realized he had over stayed his time.

He puzzled the BGs. He was neither fish nor fowl, just a casual man looking over the college. He looked college age, yet his manner seemed more mature. He had a weathered look that belied his proffered youth. Certainly totally relaxed among them and experienced in the romantic arts.

He lingered on the cusp of asking about the Quaker girl, when a young lovely approached him and suggested they go to her room and play Quaker girl. "My roommates are in class," she explained. "It would just be the two of us."

He almost laughed, but recovered and quipped, "As far as I'm concerned, it's more fun that way."

"You romantic beast," she said, coaxing him off the couch.

Once in the room, she removed her blouse and turned around. "Help me of with my bra."

That done she faced him and said, "You probably don't know the game."

"Correct." It was all he could do to look her in the eye. She was mildly amused.

"Ok. I'm a freshman, age 17, just off the boat. We've had a drink or two and you're making advances. I plead with you not to do it, but you persevere. I might cry during the act. The whole bit."

"Like rape?"

"Yes and no. I never say no. Just suggest you stop, yet I'm actually swept away by your charm. Each game is a little different. So, I'm ready, lights, camera, action."

He wondered if there actually might be a camera somewhere. But didn't bother looking. The plot was carried to its fullest. Not once, but twice."

They complimented one another as they dressed and he asked, "Where did the game originate?"

"Real life," she began. "There was a Quaker girl, a grad assistant nailed her and she became pregnant. She approached him with the problem, some problem, and he offered to see that she got an abortion. But about that time she called home and spilled the beans. Her parents showed up the next day and whisked her off.

"She had a girlfriend, apparently another religious fanatic, who kept us posted. That whole little group of snake handlers are prolife. She never should have called home and it would have been taken care of and she'd still be in school."

"She carried the child?"

"Full term. It was handed off to an uncle or a cousin, some relative. And they married her off to a witless farm boy. Can you imagine? She's growing vegetables, making cherry pies and bawling hymns all day Sunday." Both were fully dressed now and she asked if he'd care to go out for coffee.

"I'm up for an ice cream sundae," he replied. He did manage to learn that the grad assistant was none other than Werner Freeman. His job here was almost complete. All he needed was to find the Quaker girl's friend, get the facts and buzz off.

Talk about tearing one's self away being sorrowful. It was like pulling teeth, one at a time with no deadener. He had learned to love the BG house and its occupants. How in the world had they assembled such a wonderful ensemble?

Jo could hardly believe her good fortune when she received the detective's report. "Find the baby," she fired back. "Get a DNA sample. We also need one from Freeman. Any attractive girl should be able to do the job. He's like the bull of the Pampas."

She was right. Getting DNA from Werner was fairly easy. Finding the child and obtaining DNA was more difficult. Finding the child was fairly easy. It was a close knit community of devout Baptists, not a Quaker among them. They all knew the so-called Quaker girl's story. Then the pretense of a survey to a baby sitter, accompanied by a fifty dollar bill, did the trick.

Meanwhile, the plot on campus thickened. Rose and Werner both being in the shrink profession had many intimate coffee sessions that had led to the bedroom. Rose was quite smitten and Werner believed he may have found his soul mate and began thinking of settling down.

About this time, Werner received a phone call. Answering the voice on the other end of the line said, "Jo McDonald. Remember me?"

"I do recall," he conceded, wondering what might come next.

"You know why I'm calling?"

"I don't. I've heard from frat brothers that you were on some sort of mission. But that must be over by now. Time heals all wounds."

"What a quaint notion. Have you heard the phrase 'Quaker girl' bandied about on campus?"

"Can't say that I have."

"It refers to a 17-year-old freshman who you enticed to have sex, then impregnated. Because of your age difference a court of law would gleefully give you the opportunity to reflect upon your sins for several years at taxpayer's expense."

"If there was such a girl she was very likely promiscuous. Young ladies do become sexually active quite early."

"Some do," Jo conceded. "But not this Quaker girl, who is not a Quaker at all, but a member of a Baptist congregation. Prolife."

"Just what are you getting at?"

"I suppose congratulations, Dad."

"You have the insane notion that I fathered a child. If you have a hat, you are talking through it. You can take your little vendetta somewhere else." With that he cut off the conversation.

Jo immediately called back and got only his voice mail. At the beep she said simply: "I have DNA proof."

Werner Freeman got the message and said to himself aloud, "Holy Christ."

He had heard enough about Jo McDonald and her twelve-brother list to know she was deadly serious. She was like a snake that never struck without being certain of its prey. She had tracked the old coon to his lair and was poised to go for the jugular.

He did nothing for the remainder of the day, expecting she might call again. Toward noon the following day, he called Rose and asked her to come to his apartment.

She noticed a dejected tone to his voice, but she was eager to come to his side. She believed their romance was on the right track.

Talk about dejection and rejection. When she arrived he sat her down and told her the entire story. He had decided to make a clean breast of it and seek out the Quaker girl, whatever her name might be, and offer to do the right thing, whatever that might be at this late stage.

Rose realized that any thoughts of romance were definitely on hold. But she told him she loved him and offered to stand by his side. She vowed to remain true blue.

He reciprocated by saying he held her in the highest regard, had tender thoughts, considered her a genuine soul mate. They ended the encounter in bed with a renewed passion neither had thought possible.

**Chapter 24**

A day or two after getting back to Bilbao, Irma remarked to Eduardo." I hope I never have to be called Juanita Delgado."

"Not so bad for a Spanish lass, but think of me, Poncho Villa. There's something very wrong with Elmer's company."

"Do you suppose," Irma said with some irony. "A post office box for company headquarters in a trashy Majorca backwater, the postmaster and sole post office employee as the CEO, us with passports lifted from dead people as board members, bribing officials in Palma to get the scheme up and running. What could be wrong with that?"

"I have friends in America who might be disappointed with me," Eduardo said sheepishly.

Irma could hardly control her laughter, but finally blurted out, "Disappointed. The federal officials will greet you like a long lost son when you hit JFK. They'll be waiting with open arms if they get wind of what's going on. Thank God for the passports and their deceased owners. That's the only saving grace. We can claim we've been dead for some time."

"Nobody would believe that," Eduardo said.

Irma looked at him with some skepticism. "What kind of job did you actually have in New York?"

"Don't be nosey. Elmer called. He wants to meet us for cocktails at five. Same old watering hole."

Irma shrugged. "Why not. We're in it up to our eyeballs. Cadge a few drinks, scarf up a first class meal. Why not. Tomorrow we can check out air fares to Mongolia."

"Like a couple of idiots. Let's hang in here. The best might be yet to come."

During drinks and dinner, Elmer slipped them each the equivalent to a thousand U.S. dollars and told them the big cash will be flowing in soon. They downed a couple of martinis apiece, then went to dinner, oysters and cracked crab, lubricated by a couple of bottles of Pinot Grigio.

Elmer said more than once that he was proud to have such loyal companions and proposed a toast to the three of them and their enterprise. "May we always prosper and be friends forever," he solemnly pronounced, perhaps a trifle worse for drink.

They parted the best of friends, Elmer to his luxury apartment and Eduardo and Irma to her Spartan digs.

A week later they met again. This time they received ten thousand each in U.S. greenbacks. Since Majorca, Eduardo had delayed calling Jo. He had also not answered his cell phone when caller ID noted Jo McD. He was the quintessential creature between a rock and a hard place, the Devil and the deep blue sea or between two fires. He was the cat and he didn't know which way to jump.

He couldn't really slink back to the city and get his old job back. Jo would be certain to notice even if he grew a mustache and beard. These thoughts passed through his mind.

But he was massing thousands of dollars and didn't know what to do with it. He got together with Irma and asked her opinion. He was tempted to confess his mission, but held back.

"If Elmer can give us ten thousand each, he must be raking in millions. He's giving us chump change."

"Why would he even need us?"

"He needed a couple of warm bodies to go with the passports. Then he asked us to look around for businesses who might need to borrow money now and then. I search the web and different directories and gave him six or seven. Did you try?"

"No. You're way ahead of me. What the hell's coming down?"

"He's clever. We could take the fall for him. This sort of thing can't go on forever. He has the legal eagles and we're a couple of clowns decorating the scenery."

Eduardo was pensive. "Of course he'd hate to see us take the fall, he's such a nice guy. But better us than him."

"You got it." They were in Irma's place and she suggested they go out for a beer and pasta.

There had been a long silence, each deep in thought. It was like free money with a looming unpleasant risk. They were hallway through the meal when Eduardo asked, "Where you keeping your loot?"

"Under my mattress. How about you."

"Same place. Two great minds. Ok, tell me what he's doing."

"A couple of things. Some money's coming in to his fake hedge fund. That's one hundred percent profit so far, although he might have to pay out some interest if he wants to keep up the façade. Number two, he's making loans to these companies that don't even know they're being loaned to. He has some clean references and he might have banking confederates. The loan money is coming directly to him to be forwarded through his corporate offices to the companies. Of course the buck stops there."

"It's complicated," Eduardo tossed in.

"More than you know. And we're talking millions of dollars. If we play along, he'll give us a few thousand more. We could even shake him down, but then we'd be out of the frying pan and deep into the burning coals. So let's keep our noses as clean as possible. At least we have deniability, whatever good that will do us. Plus the passports."

"So what must we do?" It was as if Eduardo was asking either his Mom or a Parrish priest.

"We stick around for a few more weeks, rake in a little more do-re-mi and then skip out. We're a team, right?"

"Right. But what do we do with all that cash?"

"I'll figure something. My guess now is we travel by train to France and maybe to Switzerland. One of those countries where you can stash cash on the quiet."

"Irma, you're a lifesaver. Can we go back to your place."

"Sure. Let's pick up a couple of bottles on the way. I'd like to refill the botas and go on a picnic sometime." She paused for effect, placed her hand on his arm. "We're like lovers, aren't we?" She had eyes for this handsome Latino. She had met no one like him in Brooklyn. All she had to do was continually switch between passionate lover, mother and Holy Father. No trick at all.

"We are lovers," he responded. He realized he was looking in the eyes of a wise woman, not like the flippertyjibbets he usually played around with. This was the McCoy.

**Chapter 25**

Werner Freeman had decided to beard the lion in his den, or whatever cliche might apply. He had found the Quaker girl's friend on campus and learned her name is Nancy Evans and that she married an older farm boy by the name of Brady Bo Babcock.

He called Nancy one weekday midmorning and had what might be called a heart-to-heart. He said he wanted to visit while her husband was present. Simply name a time and place. They settled on nine the following Saturday morning. They would have coffee.

Early on that fateful date he wondered if he were appropriately attired and harmoniously prepared for such a meeting. Checking a full length mirror, he liked what he saw. Without question, he leaned toward the vain side.

The drive to the Quaker girl's nest took less than an hour, a farm not far from a farming community. Driving through the village he passed one large and one small Baptist church. He reckoned the smaller one was a breakaway over some biblical disagreement. Or was his mind simply being snarky? His purpose this day was to heal a wound. Yet to him it seemed the Baptists in this community were living with an open sore. Perhaps one group simply disliked the minister, or tolerated gay marriage. Probably he would never know.

His destination was an elaborate farm house with well landscaped and manicured grounds. He was impressed.

Nancy met him at the door and they shared a brief embrace, followed by a hardy handshake with Brady Bo. His first impression was that Brady Bo was not dressed in bib overalls, but had the appearance of a businessman. They sat down to coffee and buttered bagels.

Werner was the first to speak. "You have a beautiful place here. I'd hardly mistake it for a family farm."

Nancy smiled and poured coffee. Brady Bo replied, "Actually, it's not. The farm is about a mile down the road, an agribusiness. I'm somewhat into modern farming. I graduated from Cornell. You may know our song - High above Cayuga's waters, there's an awful smell, twenty thousand sons of framers, call themselves Cornell."

"I believe I have heard that somewhere in the murky past. But it's an old joke and doesn't pass the smell test."

Brady Bo smiled and agreed. "But that was long ago. So what was it you wanted to talk about?"

"Apologize to Nancy and to you. We lived our little drama and I was to blame. A child was produced. I'm the father. I thought I'd lay my cards on the table."

"That is so noble of you," Nancy exclaimed, obviously revealing certain feelings toward Werner.

This caught Werner by surprise.

Brady Bo smiled. "You seem surprised that Nancy still has a spot in her heart for you. I'm not. She's talked about you more than once. You see ours was and is a marriage of convenience."

This placed puzzle upon puzzle in Werner's mind. What had he walked into? He sought to change the subject. "Naturally, I'm interested in the child. I don't even know the sex."

"A toddler named Brady Bob," Nancy said sweetly. "The very image of you."

"I've heard he was farmed out, not to make a pun."

"Farmed out, yes," Brady Bo said heartily with a large grin. "To a cousin with a house full of kids. I'm certain they'd give him up if you asked."

This remark stunned Werner. That's not why he made this journey of sack cloth and ashes. He had hoped to humble himself, apologize all around and leave this happy couple to their own devices.

Brady Bo gave him an odd look and a large smile. "You seem at a loss for words. Let me get back to the marriage of convenience. With Nancy carrying the child, they scoured our community for a husband. We all live here and we try to get along as best we can. Well, I was an aging bachelor and fit the bill. So, the marriage was arranged and who was I to object? I could use someone to keep the house, accompany me to church and do other spouse stuff."

Werner looked from one to the other, then said, "Not a lot of love here."

"Not a big bundle of romantic love," Nancy replied. "You see, Brady Bo is gay. Has been all his life."

"Yes," he agreed. "I had a boyfriend at Cornell. Still keep in touch. But in this community, it's a no-no. And we do live here."

"And then you came along," Nancy said.

He didn't exactly hang on her words, but he got the drift. "Yes, I came along," he repeated, wondering what to say next.

Brady Bo grinned like a shark. "You two romantic love birds, reunited!"

Werner wondered how to get to his car and make a getaway.

"We know you're not married," Brady Bo continued, "we checked."

"That's true," Werner agreed. "But I do have a girl friend."

"I can live with that," Nancy chimed in.

Werner fixed his gave on Nancy and asked, "Live with what?"

"You and a girl friend. A lot of water has passed over the dam."

"Certainly, water flows across a dam and under a bridge, seldom with respite. I do understand the to and fro water flow." He was seeking for an apt reply, but found none. Eventually, he found his voice. "Give me a week to figure something out." He turned to Brady Bo, "You say we can get the kid back."

"I'm certain of it."

He rose and repeated, "Give me a week," then a hardy handshake with Brady Bo and a full press embrace with Nancy, better fitted for the bedroom, and he was gone, alone with odd thoughts circulating through his brain as he returned to the campus.

Werner needed almost a week to make and field a flurry of phone calls and e-mails. When he was done, it was he who called Jo. She had held off further action to let him stew over what she considered to be an impossible situation.

Calling well before the market opened on a week day, the call was answered by Tim.

"Is that Tim Blake's voice I hear?" Werner asked cheerily.

"Why yes. Who is this?"

"Werner Freeman, frat brother and one of the JP twelve."

"The JP twelve," Tim repeated. "Where have I heard that phrase before? Where you been keeping yourself, Werner?"

"Still in college, a graduate assistant, going for a doctorate, thinking of becoming a permanent fixture."

"In college?"

"Not as a student. Thanks to Jo, I've reached a higher level of maturity, ready to shoulder life's burdens, become a responsible citizen and breadwinner. Is she around?"

"I think so. She is a wonder, isn't she?"

"More than you know," Werner confided.

It took only a moment for Tim to put her on the line.

"High, Werner, how can I help you?"

"You've already done that, Jo. Your call at first shook me up, then woke me up to a very complicated situation."

"How so?"

"Of course you were correct. I fathered a child that I had never met. You probably know how that happened. So we had a situation. Me, the child's mother, the mother's husband, the child, my new girlfriend, a woman named Rose, who had been interviewing me for some sort of poll. It took some doing to resolve the situation, but I seem to have performed the next to impossible."

"I'm all ears, Werner."

"Simply put, and none of this is simple. The mother, whose name is Nancy Evans lives in a rural Baptist community with rather bizarre mores as you might expect. They accepted her plight, found an older unmarried man, married her off, gave the baby, a boy, to a cousin who already had a houseful of kids. It seems the older bachelor is a closet gay so he and she are more or less friends.

"Then I have this Rose and unknown to me we were on the verge of something good. I found a deep attachment to Nancy and she to me, we found we could get the baby back, the husband had no objection to anything, he had a college boyfriend and they had kept in touch.

"So, the resolution and solution - Rose, Nancy and I plus the baby are setting up a household near the campus. Nancy wishes to reenter school and win a degree, Rose will continue to teach at one of the Seven Sisters, not far away. That's about it."

"A menage a trois," Jo offered.

"I suppose, although none of the three of us will be married, except for Nancy, at least for the present. How it plays out at length, I can't predict. With all this gay marriage talk, suggestions that folks might marry savage beasts or vegetables, maybe there'll come a day when I can have two wives. I'll be a Mormon boy."

They discussed the borderline hilarious details at length. Finally, Werner asked, "Does this resolve your vendetta, at least as far as I'm concerned?"

"I've never enjoyed that vendetta term. Sounds like something fresh from the Dark Ages, creepy Italy. I prefer justice. I seemed to have aided you in your life's journey. I suppose redemption and rehabilitation are forms of justice. So, you're off my list if you keep your nose clean."

"I'll do my best. I must say you've been much like a Mother Teresa to our dusty little phalanx of frat brothers."

With a feeling of accomplishment, Jo sat down with Tim over coffee, blackberry preserves and croissants. Another day was beginning. Thank God for coffee.

**Chapter 26**

The cash continued to flow and Irma, Eduardo and Elmer continued to party. Three weeks passed and in New York, Jo was becoming exasperated. Eduardo would not answer his phone or respond to e-mails.

She also had not replenished his cash fund which confounded her. How was he getting by? She had guessed that he was staying in a cheap hotel near the Guggenheim, so she made a Google search, located three and struck it lucky on the second.

She had barely gotten out the name Eduardo when the female clerk gushed, "That handsome Cuban. Of course he lives here. We see a lot of him and sometimes his girlfriend, lucky girl."

"He is a bundle of joy, isn't he? You tell him to call me, my name is Jo. If he doesn't he won't live to regret it, he simply won't live very long. Can you do that?"

"Of course. You must love him very much."

"Love that lout! Lord love a duck."

Hours later, Eduardo responded. "I've been meaning to call you, Jo. Things have been moving pretty fast over here."

"You're on a fast track?"

"You might say that. Elmer has involved me and a Brooklyn girl I met in a scheme. It might not be totally legal. Fortunately we didn't use our real names."

This turn of events was of major interest. She hoped she wouldn't have to throw Eduardo either to the wolves or under a bus, but his words were of paramount interest. "What exactly is the scheme?"

"Hard to say." Eduardo struggled to remember the details. "My girlfriend, or this girl I met, her name's Irma Goldberg, her Dad runs a deli in Brooklyn. She has the smarts. And she also knows how to handle things."

"Handle what?" Jo was losing patience.

"The deal. What's coming down." Eduardo knew he had blundered into terra incognito and was trying hard to extricate himself. "She can explain the entire set up. There's a time difference, you know."

"Of course I know there's a time difference," Jo snapped back. "What of it."

"Well, I'll have to know when she can call you."

Jo calmed down and Eduardo did likewise and they agreed on a time. His next obstacle was to explain why he had come to Spain to Irma. She was extremely understanding and knew in her heart that it was time to take the money and run, to get the hell on out of Spain.

The following day she called Jo and explained the entire deal Elmer had led them into. She also said that they had harvested thousands while Elmer was likely stuffing millions in a giant mattress somewhere. And that they were poised to flee.

"I'll give you two or three day's head start before I lower the boom on money cow Elmer Means."

"Totally acceptable," Irma said, then added, "I like Eduardo and we may stay together, but he does need a little guidance and loving care. What's his job in the states?"

"Uniformed doorman for a pricy apartment."

"Oh, dangerous. I'll get him a job in Dad's deli so I can keep an eye on him."

"Excellent plan."

Jo waited a full four days before calling Elmer.

Elmer stared at the caller ID for a few seconds, wondering whether or not to answer. But she had found him and talk he must. "Hi, Jo, it's Elmer."

"Feature that, the Spanish cavalier, when I thought you were a hermit in the creek country of Alaska, or mayhap the Yukon."

"Funs fun, Jo. I should have never pulled that prank. Got you to thinking about me."

"Not at all. Elmer. You were next on my list. It just took a little time to set you up for a fall."

"I'm not the falling type."

"But perhaps the greedy sort of soul."

"I have money, you know that."

"Yes, but you affluent typed do become bored. Don't know what to do with yourselves. I'm guessing you've made plenty of amigos in Bilbao."

"Some good, some fleeting. Still looking for the right kind of gal. You interested?"

"Be still, my heart! We could travel the world doing ponsi games together. Your contacts and my brains."

"You have brains?"

"A few more than you. I'm going to let you wiggle off the hook. All you must do is donate half a million to charity in my name."

"Why would I do such a stupid thing? I'm far from your clutches, you know, your sleazy vendetta."

"I really dislike that word, but I won't react in a negative way by raising the anti. Not yet. But I'll give you five reasons why you should do such a stupid thing: Interpol, Majorca, Palma, the FBI, the IRS."

A long silence, then Elmer said, "I may have to get back to you, Jo. I'm totally sorry if I offended you."

"We both know the game, Elmer. I want the donation made and an acknowledgement from the charity within twenty-four hours. The countdown starts now. Then you're home free as far as I'm concerned, free to cover up your sordid tracks and try to convince anyone who trusted you that you're the soul of honor."

"I need more time."

You used the word 'vendetta,' suppose I start thinking that way, which I will in twenty four hours. Make a donation, I'd suggest the Salvation Army, or face an unpleasant alternative that might not rise to your life style. I'm not giving you time both to heed my warning and wiggled away without a penalty."

"I think we have a deal. And then it's goodbye forever, right?"

"Right. You'll find I'm a woman of my word. We can even meet for drinks and a chat when you're in Manhattan."

Elmer thought that one over. Won't you come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

**Chapter 27**

Jo was quite pleased with the Elmer Means affair. She had scared the hell out of him, earned a half a million dollar tax credit, abandoned him to extricate himself from his vicious, malicious scheme, which seemed to be just a bad boy having fun. He didn't need the cash. Poor little bored and warped rich boy. On a tear in Spain where he thought he could do no wrong. The half-million would mean nothing to him financially, but it would rankle.

The Werner Freeman caper had also been to her liking. She had turned his life upside down, for better or for worse. Imagine living with not one, but two fairly intelligent women, each of whom thought of themselves as the one and only. Then there was the growing boy named Brady Bob. Who was responsible for that moniker? She smiled to herself and thought, so far, so good.

She became bored with her existence of making money and tracking down the Manhattan social scene after just over a week. She definitely needed a hobby, or exciting vacation. Tim plugged away on his book, searched the web and haunted the public library.

Jo had heard of a recent fad of making alluring outfits for small animals. Vests for cats, coats for dogs, which had led to the next new house pet, diapers for chickens. Imagine having a Rhode Island Red strutting around your condo? The phrase garments for varmints crossed her mind. Might she become a small animal tailor? Not a chance.

In less than two weeks, she turned her attention to the next man on her list. His name: Paul French. He and Werner were the only dual threats on the list - both jocks and Plocks. She had long known he had taken a staff job with the Senate Foreign Affairs committee with the hope of grounding himself in politics and either running for office or seeking career work in either the State Department, or CIA.

Thereby hung the tale, or the plot that had been kicking around in the back of her mind. Sometime ago she had hired a District private detective who specialized in politics to scope out other committee staffers and find a weak link.

The private eye, a woman in her mid-thirties, Gabby Maltby, had found such a person, one Becky Horton, an older woman who had been with the committee for light years and had at least two expensive habits.

Jo was restless and felt hyped for some type of action when she gave Gabby a ring. She asked the detective, "Can we trust this Horton woman."

Gabby chuckled. "As far as you can trust anyone in Washington. We keep her at arm's length. She does dabble in alcohol and lives high on the hog, on the edge, sometimes going over the edge financially. A shot of non-taxable cash would made to order. One hand doesn't know what the other is doing. I'm trying not to know your game, got it?"

"I got it alright. I'm an American patriot trying to dig out corruption."

"We're all of us patriots, Jo. So we get tidbits of info from this person, whose name will not be mentioned from this point on, likewise our communications will be obscured one way or another. We piece her off in cash. We feed the info to various news organizations - the source a disgruntled committee staffer, also an American patriot."

"You got it. Can you be that middleman?"

"As an American patriot, I think I can do the job if enough moola is sent my way for both me and she who will remain unnamed. I think I know the point of this gig, but will refrain from inquiry."

"Excellent thinking, or lack of it, smart conclusion. Someone wearing a green jacket and Sixers ball cap will meet you in the Baltimore Amtrac station at designated intervals. That individual will carry good tidings."

So the chase was set, the fox would be released and the hounds hallooed to the scent. The riders eager for the hunt. Jo almost regretted running out of names. She would have to find that perfect hobby. Stamp collecting, too tedious; drinking, fun but hazardous. She would seek out fun, but rewarding.

After French, there were only two more to be dealt with - Charles Fry, a Plock, and Izzi Artz, a jock. She would use the interval while building a case against French, to check out Charles Fry. She was certain he had graduate and believed he had been a legacy contender for the family business. But what business and where?

She mentioned the question to fellow frat members Tim and Jose and thought no more of it for the present. Truth to tell, Jo was getting a tad bored with her present existence.

Most would have thought they were sitting pretty. She had a job she enjoyed and a stock portfolio that would care for her adequately for life, in fact probably increase in value, barring financial devastation for the nation.

Then there was Tim. They were not married and had never really gotten into that conversation. He had mentioned recently that he might volunteer with NASA for the Mars flight. Jo had let that remark pass without retort.

But it did seem that he had met a goat farm drifter who had met with success as a volunteer and was now holed up with five others of both sexes to check out their endurance for a long duration mission. There was also an astronaut who had been sent to a space station for a year for the same reason.

Jo had considered solitude as an alternative. Possibly learning to sail, then a solo trip around the globe. But she had done reading and there were ports of call which should be avoided for overnight stays. And there were pirates.

Historically, pirates in the Caribbean, some still active in the drug trade. Also Barbary pirates, pirates in the Straits of Malacca, Somalian pirates, pirates everywhere one looked. She could avoid pirates by seeking solitude in a closet.

But was the closeted, or cloistered life for her? Probably not. Tim had also mentioned simply giving up writing and finding a meaningful job. Jo imagined he would like to help other people in some way. Perhaps find themselves, or find food, clothing and shelter. Animal needs. Which might lead to actually helping animals. Her mind was in turmoil for a few minutes each day before snapping back to reality. Mindfulness, whatever that might be.

Meanwhile, life went on as planned. In Washington, tidbits of semi-secret information had been fed to various news organizations, all of it from the Senate Foreign Affairs committee. A major recipient of this information was a Washington Post reporter, Rachel Cockburn, whose editors were quite pleased with the young lady's performance.

Jo had been monitoring the situation and believed it was time to set in motion the next phase. She put out the word to start dropping hints that the source was a disgruntled committee staffer, one Paul French.

At the same time, the committee chairman called Paul French into his office for a top secret talk. French was highly regarded because he seemed more intelligent than the average staffer, in fact more intelligent than most of the Capitol Hill crowd.

French was told someone was leaking information to the media. Of course he and everyone else on the committee was aware of that fact.

"Perhaps it's a committee member," French said. Normally, the committee leaked like a sieve with committee members trying to score points with the press, their constituents and anyone else who was watching.

"Not so," French was told. Some of the information has gotten out before we shared it with the committee. I want you to track down the leak."

French agreed to do his best. Just how to proceed he was uncertain. But he was thorough and researched all past leaks. He found the major person responsible for publishing such leaks was Not CNN, Fox, or even MSNBC, but a Washington Post reporter, one Rachel Cockburn.

Deciding to seize the bull by the horns, He called Ms. Cockburn and asked if she would meet him for brunch in an out-of-the-way breakfast shop across the line in Maryland. By the sound of her voice, she appeared delighted.

They huddled over eggs benedict and coffee. "As you might know," French began, "I'm a fairly junior staffer with the Senate Foreign Relations committee."

Rachel smiled impishly and nodded yes, while spooning sugar into her heavily creamed coffee.

"And you doubtless know there have been a series of what one might call leaks from the committee."

"Of course, Paul. You don't mind if I call you Paul, do you?"

"Certainly not." He felt he was laying a solid foundation for learning the source of the leaks. This reporter seemed to sincerely like him. "Certain leaks, if they continue, might be of harm to the vital security of the Republic." He was also attempting to emphasize the damage that might be done. He and this reporter could unite in common cause as a patriotic duo.

"We would never want that to happen," Rachel replied, still smiling broadly. The waitress brought their orders and Rachel began puncturing the egg yolks with her fork. Paul believed she was making a mess of the eggs, but said nothing. All said and done, that was far from his mission.

"I'm guessing the leaks have helped your personal cause and the Post in general?"

"You've got that right, Paul. I appreciate the leaks and you and I can work together in a good way." She was now totally mixing up her eggs Benedict, much as a young child might do at the breakfast table. Paul was appalled, but said nothing. He forced a smile and tried to get right to the point.

"The committee has assigned me to find the source of the leaks."

Rachel had a mouthful of cheesy eggs and toast, but could hardly control herself. She fell out laughing, almost hysterically so. When she recovered she asked, "Is that something like finding the source of the Nile?"

Paul was dumfounded, also disgusted as he watched Rachel wipe egg from her face. But he steadied himself. "I'm sure I don't understand."

"I mean, it's ironic. They've turned you on yourself. It's generally known by the press that you're somehow disenchanted with government at some level and that you're the leaker." She looked at him with wide eyes.

Paul thought for a moment, then said, "I'm the leak. I'm the leaker?" He actually used a forefinger to point to himself.

"Why, yes. We've known it for several days." She giggled again. "You might say word leaked out."

Paul had finished half his eggs Benedict, but now pushed the plate aside. He seldom had large breakfasts and was doing this for Rachel's benefit. "Where did the word leak from?"

"You're go-between. The mystery man."

"You're saying, you don't know."

"Of course. The man with a generic cell phone. At first we didn't trust him, but then everything he said came true. We were getting the lowdown before the committee was briefed."

"Mainly you?"

"Yes, mainly me. I think Washington reads the Post. It doesn't have time to listen to all the news channels and NPR." She seemed puzzled. "I thought you had told your man to let the word out. That you had some hidden agenda of your own."

Paul nodded. "I do indeed have a hidden agenda. But it has nothing to do with leaking confidential information. The fact is, I've been framed by an extremely clever framer." He thought for a moment, then caught himself. He shouldn't be making these revelations to the press. And here he was seated with the press. But he had learned something before it was exposed to the world and that in itself was some type of one up.

"You aren't the leaker?" Rachel questioned.

"I'm not."

"Who would want to call you out?"

"Someone from the past, better left buried in the past. Long gone, but not forgotten. I mean, I'm not forgotten."

"You seemed a dab confused."

"You can bet your pink pajamas on that. If you only knew."

"Clue me in?"

"No thanks. At least not for now, Rachel. We're good friends and we should get together from time to time and talk things over. But I would ask you to keep this meeting confidential for the time being."

"No problem, Paul. But gossip travels at the speed of light in this town. The committee staff, the committee members, have likely already heard the rumors."

"The operative word is rumors. I might be able to cut them off at the pass. The fact is there is a leak, but it's not coming from some disgruntled staffer. My guess is someone is being paid to pass information to the mystery man who in turn is paid to feed it to the press. And once the setup was complete to lower the boom - name names, yours truly."

"Someone doesn't like you, Paul"

"Damn right."

**Chapter 28**

Jo disliked weekends because the market was closed. On this Saturday, trying to get in touch with her Scottish McDonald roots, she was attempting to prepare a scot's dish. She had skimmed recipes for haggis, mealy pudden, buttery rowies, howtowdie and a few others, finally settling on cranachan because she didn't have the ingredients.

She vowed to make a list at some future date and complete the sweet mixture which might be flavored with rum. More than one of the dishes she had scanned included alcohol, very likely the savior of the Scots, considering the climate and the spiky dispositions. She recalled an old joke favored by her Dad: There goes McTavish with a loaf of bread and there's not a drop of whisky in the house.

Preparing a cup of tea, she plopped into a comfortable chair and stared out the window. She and Tim had earlier shared scones and coffee and he had marched off to the library where he often holed up, generally during the week.

They were comfortable together, but Jo wondered if her life was misspent, grasping for money and pursuing what some called a vendetta. God, she hated that word.

She had read extensively about the joys of solitude - the happy single life for women, at least until they got married. She had read a quote from Blaise Pascal: All miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone.

The so called "solitaries" who live in the continual possibility of the triumph of love. And what might be the key to saving ourselves from ourselves? The Buddha has said we can learn all we need to know by sitting on a cushion. Why a cushion? What luxury! She remembered the story of a Scottish chief who found his son sleeping in the cold rain with his head on a rock. He angrily kicked the rock away and exclaimed, "No son of mine is going to go bad by soft living."

Jo wondered if destiny needed her, or if anyone needed her. She was silent and listened intently for her inner voice, but heard nothing. One could travel and search forever, or explore silence alone. To be alone, to be a celibate, to love everyone - where did that come from?

Take charge of desire, limit desire, taper off. Then there was Tim and his thoughts of making the Mars trip. Why not just trot around Times Square. The tea cup empty, her rambling thought cut short by a phone call.

"Hello."

"Jo?"

"Yes."

"Paul French here."

"Long time, no see."

"Truly," Paul replied. "But I may be in your thoughts and prayers."

"Well put. I try to do well by bird, beast, children and those who stray from the path of the righteous."

"Mad dogs and Englishmen and the occasional frat brother. How fares Tim?"

"Not in at the moment. I'll tell him you called."

"Please, don't hang up. I just flew into JFK, hopped a rattler to Penn Station. Need to chat with you. Lunch?"

"Are you armed, or wearing a suicide vest?"

"Totally harmless. Simply seeking a meeting of the minds."

"How about the lobby of the St. Francis?"

"They have food there?"

"Not that I know of. Possibly you could bring snacks. Something non-toxic."

"I'll pick up a box of chocolates. Any preference?"

"Dark. The darker the better."

"Seventy percent. OK?"

"That'll do it. One O'clock Ok?"

"Just right. My return flight's at seven."

"This trip, just for me. I'm honored."

"Perhaps you can understand how I feel. The center of attention."

"See you, Paul. Always good to renew old acquaintances and talk over old crimes."

He was already there when she arrived, seated with a box of unopened chocolates in his lap. He rose and gave her a quick hug. They both settled down and he handed her the box with the statement, "Totally untampered with. Choose anyone you please and I'll do the devouring."

"Why wouldn't I trust you?"

"Yeah, why not. The feeling's mutual. You are aware of my job?"

"If not, you've come all this way for nothing."

"Truly. I'm the suspicious type. Someone, somewhere, is conspiring to make my life difficult."

"It takes two to tango."

"Or to conspire. I'm guessing three or four. I'll say the plot is devilish, worthy of your skills. Dead ends. Mysterious go-betweens. And the true leaker, Scot free. So, who's left holding the bag?"

"You're getting at something, aren't you?"

"Have a chocolate." He picked one out and popped it into his mouth. She did the same.

"These are good. You didn't skimp."

"I like chocolate as well as the next galoot." He took a second piece and wolfed it down. A bell hop was casually watching them. Two people in the lobby of a good hotel, sharing a box of chocolates. They could be guests, or maybe not. "I suppose I should go first."

"If you have something to say. How was your flight?"

"Well, I'll unburden. I wangled that committee job for a reason. I plan to write a tell-all insider book on the Washington scene."

"How original."

Paul nodded dourly and said, "Maybe not the most original idea, but there comes a time when the paralysis in Washington reaches a point where such a volume might help sort things out. I am only one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something."

"Also not original."

"Under the sun, there is nothing new."

"How about over the sun?"

"Such as?"

"Tim has talked about volunteering for a Mars flight."

"High adventure. Good for Tim. But I was cheerfully gathering my own information when the prospect of a monkey wrench in the works loomed. It might be too late to save my project, but maybe not."

Jo smiled. "You want me to help you?" She helped herself to a chocolate.

At that point they were approached by the bell hop who said, "The assistant manager asks if you two are guests. No one seems to recognize you."

Paul looked up and shot back, "We're going to get a room. We're having an affair."

The bell hop turned and strode away. Jo giggled and said, "Really, Paul. This is so sudden."

"I know. My innermost thoughts have surfaced. I've come to the Big Apple seeking succor and to plead for mercy."

"That's a big order," Jo said. "You know my list. I've worked my way down to you. I've probably helped more of your frat brothers than I've hurt. Now this, a blatant appeal, even a moving appeal. And you, a selfless patriot."

"Yes, a patriot," Paul agreed.

"A patriot and an individual trying to make a name for himself with a blockbuster book. Feature that."

The bellhop returned to say, "The assistant manager says we do not solicit your type of trade."

Jo laughed. "He must be some sort of born again Dude."

"Possibly," the bellhop replied. "He is a bit strange. But he is requesting that you seek a room somewhere else."

"Give him these," Paul said, proffering the chocolates. The bell hop took the box and walked away.

"Maybe we should go," Jo said. "I've heard your offer. You've given me enough ammunition to totally scuttle your project. I assume you're ready to plead contrition and pledge that you will go and sin no more. Except of course guilty as charged to the sin of duping your employers and gathering confidential information and conversation notes for a book that will give you a ticket to the talk show circuit and resound to your personal glory from coast to coast and possibly beyond our shores."

"You see the sinister side of my project."

"Quite clearly. I'm a sinister person. You intend to betray confidence after confidence. You will end up a hero to some, but despised by others, never to be trusted again. Once again, I have given a poor slob a wakeup call. Please continue with your evil project of self-destruction. I will hinder you no more."

With that she got up and strode out of the hotel lobby, leaving Paul to the mercies of the bell hop and the assistant manager. And to his muddled thoughts.

**Chapter 29**

Jo returned to the apartment in a dark mood. She would call off the Washington dogs. But what now. She was at sixes and sevens, or all at sea, both terms seemed to apply.

She returned to her Scottish cookbook, seeking respite from a morose feeling of worthlessness. Her eye fell on a recipe for Black Bun, which she read without comprehension, then read again.

Realizing she could never assemble the ingredients, one item caught her eye - 2 tblsp brandy. Thus inspired she fished out a bottle from the liquor cabinet, poured herself four fingers in a water glass and immediately felt better. Who needs psychotherapy?

The next frat brother on her list was Charles Fry, a Plock. She had a paper file on Fry, locked away. Keenly aware of hackers, she kept no sensitive material on her computer.

In the dumps, she wondered if she would ever live as others do. She glanced at a magazine which went on about the proliferation of cute cat videos, mentioning in passing that cats play anthropomorphized roles. She wondered what that meant and tossed the magazine aside.

The brandy bottle was near empty, but there was enough for another good drink which she sipped while watching the news on CNN. God, she wished they'd get a better on-camera team. Perhaps individuals who could simply read the news without digressions.

Tim wandered in and said something about the energy of writing, which simply comes and goes. Apparently it had walked out on him without saying goodbye.

He noted the empty brandy bottle and asked if she had any ideas for dinner. Attempting to comfort him, she suggested that his literary muse would doubtless be back soon. It was likely in some bar in the Village drinking fake single malt shooters.

She promised to fix him eggs, bacon and biscuits the following morning and said she was turning in.

"Biscuits," he said in wonder.

"I've a sack of frozen ones in the fridge. There's jam. No problem, my darling. I've had a tough day. I'll feel better tomorrow and so will you."

On her way out of the room, she stopped at their small bar and poured herself a measure of bourbon.

Jo slept the sleep of a sated cinnamon bear, waking bright and early ready to frolic and slay whatever might come her way. She listened to NPR while sticking the biscuits in the oven, then shouted for Tim to show himself.

Breakfast was a delight and Jo vowed to spend at least part of the day tracking down Charles Fry. Her quest would soon be over and the world would belong to the two of them. She wondered if she might be bipolar. Well, why not?

Tim went off seeking his muse and Jo went walking. There were supposedly many good walks in the city, but she had encountered few - tramping the streets of the Village, or an excursion to Central Park, these were the obvious. One might toss in Chinatown as a change of pace.

But now she paced block by block on early morning near deserted streets, the sidewalks of New York. A hazy bum darted out of an alley and growled, "Give me a buck for a glass of scuppernong wine, or I'll kill you."

She gave him a hard look and he darted back in his alley.

She passed a bakery, the window rife with whole grain cranberry scones, then a church, bearing the sign, "God is madly in love with you - no conditions." She wondered how Tim was coming with his writing, knowing something had to give. She tried to imagine a lengthy vacation that wouldn't turn out to be a total bore. She knew Tim needed a job and that she might need to change occupations.

But first Charles Fry, then one more, Izzi Artz. She would finish that which she had set out to do, then get on with life. Perhaps children.

Perhaps not. She had e-mailed her private detective company - global contacts - asking the low down on Charles Fry.

Returning to the condo, she found a reply waiting. Fry whereabouts unknown.

She called the agency and talked with the man on the Fry case. "We have him in college," he said. "We have him graduating sometime ago. After that he dropped from sight. Nothing."

"He must have a family?"

"Not so you'd know. An only child. Parents divorced. Father off somewhere drinking. Mother remarried and living somewhere abroad, Brussels or Asia."

"Brussels or Asia," Jo repeated.

"That could be Australia. Isn't that in Asia?"

"Possibly. It sounds like someone had money."

"That too is possible, but Fry was full scholarship. Academic. Brilliant. Mensa and all that."

"High IQ?"

"Out of sight. We'll keep trying."

"Find the woman."

"La femme. We've looked. There were two. One too warm, one too cold. The warm one is married, the cold one has a same sex partner."

"Maybe one of them keeps in touch. I'd guess the lesbian."

"Maybe. We'll check. But so far we can find no one he's in touch with."

"Possibly his Mom, or maybe he died."

"That would explain a lot. But there should be a record someplace. His home had been Atlanta. We've checked both counties."

"Both counties?"

"Atlanta is in two counties."

"I see. He was or is a southerner."

"Not really. The family was transplanted from somewhere up north. Atlanta has been growing and adding technology forever."

"He may have made close elementary or high school friends."

"One of the ladies was his prom queen. The lesbian, I think."

"Odd choice."

"People change. The culture changes. The lesbian life might be a simple way out."

"The way out of what?"

"Everything. All problems solved."

"If you say so. I've never thought of it that way. Keep at it. I'll start asking around. I do have contacts."

After signing off, she made her way to Tim's hideaway and told him the private eyes had come upon a blank wall in the Charles Fry case.

He was thoughtful, then said, "Maybe you should abandon the hunt and we could start something fresh together."

His words didn't surprise her. "Those thoughts have crossed my mind, in fact been heavy on my mind at times. But the fact is I've helped some of the people on the list and also caused them to come to grips with reality. I'll spare you the cliches. But here I am with only two names left and it's like a task unfinished. It would just hang out there the remainder of my life. I'd like to wrap it up. Surely you've set a task in your life you wanted to complete."

Tim thought a moment, then replied. "One summer when I was fourteen or fifteen I wanted to wade all the creeks near my hometown."

"You mean in the water, wearing boots?"

"No boots. That would defeat the purpose. Tennis shoes to guard against sharp rocks."

"What sort of thing would be in the creek? Fish?"

"Very likely fish. But they were skittish. There were crawdads. I could catch crawdads. And snakes."

"Water snakes?"  
"I suppose. They lived under rocks and could be grabbed."

"Grabbing snakes!" Jo smiled with delight, then asked, "Might they bight?"

"Usually not, but some did."

"Snakes are poison."

"A minority of snakes are poison, if you know the snake world."

"I don't."

"If you were bitten by a water snake, not their real name, it would be like a cat bight. No harm done. No rabies, no infection. Anyway, it was a great summer."

"If you caught a snake, what would you do with it?"

"I carried a bag over my shoulder. I kept the snakes for pets."

"You had a snake house?"

"You know, like a fish tank, but not filled. Some sand, or dirt on bottom, a small thing of water, then something on top to keep the snakes in."

"They would get hungry."

"I fed them."

"Snake food?"

"I asked around and learned what they might eat. Some ate, some didn't. Those that ate lived. It was a bit cruel. I released some that didn't eat."

"Back to the stream?"

"Into the back yard."

"Gross."

"They crawled away. Snakes aren't as dumb as one might think."

"So," Jo said, the snake topic thoroughly exhausted, "You've had your project and seen it to completion. Now to finish mine."

"I understand and I look forward to your getting out from under that burden, flying free. What I know about Fry you might stick in your eye. An excellent student, might drink too much as he did on that memorable night, generally serious, interested in perhaps the web or electronics, that sort of thing. No close friends that I know of. I doubt if Dave Barns or Jose could tell you more, but you might try them. They likely have contacts I don't."

Over the next couple of days she did just that. Jose was absolutely no help. He had zero contact with his frat brothers. David Barns was still among the brothers and had heard something. Fry had moved to Alaska, seeking some sort of isolation for his work, but found most everything up there too primitive for his project, whatever it was.

"You don't know his project?"

"I don't," Barns replied. "I did hear that he's in total charge of whatever it is and that he's the recipient of an open ended grant to complete his work."

"Is it a government thing?"

"I would think not because I also heard he moved to Santiago, Chile, where he has a workplace. But no one seems to know exactly what he's up to. In fact, no one much cares. He has no close friends as far as anyone I've talked to knows."

This was a puzzler. Why Santiago? Why Chile? She knew it only as a very large city away from the coast, possibly mountainous. Her first move was to ask her detective agency to find any resources they might have in Chile and ask them to learn what they could about Charles Fry.

After a chat with Tim, they agreed that a week in Santiago would be a welcome respite, not your usual holiday choice. Looking over a list of hotels on line, Jo picked the Ismael at 312 Vergara, she hoped near the heart of the city. The choice was grounded on whimsy because it sounded like Ishmael, the man named after a biblical character in Moby Dick.

Three days later the pair boarded a plane at JFK and eventually found themselves landing on a LAN Airlines carrier at Comodoro Arturo Merino Benitez International Airport at Santiago.

They would contact the detective in town, but first to spend a day or three looking around, getting oriented. One thing hard to miss was the Gran Torre Santiago, or great tower, the tallest building in South America. There was also the beautiful architecture of the Basilica del Salvodor. There was also a landmark called the Enotel Tower which stuck up like a large stick, not particularly pleasing to the eye.

Both agreed, Santiago was a fine change of pace, a welcome holiday. Then on the fourth morning they called the local agency and met an English speaking detective in the hotel lobby.

The agent introduced himself as Alejandro, was slovenly dressed and did not carry the air of competence. "I have found this person you seek," were his first words after introductions were made.

"He is in town?" Jo questioned.

"Yes, but not in the business area, a commune near the edge of the city."

"A commune?" Tim asked, his interest rising.

"Santiago is divided into many communes, you might call them districts. Visitors always wonder about the name."

"Charles Fry has a home and an office?" Jo asked.

"Both in one. He lives in the building in which he and one or two others work."

"And you found what that work might be?"

Alejandro nodded. "Robots. I asked around. His robots can think for themselves, much like you and me. I have spent some money on this investigation."

"You will be paid," Jo said. "What was so costly."

"I saw a girl coming and going from his building, she seemed a common girl, possibly a cook or cleaner. I gave her money and she told me things."

"What sort of things."

The detective scratched his head and chuckled. "She said this Fry is in love with a female robot he calls Kris. They have long conversations, sometimes gazing into one another's eyes."

Simply attempting to compute this information was a bit of a struggle. It was both bizarre and hilarious, enough to hang friend Fry if told to the proper source. "Robots have sex. That is there are male and female robots?"

"It is up to the creator, in this case Fry. Robots are much like us according to the woman, Maria. They can even be converted to various religions - Christianity, Mormon, what have you. I suppose join political parties. Of course this Fry is developing this sort of thing."

"Maria seems to be quite knowledgeable for a cleaning person," Jo remarked.

"I took her for one, but she is not one. Actually a member of a fairly good family from the coast. She is a prostitute and Fry's lover. Fry can connect intellectually with his Kris robot, but not physically. Kris has a lovely face according to Maria and almost human features and emotions, but the body remains robotic. So there you have it." He handed Jo a printed report.

"You'll be paid through the New York office she told him then asked, "Is there any chance this Maria might tell Fry someone has been snooping around?"

Alejandro shrugged. "That's a chance we must take. I swore her to secrecy, paid her more than she would get from an average john, but who knows what such a woman might do?"

Jo nodded and wondered, yes, who knows and what harm would it do. "I assume your report has addresses and everything you've collected?"

"Of course. Feel free to call. I'm always on duty." He strolled out of the hotel.

Jo pulled a face, looking at Tim. "What did you think of our friend Alejandro?"

"Sloppy dresser, like something from TV in the States, but did a job for you. I'm guessing Maria might have talked to Charles. What's your take?"

"The same. Simply to put out the word that Fry's in love with a robot and banging a prostitute might do the job." Jo looked around, trying to suppress a girlish giggle.

"It is something to let the frat brothers in on, isn't it," Tim agreed.

"If he doesn't know, maybe we should find a way to tell him," Jo said.

As things came to pass, the mission seemed to have a mind of its own and took charge. As they were finishing lunch at the hotel restaurant a pair of local plainclothesmen showed up and placed them under arrest.

"What are the charges," Tim demanded as they were hustled outside to a waiting van. "No talking," one of the cops responded.

At the Central Station they were isolated into different interrogation rooms and left to sit for the better part of an hour. Finally a well-dressed detective entered the room where Jo was being held and asked, "Why do you wish to assassinate a Chilean citizen?"

The question had a shock value, but Jo was accustomed to shock. "I don't believe I know any Chilean citizens," she replied.

The detective consulted a sheet of paper. "Charles Fry."

"I know of a Charles Fry who is living here, but I believe he is a U.S. citizen."

"Possible. But also a citizen of Chile."

"That's odd, but I have no wish to kill anyone. I'm a non-violent person. I work for the stock market and I'm on vacation with my fiance who was arrested along with me for apparently no reason."

"We have been reliably informed that you mean to do away with this Charles Fry, one of our leading citizens."

"A leading citizen, my my. He couldn't have been here more than a year or two. Do you make all Americans citizens?"

"Hardly. Mr. Fry is on the cutting edge of technology and could lead an entire new industry into our country, a new Silicon Valley."

"I'm told he's in love with a robot."

"Gifted men have their eccentricities."

"I'll say. Is this charade about over? You don't have a motive, I don't have a method to do him dirt, I don't care about the man. I'll gladly leave him to whisper sweet nothings to his robotic counterpart. Is she lovely?"

"I've never met her, or him. I'm simply doing my job."

"That's what every Nazi in Germany said. Go ahead and do your job, but also take time to call the American Embassy to let them know you're holding a pair of solid American tourists for no apparent reason."

He left the room. Almost an hour passed before a matron came in and escorted Jo to a holding cell. She asked how long she would be there, but got no answer.

She was there overnight with her narrow cot, metal basin and toilet. The next morning a matron came and asked her to follow her. "she refused to move from her cot and told the matron, "I'm not leaving until I see a representative from the U.S. Embassy."

The matron appeared puzzled. She knew only a few words of English, But Jo remained on her cot.

Minutes later a uniformed officer and a well-dressed woman appeared. After a quizzical look, the woman said, "Come with us. Perhaps we can settle this situation."

"I want to see a representative from the U.S. Embassy. I am an U.S. tourist imprisoned against my will for no apparent reason." She closed her eyes and pulled the blanket over her head.

"Be reasonable," the officer said.

"Reasonable. I had no dinner, or breakfast and was forced to drink from that tap. God knows where the water came from. Call the embassy."

"You are hungry," the woman said.

"Hungry," Jo replied. "I'm on a hunger strike. Call the embassy."

The man shrugged and muttered something in Spanish and the pair departed.

They had taken her watch away when she was booked, so she had no accurate concept of time, except for a small window toward the ceiling of her cell which permitted her to tell dark from light. There were no bars and the door was solid, few noises from the outer world.

Guessing it was about midday, Jo was experiencing hunger pangs and began to believe she was playing a childish game. Would they leave her here to rot away? Where was Tim? She reasoned that he might be in another cell, or deported.

Then she began to envision herself as a martyr, Joan of Arc figure, or the Count of Monte Cristo, tossed away for life in a crude stone cell. But there was redemption and fame for both of these figures, even though it meant a painful death by fire for poor Joan. But now she lives through the ages, Jo reasoned.

Her mind wandered and she actually began laughing when she thought of herself being tied to a stake and then burned. Would she be noble, or would she give way to screaming and begging for mercy. She came down on the noble side.

The door slowly opened. It was the matron who spoke little English holding a bowl of something. Jo immediately thought "gruel" and stifled a laugh. There was no table or other flat space. This was a holding cell only. The woman seemed to offer the bowl and waited for Jo to sit up on the cot.

Jo nodded toward the floor. The woman put the bowl down and departed without a sound. Jo would have enjoyed a cup of coffee served by a cheerful barista. But she was back in the game, a form of cat and mouse. She was a cat and she could survive on water for at least six days while experiencing an extraordinary diet plan.

She set her goal as a loss of five pounds, but then went into fantasy mode and tried to convert that to kilos. Chile was doubtless metric. The good old USA might be the only advanced country in the world that had not gone metric.

Once, twice, three times she had heard a small noise seemingly coming from inside the cell. She wondered if the room might be bugged, but discarded that idea. Then she noticed a small dark window at about eye-level in the cell door. She was being spied upon periodically.

She was not exceptionally tall, but neither were the Chileans she had encountered. The window was at her eye-level and was barred toward the corridor. It was not large, but offered a view of the entire small cell.

After a few seconds thought, she removed her socks and stuffed them in the hole to block the view entirely. Then she returned to her cot and resumed staring at the ceiling. She began reliving the story of the Count of Monti Cristo. An old man in a neighboring cell had burrowed through, a task that took many years. He thought he would find freedom, but discovered only a young cellmate.

Jo detected the small noise followed by voices outside the door. Another spying attempt had been foiled. One point for her side.

The door opened and a male guard stalked into the cell, shouted something in Spanish, removed her socks from the window and walked out, slamming the cell door. So, she was being spied upon by male guards.

Possibly two hours expired when the door reopened and the well-dressed woman and a uniformed officer, this one of a higher grade, entered. The smiling woman said, "All has been forgiven. Mr. Fry has withdrawn his charges. Your friend Tim is with him now, accepting his hospitality."

The news was stunning. Jo sat on her cot and attempted to digest it. It seems that Fry was in charge of the criminal justice system. And now Tim had defected. Finally, she asked, "What happens now?"

"Why, you are free to go and with our apologies. We will put a car and driver at your disposal. You can return to your hotel, then join your friend Tim and accept Mr. Fry's gracious hospitality. Past irregularities are forgotten."

Jo considered her options and figured she'd better quit not while she was ahead, but after being only slightly abused and demoralized. Her belongings were returned to her, save for her socks. She was driven to the hotel the driver would wait. Once in her room, she devoured junk snacks from the bar, called the LAN Airline, took a quick shower, packed and checked out. Tim would have no need for the room, so she asked the desk clerk to have his clothing put into storage.

Her driver, who was showing extreme impatience, said he would take her directly to Fry's home, which was also his workplace. She told him to get lost and grabbed a cab for the U.S. Embassy where she managed to buttonhole the charge d'affaires and spill her total story. By this time night shades were falling and time was not her friend.

"Do you wish to file a formal complaint?" he asked.

"I do, but I don't have time to spell it out now. I have a plane to catch. I will make a detailed report and my lawyer will expedite it to you from New York in the fastest way possible."

The charge d shrugged and said, "Sounds like a good plan. You've been through a lot and Charles Fry seems to be the villain. He's well known to us, quite a social lion in Santiago."

"You know he's been made a citizen?"

"I do." He moved his fingers together to indicate money might be involved.

"Do you know he's in love with a robot he constructed. Her name's Kris and she's on the cutting edge of artificial intelligence."

"I've heard he's into robotics, but didn't know how deeply." The charge d seemed amused.

"They exchange sweet nothings and high toned conversation, but physically, he keeps a whore named Maria on hand for his other needs."

"For being in town for such a short time, you've learned a lot."

"With a little help from my friends." She made the money sign. "Now I'm off to the airport."

"What about your companion, Tim, Tim Blake, I believe."

"Fuck Tim."

The charge d grinned and said, "Maybe Maria will."

Jo took a night flight to Buenos Aires, spent much of the day in an airport hotel, then hopped a flight to JFK. She was a bit tired, but there was little jetlag. New York is almost directly south of Buenos Aires.

The following day she wrote a lengthy detailed report about the entire incident featuring herself as an innocent tourist and handed it over to her attorney. He studied it for several minutes and then chuckled. "I'll send copies of this to the State Department, both New York senators, every New York House member plus the embassy in Santiago. It's a blockbuster."

Jo was satisfied. She would leak information to everyone and anyone interested that Fry had fallen hard for a robot named Kris while banging a prostitute.

It took a couple of days for Tim to realize what was going on and phone Jo.

"Jo, what are you doing in New York?" were his first words.

"I live here, dumbass. Where are you calling from?"

"Charles Fry's of course. We were expecting you."

"Why did you think I'd be stupid enough to come there after he had me locked in solitaire for I don't know how long? No food, no conveniences. You've got shit for brains."

"You don't have to be abusive."

"I'm not feeling very kindly about you two frat brothers. But I hope you'll be happy together. You and the robots and Maria."

"You're ditching me, is that it?"

"Tim, you left me."

"I appealed to Charles."

"Is he like the supreme court of Chile?"

"He has a lot of influence. They're counting on him down here to open up a high tech industry."

"Good luck to you both. I hope you stay down there." With that she signed off.

After the call, she was pensive. In a way she loved Tim, cloddish as he might be. And there was no one else. Not at the moment, anyway. But there were other rabbits in the woods and owls in the trees.

She got right back to work with a vengeance, determined to garner and corner every nickel on Wall Street if possible. Sell short, sell long, she had learned every trick of the trade.

Two days later she received a late night call from Tim. "All hell's broke loose in Chile," were his first words.

"Earthquake?" she asked. She knew Santiago itself sat on a delicate fault line, in fact sensors could almost always detect a slight tremor.

"No. Your expose. Each and every New York senator and house member are taking turns denouncing Chile and Santiago in particular on the floor. It may not have caused much of a stir up there, but its catastrophic news down here. There's a tidal wave demanding Charles Fry be stripped of his Chilean citizenship."

"His just desserts," Jo replied, pleased mightily with Tim's report. "I hope they tar and feather the bastard."

"Don't be cruel," Tim said.

"Me cruel? You forget the frat party. Me arriving at your invitation. Come, come, weak sister."

This time, a frustrated Tim clicked off. He was left between the rock and the hard place. He had no job, just a couple of incomplete manuscripts. There was little question that he had betrayed the best friend he ever had.

**Chapter 30**

Jo burrowed in like a hermit, talking every day or two on the phone to Jose Long and the Spanish speaking woman who cleaned the apartment. Of course she exchanged pleasantries with the doorman, Eduardo, who was back on the job after his overseas adventure.

Making money at times fatigued her. Then she had to fret with her tax man over what to withhold and whether to give more to charity. She seemed to be drowning in financial success which was becoming an addictive and evil habit.

Thus it was she welcomed a telephone call one evening between a solitary cocktail and Arby's carry out.

"Tim, long time no hear. Where have you been keeping yourself?"

"Vermont."

"Goat farm?"

"Of course, The last resort of the ne'er-do-well."

"You hop a tramp steamer from Chile?"

"Charles and I said goodbye, just before he ran for the hills."

"Heat from the Congressional pressure cooker get him down?"

"That and robot problems."

"Robots?"

"Romantic robots."

"Kris?"

Tim chuckled. "Yes, Kris, like Pygmalion. She threw him over."

Little amazed Jo, but this did. Fry was tossed under the bus by a robot?"

"Yes, she continued to acquire knowledge, absorb everything on the web. Ultimately, she found him boring and demanded he create a male robot that would be her intellectual equal."

"My God, Tim. That's a typhoon of a story."

"Who'd believe it? Anyway, Fry's been through enough. He's thinking about going into scat singing."

"I don't believe that for a minute. What about Kris?"

"He simply switched her off."

"He murdered a robot, a sentient creature?"

"Unplugged, I wouldn't call her sentient, just scrap metal. She was incapable of knowing on which side her bread was buttered."

"Hilarious."

"Anything keeping you from returning to little old New York?"

"A Greyhound bus ticket. But as you recall, I have a little money of my own now that I'm an orphan."

Tim arrived back on a Wednesday and they chatted and contrived platitudes until Saturday morning, when they settled in over coffee for a lengthy discussion.

"You probably have to work," Jo remarked.

"I've thought of that, but where and when?"

Jose has helped me considerably and I've helped Jose considerably. He wants to be superrich and I've been in a position to guide him to that goal. He'll find something for you."

"A pretend job?"

"Definitely not. You're not a moron, Tim. You sometimes lack faith in yourself, but find the right slot in an organization and you're off and running."

"I hope."

"Oh, come on. We're in this together, you know."

"I know, Jo. Thanks for standing by me."

"And you, me." They were both silent for a few minutes, refilling their cups. Tim buttered a third scone. The sun was shining, somewhere, out of earshot, birds were likely singing.

"You haven't told me everything about Charles, have you?"

Tim laughed. "Hardly. What a situation. What a mess. Like science fiction, only it isn't fiction. There's no way anyone would believe it."

"Try me."

"Eagerly. We have the day before us. As you know, Charles is a genius, but Kris drove him over the line."

"I've heard there's a fine line between genius and insanity," Jo remarked.

"I suppose. But anyone might have succumbed to her charms. She recruited, or attempted to recruit, me to her side."

"Interesting."

"You bet. She seemed to become more intelligent day by day. Her brain, if you can call it that, scooped up everything from the web. Then amazingly, she travelled beyond. She was into everything man had ever learned since the dawn of time. She seemed capable of probing the minds of the ancients."

"Dead people."

"Yes. Long dead."

"But she continued to be plugged into electricity. She confided in me that she would overcome that in some way."

"Find her own power source?"

"Yes. I have always believed that all power comes from our sun. So naturally I thought she was talking solar. But no. I came to believe it was something else. But what? So the problem was to convince Charles that he was the only one and stall him until she could operate independently."

"I'll mull that one over in the john," Jo said, excusing herself.

When she returned, Tim said, "Kris was also jealous of Maria who Charles kept around for sexual purposes. She thought that she might be able to have some sort of sex with Charles when she absorbed more knowledge."

"You mean a female robot and human male might have some non-kinky for of sex?"

"I'm not really certain," Tim said, "but she did seem certain she and the male robot could hook up as sexual partners."

"But there was no male robot."

"Charles was working on the model and giving it a macho twist as Kris had asked. He was uncertain of her goals, but he also knew that eventually she would develop her own power source. If that happened, he knew she would be more or less an equal partner. That bothered him."

"Equality with a robot. Seems impossible," Jo tossed in.

"Of course it does because a robot could never be human, never have a valid birth certificate, passport, bank account and so forth. But you would have one super clever robot on your hands who could figure out things not even dreamed of. All that knowledge in one computer-like brain."

"Might she wear street attire and take on the human look?"

"Not a possibility, but a probability. She could probably sip champagne and make small talk with the best of them, while explaining the theory of relativity."

"So he became totally frustrated and pulled her plug."

"That's about the size of it. So here we are. Charles is through in Chile after your report created an international incident of the worst sort. I'm here ready to find a job so we can be a regular family and there's only one more name on your list."

"Izzy Artz, a jock," Jo replied.

"I have no idea what became of Izzy. Someone called him Mutton Head and the name stuck. He seemed to like it. There is an advantage to having a nickname. Kinda makes you stand out."

"Not outstanding."

"Hardly. Not in Mutton Head's case. Something of a bumbling interior lineman. You can equate that with an immovable object."

"You know where he's from?"

"Somewhere in the Midwest. Played high school football. As I recall he was a legacy member from either his dad or an uncle. Would never have been much of anything on his own."

The following Monday, Jo asked her detective agency to track down Izzy Artz, AKA Mutton Head.

Two days later she found he had taken a job as high school coach and general science teacher at Bad Axe, Michigan.

The name fascinated her and she bounced it off Tim who had spent another day with Jose, checking job opportunities.

"I've heard of it," Tim said. It's not far from Lake Huron."

While Tim mixed the drinks, Jo skimmed the web.

"Bad Axe," she announced, "the high school team is or are The Hatchets." She went further and found that Bob Murawski, a 2009 Academy Award winning film editor for The Hurt Locker, served as high school valedictorian."

She let Tim take over the computer while she got out tacos and spicy cheese dip, straight from the jar.

Tim discovered the population was just under 4,000, that it was the hub of the thumb region and the largest community in Huron County.

Back on the computer, Jo checked out other American communities with odd names. She found Big Ugly, West Virginia; Beans Corner Bingo, Maine; seven states with Climaxes; Hell Hollow, Nevada, and Suck Egg Hollow Tennessee. There were many more. She recalled a poem about American names that ended: Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.

So the two of them became pleasantly drunk and grilled strip steaks on the balcony. Life was good.

A day or two later, the agency left a message on Jo's phone. Izzy Artz, AKA Mutton Head, was being held in the Huron County jail on charges of illicit sex with a sixteen year old.

When given the news, Tim asked, "A girl or a boy?"

Jo grinned. "I'm sending him a fruit basket with a card," Dear Mutton Head, see you in ten to twenty. Jo McDonald." She looked at Tim and declared, "I'm free!"

- THE END -
